As a writer I am always looking for new experiences and fresh sources of inspiration for my writing no matter from where they emanate and a recent trek through parts of Eastern Europe proved such an occasion. Though European by birth (Northern Ireland though living now in the United States), I had never before visited her eastern reaches, and so, I stored away all my historical knowledge and prejudices about the Balkans and resolved to be open to even the most banal of encounters. If I had expectations, they were that I would not find the cities of the new European Riviera—cities such as Budva, Dubrovnik (also an ancient republic as powerful as Venice had been), Pula, Opatija, etc—suffering from the destructive effects of mass tourism such as one encounters in the original Western European Riviera. And I expected to discover magnificent landscapes, interesting people, unspoiled Roman ruins, castles and cathedrals, and of course mounds of inexpensively delicious food and gems of local wines. I was not disappointed and can highly recommend these countries to other writers and tourists looking for fresh experiences, though have chosen in this essay to concentrate on narrating the experiences I had on my initial journey.
At first, the assertive vividness of the meandering rivers of Croatia and the tiny mountainous section of Serbia and Montenegro—soon to be known only as Montenegro as a result of successfully voting for independence from Serbia whilst I was there—appeared to suggest they were sick with pollution. The water appeared sluggish, thick and jewel-like, the latter quality exhibiting to the exact degree the same gorgeous turquoise hue of the nearby sea. But visitors expects such riotous color to yield from the depths and shallows of the ancient Adriatic hugging the jagged coastlines of these lands; they don't expect it—at least I didn't—to assert from even the humblest of the fresh water lakes and rivers.
Given these countries are newly emerging democracies, as I traveled onward by bus, my Western cynicism came to the fore and I mulled if perhaps farmers and local industries were with impunity discharging toxins into the waters and this mimicry of the Adriatic's shining azure was but a telltale by-product. I scoured for the evidence, targeting my vision deep into nooks and crannies etched into the banks, searching for the glowing white underbellies of bloated fishes, for black, hairy fronds of mutated vegetation, for the rainbow scum of oil and assorted chemicals where the waters appeared particularly indolent and deep. I found nothing. The magnificent truth is that the color of these Montenegrin and Croatian rivers is as innocent and miraculous as that of their sea, and encounters with either will leave only but the most jaded tourist unmoved by the shimmering beauty.
My journey to these parts began at an obnoxiously early hour at London's Stanstead airport. Because the flight to the ancient city of Split in Croatia (site of Emperor Diocletian's huge palace with its well-preserved ruins including Jupiter's temple) was leaving at 6:30 am and the gate closed two hours earlier, I chose to spend the night 'kipping' on an airport lounge couch alongside, it turned out, most of my fellow passengers. (Later that day, I planned to hook up with my American friends in Budva, Montenegro. We were to embark with eighteen others on a 21-day guided tour of the Adriatic and Lake Bled, Slovenia but, because I was visiting friends and family in London and Ireland after the tour ended, I was responsible for organizing my own air travel to and from the points where the tour commenced and terminated. This I love to do where possible because it yields unparalled opportunities for visitors to learn firsthand about a country's infrastructure, customs and people.)
For my flight to Croatia I choose Easyjet, a budget airline that lists major airports for its arrival and departure points. (Some budget airlines may, for example, list Paris as the destination and the unwary passenger books the flight only to discover on arrival that the airport is situate seventy miles from the city.) Split was a new route for Easyjet—they'd started flying there just the week prior—and it was cheap, although I was surprised by the griminess of the seats headrests and aircraft interior. (On my return flight three weeks later from Ljubljana, Slovenia (already a functioning member of the European Community), the interior of the aircraft on the same airline was pristine.)
I found myself seated beside what I gradually came to realize was an English aristocrat traveling to Croatia in order to inspect a farm on an island near Split that he'd treated himself to as a divorce present and on which he planned to plant citrus groves and vineyards. The gentleman offered me a ride in his hired car into the center of Split—a journey lasting forty minutes during which I learned much about Croatia and England's strong links with their sworn enemy, Serbia, during periods of Balkan strife—and was lucky enough to be on time to catch the one morning bus traveling to Dubrovnik that day. One aspect I found amusing at the Dubrovnik national bus station was the requirement to purchase a ticket (only about thirty US cents) for my luggage, a suitcase that was then slung into the hold. TRAVEL ALERT: Easyjet has a tendency to offer sales on routes after you've just booked at a higher price, though they will give you a credit toward a future flight. However, the onus is on the customer to request a credit and they do not make it easy. I was required to call a dedicated number that I had to pay for on a per minute basis—they won't accept email requests—and found it engaged every time I called. I drew the conclusion that Easyjet knows their customers will soon realize their credit is being used up in paying for this absurd phone call and will give up at some point, which is exactly what I did. It is an outrageous fulfillment method and one that would not be acceptable in the United States.
The journey to Dubrovnik cost approximately $40, took a little over four hours (over six during the peak summer season) and was spectacularly beautiful because of the elevated views of the Adriatic coast. Upon arrival at the main station, a phalanx of friendly peasant women immediately surrounded me carrying placards brandishing the word "Sobe." Figuring this to mean "Rooms," I told them I had to be in Montenegro that evening and required information about departing buses. They scuttled about until they located a woman who spoke English and she informed me with a broad smile, "No more buses today. The daily bus to Budva leaves at 3.30 pm, but I can get you a good, cheap room." Public road transport around Croatia and Montenegro is very good and reasonably priced and buses—very comfortable on the whole—do indeed leave only once per day from major cities to other destinations. Moreover, given its coastal, mountainous location, there are no trains in and out of Dubrovnik. (Also, do know that Eastern Europeans smoke at every opportunity—even in five star hotels—though during the bus journeys it was not so overwhelming as to render my experience unpleasant.)
Crestfallen (and a tad panicked because my tour orientation was scheduled to take place at 7.45 that evening at an hotel in Budva), I wondered if I should indeed rent a room through this woman. As I mulled, a tall, young chap whom I'd noticed on the bus from Split to Dubrovnik approached me, introduced himself in reasonable English (better than my Croatian, which is nonexistent) as a citizen of Montenegro on leave from the Greek navy, and informed me the woman was not completely correct in her information. It transpired there were alternatives including catching a bus to a city beyond the Montenegrin border from where I could then catch a local bus into Budva.
Ten minutes later we were on the bus to Herceg-Novi and traveling out of the principal city of the former Dubrovnik Republic. (Dubrovnik is mindbogglingly beautiful, but crowded during high season even with the restrictions they impose on the numbers of people from docking cruise ships allowed hourly into its ancient heart.) As my new friend and I chatted, I stopped often in our discourse to take in the shimmering waters of the Adriatic and the weather-beaten (and shell-pocked) walls of the city and acres of red clay tiled roofs beneath. And as I'd hoped to gain by traveling with local people, by the time Milo exited the bus at Kotor, he'd imparted a number of restaurants and places off the beaten tourist track to visit. TOURIST TIP: Aside from showing my passport at the Montenegrin border, I had to also show it when we passed through a ten kilometer strip of land within Croatia that belongs now to Bosnia-Herzegovina (they have no access to the sea) which had been given to the Ottoman Empire hundreds of years ago by the former Republic of Dubrovnik as part of a successful treaty to stop the marauding Turks from invading the Republic.)
At Herceg-Novi I encountered no-one who spoke English and had to resort to German in order to learn of the times of connecting buses to Budva and the fare price which was a mere $5 for a forty kilometer ride. However, even if I didn't speak German, the process would still have been easy because all one needs to do is show the name of the city you wish to reach to any bus driver and they'll point one to the correct platform, etc. TOURIST TIP for US visitors: All bus drivers collect fares on the bus—in Euros if in Montenegro and Kuna if in Croatia—so it doesn't matter if the bus station is already closed. Moreover, it is best to exchange dollars locally rather than do it prior in the United States because the exchange rate is much better.
Croats and Montenegrins are happily still eager to meet and embrace Americans regardless of political or religious creed, their perceptions of American politics and corporatism perhaps not yet having rendered them as cynical of us as it appears to have done my Western European friends and acquaintances with whom I interacted in the UK and Ireland. But that is a story for another time. Of course these friendly attitudes will likely change in a few years because, like Slovenia now deep in the throes of integration, they are eager to become full members of the increasingly powerful and assertive European Union, which currently bears no great love of the US.
Finally, after a journey of twelve hours, I arrived in the stunning city of Budva at 7.30 pm, just in time it turned out for a 'cat's lick wash' in my room before rushing to the restaurant where the main course of the tour's welcome meal had just begun. I had paid a total fare of approximately $60 from Split to Budva though, of course, the journey had a value far beyond mere dollars: I'd seen much of the country's craggy coastline, become intoxicated by my first view of Dubrovnik, befriended a local chap and learned about Montenegro's colorful past, eaten local foods and candies, and traveled with the confidence of a local. And best of all, I'd learned indeed that rivers can also run stunningly blue.
[technorati: montenegro, croatia, easyjet, dubrovnik, lake bled, slovenia
Monday
Wednesday
The Devil Wears Prada
What better way to celebrate Independence Day afternoon than going to see a movie about the excesses of the American fashion industry and its ancillary magazines.
I'm an avid Meryl Streep fan, have been disappointed that Hollywood has not seen fit to give her lead roles due to the 'age barrier' glass ceiling for quite a few years, and am glad she is now returning in full vigor.
I enjoyed elements of the movie, but ultimately have drawn the conclusion that the producer, director, and screenplay writer need to thank Streep profusely for saving it from relegation to B-movie status. The storyline is about as thin and exciting as the models and not a cliche has been left unturned: one will sit through encounters with a Dragon Lady doyenne of fashion magazines--apparantly, a thinly based cartoon of the novelist Weisberger's former Vogue boss, Anna Wintour; the fashion models starving themselves to skininess while complaining vociferously about other women who can eat 'carbs' and still get into a size 4 dress; the angst of the supporting actress's (Anne Hathaway) failing love affair as she grows in her position as lackey to said doyenne. I think you get the picture--no pun intended.
The message of the movie appears to be to alert us to the fact--as spoken by the dragon lady Miranda to her subordinate Andy--that "Everyone wants to be us."
Saving graces include a short period when Streep is allowed to dispense with the cartoon character and show Miranda as someone capable of real emotion when she talks to her subordinate about her divorce, Stanley Tucci's camping it up as Nigel, a gay fashion designer with heart, and some spectacular shots of New York City and Paris at night.
Fans of chick lit and Meryl Streep (both categories being autonomous, I'd imagine) should definitely go and see it. As I said earlier, I'm in the latter group, and I'm sure glad I did.
[technorati: Meryl Streep, Stanley Tucci, The Devil Wears Prada, Anne Hathaway, Anna Wintour, Vogue
I'm an avid Meryl Streep fan, have been disappointed that Hollywood has not seen fit to give her lead roles due to the 'age barrier' glass ceiling for quite a few years, and am glad she is now returning in full vigor.
I enjoyed elements of the movie, but ultimately have drawn the conclusion that the producer, director, and screenplay writer need to thank Streep profusely for saving it from relegation to B-movie status. The storyline is about as thin and exciting as the models and not a cliche has been left unturned: one will sit through encounters with a Dragon Lady doyenne of fashion magazines--apparantly, a thinly based cartoon of the novelist Weisberger's former Vogue boss, Anna Wintour; the fashion models starving themselves to skininess while complaining vociferously about other women who can eat 'carbs' and still get into a size 4 dress; the angst of the supporting actress's (Anne Hathaway) failing love affair as she grows in her position as lackey to said doyenne. I think you get the picture--no pun intended.
The message of the movie appears to be to alert us to the fact--as spoken by the dragon lady Miranda to her subordinate Andy--that "Everyone wants to be us."
Saving graces include a short period when Streep is allowed to dispense with the cartoon character and show Miranda as someone capable of real emotion when she talks to her subordinate about her divorce, Stanley Tucci's camping it up as Nigel, a gay fashion designer with heart, and some spectacular shots of New York City and Paris at night.
Fans of chick lit and Meryl Streep (both categories being autonomous, I'd imagine) should definitely go and see it. As I said earlier, I'm in the latter group, and I'm sure glad I did.
[technorati: Meryl Streep, Stanley Tucci, The Devil Wears Prada, Anne Hathaway, Anna Wintour, Vogue
Saturday
Writing, footy news and a book review
Well, I'm really on a blitz with my memoir/non fiction and have written the prologue and five whole chapters in a week. But most importantly, I'm having a ball doing it. I really am enjoying the process of creating a story that will become a book, eventually. I think that's what drives a writer: the joy of creating a new and wonderous world with words.
The only cloud in the horizon this weekend is that England is now officially out of the world cup, having lost to Portugal by three goals during a penalty kick-off to decide the winner . I know that might seem odd--an Irishman who's sorry England lost. But, having lived there, I harbor no silly animosities and England did provide us with some tense and exciting moments in the contest. Isn't that what it's all about in the end?
Finally, I'm a member of Gather.com and another member, Barbary Chaapel (who's an Irishophile--if that's the term) read my book and posted a review. She's also a writer so her review is doubly pleasing to me.
Here it is:
----------------
Book Review
A SON CALLED GABRIEL
A novel by Damian McNicholl
A Son Called Gabriel is written by one of our own Gather members, Damian McNicholl. It is a quiet story that takes place in Northern Ireland in the 1960's and 70's, with The Troubles skillfully woven into the background of the story.
Gabriel Harken is the son of a working class Catholic family. Damain McNicholl has written a sensitive portrayel of Gabriel's coming of age, a very young Gabriel who had not the least idea for the longest time he was gay. How he deals with this discovery is sometimes comedic, but at times painful to read:
"But God knew I would never spurn Him. He knew He was in every molecule of my being. He was my life force. Moreover, fear wouldn't allow me to turn from him. I was too frightened, because then I'd really have nothing."
A Son Called Gabriel is a book of family pride and tribulations, guardia raids on Catholic homes, school pranks, the church, dancing with girls, discovering sex and coming to terms with homosexuality. But it is about more than these things: It is about honesty and acceptance, innocence and maturity.
Kudos to you, Damian, for your grand debut novel.
Here's some info on Barbary's work taken from Gather.com:
I have recently launched my book, No Name Harbor, Poetry of Barbary Chaapel. To view four poems from this collection go to: Barbary Chaapel
[technorati: soccer, IFFA, Barbary Chaapel, England, Portugal, memoir
The only cloud in the horizon this weekend is that England is now officially out of the world cup, having lost to Portugal by three goals during a penalty kick-off to decide the winner . I know that might seem odd--an Irishman who's sorry England lost. But, having lived there, I harbor no silly animosities and England did provide us with some tense and exciting moments in the contest. Isn't that what it's all about in the end?
Finally, I'm a member of Gather.com and another member, Barbary Chaapel (who's an Irishophile--if that's the term) read my book and posted a review. She's also a writer so her review is doubly pleasing to me.
Here it is:
----------------
Book Review
A SON CALLED GABRIEL
A novel by Damian McNicholl
A Son Called Gabriel is written by one of our own Gather members, Damian McNicholl. It is a quiet story that takes place in Northern Ireland in the 1960's and 70's, with The Troubles skillfully woven into the background of the story.
Gabriel Harken is the son of a working class Catholic family. Damain McNicholl has written a sensitive portrayel of Gabriel's coming of age, a very young Gabriel who had not the least idea for the longest time he was gay. How he deals with this discovery is sometimes comedic, but at times painful to read:
"But God knew I would never spurn Him. He knew He was in every molecule of my being. He was my life force. Moreover, fear wouldn't allow me to turn from him. I was too frightened, because then I'd really have nothing."
A Son Called Gabriel is a book of family pride and tribulations, guardia raids on Catholic homes, school pranks, the church, dancing with girls, discovering sex and coming to terms with homosexuality. But it is about more than these things: It is about honesty and acceptance, innocence and maturity.
Kudos to you, Damian, for your grand debut novel.
