The catch

Driving from the gym early this morning, a large red-tailed hawk rose from the side of the road ahead and flew in front of my car. It hovered about eighteen inches above the road's surface as it tried to gain altitude, its huge wings beating the air furiously. Suddenly it veered off to the left and the pair of us traveled in parallel for a bit--me staying on the road of course. I saw its beautiful snowy underbelly then noticed it had a squirrel gripped firmly in its talons.

The little thing's bushy tail swept behind the birds feet, its back was arched and the face was pointed in the same direction as the hawk's beak. It was being carried away to its death, though I hope it had been stunned or died during the hawk's attack. Instinctively, I honked my horn about ten times to try and frighten the bird so the animal could fall down to the soft grass in the field and run away (if it wasn't stunned). But the hawk wasn't frightened and it rose and rose and I had to turn my attention back to my driving.

I felt bad and yet I knew it was just kind and cruel Mother Nature at work. The hawk is as beautiful in its own way as the squirrel and needs to eat, too. My thoughts went to the polar bear cub called Knut in the Berlin Zoo that was abandoned by its mother and left to die. In that case, humans stepped in to save it and allow it to grow into an adult bear. Is human intervention regarded as nature at work in that sort of case? Or should, as some animal rights groups state, the cub have been left to die as its sibling did. I think to hell with what the animal rights groups hold in this instance and chose to think of that sort of intervention as nature at work--man's compassion for animals and life driving him to save them.

Cherry picking, I suppose.

Getting it done

I just LOVE productive weeks and this week has been such a week and it's not yet over.

A friend, Jessica, opened a smart, upmarket ladies boutique in town a few weeks ago and she asked me to help compose a press release she wanted to send to the newspapers and magazines, which I did. It's great to be able to help friends when they begin new exciting ventures. Hope it does its job!!

And I settled down and did a serious--I mean serious--amount of work on America and Me, the memoir I'm currently writing. The word count is now 55,300 and I'm now at Chapter 20--yes 19 whole chapters have been written--and I think I'll be able to complete the latest today. I'm going to work my arse off this afternoon and do it.

I'm having laughs and bouts of sadness writing it. And it's strange and thought-provoking going over old correspondence and uncovering documents in files that were once vital and critical and celebrated profusely--like notifications that I'd passed the Bar examination, etc--and realizing they've lost that vitality and importance.

Of course, once the memoir is completed, the really tough work begins because editing and redrafting is an essential part of the process. An essential, necessary pain in the arse.

Crazy Woman singing

I had the afternoon off today and decided to go the gym in the p.m. rather than early morning as is usual. We've had a lot of snow so I was anxious to get in a hard workout and cheer my spirits. To my surprise all the exercise machines were occupied.
As I walked about checking the sign-up sheets (which we have to complete prior to mounting the machine) to see which one would become free first, I came upon one which was unsigned which is not a problem. I looked up at the lady pumping away on the pedals and said, "Hi there. Excuse me but I was just wondering how long you've got to go on your program?"
She removed her earphones and said, "As long as it takes." She smiled, killed it quickly.
"No problem. I'm not asking you to leave or anything, it's just I wondered how much of the half-hour schedule you've got to go. If it's not long I'll just put my name down on the sheet."

"Listen asshole, I'm on till I'm done. Satisfied?"
I was stunned and enraged. I just stood looking at her as she pumped and made a swatting gesture as if I were an annoying insect.

A plump, red-faced woman with frizzy hair exercising casually on a nearby exercise bicycle was bug-eyed with shock. After locking her pale eyes in my gaze, she raised her shoulders to commiserate.

Unwilling to accept the status of insect, I said, "Hey, technically I can ask you to get off because you're supposed to sign the sheet. But I'm not doing that."
Again the bright yellow earphones were being slowly lowered to caress her neck as I spoke.
"Screw the rules," she said. "I don't bother with sign-up sheets."
"I see. I'll pass that nugget on." I went off to the management staff and asked if they'd amended the rules during my absence, added that I wasn't asking the woman to leave--pointed toward the machine as I talked--but I just wanted to know how much time she had on the machine because I'd traveled a bit to get here. As I was doing so, I heard high-pitched shrieks, looked in the direction of the elliptical, and when our eyes connected heard, "You're a fucking asshole."
"Wow," the manager said to me.
"Don't do anything," I said. "Maybe just tell her to sighn the sheet like everyone else so we know what's free," I said.
The only machine free--though only for ten minutes-was beside her. I hopped on and began my exercise regime, still so riled by this woman I couldn't concentrate properly and keyed in an 'uphill' cycle rather than my usual 'weight-loss.' I began to read my book (no irony intended but entitled "Me talk pretty one day).