Here's some info on Barbary's work taken from Gather.com:
I have recently launched my book, No Name Harbor, Poetry of Barbary Chaapel. To view four poems from this collection go to: Barbary Chaapel
[technorati: soccer, IFFA, Barbary Chaapel, England, Portugal, memoir
Tuesday
Aristocrats, fundamentalists and cemetary Sundays
Well, I'm now returned and almost recovered from a bout of tonsillitis that started on the day of my departure from London. Pennsylvania is awash with, er, crap rain which makes my return from England and Ireland all the more depressing because I had nothing but glorious weather. I met glorious people and really love England and Ireland and am missing being there a lot currently.
Croatia was a hoot, as was Montenegro--the latter all the more so because I was there when the population voted for independence from Serbia. As time goes by, I'll likely share some anecdotes from the trip, including my encounters on an EasyJet flight to Split with a Brit aristocrat who'd bought himself a wonderful present to celebrate his divorce and with a Croatian priest whose entire family (10) had been wiped out when he was an eight-year-old boy by General Tito and how he'd been saved only because he hid in a well, hearing two car accidents near my parents home in Ireland--one involving a fatality--cemetary Sunday a la Irish style, and experiences shared with some wonderful people hailing from Colorado, Texas and San Fran, etc.
I will add at this point that I am now settling into writing a new nonfiction book as well as doing more lawyering--both of which I should have been doing more of when I was blogging--and thus my blogs will be less frequent and long. Accordingly, should you want to keep up with the blog, I'd suggest you add me to your RSS feeds and that system will prompt you when something new from me "your way comes."
[technorati: London, Ireland, Montenegro, England, Croatia, Slovenia, christian fundamentalism, San Francisco
Croatia was a hoot, as was Montenegro--the latter all the more so because I was there when the population voted for independence from Serbia. As time goes by, I'll likely share some anecdotes from the trip, including my encounters on an EasyJet flight to Split with a Brit aristocrat who'd bought himself a wonderful present to celebrate his divorce and with a Croatian priest whose entire family (10) had been wiped out when he was an eight-year-old boy by General Tito and how he'd been saved only because he hid in a well, hearing two car accidents near my parents home in Ireland--one involving a fatality--cemetary Sunday a la Irish style, and experiences shared with some wonderful people hailing from Colorado, Texas and San Fran, etc.
I will add at this point that I am now settling into writing a new nonfiction book as well as doing more lawyering--both of which I should have been doing more of when I was blogging--and thus my blogs will be less frequent and long. Accordingly, should you want to keep up with the blog, I'd suggest you add me to your RSS feeds and that system will prompt you when something new from me "your way comes."
[technorati: London, Ireland, Montenegro, England, Croatia, Slovenia, christian fundamentalism, San Francisco
Thursday
Overheard on the London Bus
World cup excitement is getting close to fever pitch in London because England has made it through to the next round.
Not being a huge footy (that's what soccer is now called in England) fan, I must confess to being really drawn in this time. I really enjoy watching the games on the telly in pubs with my friends. And of course the great beer helps set the mood.
On the double decker bus the other day I was sitting in front of two Londoners (middle-aged man and woman who worked in the clerical department of some supermarket chain) talking about England's lacklustre performance; horribly lacklustre when one considers the mindbogglingly expensive players onn their roster--to wit players of the ilk of the willowy David Beckham whose other tombstone epitaph will most likely be "husband of the former "Posh Spice" and father of a child called "Brooklyn".
Anyway, some classic English wit was much in abundance and it was all I could do to stifle my chuckles of pleasure. Incidents like this is why I love London and the English.
I don't know that much about football except what I see on the telly and England is playing crap," said the woman. "My daughter kicks far better ball than that Beckham bloke."
"Definitely crap," said her male partner. "And what they're paying that chap."
"They'll not get much further in the competition if they don't pick up their socks, will they?"
"No, that they won't."
"And they've just been playing crap countries so far? What'll 'appen when they go against good ones like Germany and Sweden?" She sighed deeply. "I mean, so far it's been crap playing against crap countries, innit."
"Just crap," said the gentleman. Pause. "I have to sort out a big vegetable delivery when I get into the office this morning. Too much bloody paperwork in the job."
"Too little money for too much work, innit," said the woman. Pause. "Was you watching the news on the telly last night, was you? There's definitely going to be a strike at them ASDA depots (UK Walmart subsid), you know?"
Silence.
"It's supposed to rain heavy by knocking off time today," said the man.
"And I didn't bring me bleedin' brolly today. Just typical, innit." Silence. "I suppose we can't complain though. We've had a lot of hot days, ain't we? Mind you, it was stifling in my office yesterday. Tracey nearly passed out, she did. They need to give us another fan in there."
"Here's Camberwell Green coming up. Press that bell, will you, love? This is the crap driver that never gives us enough time to get down the bleedin' stairs."
Update--England met a 'good country' the next evening and drew 2-2 with Sweden.
[technorati: world cup, football, soccer, England, Sweden, united kingdom, FIFA, David Beckham
Not being a huge footy (that's what soccer is now called in England) fan, I must confess to being really drawn in this time. I really enjoy watching the games on the telly in pubs with my friends. And of course the great beer helps set the mood.
On the double decker bus the other day I was sitting in front of two Londoners (middle-aged man and woman who worked in the clerical department of some supermarket chain) talking about England's lacklustre performance; horribly lacklustre when one considers the mindbogglingly expensive players onn their roster--to wit players of the ilk of the willowy David Beckham whose other tombstone epitaph will most likely be "husband of the former "Posh Spice" and father of a child called "Brooklyn".
Anyway, some classic English wit was much in abundance and it was all I could do to stifle my chuckles of pleasure. Incidents like this is why I love London and the English.
I don't know that much about football except what I see on the telly and England is playing crap," said the woman. "My daughter kicks far better ball than that Beckham bloke."
"Definitely crap," said her male partner. "And what they're paying that chap."
"They'll not get much further in the competition if they don't pick up their socks, will they?"
"No, that they won't."
"And they've just been playing crap countries so far? What'll 'appen when they go against good ones like Germany and Sweden?" She sighed deeply. "I mean, so far it's been crap playing against crap countries, innit."
"Just crap," said the gentleman. Pause. "I have to sort out a big vegetable delivery when I get into the office this morning. Too much bloody paperwork in the job."
"Too little money for too much work, innit," said the woman. Pause. "Was you watching the news on the telly last night, was you? There's definitely going to be a strike at them ASDA depots (UK Walmart subsid), you know?"
Silence.
"It's supposed to rain heavy by knocking off time today," said the man.
"And I didn't bring me bleedin' brolly today. Just typical, innit." Silence. "I suppose we can't complain though. We've had a lot of hot days, ain't we? Mind you, it was stifling in my office yesterday. Tracey nearly passed out, she did. They need to give us another fan in there."
"Here's Camberwell Green coming up. Press that bell, will you, love? This is the crap driver that never gives us enough time to get down the bleedin' stairs."
Update--England met a 'good country' the next evening and drew 2-2 with Sweden.
[technorati: world cup, football, soccer, England, Sweden, united kingdom, FIFA, David Beckham
Tuesday
When authors stray
As the current topic in the publishing world is the alleged plagiarism by Kaavya Viswanathan, the creator of How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life, and the fact her novel has now been officially withdrawn by her publisher from bookstores and will not be reissued, I thought I would add my view as a novelist and lawyer.
Viswanathan, born in India, wrote the novel in the US as a teenager and was paid around $500,000 in a two-book deal by Little Brown during her first year at Harvard. The accusation was that there were over 40--yes, 40--similarities between passages in her novel and passages of two novels written by author Megan McCafferty. The similarities relate to prose, style and even plot development issues.
She is now a sophomore at Harvard University and it was the university's newspaper, The Harvard Crimson, that first brought the issues of her alleged plagiarism to light. Predictably, the author apologized, stated she is a huge fan of Mc Cafferty, had read her novels several times as a teenager, and that any internalizing of her prose and subsequent regurgitation in her own novel was unintentional. Little Brown at first decided to repackage their author in an attempt to mitigate the fallout stating to the effect, 'She's a wonderful photogenic, little girl, we love her, and she's so industrious, and such a bright student.' Both the author and the publisher have promised to do a rewrite and remove the passages that bear any unfortunate but absolutely unintentional similarities.
I can understand that a writer might inadvertently allow one or possibly two similarities or pieces of another author's dialogue to creep into their own work during the writing. However, that should be detected and weeded out during the many drafts that a work goes through prior to acceptance for publication. But it is disingenuous to state that over 40 similarities are due to simple error and hero-worship of a favorite writer. Moreover, if plagiarism has indeed occurred--and it would seem that that is the case judging by the withdrawal of the book from sale--the editor at Little Brown also failed, I believe. A knowledgeable, well-read editor who buys frequently in a particular genre should be familiar with the existing work in the genre and 40 similarities would thus have caused his or her internal alarm bells to ring resoundingly. It is unfortunate but many editors at these houses do not have the experience or knowledge of their markets and, in my opinion, should be relieved of their duties in the same manner incompetent lawyers, doctors etc. are let go every day. Having worked as a lawyer I've seen and read about it happening at many lawfirms.
With regard to Ms. Viswanathan, it appears McCafferty (the author whose work had been plagiarized)has been very generous and stated she is seeking no restitution and wants only to get omn with her writing life, though I am not sure if she can also speak for her publisher. However, Random House seemed satisfied by the steps Little Brown has taken to resolve the matter.
Plagiarism amounts to literary identity theft. I can in no way accept--no matter how a psychologist might try to persuade me that it is feasible as I have read in an internet article--that an author would not be aware he or she is plagiarizing on 40 occasions. And writers who do plagiarize should pay a heavy price and not be allowed to hide behind weak defenses, such as the one utilised by Viswanathan which is as far as I can deduce amounts to 'innocent little girl in the big bad work defense.' She is clearly shrewd, intelligent enough to get into Harvard, and must take responsibility for the crime because it seems one has indeed been committed. Consequences for plagiarism should include all copies of the plagiarizing authors work being pulled from bookshelves, restitution to the author whose work was plagiarized (notwithstanding McCafferty's generosity) and the author's publisher as well as any members of the public who purchased the work and feel cheated, and cancellation of any existing publishing contracts.
[technorati: plagiarism, Meghan McCafferty, Kaavya Viswanathan, Harvard, Little Brown, Random House, novels, India
Viswanathan, born in India, wrote the novel in the US as a teenager and was paid around $500,000 in a two-book deal by Little Brown during her first year at Harvard. The accusation was that there were over 40--yes, 40--similarities between passages in her novel and passages of two novels written by author Megan McCafferty. The similarities relate to prose, style and even plot development issues.
She is now a sophomore at Harvard University and it was the university's newspaper, The Harvard Crimson, that first brought the issues of her alleged plagiarism to light. Predictably, the author apologized, stated she is a huge fan of Mc Cafferty, had read her novels several times as a teenager, and that any internalizing of her prose and subsequent regurgitation in her own novel was unintentional. Little Brown at first decided to repackage their author in an attempt to mitigate the fallout stating to the effect, 'She's a wonderful photogenic, little girl, we love her, and she's so industrious, and such a bright student.' Both the author and the publisher have promised to do a rewrite and remove the passages that bear any unfortunate but absolutely unintentional similarities.
I can understand that a writer might inadvertently allow one or possibly two similarities or pieces of another author's dialogue to creep into their own work during the writing. However, that should be detected and weeded out during the many drafts that a work goes through prior to acceptance for publication. But it is disingenuous to state that over 40 similarities are due to simple error and hero-worship of a favorite writer. Moreover, if plagiarism has indeed occurred--and it would seem that that is the case judging by the withdrawal of the book from sale--the editor at Little Brown also failed, I believe. A knowledgeable, well-read editor who buys frequently in a particular genre should be familiar with the existing work in the genre and 40 similarities would thus have caused his or her internal alarm bells to ring resoundingly. It is unfortunate but many editors at these houses do not have the experience or knowledge of their markets and, in my opinion, should be relieved of their duties in the same manner incompetent lawyers, doctors etc. are let go every day. Having worked as a lawyer I've seen and read about it happening at many lawfirms.
With regard to Ms. Viswanathan, it appears McCafferty (the author whose work had been plagiarized)has been very generous and stated she is seeking no restitution and wants only to get omn with her writing life, though I am not sure if she can also speak for her publisher. However, Random House seemed satisfied by the steps Little Brown has taken to resolve the matter.
Plagiarism amounts to literary identity theft. I can in no way accept--no matter how a psychologist might try to persuade me that it is feasible as I have read in an internet article--that an author would not be aware he or she is plagiarizing on 40 occasions. And writers who do plagiarize should pay a heavy price and not be allowed to hide behind weak defenses, such as the one utilised by Viswanathan which is as far as I can deduce amounts to 'innocent little girl in the big bad work defense.' She is clearly shrewd, intelligent enough to get into Harvard, and must take responsibility for the crime because it seems one has indeed been committed. Consequences for plagiarism should include all copies of the plagiarizing authors work being pulled from bookshelves, restitution to the author whose work was plagiarized (notwithstanding McCafferty's generosity) and the author's publisher as well as any members of the public who purchased the work and feel cheated, and cancellation of any existing publishing contracts.
[technorati: plagiarism, Meghan McCafferty, Kaavya Viswanathan, Harvard, Little Brown, Random House, novels, India
Thursday
Spice
I write with a heavy, constricted heart. Our beloved cockerpoo Spice died at 3.25pm this afternoon. It was a mutual decision. He let Larry and me know in the early hours of this morning that he was in pain, that the steroid medications were no longer working, and it was time to leave us. He was a gentle and loving dog from the moment I set eyes on him fourteen years ago when I met Larry and he took me home to met him and he remained a faithul and loyal pet to the end with his considerateness.
We took him to the vet this afternoon and he passed peacefully. A little later we buried him in a casket that Larry had already prepared. We took him to the place where our new home will be as that is where we weanted him and Larry said he romped there as a puppy. Our friend Lee of L+L was there--she came with us to the vet and stayed with me in the room--and she was an enormous comfort.
Our hearts are empty. Outside of my first dog Sandy, I have never loved a dog so intensely. In the fourteen years I have been with Larry I have never seen him cry; this morning when we knew Spice wanted to leave Larry did and he is a true man for it.
We took him to the vet this afternoon and he passed peacefully. A little later we buried him in a casket that Larry had already prepared. We took him to the place where our new home will be as that is where we weanted him and Larry said he romped there as a puppy. Our friend Lee of L+L was there--she came with us to the vet and stayed with me in the room--and she was an enormous comfort.
Our hearts are empty. Outside of my first dog Sandy, I have never loved a dog so intensely. In the fourteen years I have been with Larry I have never seen him cry; this morning when we knew Spice wanted to leave Larry did and he is a true man for it.
Tuesday
Smelling the roses
Now that there's real warmth in the Pennsylvania sun I've been feeling very energetic and Larry and I have taken to becoming stonemasons of sorts. What's more, for the first time ever I worked on Easter Sunday; under Larry's supervision--well he has an excuse to take things easy for another few days--I carted fieldstone over from another part of the property to the front of our house where we created stone flowerbeds.
I should explain that a lot of Pennsylvania fieldstone--more precisely Bucks County fieldstone--is a type of slate with beautifully flat surfaces and comes in a rich red color, all of which makes it ideal for building houses, boundary walls and flower beds. As one drives through Bucks, one encounters walls bordering pastures that go all the way back to the days of the Penn's Purchase, the period when William Penn bought thousands of acres from the native Indians and then sold or granted the land to other European immigrants from the Netherlands, Germany, England, etc.
This week I'm still busy apprenticing as a mason. In addition, flower beds need filling so I'm also busy wheeling barrows and barrows of loamy soil and chucking it inside these newly created spaces. Thankfully we had the good sense to put in shrubs--assorted types of spirea because the deer don't like those--when we first moved into the house a few years ago so the planting aspect of the project is not too onerous. Last night we went out to a garden center and bought lots of annuals which I'm really looking forward to planting.
There's something primal, affirming and satisfying about driving one's naked hands into the soft soil, digging it out and inserting a brightly colored flower into it. It's also a tad weird for me to enjoy doing this now because I despised this sort of work when I was an adolescent because my father made me do it and as a result I swore never to garden when I became a man. I also swore to live in a city.
Throughout my twenties and early thirties I assiduously avoided gardens and plants--except for indoor rubber and spider plants--and never noticed the advent of spring because I was far too busy bar-hopping and clubbing at places in Berlin and London like Metropol, Knast, Heaven and the Copa Cabana and experiencing the sorts of things that need to be experienced in order to get them out of one's system and move on without later regret that I'm told can eventually fester to acute bitterness in one's seventies and eighties, etc. For me too, I guess my new love of creating flowerbeds and growing things is related to choice and issues of control: Then, I had no choice; now I choose to do it.
What was truly astonishing was the gigantic sense of satisfaction I got when I stood back and looked for the first time at the new flowerbeds alongside Larry. I felt quiet joy at having helped to create this piece of rustic beauty, something that will endure long after we've moved to another place. (I hope New Yorkers don't buy the house because, much as I love their energy, many of the ones who move out here are like locusts and immediately alter, even obliterate, already gorgeous landscaping in some misguided desire to insinuate their peronalities on the property.) As my eyes bounced off the crannies and nooks in the stones, I felt the same kind of joy I felt when my publisher first handed me a copy of A Son Called Gabriel as a bound book ready to be shipped off to the bookstores. Simple experiences make life so worthwhile.
[technorati: Penn's Purchase, William Penn, Bucks County, gardening, landscaping, Berlin,London
I should explain that a lot of Pennsylvania fieldstone--more precisely Bucks County fieldstone--is a type of slate with beautifully flat surfaces and comes in a rich red color, all of which makes it ideal for building houses, boundary walls and flower beds. As one drives through Bucks, one encounters walls bordering pastures that go all the way back to the days of the Penn's Purchase, the period when William Penn bought thousands of acres from the native Indians and then sold or granted the land to other European immigrants from the Netherlands, Germany, England, etc.
This week I'm still busy apprenticing as a mason. In addition, flower beds need filling so I'm also busy wheeling barrows and barrows of loamy soil and chucking it inside these newly created spaces. Thankfully we had the good sense to put in shrubs--assorted types of spirea because the deer don't like those--when we first moved into the house a few years ago so the planting aspect of the project is not too onerous. Last night we went out to a garden center and bought lots of annuals which I'm really looking forward to planting.
There's something primal, affirming and satisfying about driving one's naked hands into the soft soil, digging it out and inserting a brightly colored flower into it. It's also a tad weird for me to enjoy doing this now because I despised this sort of work when I was an adolescent because my father made me do it and as a result I swore never to garden when I became a man. I also swore to live in a city.
Throughout my twenties and early thirties I assiduously avoided gardens and plants--except for indoor rubber and spider plants--and never noticed the advent of spring because I was far too busy bar-hopping and clubbing at places in Berlin and London like Metropol, Knast, Heaven and the Copa Cabana and experiencing the sorts of things that need to be experienced in order to get them out of one's system and move on without later regret that I'm told can eventually fester to acute bitterness in one's seventies and eighties, etc. For me too, I guess my new love of creating flowerbeds and growing things is related to choice and issues of control: Then, I had no choice; now I choose to do it.
What was truly astonishing was the gigantic sense of satisfaction I got when I stood back and looked for the first time at the new flowerbeds alongside Larry. I felt quiet joy at having helped to create this piece of rustic beauty, something that will endure long after we've moved to another place. (I hope New Yorkers don't buy the house because, much as I love their energy, many of the ones who move out here are like locusts and immediately alter, even obliterate, already gorgeous landscaping in some misguided desire to insinuate their peronalities on the property.) As my eyes bounced off the crannies and nooks in the stones, I felt the same kind of joy I felt when my publisher first handed me a copy of A Son Called Gabriel as a bound book ready to be shipped off to the bookstores. Simple experiences make life so worthwhile.
[technorati: Penn's Purchase, William Penn, Bucks County, gardening, landscaping, Berlin,London
Thursday
A blockage
These past few days have been quite hectic. Larry has recently felt very tired and sluggish during the day and has been awoken by a burning sensation at night for three or four weeks now, the latter symptom he tried to banish by taking antiacids to no avail. So he decided to visit his primary physician who told him to go for a stress test at a cardio clinic he recommended. The clinic has four branches yet only one had an opening to see him the following day. Being a trifle anal about getting to a new place without incident--namely he and I screaming at each other because we're postively retarded when it comes to our senses of direction and almost murdered one another after dropping my sister and her family off at JFK seven years ago--we duly set out on Monday evening to ascertain the exact location of the clinic. It was a good decision because we could not find it easily notwithstanding the huge water tower landmark.
Next morning I sat in the waiting room as he took to the threadmill and did a battery of tests. Half an hour later, I grew weary of flicking through the magazines--cooking and family orientated for the women and sports for the men--and listening to the very helpful (it must be said) receptionist gossip with a trickle of nurses stopping with her while eating their lunches. Presently a door opened, literally. I heard a woman talk about a blockage, ask someone questions, and then Larry responded. For a moment my own heart reared in its cavity because I knew the words 'heart' and 'blockage' never feature happily within the same sentence. A number of phone calls ensued and then Larry appeared and we had to drive off to the hospital ER where they'd arranged for him to undergo further testing.
Naturally, Murphy's Law kicked in at the hospital because no-one there knew about the clinic's results or even that we were expected. Additional calls resulted in the person who did know coming to the rescue. A wait then commenced: It was the cardio unit's busiest day in months because six people with heart attacks--yes six--were in various stages of admission or on the operating table. Larry remained very calm as the minutes ticked onward. I resolved to remain calm too, but my hypochondrical streak would have none of it. Absolutely none. This was its opportunity to inflict maximum anxiety and it has never been known to forgo such a plum. It would brook no attempt at suppression and sent other parts of my brain into a frenzy of conjecture; I saw clots forming before my eyes in glorious technicolor; I saw Larry clutching at his heart and me shouting at the doctors to do something, anything; I saw rushing guerneys and flailing arms.
The cardiologist appeared at last only to say he was running very late as it had been a busy day and, as Larry wasn't experiencing discomfort, he was going to admit him overnight and perform the procedure first thing in the morning. And that he did. The procedure confirmed there was indeed a blockage and a stent was inserted to get blood flowing properly and Larry spent that night in the hospital, too. He's now out, feeling so much better, but surprised about having a blockage in the first place because there is no history of heart problems in his family.
All in all, the experience has left me confident about the level of care within the American medical system. Yes, the system's unwieldy, expensive, involves a great deal of waste, but care really is top notch. No matter that it galls me a little to have to admit it, the system functions better than the National Health System that exists in the UK. My mother has had an issue in the past in connection with her heart and I learned it takes far too long to get an appointment with a specialist. In Larry's case, he was seen immediately and the entire procedure done in forty-eight hours. If he had not been able to be seen so speedily, the cold fact is he could have had a heart attack and/or stroke. I shudder to think about the number of people in the UK who have not been seen by a specialist on time and have died needlessly as a result. I think the addage about the squeaky wheel should be remembered at times like this.
I also wish to say that the goal of the British National Health Service, namely that all citizens have access to quality medical care, is laudable and moral. American citizens and residents should also have universal coverage and the present system fails miserably in this regard. I hope sincerely that the health care model which the Commonwealth of Massachusetts seeks to implement very shortly will work and result in all its residents having access to quality medical care. If that happens, it will surely be just a matter of time before other states follow suit.
[technorati: health care, heart attack, cardiologist, massachusetts, massachusetts health care reform, united kingdom, england, national health service
Next morning I sat in the waiting room as he took to the threadmill and did a battery of tests. Half an hour later, I grew weary of flicking through the magazines--cooking and family orientated for the women and sports for the men--and listening to the very helpful (it must be said) receptionist gossip with a trickle of nurses stopping with her while eating their lunches. Presently a door opened, literally. I heard a woman talk about a blockage, ask someone questions, and then Larry responded. For a moment my own heart reared in its cavity because I knew the words 'heart' and 'blockage' never feature happily within the same sentence. A number of phone calls ensued and then Larry appeared and we had to drive off to the hospital ER where they'd arranged for him to undergo further testing.
Naturally, Murphy's Law kicked in at the hospital because no-one there knew about the clinic's results or even that we were expected. Additional calls resulted in the person who did know coming to the rescue. A wait then commenced: It was the cardio unit's busiest day in months because six people with heart attacks--yes six--were in various stages of admission or on the operating table. Larry remained very calm as the minutes ticked onward. I resolved to remain calm too, but my hypochondrical streak would have none of it. Absolutely none. This was its opportunity to inflict maximum anxiety and it has never been known to forgo such a plum. It would brook no attempt at suppression and sent other parts of my brain into a frenzy of conjecture; I saw clots forming before my eyes in glorious technicolor; I saw Larry clutching at his heart and me shouting at the doctors to do something, anything; I saw rushing guerneys and flailing arms.
The cardiologist appeared at last only to say he was running very late as it had been a busy day and, as Larry wasn't experiencing discomfort, he was going to admit him overnight and perform the procedure first thing in the morning. And that he did. The procedure confirmed there was indeed a blockage and a stent was inserted to get blood flowing properly and Larry spent that night in the hospital, too. He's now out, feeling so much better, but surprised about having a blockage in the first place because there is no history of heart problems in his family.
All in all, the experience has left me confident about the level of care within the American medical system. Yes, the system's unwieldy, expensive, involves a great deal of waste, but care really is top notch. No matter that it galls me a little to have to admit it, the system functions better than the National Health System that exists in the UK. My mother has had an issue in the past in connection with her heart and I learned it takes far too long to get an appointment with a specialist. In Larry's case, he was seen immediately and the entire procedure done in forty-eight hours. If he had not been able to be seen so speedily, the cold fact is he could have had a heart attack and/or stroke. I shudder to think about the number of people in the UK who have not been seen by a specialist on time and have died needlessly as a result. I think the addage about the squeaky wheel should be remembered at times like this.
I also wish to say that the goal of the British National Health Service, namely that all citizens have access to quality medical care, is laudable and moral. American citizens and residents should also have universal coverage and the present system fails miserably in this regard. I hope sincerely that the health care model which the Commonwealth of Massachusetts seeks to implement very shortly will work and result in all its residents having access to quality medical care. If that happens, it will surely be just a matter of time before other states follow suit.
[technorati: health care, heart attack, cardiologist, massachusetts, massachusetts health care reform, united kingdom, england, national health service
Sunday
A bit of web scouring
Like everyone I know, I love to buy my air flights cheap and travel with reputable airlines. A few friends, Larry and I are off soon on a jaunt to Europe, but because it's a tour and I'm breaking off afterwards to visit family and friends in Northern Ireland and England, I have to find my own flights to and from our first and last destinations. So I've spent the last few weeks scouring a myriad of internet sites for flights at reasonable prices. I've learned a lot and, as the vacation season will soon arrive for millions, I thought I'd share my experiences.
First, I searched using the much touted Hotwire.com and Expedia.com and discovered these two sites are connected to one another; indeed Expedia invites the harried surfer to try to find a cheaper flight by visiting Hotwire after a search of their database has been completed. I've come to realize that searches of these sites and others (including Cheaptickets and Orbitz) tends to yield the same price give or take a couple of dollars. I imagine that's to do with a maturing of the practice of booking travel on the web and the fact that everyone is now savvy and double checking to ensure they've got the cheapest and/or most suitable deal.
The big surprise was that I could have saved myself a great deal of hair pulling by going directly to the carriers sites, specifically the European carriers sites. As I will visit London at some point, I decided to keep my eye on the British Airways website and the cheapest fare (and most direct route) was found on their site because of specials they started running. And something very interesting occurred on the Hotwire site while British Airways commenced its offer to London; no matter how I interrogated their database, no British Airways flight turned up during the currency of BA's offer, a fact all the more remarkeable in that BA flights were popping up like wildfires prior to this period. Instead, all I got from Hotwire was a long list of American Airlines flights at higher fares. I imagine this must be because Hotwire and other sites have to add on booking fees, etc. and the airline making the special offer direct to the public via its website will not pay the internet company such fees, etc and thus they have no incentive to offer them.
The bottom line is to remember to keep airline websites in mind when doing searches.
For people travelling within the UK, Ireland and continental Europe there are a slew of budget airlines offering fantastic and cheap travel options. For example, I can travel to Belfast Airport from London (usually Stanstead airport which is easy to access) for as little as $25.00 including taxes, etc. The principal airlines with good fares are EasyJet (whom I've used before and was very happy with), Ryan Air and Air Berlin. Be forewarned that it is prudent to book your flight stateside; if you wait until you arrive in the UK and leave yourself little time between booking and travelling, you will pay a much higher price nine times out of ten.
One problem I'm encountering during my leg to continental Europe is that some of these airlines (Ryan Air, in particular) tend to use out of-the-way smaller airports that are a considerable (if not great) distance from the named arrival cities. Americans unused to the locations of airports in and around European cities should be especially vigilent here.
For example I'm going to Budva in the Republic of Montenegro, which is not as well served transport-wise because it lies in the former Eastern European bloc as would a major Western European city. If I were to use British Airways or JAT etc. from London, the cost of the flight plus additional fees and taxes ranges from half to almost three-quarters of what I shall pay to get from the US to Europe. This is extortionate to the American mind (although our internal fares can be hefty too), but the trade-off is that they would get me to within thirty kilometers of my destination city. By contrast, EasyJet will fly me to Split in Croatia for about $45.00, but Split is 230 kilometers away from Budva. I must then get a bus from Split to Budva ($40.00) which runs only on certain days (otherwise I have to take a bus to Dubrovnik, then catch another one to Budva) and the journey takes five to six hours. This is not a problem for me as I have time to coordinate all the various schedules and I get an opportunity to see a lot of the riveting coastline.
A vital matter to watch out for with the budget airlines is baggage allowances. My research showed that (in addition to one item of cabin baggage--check each airlines specifications about that) the allowance is one piece of luggage weighing up to 20 kilos (44.2 Lbs approx), which is adequate for a chap but will cause nightmares for fashion obsessed lads and lassies, families, and women with an inability to cull brutally during their initial packing. (My dear friends L&L fall into this unfortunate category as I've seen them arrive at airports sheparding a medley of bulging suitcases bearing a "total cram load" similar to that of those enormous steamers used on Atlantic sea crossings in days of olde.) Should one traverse the limit, the airline watchdogs will pounce joyously and without mercy because--whether admitted or not--this is a revenue source. And it's highly lucrative because each kilo one goes over will cost an additional $9.50--up to a maximum that, if exceeded, could in theory actually result in your being refused permission to fly.
I'm now happy because my flights have been booked and I can now look forward to the trip. Regardless as to how or where you decide to travel, enjoy the search and Bon voyage.
[technorati: web travel, expedia.com, hotwire.com, Easy Jet, Ryan Air, British Airways, Dubrovnik, Air Berlin
First, I searched using the much touted Hotwire.com and Expedia.com and discovered these two sites are connected to one another; indeed Expedia invites the harried surfer to try to find a cheaper flight by visiting Hotwire after a search of their database has been completed. I've come to realize that searches of these sites and others (including Cheaptickets and Orbitz) tends to yield the same price give or take a couple of dollars. I imagine that's to do with a maturing of the practice of booking travel on the web and the fact that everyone is now savvy and double checking to ensure they've got the cheapest and/or most suitable deal.
The big surprise was that I could have saved myself a great deal of hair pulling by going directly to the carriers sites, specifically the European carriers sites. As I will visit London at some point, I decided to keep my eye on the British Airways website and the cheapest fare (and most direct route) was found on their site because of specials they started running. And something very interesting occurred on the Hotwire site while British Airways commenced its offer to London; no matter how I interrogated their database, no British Airways flight turned up during the currency of BA's offer, a fact all the more remarkeable in that BA flights were popping up like wildfires prior to this period. Instead, all I got from Hotwire was a long list of American Airlines flights at higher fares. I imagine this must be because Hotwire and other sites have to add on booking fees, etc. and the airline making the special offer direct to the public via its website will not pay the internet company such fees, etc and thus they have no incentive to offer them.