As I pedaled, the woman began to sing aloud. I think she figured it would annoy my reading enjoyment. Her pitch grew louder and louder until people in the gym began staring at her. She didn't care. Louder and louder she got until the gym manager came up. "Are you okay up there?" she shouted.
She removed her earphones. "What?"
"Are you okay?"
"Yea. Why wouldn't I be? Just singing while I do a nice workout. Tra la la la la."
The manager looked up at her speechless as the woman recited again, "Tra la la la la lala lala.
"Well, try to keep it down a little." She paused. "And try to remember we're a family gym here. We like people to get along and we don't like that sort of language.
"Tra lala lala."

I was beginning to wonder if this woman was mad and might have a gun in her pocketbook and wait for me to leave the gym. Just as I was wondering if I should vacate the machine, a middle-aged man drew up very alpha-male style to the front of my elliptical, riveted on the sheet attached to my machine, and glowered at my upper chest as he walked away. I knew the glower. It's the unspoken signal that one's time is up and it's now their turn. As soon as I got off and wiped down the machine, he returned and climbed aboard. The woman stopped singing.

I decided to lift some weights, my every movement watched fiercely by Crazy Woman as I did so, though every time I turned in her direction she lowered her head. ten minutes later she got off and moved straight to the thigh machine without wiping down the sweaty elliptical. No consideration for her fellow gym bunnies. Takes all kinds to make a world, I suppose.

Aye, very nice ...but is it edible?

While Saint Patrick's Day is wildly celebrated here in the U.S. by ancestors of those who flew the coop hundreds of years ago but not so much in Ireland and, because I live in the U.S. now, I wondered what would be the best way for me to mark it's passing.

The answer came this afternoon and here's the result. My Mum baked the most delicious Irish Soda bread and Irish brown bread when my siblings and I were youngsters. So, I found a recipe for Irish brown bread--it's very healthy--and baked it and here it is fresh from the oven. The orchid's for artistic purposes, naturally.

Tonight we're going off to the home of a Yankee friend who's cooking an Irish dinner and I'm taking my bread along and can't wait for everyone to try it.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day.

Hey, I'm a thinking person's blog!

Debra Hamel of the Deblog has nominated my blog as a blog that makes people think, a nomination I'm very pleased to have gotten. The concept originated from The Thinking Blog and it's now my turn to suggest five blogs that I also consider well-written and insightful and make me think because everyone should think constructively a wee bit every day.

Here they are:
Martha O'Connor's blog--Not only is she an accomplished novelist whose first novel, The Bitch Posse, I enjoyed thoroughly and can't wait for her second one which is set in Ireland, but her blog contains wonderful information about diabetes, a disease one of her children deals with daily.

Gayle Brandeis's Blog--Again, Gayle's a wonderful writer whose The Book of Dead Birds is rich and insightful (her second novel Self Storage has just released) and she is also a social activist who works hard for justice and equality in society.

Kieran's an Irish American and boxer from Brooklyn who writes beautifully and I love his takes on living in NYC and more.

A life in Wales because I love Wales, went to law school in Wales and this uplifting blog is about the life, good writing and astonishing photography of a woman (and her cats Bella and Lulu) who lives there.

Bridlepath is my fifth choice because who couldn't love a well-written, in depth blog about horses...except, I guess, the few people on earth who don't care for horses.

The Cuban row boat

One of the more interesting aspects of the cruise occurred on our journey homebound from Belize.

At one point going Northward, the ship passes parallel with a part of Cuba--albeit the coastline is miles away--and it's well-documented that many Cuban refugees strike out from her shores on rickety row boats toward the United States and South America. The night had been very rough going and the ship's listing and rocking had awoken me many times--no, I didn't get sea sick because I have a stomach that seems made of steel.

Just after breakfast the following morning, the captain made a public announcement that a small boat had been spotted at a distance and he felt it his duty to turn the ship and seek out the vessel and investigate if there was someone who perhaps needed help. It took the ship a while to turn and Larry and I went to watch from the bow. All we could see were choppy waves and miles and miles of water. Of course, the decks were buzzing with muted excitement as to what would be found.