The bottom line is to remember to keep airline websites in mind when doing searches.
For people travelling within the UK, Ireland and continental Europe there are a slew of budget airlines offering fantastic and cheap travel options. For example, I can travel to Belfast Airport from London (usually Stanstead airport which is easy to access) for as little as $25.00 including taxes, etc. The principal airlines with good fares are EasyJet (whom I've used before and was very happy with), Ryan Air and Air Berlin. Be forewarned that it is prudent to book your flight stateside; if you wait until you arrive in the UK and leave yourself little time between booking and travelling, you will pay a much higher price nine times out of ten.
One problem I'm encountering during my leg to continental Europe is that some of these airlines (Ryan Air, in particular) tend to use out of-the-way smaller airports that are a considerable (if not great) distance from the named arrival cities. Americans unused to the locations of airports in and around European cities should be especially vigilent here.
For example I'm going to Budva in the Republic of Montenegro, which is not as well served transport-wise because it lies in the former Eastern European bloc as would a major Western European city. If I were to use British Airways or JAT etc. from London, the cost of the flight plus additional fees and taxes ranges from half to almost three-quarters of what I shall pay to get from the US to Europe. This is extortionate to the American mind (although our internal fares can be hefty too), but the trade-off is that they would get me to within thirty kilometers of my destination city. By contrast, EasyJet will fly me to Split in Croatia for about $45.00, but Split is 230 kilometers away from Budva. I must then get a bus from Split to Budva ($40.00) which runs only on certain days (otherwise I have to take a bus to Dubrovnik, then catch another one to Budva) and the journey takes five to six hours. This is not a problem for me as I have time to coordinate all the various schedules and I get an opportunity to see a lot of the riveting coastline.
A vital matter to watch out for with the budget airlines is baggage allowances. My research showed that (in addition to one item of cabin baggage--check each airlines specifications about that) the allowance is one piece of luggage weighing up to 20 kilos (44.2 Lbs approx), which is adequate for a chap but will cause nightmares for fashion obsessed lads and lassies, families, and women with an inability to cull brutally during their initial packing. (My dear friends L&L fall into this unfortunate category as I've seen them arrive at airports sheparding a medley of bulging suitcases bearing a "total cram load" similar to that of those enormous steamers used on Atlantic sea crossings in days of olde.) Should one traverse the limit, the airline watchdogs will pounce joyously and without mercy because--whether admitted or not--this is a revenue source. And it's highly lucrative because each kilo one goes over will cost an additional $9.50--up to a maximum that, if exceeded, could in theory actually result in your being refused permission to fly.
I'm now happy because my flights have been booked and I can now look forward to the trip. Regardless as to how or where you decide to travel, enjoy the search and Bon voyage.
[technorati: web travel, expedia.com, hotwire.com, Easy Jet, Ryan Air, British Airways, Dubrovnik, Air Berlin
Monday
A 50th Anniversary
In a time when self-appointed conservative watchdogs are working feverishly to deny gay and lesbian human beings their civil rights including (for those that desire it) the right to have their relationships recognized by the state, it was magnificent and refreshing and thought-provoking to attend the 50th anniversary of good friends I know this weekend. About eighty people-gay, straight, married and single-were privileged to gather at the restaurant to congratulate Wally and Ralph who met in NYC all those years ago and eventually moved out to Bucks County.
(As a lawyer, I fall into the camp that it does not matter if a legal relationship between gays or lesbians is called 'marriage' or a 'civil union' or anything else. What matters is that all applicable federal and state laws that bestow benefits, privileges and impose obligations in heterosexual marriages are triggered in like manner when a gay or lesbian relationship is registered. This would be inordinately simple for the Congress to achieve with the words, "Marriage as currently defined and civil unions between people shall have the same force and effect throughout all the territories of the United States" signed into legislation.
That Wally and Ralph have been together as partners and formed a household for 50 years really caused me to ponder deeply that evening. My first thought was, "My God, my parents haven't been married 50 years yet." I pondered next about these two men having stuck by each other through this large slice of time; through fifty humid Pennsylvania summers, 50 spectacular falls, and 50 dry or bone-chilling Pennsylvania winters, through thousands of days of rain and sun and snow, through thousands of days of 'for better' and 'for worse', and throughout every minute of those thousands of days without a shred of legal recognition from the democratic instruments of state in the country that is their home.
I pondered how most heterosexual married couples probably don't give a thought--maybe don't even know--that over a thousand federal laws (1,138 to be more precise, as well as 100 state laws) are automatically activated or applicable as soon as they enter their signatures on the marriage register; over one thousand federal laws that operate to protect, support, and impose obligations on a couple who've chosen and are allowed to formalize their relationship in American society; over a thousand federal laws, American laws, that are denied a significant segment of the American population while, simultaneously, we wage war abroad in the hallowed names of democracy and justice.
As I sipped on my sweet, velvety Cabernet and watched the pair, both clad in smart tuxedos, flit between the tables laughing and accepting congratulations, my reflections were usurped by feelings of bitter anger. I thought about the people who work feverishly to deny honest, hardworking gays and lesbians who wish to commit the right to so do. I thought about them working feverishly to hoodwink their fellow Americans about the so-called degeneracy and sinfulness of gays and lesbians, how in the name of 'God' and 'Jesus' many of them wish to maintain the status quo and ensure the applicable federal laws continue to be discriminatory and inconsistently applied so that gay couples can't enjoy the tax benefits that married couples enjoy, that gay couples only inherit a deceased partner's property after the payment of unjust penalties and unnecessary legal expense, that they are excluded from their partners' sick beds in hospital and stripped of all standing with regard to decision-making unless they again resort to expensive legal measures. It is unconscionable that gays and lesbians, in middle and old-age, have had to resort to the instrument of adoption by one partner of the other in order to ensure they could have some semblance of even-handed treatment under the federal laws of these United States.
My eyes swept around the room to take in the forest of couples, many of them together thirty or forty years. Two chaps were actually in their fifty-fifth year with not a photograph of the day their relationship was formalized to bear witness. I thought if this is degeneracy and sinfulness, then America needs more of it.
As I watched, my anger dissipated as quickly as it surged because I knew that the feverishly working people will lose this war. Justice in this matter has taken root and is spreading throughout the world: it's rooted already in Canada, in Spain, in Sweden and other parts of Scandinavia, and even in stiff upper-lipped England. In time it will take root throughout most of the United States. It will, because Americans are essentially fair-minded and passionate about equality and will silence the fearmongers, bigots and bible-thumpers thundering among them.
[technorati: marriage, civil union, civil rights, justice, discrimination, bigotry,United States
(As a lawyer, I fall into the camp that it does not matter if a legal relationship between gays or lesbians is called 'marriage' or a 'civil union' or anything else. What matters is that all applicable federal and state laws that bestow benefits, privileges and impose obligations in heterosexual marriages are triggered in like manner when a gay or lesbian relationship is registered. This would be inordinately simple for the Congress to achieve with the words, "Marriage as currently defined and civil unions between people shall have the same force and effect throughout all the territories of the United States" signed into legislation.
That Wally and Ralph have been together as partners and formed a household for 50 years really caused me to ponder deeply that evening. My first thought was, "My God, my parents haven't been married 50 years yet." I pondered next about these two men having stuck by each other through this large slice of time; through fifty humid Pennsylvania summers, 50 spectacular falls, and 50 dry or bone-chilling Pennsylvania winters, through thousands of days of rain and sun and snow, through thousands of days of 'for better' and 'for worse', and throughout every minute of those thousands of days without a shred of legal recognition from the democratic instruments of state in the country that is their home.
I pondered how most heterosexual married couples probably don't give a thought--maybe don't even know--that over a thousand federal laws (1,138 to be more precise, as well as 100 state laws) are automatically activated or applicable as soon as they enter their signatures on the marriage register; over one thousand federal laws that operate to protect, support, and impose obligations on a couple who've chosen and are allowed to formalize their relationship in American society; over a thousand federal laws, American laws, that are denied a significant segment of the American population while, simultaneously, we wage war abroad in the hallowed names of democracy and justice.
As I sipped on my sweet, velvety Cabernet and watched the pair, both clad in smart tuxedos, flit between the tables laughing and accepting congratulations, my reflections were usurped by feelings of bitter anger. I thought about the people who work feverishly to deny honest, hardworking gays and lesbians who wish to commit the right to so do. I thought about them working feverishly to hoodwink their fellow Americans about the so-called degeneracy and sinfulness of gays and lesbians, how in the name of 'God' and 'Jesus' many of them wish to maintain the status quo and ensure the applicable federal laws continue to be discriminatory and inconsistently applied so that gay couples can't enjoy the tax benefits that married couples enjoy, that gay couples only inherit a deceased partner's property after the payment of unjust penalties and unnecessary legal expense, that they are excluded from their partners' sick beds in hospital and stripped of all standing with regard to decision-making unless they again resort to expensive legal measures. It is unconscionable that gays and lesbians, in middle and old-age, have had to resort to the instrument of adoption by one partner of the other in order to ensure they could have some semblance of even-handed treatment under the federal laws of these United States.
My eyes swept around the room to take in the forest of couples, many of them together thirty or forty years. Two chaps were actually in their fifty-fifth year with not a photograph of the day their relationship was formalized to bear witness. I thought if this is degeneracy and sinfulness, then America needs more of it.
As I watched, my anger dissipated as quickly as it surged because I knew that the feverishly working people will lose this war. Justice in this matter has taken root and is spreading throughout the world: it's rooted already in Canada, in Spain, in Sweden and other parts of Scandinavia, and even in stiff upper-lipped England. In time it will take root throughout most of the United States. It will, because Americans are essentially fair-minded and passionate about equality and will silence the fearmongers, bigots and bible-thumpers thundering among them.
[technorati: marriage, civil union, civil rights, justice, discrimination, bigotry,United States
Tuesday
Hornet's Hummer
"Oh dear" was all I could think. I was sweaty from my exertions and badly needed my 20 oz mug of coffee from the Wawa (Native American for goose). My entire mind flashed at the jolt, which was miniscule I might add, but I saw a canary yellow bonnet and ferocious looking chrome grille in my rear view mirror and all I could summon was another "Oh, dear."
As I stepped out of my car in the parking lot of the 'Y' and she stepped out in a pair of black leotards and mustard sweater, my inner child screamed, "Oh, fuck, fuck". I couldn't also help wondering if God was getting even with me for poking fun at Pope Benedict and his newly minted cardinals at a recent dinner party, though the moment passed just as quickly because I know the Supreme Being is on my side and I'm not afflicted nor do I get off on conjuring up terrors of damnation like so many religious brethern living state-side.
"Gosh, I didn't see you drive in," I said to the hornet. Clearly she'd stormed into the parking lot, because I'd checked moments before and all was clear. By now, I should add I was addressing the slope of her back and increasingly honed ass--I must give full credit where credit is merited--because she was bent over inspecting the aforementioned ferocious looking grille and bumper.
Perhaps I should say at this point that I am not at all partial to Hummer 1, Hummer 2 and/or Hummer 3 vehicles, or their owners--actually, more likely to be lessors because it used to be a loophole in the US tax code which allowed deductions that encouraged demand for such idiotic ownership. In fact, I detest Hummers. They were invented for US army field use and that is exactly where they should have remained.
They appeal to a certain segment of the US population, in much the same way that Corvette's, because of their phallic-like appearance, supposedly appeal to men who...well, who might be a tiny bit deficient in certain nether regions.
With regard to the Hummer customer profile, I have found they appeal to the twenty-first century equivalent of the eighties Yuppies, namely thirty-something males and, judging from what draws alongside me and dismounts during visits to the supermarket, their manicured, exquisitely dressed and shod girlfriends or wives and similarly exquisitely dressed and shod toddlers. I've even seen one Hummer that's doubles as a billboard on wheels because the owner has the name of his company, which includes the word "Angels" and provides at home nursing services to the elderly, brandished on both doors and on the back.
Thankfully, the reign of Hummers and other gas guzzling mostrosities appears to be over because there's no longer a voracious demand. A dealership in New Jersey I pass by on the way to NYC has an adjacent field containing hundreds of them, all still with the opaque plastic wrapping on their roofs and bonnets, all waiting their day to meet the crusher, hopefully.
But I digress. The hornet muttered "Hmm, clearly," as she pawed, stroked and caressed her man o'war's shiny surfaces with her long, crimson painted nails. I shot a look at my own car, a dainty Sebring in comparison, saw it had sustained no damage. To my amazement, she then had the temerity to check her right wing which had not been within reach of my car.
"My vehicle has no damage so..." I allowed the sentence to trail unfinished in the air between us so Hornet could draw the logical conclusion that if mine had none, her canary yellow tank also could certainly not.
As she peered at my car, her countenance soured as if she'd been forced to take in some ghastly abomination.
"Well, I have a long scratch," she said, as she turned back to me.
"Oh?"
"Aha, here." She pointed with a curled finger at the bumper and I couldn't help notice the myriad of liver spots on her hands. "It wasn't here when I left home this morning."
My tongue quivered in preparation to pass a caustic observation in the vein of, "Scour your car's entire surface every morning, do you?", but I stilled it.
The scratch was high and my car is low to the ground. "It couldn't have been as a result of my reversing," I said, and I nodded at my car and back to the scratch so she could make the connection.
"A flying pebble."
"Excuse me?"
"A flying pebble, perhaps." Her eyes fell to the macadam and rose again.
The addition of 'perhaps' gave me my 'out.' "Or an unattended supermarket cart. That happens all the time, I've seen how careless customers are after they've packed their groceries into their cars...and it's high enough on your vehicle for that."
I was determined not to commit the cardinal sin of admitting liability, thus giving my insurance company an opportunity to interfere with my pristine record and raise my premium should she start in with that caper.
Both of us fell silent in the manner of a car saleman who's made his pitch and the first to speak loses. The silence endured, broken only by the snore of passing traffic and the caw of an ancient crow with ragged wings flying low amid a stand of nearby trees.
"I've got to get inside. I booked a machine and I'm now running late. What shall we do?" she said.
I decided to be generous. "Look, I've got some Brasso in my trunk and you can borrow it because I'm sure it'll take away that little scratch immediately."
"I can't use Brasso. I've got no gloves."
Pause.
I sighed exaggeratedly, then said, "I'll do it for you."
I opened the trunk of my car and ferreted about, wondering as I grabbed the rag and can if my action could be misconstrued in any way by Hornet for guilt, decided it could not, and in any event it was too late. I approached the tank and began to apply and buff, hating myself for having to even touch it, under her cold gaze. The ragged crow passed cawing again as if mocking me.
As I'd anticipated, the scratch vanished.
"It's gone. I told you so."
I walked back to my trunk.
"How come you travel with Brasso and a dustcloth in your car?"
It sounded so innocent, but of course was choc-a-bloc full of implication and suspicion.
"Oh, unattended supermarket carts." I opened my car door."Enjoy your workout."
I started down the parking lot and watched in my rearview mirror as she climbed into her vulgar bus and pulled into my vacated spot.
[technorati: YMCA, Hummer, Corvette, us army
As I stepped out of my car in the parking lot of the 'Y' and she stepped out in a pair of black leotards and mustard sweater, my inner child screamed, "Oh, fuck, fuck". I couldn't also help wondering if God was getting even with me for poking fun at Pope Benedict and his newly minted cardinals at a recent dinner party, though the moment passed just as quickly because I know the Supreme Being is on my side and I'm not afflicted nor do I get off on conjuring up terrors of damnation like so many religious brethern living state-side.
"Gosh, I didn't see you drive in," I said to the hornet. Clearly she'd stormed into the parking lot, because I'd checked moments before and all was clear. By now, I should add I was addressing the slope of her back and increasingly honed ass--I must give full credit where credit is merited--because she was bent over inspecting the aforementioned ferocious looking grille and bumper.
Perhaps I should say at this point that I am not at all partial to Hummer 1, Hummer 2 and/or Hummer 3 vehicles, or their owners--actually, more likely to be lessors because it used to be a loophole in the US tax code which allowed deductions that encouraged demand for such idiotic ownership. In fact, I detest Hummers. They were invented for US army field use and that is exactly where they should have remained.
They appeal to a certain segment of the US population, in much the same way that Corvette's, because of their phallic-like appearance, supposedly appeal to men who...well, who might be a tiny bit deficient in certain nether regions.
With regard to the Hummer customer profile, I have found they appeal to the twenty-first century equivalent of the eighties Yuppies, namely thirty-something males and, judging from what draws alongside me and dismounts during visits to the supermarket, their manicured, exquisitely dressed and shod girlfriends or wives and similarly exquisitely dressed and shod toddlers. I've even seen one Hummer that's doubles as a billboard on wheels because the owner has the name of his company, which includes the word "Angels" and provides at home nursing services to the elderly, brandished on both doors and on the back.
Thankfully, the reign of Hummers and other gas guzzling mostrosities appears to be over because there's no longer a voracious demand. A dealership in New Jersey I pass by on the way to NYC has an adjacent field containing hundreds of them, all still with the opaque plastic wrapping on their roofs and bonnets, all waiting their day to meet the crusher, hopefully.
But I digress. The hornet muttered "Hmm, clearly," as she pawed, stroked and caressed her man o'war's shiny surfaces with her long, crimson painted nails. I shot a look at my own car, a dainty Sebring in comparison, saw it had sustained no damage. To my amazement, she then had the temerity to check her right wing which had not been within reach of my car.
"My vehicle has no damage so..." I allowed the sentence to trail unfinished in the air between us so Hornet could draw the logical conclusion that if mine had none, her canary yellow tank also could certainly not.
As she peered at my car, her countenance soured as if she'd been forced to take in some ghastly abomination.
"Well, I have a long scratch," she said, as she turned back to me.
"Oh?"
"Aha, here." She pointed with a curled finger at the bumper and I couldn't help notice the myriad of liver spots on her hands. "It wasn't here when I left home this morning."
My tongue quivered in preparation to pass a caustic observation in the vein of, "Scour your car's entire surface every morning, do you?", but I stilled it.
The scratch was high and my car is low to the ground. "It couldn't have been as a result of my reversing," I said, and I nodded at my car and back to the scratch so she could make the connection.
"A flying pebble."
"Excuse me?"
"A flying pebble, perhaps." Her eyes fell to the macadam and rose again.
The addition of 'perhaps' gave me my 'out.' "Or an unattended supermarket cart. That happens all the time, I've seen how careless customers are after they've packed their groceries into their cars...and it's high enough on your vehicle for that."
I was determined not to commit the cardinal sin of admitting liability, thus giving my insurance company an opportunity to interfere with my pristine record and raise my premium should she start in with that caper.
Both of us fell silent in the manner of a car saleman who's made his pitch and the first to speak loses. The silence endured, broken only by the snore of passing traffic and the caw of an ancient crow with ragged wings flying low amid a stand of nearby trees.
"I've got to get inside. I booked a machine and I'm now running late. What shall we do?" she said.
I decided to be generous. "Look, I've got some Brasso in my trunk and you can borrow it because I'm sure it'll take away that little scratch immediately."
"I can't use Brasso. I've got no gloves."
Pause.
I sighed exaggeratedly, then said, "I'll do it for you."
I opened the trunk of my car and ferreted about, wondering as I grabbed the rag and can if my action could be misconstrued in any way by Hornet for guilt, decided it could not, and in any event it was too late. I approached the tank and began to apply and buff, hating myself for having to even touch it, under her cold gaze. The ragged crow passed cawing again as if mocking me.
As I'd anticipated, the scratch vanished.
"It's gone. I told you so."
I walked back to my trunk.
"How come you travel with Brasso and a dustcloth in your car?"
It sounded so innocent, but of course was choc-a-bloc full of implication and suspicion.
"Oh, unattended supermarket carts." I opened my car door."Enjoy your workout."
I started down the parking lot and watched in my rearview mirror as she climbed into her vulgar bus and pulled into my vacated spot.
[technorati: YMCA, Hummer, Corvette, us army
Thursday
Perfect partners:tax refunds and BAFAB
Tuesday was D-Day and as a result I've been feeling very hassled and grumpy for the past few days. Reason: Taxes and looming deadlines.
I hate doing my taxes, even when I know I'm getting something back, because I hate maintaining files and all those expense receipts and things get tossed on a regular basis into a receptacle called 'The Bag' that sits near my desk for a year until this time of the year. Periodically The Bag intrudes into my peripheral vision--usually on rainy, depressing days when my spirits are already bloated and sagging-and evokes feelings of horror because I know the day is rapidly approaching when I have to go through it to determine what is business related and what is no and tally totals and I despise rummaging through the dogeared, crumpled detritus.
(For the edification of readers of this blog who live outside the United States, all American residents are required to file their annual tax returns by April 15th each year. And for those Americans who reside outside the country, they must file their taxes with the applicable US Embassy or consulate by that day--when I lived in London, it used to amuse me to hear my American friends talk about how they had to trudge to the US Embassy in London to do so every year.)
So I've spent the last two days tunnelling toward the depths of The Bag and tallying and recording until I became positively cross-eyed and snarled at Larry like a Doberman every time he came near the den. And always during the days of The Bag, I become vicious and acerbic of demeanor: I rail about why we're obliged to keep things like The Bag and do so every year or why the township I live in charges a 1.25% resident tax when the neighboring one doesn't impose such a tax, etc., etc. I rail about the wanton spending in Congress, this pork barrel spending and waste for pet projects such as bridges going to nowhere and I mean the latter literally. Don't misunderstand me: I really don't mind paying taxes and believe it does keep the country functioning, but the money they spend so carelessly is money that's coming out of my and other Americans bank accounts and there should be absolute accountability. Moreover, I understand the township uses the money to maintain the roads and buy land and keep it from development, but why must they impose this kind of tax when another municipality doesn't?
I went to H&R Block last year and had them do my taxes and it cost me a very attractive penny to learn I owed the IRS an entire mountain of pennies. This year, I decided to see if I could do the damned thing myself. So I dutifully downloaded the 1040 and Schedule C and the other relevant forms from the IRS's website, including the voluminous instructions, and then proceeded to replicate what the accountant had done last year, taking into account the new standard deduction amounts for 2005, etc. And all was going incredibly gung-ho...incredibly gung-ho that is, until I encountered an allowed credit for my IRA that she had claimed for me last year but I could not for the life of me determine how the sum had been calculated. I began to smolder. I reviewed every step she'd done, but of course she hadn't provided her work sheet so I was hopelessly adrift.
After another half-an-hour, I had crossed the smoldering rubicon into the land of absolutely livid. I also realized I was beaten and it then became a matter of investigating whether I'd use H&R Block or a tax preparation service competitor this year. After some research I decided to try Jackson Hewitt and raced off to their accountant's kiosk at a local mall (set up there for the tax season) last night and he relieved me of my 1099 MISC and other detestable documents and said they'd be done in a few days. But, during a brief scan of the papers, he said I'd be getting something back because I've overpaid on my quarterly payments. Whoopee!
Some of my refund will not stay in my possession for very long though because the to second of four annual Buy a Friend a Book Weeks is on the horizon and I'm an advocate of anything that encourages reading. It's April 1 through 7, so check out Debra Hamel's picks and the recommendations of her guest author, John Shors, who wrote Beneath a Marble Sky.
[technorati: Debra Hamel, Taxes, H&R Block, John Shors, Jackson Hewitt, Buy a Friend a Book, 1040]
I hate doing my taxes, even when I know I'm getting something back, because I hate maintaining files and all those expense receipts and things get tossed on a regular basis into a receptacle called 'The Bag' that sits near my desk for a year until this time of the year. Periodically The Bag intrudes into my peripheral vision--usually on rainy, depressing days when my spirits are already bloated and sagging-and evokes feelings of horror because I know the day is rapidly approaching when I have to go through it to determine what is business related and what is no and tally totals and I despise rummaging through the dogeared, crumpled detritus.
(For the edification of readers of this blog who live outside the United States, all American residents are required to file their annual tax returns by April 15th each year. And for those Americans who reside outside the country, they must file their taxes with the applicable US Embassy or consulate by that day--when I lived in London, it used to amuse me to hear my American friends talk about how they had to trudge to the US Embassy in London to do so every year.)
So I've spent the last two days tunnelling toward the depths of The Bag and tallying and recording until I became positively cross-eyed and snarled at Larry like a Doberman every time he came near the den. And always during the days of The Bag, I become vicious and acerbic of demeanor: I rail about why we're obliged to keep things like The Bag and do so every year or why the township I live in charges a 1.25% resident tax when the neighboring one doesn't impose such a tax, etc., etc. I rail about the wanton spending in Congress, this pork barrel spending and waste for pet projects such as bridges going to nowhere and I mean the latter literally. Don't misunderstand me: I really don't mind paying taxes and believe it does keep the country functioning, but the money they spend so carelessly is money that's coming out of my and other Americans bank accounts and there should be absolute accountability. Moreover, I understand the township uses the money to maintain the roads and buy land and keep it from development, but why must they impose this kind of tax when another municipality doesn't?
I went to H&R Block last year and had them do my taxes and it cost me a very attractive penny to learn I owed the IRS an entire mountain of pennies. This year, I decided to see if I could do the damned thing myself. So I dutifully downloaded the 1040 and Schedule C and the other relevant forms from the IRS's website, including the voluminous instructions, and then proceeded to replicate what the accountant had done last year, taking into account the new standard deduction amounts for 2005, etc. And all was going incredibly gung-ho...incredibly gung-ho that is, until I encountered an allowed credit for my IRA that she had claimed for me last year but I could not for the life of me determine how the sum had been calculated. I began to smolder. I reviewed every step she'd done, but of course she hadn't provided her work sheet so I was hopelessly adrift.
After another half-an-hour, I had crossed the smoldering rubicon into the land of absolutely livid. I also realized I was beaten and it then became a matter of investigating whether I'd use H&R Block or a tax preparation service competitor this year. After some research I decided to try Jackson Hewitt and raced off to their accountant's kiosk at a local mall (set up there for the tax season) last night and he relieved me of my 1099 MISC and other detestable documents and said they'd be done in a few days. But, during a brief scan of the papers, he said I'd be getting something back because I've overpaid on my quarterly payments. Whoopee!
Some of my refund will not stay in my possession for very long though because the to second of four annual Buy a Friend a Book Weeks is on the horizon and I'm an advocate of anything that encourages reading. It's April 1 through 7, so check out Debra Hamel's picks and the recommendations of her guest author, John Shors, who wrote Beneath a Marble Sky.
[technorati: Debra Hamel, Taxes, H&R Block, John Shors, Jackson Hewitt, Buy a Friend a Book, 1040]
Monday
The new immigrants
Given my forthcoming trip to Croatia, England and Ireland, it will be no surprise that I was riveted by a program on the telly last night about the upsurge in bed bugs at good hotels throughout the United States, especially in NYC. Indeed ivy league Columbia University has also had a problem and had to take remedial action in some of its dorms.
With nary a pause in the sensational urgency of her delivery, the anchor went on to remark bed bugs have always been regarded (in the US) as an incoming problem from Europe, the Middle East and other places abroad. They were at pains to say it is not a sign of bad hygiene to have bed bugs present in an establishment; bed bugs are indifferent to locale and will take up residence in top flight hotels with as much ease as they do in scuzzy rat holes. If what the media says is true, it would appear that these bugs may be as anxious to take in the imposing view of the Statue of Liberty and Empire State building as other foreign tourists and have been climbing
aboard the luggage of Americans as they quit their hotels and come back to the US.
I'm not sure I bought the argument that they've been a large European problem because I've stayed in many, many hotels in the UK and continental Europe and have not had anything feasting on my arms and legs...or stowaways. (The only thing I had happen was have my laptop nicked in London about six years ago at a small hotel called The Philbeach; it was an inside job and the management were very unsympathetic--indifferent, actually. They paid me 200 quid, which they were required to under the UK innkeeper laws, but they knew I would not return to sue them as it would have been too expensive. I must say it's been the only time in my life where I understood what exactly people mean when they say they've been violated. For the entire day, I could not concentrate on anything--not even on the splendor of HAmpton court where we went taht day--and I felt something had been taken from my psyche. It's a very strange and uncomfortable feeling.)
In any event, according to the program, the best way to check whether there are bed bugs in your hotel is to hoist up the bed's headboard (headboards are attached but apparantly the vast majority of them pop out) and check for molted insect skins and/or black patches of dried blood or fecal matter. You might even encounter the real thing because they hide in the cracks and crevices of headboards between feastings, as well as in the folds of matresses, pillows, curtains, and carpets. One poor woman visiting NYC woke up to find eight bugs dining on her legs; when she uncovered her sheets there were scores of the critters crawling about. And their bites leaves scars and bruises which last for weeks and months. Of course, she's suing the hotel for millions--which normally makes me skeptical, but I could tell by her speech and permanent scars that she was still traumatized.
[technorati: NYC hotels, London hotels, bed bugs, Philbeach hotel, Earls Court, Europe]
With nary a pause in the sensational urgency of her delivery, the anchor went on to remark bed bugs have always been regarded (in the US) as an incoming problem from Europe, the Middle East and other places abroad. They were at pains to say it is not a sign of bad hygiene to have bed bugs present in an establishment; bed bugs are indifferent to locale and will take up residence in top flight hotels with as much ease as they do in scuzzy rat holes. If what the media says is true, it would appear that these bugs may be as anxious to take in the imposing view of the Statue of Liberty and Empire State building as other foreign tourists and have been climbing
aboard the luggage of Americans as they quit their hotels and come back to the US.
I'm not sure I bought the argument that they've been a large European problem because I've stayed in many, many hotels in the UK and continental Europe and have not had anything feasting on my arms and legs...or stowaways. (The only thing I had happen was have my laptop nicked in London about six years ago at a small hotel called The Philbeach; it was an inside job and the management were very unsympathetic--indifferent, actually. They paid me 200 quid, which they were required to under the UK innkeeper laws, but they knew I would not return to sue them as it would have been too expensive. I must say it's been the only time in my life where I understood what exactly people mean when they say they've been violated. For the entire day, I could not concentrate on anything--not even on the splendor of HAmpton court where we went taht day--and I felt something had been taken from my psyche. It's a very strange and uncomfortable feeling.)
In any event, according to the program, the best way to check whether there are bed bugs in your hotel is to hoist up the bed's headboard (headboards are attached but apparantly the vast majority of them pop out) and check for molted insect skins and/or black patches of dried blood or fecal matter. You might even encounter the real thing because they hide in the cracks and crevices of headboards between feastings, as well as in the folds of matresses, pillows, curtains, and carpets. One poor woman visiting NYC woke up to find eight bugs dining on her legs; when she uncovered her sheets there were scores of the critters crawling about. And their bites leaves scars and bruises which last for weeks and months. Of course, she's suing the hotel for millions--which normally makes me skeptical, but I could tell by her speech and permanent scars that she was still traumatized.
[technorati: NYC hotels, London hotels, bed bugs, Philbeach hotel, Earls Court, Europe]
Thursday
Would Saint Patrick wear a shiny green hat?
I have had the experience of viewing a Saint Patrick's Day Parade winding down the canyons of NYC. It was not my exclusive intention to drive into the city to attend the parade, rather I had other business and decided to investigate for myself the sort of set up my American-Irish 'cousins' create. I lingered behind the police barriers for a whole ten minutes and took in the shiny emerald plastic hats, the tricolors, the screams and cackles and, of course, the pipers in their green tartan kilts and taselled stockings, a tiny gap betwixt revealing slivers of lily white knees as they marched onward. Everyone seemed to be having a jolly good time, though I think I've listened to far too many foot-stamping traditional Irish flings, ballads and jigs back home to get any sort of kick from them nowadays. (I will also add I've reached a similar stage with fellow country woman Enya's solo attempts at layering and layering and layering synthetic instruments and variations of her voice onto her musical tapestries. I was captivated by her music at one time, but God she really needs to give herself permission to move on creatively. I mean, imagine reading the same plot in a novel but with different characters and places for fifteen straight years. Her music's 'sameness' now relegates her to the same storage slot in my mind as Val Doonican and his version of Irish kitsch.)