After twenty minutes, we spotted the boat--a rowing boat just like one sees in any city park lake. The ship drew nearer and nearer until we were upon it. It was a surreal experience standing high on a huge, modern cruise ship as it drew gently closer and closer to the rowboat in order to see if anyone was aboard and perhaps injured. No one was inside and it had taken on some water. On its floor were three coconuts and a few bananas. My heart went out to whomever had decided life in Cuba under Fidel Castro was so intolerable and their circumstances so desperate that they were prepared to risk their lives in the stormy Gulf waters. I hope the boat slipped its mooring or the people were rescued by a merchant ship or something.

Cruising the Caribbean: Part Two

"Attention passengers, this is your captain speaking. We have reason to believe there may be a stowaway on board and..."

From a balcony on the ninth floor of a cruise ship, the cobalt waters of the Gulf of Mexico take on a very unique quality. Some evenings after dinner I'd return to my cabin, walk out onto the balcony and lean over the varnished teak balcony, dig my fingernails into the thin layer of encrusted salt and watch mesmerized as the ship cut through the swells. The waves would race toward the ship's hull, smack against it and then, as if repelled like two North poles of a magnet, would push away from it at speed. At the farthest point of their race away from the ship, the wavelets would crest, turn inside out and dissipate in sparkling showers of snow-white foam and spray.

We spent one and a half full days at sea on the outbound journey before arriving at Costa Maya in Mexico, our first port of call, where we took a rather prosaic tour of the Kohunlich Mayan ruins. I say prosaic because this was to be my first time to learn about the illustrious past and sophistication of the Maya and I expected to see and climb huge soaring temples and palaces such as those found at Copan, but instead all I saw were sad mounds and hillocks still covered by verdant jungle vegetation. It didn't help that our guide--a weasel-like Mayan chappie--didn't speak fluent English and kept saying "Guys this" and Guys that" at every turn (only words I and others could decipher) and then had the gall to ask for a tip at the end of the journey rather than trust us to give him one.


Not so our trip to the Quirigua Mayan ruins in Guatemala the next day. We docked in Santo Tomas's port in Guatemala at six that morning and after disembarkation met with the effervescent and charming Carolina, our guide, who took us on a spectacular two hour bus ride through to the ruins, entertaining us en route with tales of the ancient Maya and life in modern-day Guatemala


I must say it is a spectacularly beautiful country. It is called the 'land of eternal spring' because its climate is always the warm and sunny and the landscape is full of rolling hills and jungle awash in colorful flowering trees, shrubs and flowers including orchid and animals equally diverse and vibrant. At one point we passed rubber tree plantations--hailing instantly to life my schoolboy memories of geography class about the subject and the teacher saying "give me your jaw, boy!" as he grabbed and squeezed my cheek mercilessly if I was acting the smart-aleck or insubordinate--and huge banana tree (actually a member of the grass family) plantations whose fruit would soon be harvested and shipped off to Dole factories for export to America and Europe, etc. (Factoid--baby banana plants must be allowed to grow alongside their mother for six full months or they die. I have a banana plant in my house and it always has a baby growing alongside it in the pot and until now I never knew why.)

The Mayan ruins were of the Mayan Classic period (550-850AD) and contained intricately carved Stelae and Zoomorphs (the latter being huge carved boulders including one called "The Great Turtle" that were forms of monumentation unique to this Mayan city/state and the hieroglyphs on them could only be read from the sky), all evidencing the greatness and deeds of the Mayan dynasty that ruled there.


Views of the city and courtyard with Stellae-tallest is 30 meters high

Bringing the local history to life, Carolina whose English was perfect (she'd lived in Los Angeles for three years before returning home) described as we walked through the acropli, temples and ball courts that there had been two Mayan cities in the region--Quirigua and the wealthy city of Copan--and how one of the kings called Cauac Sky captured and sacrificed 18 Rabbit, the king of Copan, freeing Quirigua of its vassal city/state status and giving rise to the Sky dynasty. (Nothing like a bit of intrigue and kingly skulduggery to keep the tourists chomping at the bit and wanting more.)


One of the Zoomorphs, a type of ancient Mayan monument unique to this city state

Cauac Sky build a new palace for himself over the sacrificed king's body (his decapitated body was the only one ever found at the ruins to date during excavations that are ongoing; it astonishes researchers that they have not found the remains of any citizens).