As I turned away from observing the parade that day, I couldn't help pondering why the NYC Irish Gay and Lesbian organization is fighting so doggedly to march in the thing. 'Be careful of what you wish for,' is my advice.
Finally, I thought I'd link to last year's post about being authentic on the day of green. It's relevant, the truth, and, er, Irish-Irish
[technorati: Irish, Enya, Val Doonican, St.Patrick's Day, NYC Parades, Irish Americans]
As I turned away from observing the parade that day, I couldn't help pondering why the NYC Irish Gay and Lesbian organization is fighting so doggedly to march in the thing. 'Be careful of what you wish for,' is my advice.
Finally, I thought I'd link to last year's post about being authentic on the day of green. It's relevant, the truth, and, er, Irish-Irish
[technorati: Irish, Enya, Val Doonican, St.Patrick's Day, NYC Parades, Irish Americans]
Monday
A Muse from Philly
I blogged last October about roaming around Old City, Philadelphia where I had an encounter with a buxom lady hollering if anyone wanted some "sweet black ass", ate delicious gelato in a place offering lots of exotic flavors, and also read from my work at a noisy pub with a bunch of writers as part of Philly's 215Festival. It was there I met Janet Mason and we had drinks before the reading and exchanged books, etc.
It turns out she's also a reviewer and I received a wonderful surprise in my inbox this weekend. She'd read my book recently and wrote to let me know she's posted her thoughts on A Son Called Gabriel and has featured me on a muse:janet mason--her author and lit-zine site which features new authors every month as well as writings on mother daughter themes, reviews on lgbt and other books, audio clips, poetry, etc.
I'm doubly excited to be informed she liked the novel well enough to air in the future her commentary on the international lgbt radio show This Way Out which is syndicated throughout the United States, Canada and the rest of the world.
[technorati: Janet Mason, Poetry, 215Festival, Philadelphia, syndicated radio,this way out, book reviews
It turns out she's also a reviewer and I received a wonderful surprise in my inbox this weekend. She'd read my book recently and wrote to let me know she's posted her thoughts on A Son Called Gabriel and has featured me on a muse:janet mason--her author and lit-zine site which features new authors every month as well as writings on mother daughter themes, reviews on lgbt and other books, audio clips, poetry, etc.
I'm doubly excited to be informed she liked the novel well enough to air in the future her commentary on the international lgbt radio show This Way Out which is syndicated throughout the United States, Canada and the rest of the world.
[technorati: Janet Mason, Poetry, 215Festival, Philadelphia, syndicated radio,this way out, book reviews
Sunday
Irish Blog Awards
They're serious about blogging over in Ireland. Last night they had their first ever Irish Blog Awards organized by another Damien (spelt with an 'e') and Sinead of Sigla blog won in the Best Arts and Culture category. She runs a highly entertaining and intelligent blog, so go to 'General' on my sidebar and give her a wee visit. It'll be worth it.
[technorati: Sinead Gleeson, Irish Blog Awards, Blogs, Sigla
[technorati: Sinead Gleeson, Irish Blog Awards, Blogs, Sigla
Thursday
The cholesterol test
I am cynical. I admit this. It is in my genes, a honed Northern Irish trait, perhaps as a result of 'the occupation.' I don't know the exact reason. All I know is I am more cynical than the average American citizen. I know this for a fact because I find so many Americans--perhaps the less well-educated or those pre-disposed toward gullibility--believe in crass corporate hype and exploitation. For example, it astonishes me that thousands and thousands of otherwise sensible Americans will wear Eagles, Phillies and Yankees, etc sports merchandise, will pay top dollar for the 'privilege' of doing so, will paint their faces in the corporate colors and again pay top dollar to go to the stadiums to root for these teams. They see a team; I see a corporation and players that will strike in mid-season when they feel their million dollar salaries are threatened. I should also say I am not so cynical that I am a crashing bore--at least I don't think so--but I have always subscribed to my favorite grandmother's philosophy that a bit of cynicism is healthy.
And I am viciously cynical when it come to the behavior and practices of the pharmaceutical industry in the United States. When I first moved state-side I could not believe the blizzard of 'in your face' commercials touting the amazing benefits of taking drug 'A' for lowering cholesterol, Drug 'B' for ending depression and no sexual side-effects, Drug 'C' for coping with a child's Attention-deficit Disorder and its sibling, Attention-deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, and Drug 'D' for turgid 'long lasting' erections that will have women swooning a.k.a erectile dysfunction banishment, etc. And the great majority of these drugs came with warnings, usually dispensed during the most visually pleasing parts of the slick-willie (no pun) commercials, that taking the drug could cause liver damage in some people, or kidney damage, or could give rise to suicidal thoughts in children, or could even be fatal.. Being cynical, I know there is no way for the pharmaceutical marketing people to say 'fatal' in a politically correct manner. I mean, let's face it, they can't say, "Taking this drug may cause you to pass on or pass away, though I'm sure they would love to because they sure know the public prefers the term 'pass away' to the 'D' word or saying terminal or fatal.
It was astonishing (and still is) to see these blatant commercials on the telly, more so because I grew up in a culture that expressly forbids such self-interested drug advertisements. I am not saying that the British National Health Service is in any way superior to the system in the United States; both in my opinion are abysmal in their own distinct ways, but I will say that the British (and European) ban on prescription drug advertisements to the public is sound practice.
So, when I went into my local 'upmarket' supermarket recently and saw they were offering FREE cholesterol tests, needless to say the words 'be cynical, be very cynical' began circling in my mind faster than the ticker tape at Times Square.' I bet they're trying to get a bunch of people onto cholesterol reducing medications,' my inner voice screamed. At the same time, I felt both curious and uneasy because my doctor informed me a year ago that I had to make an appointment for my next 'cholesterol screening' because my result was borderline last time. I have quite simply been avoiding my doctor as a result.
However, that it was 'free' overcame the healthy cynicism (we Irish love 'free' things), so I went over to the 'representative' from the testing agency--yes, cynicism levels soared again--and I was handed a form. The form was short, with space to enter name, address and phone number (no email, oddly) and warned they might have to contact my doctor if results were dangerously high. And, of course, I had to answer the thinly veiled marketing questions, to wit:
Do you shop here often?
Do you use the pharmacy?
What sort of products do you buy in our pharmacy?
I scoured the form for a logo or anything in the small print that might hint at the whole exercise being sponsored by a major pharmaceutical company. It was clean, refreshingly clean. The rep was a nurse, a friendly nurse, and asked me to take a seat with about four others while she attended to another customer--I mean patient. The others waiting were slim or slightly overweight. I watched like a hawk as this nurse attended to her patient. The gentleman was young (late twenties, ruddy Irish-American, German or Polish complexion. He was also Alabama fat. (I say Alabama fat because an Alabama woman visiting Ireland crammed into a flimsy chair at a social event was my first experience of a truly obese human being. As a curious child, it was jaw-dropping, and I looked at my mother--who was trying desperately to conceal her alarm about the possible demise of grandmother's antique parlor chair (one of a set), which she was assigned to inherit--and she nodded at me and said in a hissed whisper that she's "a distant relative and very religious and visiting from Alabama in the depths of the American bible belt. That's an experience a child takes with it into adulthood.)
While I did not hear this young man's cholesterol number, it was not good because the nurse wanted to get on the line right away with his doctor. He gave his consent and she went off to ring him. Everyone seated began to shuffle, wondering if they were in for the same daunting awakening, and I expected at any minute to hear the shrill wail of an ambulance plus a phalanx of buxom, sexily tanned drug reps--the ones you encounter in doctors surgeries everyday--snake from behind the cereal aisle waving tiny bottles of samples in their manicured, fire-engine red talons. It was all very anticlimactic in the end because an appointment was made and off he plodded with his results in hand.
When my turn came, she pricked my finger, took blood, dropped some onto strip which she inserted into a machine that resembled a calculator. As it did its number crunching (and at this point I was very nervous on account I was borderline) she took my blood pressure and pronounced it 'excellent.' A few seconds later, it beeped and she looked at the monitor and said, "You're really good."
I couldn't believe it.
'You're way below the 200 and that's great news.'
And I must say such tests are a good and beneficial offering from the icy heart of American corporatism, and I believe European institutions interested in health should learn from this practice and organize so that their populations could also be cost effectively and widely tested, though the person being tested should realize that 'selling' is taking place and remain cynically vigilant. Now go Yankees, go. Or is it, go Eagles go. Or...
[technorati: America, United States, cholesterol, pharmaceutical industry, cholesterol tests, Philadelphia Eagles, NY Yankees,heart attack
And I am viciously cynical when it come to the behavior and practices of the pharmaceutical industry in the United States. When I first moved state-side I could not believe the blizzard of 'in your face' commercials touting the amazing benefits of taking drug 'A' for lowering cholesterol, Drug 'B' for ending depression and no sexual side-effects, Drug 'C' for coping with a child's Attention-deficit Disorder and its sibling, Attention-deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, and Drug 'D' for turgid 'long lasting' erections that will have women swooning a.k.a erectile dysfunction banishment, etc. And the great majority of these drugs came with warnings, usually dispensed during the most visually pleasing parts of the slick-willie (no pun) commercials, that taking the drug could cause liver damage in some people, or kidney damage, or could give rise to suicidal thoughts in children, or could even be fatal.. Being cynical, I know there is no way for the pharmaceutical marketing people to say 'fatal' in a politically correct manner. I mean, let's face it, they can't say, "Taking this drug may cause you to pass on or pass away, though I'm sure they would love to because they sure know the public prefers the term 'pass away' to the 'D' word or saying terminal or fatal.
It was astonishing (and still is) to see these blatant commercials on the telly, more so because I grew up in a culture that expressly forbids such self-interested drug advertisements. I am not saying that the British National Health Service is in any way superior to the system in the United States; both in my opinion are abysmal in their own distinct ways, but I will say that the British (and European) ban on prescription drug advertisements to the public is sound practice.
So, when I went into my local 'upmarket' supermarket recently and saw they were offering FREE cholesterol tests, needless to say the words 'be cynical, be very cynical' began circling in my mind faster than the ticker tape at Times Square.' I bet they're trying to get a bunch of people onto cholesterol reducing medications,' my inner voice screamed. At the same time, I felt both curious and uneasy because my doctor informed me a year ago that I had to make an appointment for my next 'cholesterol screening' because my result was borderline last time. I have quite simply been avoiding my doctor as a result.
However, that it was 'free' overcame the healthy cynicism (we Irish love 'free' things), so I went over to the 'representative' from the testing agency--yes, cynicism levels soared again--and I was handed a form. The form was short, with space to enter name, address and phone number (no email, oddly) and warned they might have to contact my doctor if results were dangerously high. And, of course, I had to answer the thinly veiled marketing questions, to wit:
Do you shop here often?
Do you use the pharmacy?
What sort of products do you buy in our pharmacy?
I scoured the form for a logo or anything in the small print that might hint at the whole exercise being sponsored by a major pharmaceutical company. It was clean, refreshingly clean. The rep was a nurse, a friendly nurse, and asked me to take a seat with about four others while she attended to another customer--I mean patient. The others waiting were slim or slightly overweight. I watched like a hawk as this nurse attended to her patient. The gentleman was young (late twenties, ruddy Irish-American, German or Polish complexion. He was also Alabama fat. (I say Alabama fat because an Alabama woman visiting Ireland crammed into a flimsy chair at a social event was my first experience of a truly obese human being. As a curious child, it was jaw-dropping, and I looked at my mother--who was trying desperately to conceal her alarm about the possible demise of grandmother's antique parlor chair (one of a set), which she was assigned to inherit--and she nodded at me and said in a hissed whisper that she's "a distant relative and very religious and visiting from Alabama in the depths of the American bible belt. That's an experience a child takes with it into adulthood.)
While I did not hear this young man's cholesterol number, it was not good because the nurse wanted to get on the line right away with his doctor. He gave his consent and she went off to ring him. Everyone seated began to shuffle, wondering if they were in for the same daunting awakening, and I expected at any minute to hear the shrill wail of an ambulance plus a phalanx of buxom, sexily tanned drug reps--the ones you encounter in doctors surgeries everyday--snake from behind the cereal aisle waving tiny bottles of samples in their manicured, fire-engine red talons. It was all very anticlimactic in the end because an appointment was made and off he plodded with his results in hand.
When my turn came, she pricked my finger, took blood, dropped some onto strip which she inserted into a machine that resembled a calculator. As it did its number crunching (and at this point I was very nervous on account I was borderline) she took my blood pressure and pronounced it 'excellent.' A few seconds later, it beeped and she looked at the monitor and said, "You're really good."
I couldn't believe it.
'You're way below the 200 and that's great news.'
And I must say such tests are a good and beneficial offering from the icy heart of American corporatism, and I believe European institutions interested in health should learn from this practice and organize so that their populations could also be cost effectively and widely tested, though the person being tested should realize that 'selling' is taking place and remain cynically vigilant. Now go Yankees, go. Or is it, go Eagles go. Or...
[technorati: America, United States, cholesterol, pharmaceutical industry, cholesterol tests, Philadelphia Eagles, NY Yankees,heart attack
Monday
The public reading
Saturday was a marvelous day for the drive to Chester, New York which surprisingly only took a little over two-and-a-half hours. (On the subject of traveling, it used to crack me up when I used to work in Manhattan and commute to work because my colleagues couldn't believe I rode the bus into the city daily from Pennsylvania. It was as if I told them I commuted daily from Arkansas or Texas. It was then I discovered some Manhattanites cannot get their minds around the fact that parts of Pennsylvania are only about an hour-and-twenty minutes from NYC. Of course, it must also be added that Manhattanites are loathe to travel to the other NYC boroughs for dinner engagements on the grounds it's too far. For some, the very thought of traveling to the depths of Brooklyn or Queens can induce insecurity if not actual trauma--and an invite to Staten Island is not even to be seriously considered.)
After dinner, Phil and I headed to the theater where we set up a camera to tape the reading. Set within the grounds of the community college, the Orange Hall theater is a squat sixties building with seating for about two hundred people and serves the surrounding area. The actors (all experienced in local amateur theater) began to arrive in dribs and drabs, and at six-fifteen, Phil, switching gears from playwright to director, started to go through the roles with them and let them know which parts he'd narrate so that any members of the public in attendance would understand the context and could follow what was going on because it wasn't being acted with props, etc. I already knew Phil has a lot of directing experience in regional theater, yet it was fascinating to see him in action and the actors (who'd already had the script for a few weeks) discuss lines and cues, etc.
Halfway into the first Act, I thought the play might be too long and would need cutting. By Act III, I knew it, and my mind was already pruning vigorously as I listened. It's quite an odd process, but a reading by actors really helps clarify in a way that reading a piece quietly at home simply can't. One can spot where bits of duplication exist, which lines are cumbersome to deliver, which sections can be let go without adversely affecting the play's overall message and mood. Most astonishing of all for me was the discovery that some lines I thought would get laughs did not--I think they were too steeped in Irish culture for an American audience and didn't translate--and lines I thought would not, did. For example, there's a scene where Eileen realizes it's time to tell Gabriel the facts of life and does so, and her responses to some of his questions brought the house down.
After the reading, there was some time left to discuss the play and a few members of the audience provided superb insight, pointing out areas where Gabriel lost their sympathy, or where he was telling his emotions rather than showing and thus not engaging them fully. And I fielded questions from some members of the cast who were of an American-Irish background or who had a Catholic upbringing, etc. The actors were terrific and Phil and I are most grateful to them for taking the time to do the performance--and their enthusiasm for the play was genuine and most encouraging.
All in all, it was a tremendous experience and I left the theater that night thinking, "Wow, I really have written a play."
[technorati: plays, drama, Manhattan, NYC,playwrights, actors
After dinner, Phil and I headed to the theater where we set up a camera to tape the reading. Set within the grounds of the community college, the Orange Hall theater is a squat sixties building with seating for about two hundred people and serves the surrounding area. The actors (all experienced in local amateur theater) began to arrive in dribs and drabs, and at six-fifteen, Phil, switching gears from playwright to director, started to go through the roles with them and let them know which parts he'd narrate so that any members of the public in attendance would understand the context and could follow what was going on because it wasn't being acted with props, etc. I already knew Phil has a lot of directing experience in regional theater, yet it was fascinating to see him in action and the actors (who'd already had the script for a few weeks) discuss lines and cues, etc.
Halfway into the first Act, I thought the play might be too long and would need cutting. By Act III, I knew it, and my mind was already pruning vigorously as I listened. It's quite an odd process, but a reading by actors really helps clarify in a way that reading a piece quietly at home simply can't. One can spot where bits of duplication exist, which lines are cumbersome to deliver, which sections can be let go without adversely affecting the play's overall message and mood. Most astonishing of all for me was the discovery that some lines I thought would get laughs did not--I think they were too steeped in Irish culture for an American audience and didn't translate--and lines I thought would not, did. For example, there's a scene where Eileen realizes it's time to tell Gabriel the facts of life and does so, and her responses to some of his questions brought the house down.
After the reading, there was some time left to discuss the play and a few members of the audience provided superb insight, pointing out areas where Gabriel lost their sympathy, or where he was telling his emotions rather than showing and thus not engaging them fully. And I fielded questions from some members of the cast who were of an American-Irish background or who had a Catholic upbringing, etc. The actors were terrific and Phil and I are most grateful to them for taking the time to do the performance--and their enthusiasm for the play was genuine and most encouraging.
All in all, it was a tremendous experience and I left the theater that night thinking, "Wow, I really have written a play."
[technorati: plays, drama, Manhattan, NYC,playwrights, actors
Wednesday
Cell phone movies
Here's something intriguing that I was emailed by a fellow Irishman living in Canada. The chap read and enjoyed my review of Brokeback Mountain and emailed to say that there's a "madcap spoof" of Brokeback Mountain called Brokeback Chicken which has been made for mobile phone owners to watch.
It turns out many amateur filmmakers are creating 60 second films for mobile phones, and Canada is the North American hotbed for this activity because they have a tradition for making successful shorts up there. There's even a film festival called Mobifest to showcase the film.
Apparantly Good Morning America is to feature the phenomenon this week. Here's the Toronto Globeand Mail link.
[technorati: Brokeback Mountain, Brokeback Chicken, Toronto,Mobifest, cell phones, Good Morning America,parody
It turns out many amateur filmmakers are creating 60 second films for mobile phones, and Canada is the North American hotbed for this activity because they have a tradition for making successful shorts up there. There's even a film festival called Mobifest to showcase the film.
Apparantly Good Morning America is to feature the phenomenon this week. Here's the Toronto Globeand Mail link.
[technorati: Brokeback Mountain, Brokeback Chicken, Toronto,Mobifest, cell phones, Good Morning America,parody
Monday
A British Army Raid
Two good theaters have now asked to see the entire manuscript and a 10-paqe partial respectively. Very exciting.
As it's easier to send a partial before Saturday's reading, we've chosen both the first five pages of the play (on the assumption that they'd want to see the beginning of the piece) and five pages from Act III. The piece below concerns an early morning raid by the British Army on the Harkin home and features in the latter part of the novel.
(The below scene is realistic and was a very typical one played out in many Catholic families in Northern Ireland throughout the 1970s because the Unionist government urged the British government to introduce Internment without Trial to the province and it was a monstrous tool that was, unfortunately, wielded principally against the Catholic minority.
A SON CALLED GABRIEL:The Play
ACT THREE
June 1976 – October 1978
Scene 1 - Soldiers Raid
Loud KNOCKING. Silence. More loud KNOCKING.
Sergeant
Open the door. Open it, now.
A LIGHT goes on in the hallway. EILEEN appears in her robe.
Eileen
Who’s there?
Sergeant
British army.
Eileen
(She lets out a clipped shriek. She speaks in an unsteady voice.) It’s eight o’clock in the morning. What do yous want?
HARRY appears in the hallway. The LIGHT in Gabriel’s room goes on. GABRIEL gets out of bed and walks to his bedroom door.
Sergeant
Open the door or we’re kicking it down.
EILEEN opens the front door and a swarm of SOLDIERS with painted black faces and rifles sweep inside. SERGEANT AND SOLDIER #1 stays in the kitchen. SOLDIER #2 goes into Gabriel’s bedroom. SOLDIER #3 goes into Eileen’s bedroom off the hallway.
Sergeant
(He approaches Eileen’s bedroom.) You’ve got one minute to get dressed.
Harry
What the hell’s this about? Why are you raiding my house?
Sergeant
Where’s the other man?
Eileen
What other man? There’s no other man here. (She tries to stay calm but her voice is all over the place.)
CAROLINE and JAMES appear in the hallway.
James
There’s a soldier searching under our bed.
Harry
(From offstage.) There’s nothing of interest to you in those drawers.
SOLDIER #1 pulls POTS out of the cabinets and tosses them to the floor. We hear the sound of a soldier tromping around in the attic.
Sergeant
(He yells.) Rip up the floorboards and search everywhere until you find their guns.
Eileen
(In a firm voice.) Yous damage anything in this house and we’ll set the law on yous. Where’s your warrant?
Sergeant
(He walks back to Eileen.) We don’t need a warrant to search for terrorists.
Soldier #2
(He emerges from Gabriel’s bedroom.) Look what I’ve found, Sarge? (He holds a DUFFEL BAG in one hand and a polka-dot DRESS and WIG in another.)
Gabriel
That’s my Twelfth Night costume.
Sergeant
Your what?
Gabriel
My costume for a Shakespeare play we’re doing at school.
Sergeant
(He looks at the frock again.) That’s no costume, mate. Shakespeare costumes don’t look like that. They’re old-fashioned they are.
Soldier #2
It’s a fuckin’ disguise, Sarge.
James
It’s his fucking costume.
Eileen
Keep quiet, James. (She turns to SOLDIER #2.) Stop cursing in front of my children.
Sergeant
Is this a disguise, ma’am?
Eileen
My son told you what it is, and none of my children lie.
Sergeant
(He stares at her, then at the garment as he decides how to respond.) Where’s the terrorist who’s staying her? Does this belong to him?
Eileen
Call the priest at the school and you’ll find out it’s a costume for a play.
HARRY emerges from the bedroom followed by SOLDIER #3. Harry’s shirt is only partially tucked in, his fly is half open and his hair is totally rumpled. SOLDIER #2 walks up to HARRY and they both seize his upper arms.
Harry
Let go of me.
Sergeant
(He turns to HARRY.) Do these items belong to the terrorist?
Harry
You heard my wife. There’s no other man living here. Luksee, let go of me.
Sergeant
(From “luksee”) That’s not what our intelligence confirms.
James
You’re intelligence is bloody useless.
Harry
(From “bloody”) You have no right to be bursting into someone’s house at this time of the morning. And your guns are frightening my children.
Eileen
I don’t give a ball of blue what your intelligence confirms. The only other man staying here was his brother. He argued badly with his wife and stayed here weeks ago.
Sergeant
(Surprised by her answer, he takes a step back. He speaks with a softer tone.) Your husband’s brother, you say?...and who’s this vicar you’re talking about? Is he local?
Eileen
He’s not a vicar. He’s a priest. He’s headmaster of Saint Malachy’s. (She makes a quick, deliberate laugh.) Oh, yous have made a grave mistake coming here and raiding an innocent man’s house. Yes indeed, a grave mistake.
Sergeant
How would he know it’s a costume for a play?
Eileen
Who?
Sergeant
(He is a bit nervous about being wrong.) The vic...I mean, the priest. Give us it, then.
Eileen
Give you what?
Sergeant
The number. (He looks at the SOLDIERS holding HARRY.) Get him into the truck.
Harry
Let go of me. I’ll walk out of my own house on my own good time. I’m not going to be taken from my own house like this in front of my children.
Gabriel
Yes, leave my father alone. He’s done nothing wrong, and he’ll walk out on his own if needs to go out.
SOLDIER #2 and SOLDIER # 3 lift HARRY inches above the floor and he struggles and swears as they move toward the door. HARRY claws at the doorjamb on the way out but the SOLDIERS are strong and have momentum on their side and whisk him outside.
Eileen
You have no right to do that to my husband in front of his children. Where are you taking him?
Sergeant
The phone number, ma’am.
EILEEN quickly crosses to the telephone table in the hall and viciously whips the PHONE DIRECTORY out of the drawer, bangs it on the tabletop and begins flicking through it, snapping the pages, ripping some as she does. When she finds the number, she thrusts the book at the SERGEANT.
Eileen
There it is, besides Father Rafferty’s name...and I’ll tell you another thing for free, the priest won’t be pleased you’re calling him at this hour of the morning.
The SERGEANT goes to PHONE and dials.
Eileen
Where are you taking my husband?
Sergeant
Ballykelly barracks.
Eileen
What for?
Sergeant
For questioning. We must. It’s routine in cases like this, ma’am.
Eileen
Even if you know your intelligence is for nothing?
The SERGEANT doesn’t answer. He’s already talking to the headmaster. After a few moments he starts apologizing and kowtowing to the headmaster.
Sergeant
Yes, Father. I understand. Yes, I realize it’s very early in the morning.
Rollins, Sergeant Rollins, Fourth Battalion. (He hangs up the phone and comes back into the kitchen.)
Eileen
Now that this has been cleared up, I’m sure yous won’t need to take my man away.
Sergeant
I can’t do that, Ma’am. I’m very sorry, but I’m under orders to take any men living in this house to the barracks.
Eileen
Well, we’ll just lie in front of your Land Rovers and you’ll not be able to take him. Gabriel, James, Caroline, out yous go and lie on the ground in front of the wheels.
Sergeant
Ma’am, we’d just have to remove the children if they did that. Please understand that orders are orders.
Eileen
They’re orders that’ll land the pack of yous in a pan of boiling frying-oil by the time I’m finished. (She makes no attempt to advance, however.) Coming here brandishing guns and wrecking the homes of civilized people. If there’s as much as a scratch on him when he comes home, yous’ll have me to answer to, personally.
Sergeant
We’re done here.
All the SOLDIERS LEAVE. The sound of the LAND ROVERS engines starting up can be heard amid the SOLDIERS VOICES and LAUGHTER. CAROLINE and JAMES go to the window and watch the soldiers leave as the LIGHTS slowly fade.
[technorati: plays, drama, acting,playwrights, British Army, British Government, Northern Ireland, Internment, actors
As it's easier to send a partial before Saturday's reading, we've chosen both the first five pages of the play (on the assumption that they'd want to see the beginning of the piece) and five pages from Act III. The piece below concerns an early morning raid by the British Army on the Harkin home and features in the latter part of the novel.
(The below scene is realistic and was a very typical one played out in many Catholic families in Northern Ireland throughout the 1970s because the Unionist government urged the British government to introduce Internment without Trial to the province and it was a monstrous tool that was, unfortunately, wielded principally against the Catholic minority.
A SON CALLED GABRIEL:The Play
ACT THREE
June 1976 – October 1978
Scene 1 - Soldiers Raid
Loud KNOCKING. Silence. More loud KNOCKING.
Sergeant
Open the door. Open it, now.
A LIGHT goes on in the hallway. EILEEN appears in her robe.
Eileen
Who’s there?
Sergeant
British army.
Eileen
(She lets out a clipped shriek. She speaks in an unsteady voice.) It’s eight o’clock in the morning. What do yous want?
HARRY appears in the hallway. The LIGHT in Gabriel’s room goes on. GABRIEL gets out of bed and walks to his bedroom door.
Sergeant
Open the door or we’re kicking it down.
EILEEN opens the front door and a swarm of SOLDIERS with painted black faces and rifles sweep inside. SERGEANT AND SOLDIER #1 stays in the kitchen. SOLDIER #2 goes into Gabriel’s bedroom. SOLDIER #3 goes into Eileen’s bedroom off the hallway.
Sergeant
(He approaches Eileen’s bedroom.) You’ve got one minute to get dressed.
Harry
What the hell’s this about? Why are you raiding my house?
Sergeant
Where’s the other man?
Eileen
What other man? There’s no other man here. (She tries to stay calm but her voice is all over the place.)
CAROLINE and JAMES appear in the hallway.
James
There’s a soldier searching under our bed.
Harry
(From offstage.) There’s nothing of interest to you in those drawers.
SOLDIER #1 pulls POTS out of the cabinets and tosses them to the floor. We hear the sound of a soldier tromping around in the attic.
Sergeant
(He yells.) Rip up the floorboards and search everywhere until you find their guns.
Eileen
(In a firm voice.) Yous damage anything in this house and we’ll set the law on yous. Where’s your warrant?
Sergeant
(He walks back to Eileen.) We don’t need a warrant to search for terrorists.
Soldier #2
(He emerges from Gabriel’s bedroom.) Look what I’ve found, Sarge? (He holds a DUFFEL BAG in one hand and a polka-dot DRESS and WIG in another.)
Gabriel
That’s my Twelfth Night costume.
Sergeant
Your what?
Gabriel
My costume for a Shakespeare play we’re doing at school.
Sergeant
(He looks at the frock again.) That’s no costume, mate. Shakespeare costumes don’t look like that. They’re old-fashioned they are.
Soldier #2
It’s a fuckin’ disguise, Sarge.
James
It’s his fucking costume.
Eileen
Keep quiet, James. (She turns to SOLDIER #2.) Stop cursing in front of my children.
Sergeant
Is this a disguise, ma’am?
Eileen
My son told you what it is, and none of my children lie.
Sergeant
(He stares at her, then at the garment as he decides how to respond.) Where’s the terrorist who’s staying her? Does this belong to him?
Eileen
Call the priest at the school and you’ll find out it’s a costume for a play.
HARRY emerges from the bedroom followed by SOLDIER #3. Harry’s shirt is only partially tucked in, his fly is half open and his hair is totally rumpled. SOLDIER #2 walks up to HARRY and they both seize his upper arms.
Harry
Let go of me.
Sergeant
(He turns to HARRY.) Do these items belong to the terrorist?
Harry
You heard my wife. There’s no other man living here. Luksee, let go of me.
Sergeant
(From “luksee”) That’s not what our intelligence confirms.
James
You’re intelligence is bloody useless.
Harry
(From “bloody”) You have no right to be bursting into someone’s house at this time of the morning. And your guns are frightening my children.
Eileen
I don’t give a ball of blue what your intelligence confirms. The only other man staying here was his brother. He argued badly with his wife and stayed here weeks ago.
Sergeant
(Surprised by her answer, he takes a step back. He speaks with a softer tone.) Your husband’s brother, you say?...and who’s this vicar you’re talking about? Is he local?
Eileen
He’s not a vicar. He’s a priest. He’s headmaster of Saint Malachy’s. (She makes a quick, deliberate laugh.) Oh, yous have made a grave mistake coming here and raiding an innocent man’s house. Yes indeed, a grave mistake.
Sergeant
How would he know it’s a costume for a play?
Eileen
Who?
Sergeant
(He is a bit nervous about being wrong.) The vic...I mean, the priest. Give us it, then.
Eileen
Give you what?
Sergeant
The number. (He looks at the SOLDIERS holding HARRY.) Get him into the truck.
Harry
Let go of me. I’ll walk out of my own house on my own good time. I’m not going to be taken from my own house like this in front of my children.
Gabriel
Yes, leave my father alone. He’s done nothing wrong, and he’ll walk out on his own if needs to go out.
SOLDIER #2 and SOLDIER # 3 lift HARRY inches above the floor and he struggles and swears as they move toward the door. HARRY claws at the doorjamb on the way out but the SOLDIERS are strong and have momentum on their side and whisk him outside.
Eileen
You have no right to do that to my husband in front of his children. Where are you taking him?
Sergeant
The phone number, ma’am.
EILEEN quickly crosses to the telephone table in the hall and viciously whips the PHONE DIRECTORY out of the drawer, bangs it on the tabletop and begins flicking through it, snapping the pages, ripping some as she does. When she finds the number, she thrusts the book at the SERGEANT.
Eileen
There it is, besides Father Rafferty’s name...and I’ll tell you another thing for free, the priest won’t be pleased you’re calling him at this hour of the morning.