Close up of stella depicting Couac Sky

As an aside, in ancient Mayan culture, only the best was offered the gods. Thus, it was the winning ball player who was sacrificed immediately after the game, not the loser as previously thought. The players wanted to win and be sacrificed (by decapitation in front of the spectators) and it was an immense honor for the player and his family.

All in all, I was transported and left the ruins pondering how a civilization so sophisticated (their knowledge of astronomy and mathematics was superior to ours and their calendar is more accurate than the one we use today) could disappear so rapidly--contrary to belief, it wasn't all to do with the arrival of the Spanish--and leave the modern-day Maya as simple and unsophisticated as the people they'd once been before the rise of their ancient ancestors. (As an aside, the Mayan calendar ends on August 12, 2012, where it is said a great event will unfold.)

On the way back on the bus, as I passed the wooden shacks where the Maya--who're a very friendly and proud people--now live, my thoughts returned momentarily to Ireland and the similarities the countries share, how throughout Ireland, for example, there are now copious ruins of former peasant homes where families were reared. The Maya today are socially and politically where the native Irish were over a hundred or more years ago. Where the Irish were powerless and lived in stone hovels with no running water or electricity then, the Maya today are similarly powerless and live in tiny wooden huts with zinc roofs, the woman spinning and creating magnificent blankets and clothing, their animals and fowl bleating and clucking in the nearby earth. And I hope, like the Irish have now achieved, that one day the Maya can rise and be allowed to become full and equal participants in the countries of their birth and that discrimination against them will end. They have a noble ancestry that we, for all our sophistication, cannot begin to touch.

Departing Santo Tomas was a heart-warming experience, one of those events that really makes one happy to be alive and healthy and believe in the good of human beings. The Norwegian Sun is the only large cruise ship to dock weekly at their port and, as a show of appreciation and sign of how valuable her presence is to the local economy, the local people arrived en masse to say farewell. As the ship sounded her thunderous horn four or five times to acknowledge the farewell reception (even the crew were watching from the decks and bridge) and began to sail, a group of Pula dancers began to dance, an entire school of Catholic schoolchildren (judging by the uniforms) began to wave and sing and scores of taxis and cars that had assembled for the event began to blare their horns. Seasoned cruise veterans had tears in their eyes and I overheard them saying they'd never encountered the like of this in all the years they'd been traveling. And, right there on the fringe of the dancers, dressed in her navy and yellow jacket, was a widely smiling and waving Carolina...just as she'd promised she would be doing when we bade her farewell dockside twenty minutes before.

Cruising the Caribbean: Part One

It was my first cruise and I lucked out because we had a port-side cabin on the ninth floor with a balcony and the entire trip went smoothly. (Found out the origin of the Brit word POSH--Port Out Starboard Home)

The ship's name was Norwegian Sun, belongs to Norwegian Cruise Lines, and they pride themselves in being different in the cruise line market in that they offer a concept called Freestyle Cruising. What this translates to is that, instead of being placed at one of the two de rigueur daily lunch and dinner sittings at the same table with the same people--which can be awkward if they're just not your type of people and/or Southern bible thumpers and/or homophobes--throughout the cruise as is typical of other cruise lines, NCL permits its guests to dine wherever and whenever they please. They have a number of restaurants that are free--except for the vino and other alcoholic sundries of course--and a number of 'specialty' restaurants that include French, Italian, Sushi and a steakhouse. We were traveling with Bob and Adrian, the friends we'd stayed with in New Orleans, and ate twice in the French Restaurant--excellent--once in the Steakhouse--average--and once in the Italian, which was good but not very Italian and the area was rather cramped in my judgment. The rest of the time we dine in the 'free' restaurants, which were pretty good. One problem was that NCL have a really good concept in Freestyle Cruising, but at an additional charge of $20.00 per head, they should vary the menus throughout the cruise. Also, I think they're being a wee bit greedy and should charge $10.00 a head for dining in these 'specialty' restaurants--an opinion borne out by the fact that I noticed the vast majority of the passengers used the 'free' restaurants.

Only on our second night did we encounter any overt curiosity and hostility toward the fact we were four men dining together--there were many other sightings of exclusively male or female clutches--when a most rude (and potato-faced) woman with tight hair perm kept peering at us from the security of her adjacent table where she was ensconced with her husband and another couple. My blood began to boil because she watched our every sip and bite so that I had the weirdest feeling I knew exactly how the highly intelligent, cognizant mountain gorillas must feel at the Washington DC zoo.