The SERGEANT goes to PHONE and dials.
Eileen
Where are you taking my husband?
Sergeant
Ballykelly barracks.
Eileen
What for?
Sergeant
For questioning. We must. It’s routine in cases like this, ma’am.
Eileen
Even if you know your intelligence is for nothing?
The SERGEANT doesn’t answer. He’s already talking to the headmaster. After a few moments he starts apologizing and kowtowing to the headmaster.
Sergeant
Yes, Father. I understand. Yes, I realize it’s very early in the morning.
Rollins, Sergeant Rollins, Fourth Battalion. (He hangs up the phone and comes back into the kitchen.)
Eileen
Now that this has been cleared up, I’m sure yous won’t need to take my man away.
Sergeant
I can’t do that, Ma’am. I’m very sorry, but I’m under orders to take any men living in this house to the barracks.
Eileen
Well, we’ll just lie in front of your Land Rovers and you’ll not be able to take him. Gabriel, James, Caroline, out yous go and lie on the ground in front of the wheels.
Sergeant
Ma’am, we’d just have to remove the children if they did that. Please understand that orders are orders.
Eileen
They’re orders that’ll land the pack of yous in a pan of boiling frying-oil by the time I’m finished. (She makes no attempt to advance, however.) Coming here brandishing guns and wrecking the homes of civilized people. If there’s as much as a scratch on him when he comes home, yous’ll have me to answer to, personally.
Sergeant
We’re done here.
All the SOLDIERS LEAVE. The sound of the LAND ROVERS engines starting up can be heard amid the SOLDIERS VOICES and LAUGHTER. CAROLINE and JAMES go to the window and watch the soldiers leave as the LIGHTS slowly fade.
[technorati: plays, drama, acting,playwrights, British Army, British Government, Northern Ireland, Internment, actors
Sunday
First performance looms
This coming week will be a busy one as the reading of our play, A Son Called Gabriel, by actors will take place on Sat. March 4th in Orange County, New York. It's very exciting to see my novel come to life in this way. Phil informs me the theater told him a lot of people have rang to say they're coming to it; apparently, there's a section of the theater loving public who love to see plays 'being born,' so to speak. Anyone living in and around the theater--address is on program cover--is most welcome to attend as its a free event.
My collaborator, Phil Hilden, is also a photographer and designer, so I asked him to post copies of the program, scenes and cast list, etc. on his website and he has now done so. So take a look and see the great work he's done. It's the first row of his images on page 1.
[technorati: plays, drama, playwrights, actors
My collaborator, Phil Hilden, is also a photographer and designer, so I asked him to post copies of the program, scenes and cast list, etc. on his website and he has now done so. So take a look and see the great work he's done. It's the first row of his images on page 1.
[technorati: plays, drama, playwrights, actors
Saturday
American contrasts
America is a complex land full of startling and wonderful contrasts, and the actions of these biker-veterans on behalf of deceased comrades is a reason I believe ultimately in Americans and our country. My opinion on 'Rev.' Phelps I won't bother to express in detail; suffice to say, any individual possessed of such hatred in the name of God needs committing.
Bikers roll
[technorati: America, United States, bikers, veterans
Bikers roll
[technorati: America, United States, bikers, veterans
Monday
Return of the hornet
My training at the 'Y'--now in to its fourth month--has been going extremely well and I'm now up to almost 40 minutes of cardiovascular exercises. Most remarkably is that my stomach and waist is beginning to take on an embroynic washboardy abs sort of appearance--I really didn't believe that would happen. I am really pleased my hard work is paying dividends as I am visiting parts of continental Europe, Ireland and England in the Spring and wish to look my best to my friends over there. I figure the reason for this success is partly due to diet (a lot of fruit and less spuds, bread and ice-cream, although I had a major setback while attending a party over the weekend and ate about twenty, yes twenty, mini-cream puffs and eclairs), and partly due to two amazing machines, one for the stomach and the other for the waist. They're manufactured by a company called Strive and have five levels of difficulty, and I've been pushing myself to do all five levels.
This morning was cold but the sun was shining brightly and my workout started very promising, very promising that is until the hornet approached and spoke to me for the first time ever. (I've described her in a previous post and won't do so again--suffice to say she's late middle-aged, has brassy dyed hair and sports the demeanor of a New York Supreme Court justice I'd argued before a few times--in fact, they might be sisters.) When she presented, I was actually in a state of gym-induced euphoria:the surround music was high-energy and top notch, I was twenty-five minutes into my fat-burner program, sweat was 'rivering' off my face most satisfactorily, and I was absorbed in reading a screenplay Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I happened to look up from the script and there she was, her spindly legs striding toward me in the signature black leotards. She was also sporting a tight pink sweater with matching leggings (think Jane Fonda's exercise video from the 80s) that had shiny butterfly thingies in sequins running up the front.
She and I gravitate toward one particular elliptical (it's the only one of its kind) if its free, though normally she arrives before me so I have to use another machine. I like the machine because it is nicely positioned in the gym and, because it's one of the first I tried since becoming a member, I really know its workings and enjoy the workout it gives. The hornet is not friendly--not even with other women, and I just can't picture her as cuddly with her grandkids if she has any--but for some reason she has decided she doesn't like me in particular. I don't know why excatly; maybe she doesn't like how I look, maybe she's read my novel and despises it, maybe she just needs to dislike somebody as motivation to do a good workout. She stopped in front of my machine, plucked off the clipboard containing the sheet where one signs up by penciling in one's initials, and ran a bejewelled finger over the names and time slots.
"I'll be off in about ten minutes and then I'll wipe it down for-," I said breathlessly.
"We have a problem," she said. "I came in here this morning and signed up for this machine and my time begins now. Have you erased my name?"
"I certainly have not."
"Why's my name not on here, then?"
I was so incensed, I stopped, flew off the machine, and grabbed the board from her. She seemed to anticipate some of my sweat flying off and sticking to her because her neck wrinkles began to lazily recede like a tortoise head retreating into its shell. Her torso leaned back simultaneously.
"It's plain to see there's no evidence of anything being erased on that sheet," I said. "You can see my initials have been lightly inserted and nothings been written underneath." I remounted the machine and began to peddle before I would get timed out and lose the 'calories burned' count if the machine incorrectly anticipated the session was through. "Perhaps you made a mistake."
She went to the next machine and, under my eyelids, I watched her eyes narrow as she scrutinized its attached clipboard.
"Here it is," she said. She thrust it in my face. "Here it is. See? Have the sheets been switched?" She attached this clipboard to my machine. "It's my turn."
Clearly, the implication was that I'd made the switch. "I did not switch any clipboards and I have nine more minutes plus a permitted cool down," I said.
"The rules state you're not allowed use of a machine for more than thirty minutes. Please dismount."
I let the fact she hogs machines for forty minutes or more per session slide. "On your broomstick," I muttered.
"What did you say?"
I ignored her and began to read.
"What did you say?"
"Nice leggings."
"That is not what you said."
Two women on nearby treadmills had removed their iPod earphones and were watching us now.
"Then why did you ask?" I said.
She stomped off, not prettily because her butt is very wide and twin tires protrude at her waist like those of the Michelin Man. I assumed she was seeking the aid of management, but instead she must have decided she was in the wrong and opted to work on her buttocks. I watched as she sat in the seat, placed her feet on the metal plate, and the pink, butterflied leggings extended and retracted as she pushed and released. She did three sets and moved to the chest machine, though not without a baleful glance in my direction followed by a pointed look at the 'official clock.' (There's three wall clocks, but only one has been designated 'official' for session use of the machines.)
Twenty seconds into my cool down, she approached and stood with her arms crossed in front of the machine. I gave up, stepped off the machine, sprayed some disinfectant onto the tissues, and cleaned the handles and machine dashboard.
"Enjoy your workout and have a nice day," I said.
No response, naturally.
[technorati: YMCA, weight loss, elliptical, workout
This morning was cold but the sun was shining brightly and my workout started very promising, very promising that is until the hornet approached and spoke to me for the first time ever. (I've described her in a previous post and won't do so again--suffice to say she's late middle-aged, has brassy dyed hair and sports the demeanor of a New York Supreme Court justice I'd argued before a few times--in fact, they might be sisters.) When she presented, I was actually in a state of gym-induced euphoria:the surround music was high-energy and top notch, I was twenty-five minutes into my fat-burner program, sweat was 'rivering' off my face most satisfactorily, and I was absorbed in reading a screenplay Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I happened to look up from the script and there she was, her spindly legs striding toward me in the signature black leotards. She was also sporting a tight pink sweater with matching leggings (think Jane Fonda's exercise video from the 80s) that had shiny butterfly thingies in sequins running up the front.
She and I gravitate toward one particular elliptical (it's the only one of its kind) if its free, though normally she arrives before me so I have to use another machine. I like the machine because it is nicely positioned in the gym and, because it's one of the first I tried since becoming a member, I really know its workings and enjoy the workout it gives. The hornet is not friendly--not even with other women, and I just can't picture her as cuddly with her grandkids if she has any--but for some reason she has decided she doesn't like me in particular. I don't know why excatly; maybe she doesn't like how I look, maybe she's read my novel and despises it, maybe she just needs to dislike somebody as motivation to do a good workout. She stopped in front of my machine, plucked off the clipboard containing the sheet where one signs up by penciling in one's initials, and ran a bejewelled finger over the names and time slots.
"I'll be off in about ten minutes and then I'll wipe it down for-," I said breathlessly.
"We have a problem," she said. "I came in here this morning and signed up for this machine and my time begins now. Have you erased my name?"
"I certainly have not."
"Why's my name not on here, then?"
I was so incensed, I stopped, flew off the machine, and grabbed the board from her. She seemed to anticipate some of my sweat flying off and sticking to her because her neck wrinkles began to lazily recede like a tortoise head retreating into its shell. Her torso leaned back simultaneously.
"It's plain to see there's no evidence of anything being erased on that sheet," I said. "You can see my initials have been lightly inserted and nothings been written underneath." I remounted the machine and began to peddle before I would get timed out and lose the 'calories burned' count if the machine incorrectly anticipated the session was through. "Perhaps you made a mistake."
She went to the next machine and, under my eyelids, I watched her eyes narrow as she scrutinized its attached clipboard.
"Here it is," she said. She thrust it in my face. "Here it is. See? Have the sheets been switched?" She attached this clipboard to my machine. "It's my turn."
Clearly, the implication was that I'd made the switch. "I did not switch any clipboards and I have nine more minutes plus a permitted cool down," I said.
"The rules state you're not allowed use of a machine for more than thirty minutes. Please dismount."
I let the fact she hogs machines for forty minutes or more per session slide. "On your broomstick," I muttered.
"What did you say?"
I ignored her and began to read.
"What did you say?"
"Nice leggings."
"That is not what you said."
Two women on nearby treadmills had removed their iPod earphones and were watching us now.
"Then why did you ask?" I said.
She stomped off, not prettily because her butt is very wide and twin tires protrude at her waist like those of the Michelin Man. I assumed she was seeking the aid of management, but instead she must have decided she was in the wrong and opted to work on her buttocks. I watched as she sat in the seat, placed her feet on the metal plate, and the pink, butterflied leggings extended and retracted as she pushed and released. She did three sets and moved to the chest machine, though not without a baleful glance in my direction followed by a pointed look at the 'official clock.' (There's three wall clocks, but only one has been designated 'official' for session use of the machines.)
Twenty seconds into my cool down, she approached and stood with her arms crossed in front of the machine. I gave up, stepped off the machine, sprayed some disinfectant onto the tissues, and cleaned the handles and machine dashboard.
"Enjoy your workout and have a nice day," I said.
No response, naturally.
[technorati: YMCA, weight loss, elliptical, workout
Thursday
Glowing underbellies
My writers group, The Rebs, meet one evening every month and, yesterday, on the way there, I was passing by a small river and happened to catch a quiet but breathtaking spectacle. Beside the weir, I saw a flock of Canada geese silently feeding in the water. Pristine snow covered the banks and roof of a nearby abandoned mill, the pitch-black tree trunks and filigree of their naked branches standing in stark relief, and in the water, as scores of the geese dived beneath the surface their white underbellies glowed like beacons in the dusk.
For a while I watched them undisturbed and it was easy to imagine the Lenape Indians (the Native Americans indigenous to this part of Pennsylvania who were given gifts of fever blankets and 'evacuated' by the British and their lands taken and given to white settlers) watching them from their canoes with their bows poised centuries ago. In turn, that thought caused me to think how ignorant my concept of the American Indians had been when I was growing up in Northern Ireland. Then, all I knew about their culture was from Hollywood westerns. Then, all I knew was they were either Souix or Comanche, their men were called 'Braves' who rode piebald horses called mustangs near vast, rugged mountains and the women were called 'Squaws', their Braves were continually at war fighting cowboys and the US Calvary and they 'collected' scalps, and at night they returned to eat bison meat and sleep in tepees.
In fact, I'd wager if you ask any Brit, Irishman or woman, or continental European today about Native Americans, they'd say, "Are you talking about Red Indians?" before their mind would crowd with an image of trailing head-dresses, unsaddled horses and cowboys. Over there, we had no knowledge of the diversity of the Native American tribes, of their rich culture and diversity, how some tribes lived in the forests, others in the plains, etc. Most Europeans would also not know that there's tremendous poverty and alcohol abuse in the reservations today, or that the Native Americans living in and around Palm Springs (the Agua Caliente, part of the Shoshone tribe) are enormously wealthy because they own the land upon which many of the hotels, casinos, and houses are built and, consequently, collect rents in the same way the Queen of England and the Duke of Malborough receive rents for most of the housing in London's tonier neighborhoods.
In any event, when I stumble upon scenes like feeding Canada geese in the raw American countryside and I'm transported into her past, I love it. This country really is so vast and much of it is beautiful and, despite what is seen of towering skyscrapers and crowded East coast cities, pockets of the Eastern seaboard remain almost as it was when the Indians 'left.' And there's a chance they'll remain that way because bands of concerned citizens are fighting to contain urban sprawl.
[technorati: Lenape Indians, Canada Geese, Palm Springs, Pennsylvania
For a while I watched them undisturbed and it was easy to imagine the Lenape Indians (the Native Americans indigenous to this part of Pennsylvania who were given gifts of fever blankets and 'evacuated' by the British and their lands taken and given to white settlers) watching them from their canoes with their bows poised centuries ago. In turn, that thought caused me to think how ignorant my concept of the American Indians had been when I was growing up in Northern Ireland. Then, all I knew about their culture was from Hollywood westerns. Then, all I knew was they were either Souix or Comanche, their men were called 'Braves' who rode piebald horses called mustangs near vast, rugged mountains and the women were called 'Squaws', their Braves were continually at war fighting cowboys and the US Calvary and they 'collected' scalps, and at night they returned to eat bison meat and sleep in tepees.
In fact, I'd wager if you ask any Brit, Irishman or woman, or continental European today about Native Americans, they'd say, "Are you talking about Red Indians?" before their mind would crowd with an image of trailing head-dresses, unsaddled horses and cowboys. Over there, we had no knowledge of the diversity of the Native American tribes, of their rich culture and diversity, how some tribes lived in the forests, others in the plains, etc. Most Europeans would also not know that there's tremendous poverty and alcohol abuse in the reservations today, or that the Native Americans living in and around Palm Springs (the Agua Caliente, part of the Shoshone tribe) are enormously wealthy because they own the land upon which many of the hotels, casinos, and houses are built and, consequently, collect rents in the same way the Queen of England and the Duke of Malborough receive rents for most of the housing in London's tonier neighborhoods.
In any event, when I stumble upon scenes like feeding Canada geese in the raw American countryside and I'm transported into her past, I love it. This country really is so vast and much of it is beautiful and, despite what is seen of towering skyscrapers and crowded East coast cities, pockets of the Eastern seaboard remain almost as it was when the Indians 'left.' And there's a chance they'll remain that way because bands of concerned citizens are fighting to contain urban sprawl.
[technorati: Lenape Indians, Canada Geese, Palm Springs, Pennsylvania
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