At some point during our main course, she leaned over and said, "Four generations! Are you gentlemen four generations?"
Her question was idiotic as Bob and Adrian look the same age.
"No," Bob said.
"Fathers and sons on a vacation?"
"No."
A pregnant pause as the rusty cogs in her mind continued to turn.
"Related, then?"
"No."
"Oh."
She pursed her lips so that deep furrows appeared above her upper lip.
I'm always amenable to chatting with new people, but I could see her disdain and the stony looks from the others.
"Well, if you're done," I said, "I'm sure you'll extend the courtesy and allow us to grill you about your background. Where are you from?"
Larry peered at me and chuckled.
It took a while for the four of them to grasp my rebuke. Uneasy laughter emitted from the woman's husband, then from the other woman whose nose reminded me of the Concorde's as it used to appear on landing.
"We're plain folks from Idaho," the woman's husband said. She kept her eyes fixed on her dinner plate, which I noticed contained the shell of a lobster tail (It was lobster evening on-board) and uneaten asparagus.
Bob (being the gentleman he is) wished to alleviate there discomfort and tendered he and Adrian were from New Orleans and the conversation moved quickly to the safe topic of Hurricane Katrina and the devastation she'd brought. Just then, the waiter arrived with the woman's second entree which was Beef Wellington loaded atop mashed potatoes and accompanied with more asparagus--after all, it was one of the free restaurants and they were just plain-eatin' Idaho folk--and all conversation thankfully ended as her dinner guests turned to admire its presentation.

Our presence elicited the opposite response--it must be admitted--every time we dined at the French restaurant where the urbane maitre'd (a married Turkish man of about fifty who was also responsible for the breakfasts at the restaurant where we went and where I went to town on the deliciously creamy muesli) and the waiters and waitresses (European or Filipino) lavished attention on us that was not superficial and caused the other diners to look quizzically and wonder if we were perhaps celebrities they'd never heard of. I say it wasn't superficial because tips were not given to the staff as the cruise line deducted $10.00 per day from each guest that was then put in a pool to be divided by all the staff and non-officers after the cruise ended.

In any event, I realized loaded cruise ships are but microcosms of general society. One encounters those rigidly determined to embrace their ignorance and prejudice even while at sea and one encounters those who are enlightened and pleasant no matter where they are. The experience did make me consider if I'd have thrown an orange lifeline to Ms. Idaho if I'd noticed her falling overboard (we had two rough-ish nights) and then alert the Captain with the words 'Man overboard' as protocol required or would I have let the ship slide on, safe in the knowledge that the sharks would take care of their own. I decided finally that my question was academic because she and her companions would not have spent the extra dollars to upgrade to a cabin with a tiny balcony anyway.

Miss Julip pays her fine

Overheard between two ladies as I waited in line at the main post office in New Orleans while waiting to mail a birthday card to my Mum in Northern Ireland. I think it's so cute the way Southerners are still so formal, regardless as to race or class or how long they know each other.

Miss J: "Howdy Miss Nelson, I not seen you for long time. A long time."

Miss N (older): "I've been busy working Miss Julip."

Miss J: "I thought you be retired."

Miss N: "I be in two years Miss Julip. Two years more."

Miss J: "Me not ready to retire yet. No sir." At this point, Miss Julip starts trying to stuff what appears to be a summons into a lurid orange official envelope. "Lordie, this thing don't want to go inside."

Miss N: She runs her eye over the envelope, then at me. She laughs. "Maybe that a sign, Miss Julip."

Miss Julip: She laughs, too. "Lordie, I don' pay, they come after me and my wheels, Miss Nelson. Lordie, I not know what to do without my wheels."

Miss N. "Hmm mmm. I hear you. Hmm mmm. Lordie, transport in this town..." She looks over at a woman writing on a package and shakes her head sagely. "It's bad, very bad."

The line moves forward. "Miss Julip: "Well, I 'spect I be seeing you soon, Miss Nelson."

Miss N: "I 'spect so. You take care now hear."


More tales from The Big Easy and my cruise to follow

Grabbing those beads

Greetings from the heart of New Orleans a.k.a The Big Easy.

Larry and I arrived on Friday night to spend Mardi Gras with our friends Bob and Adrian who moved from The French Quarter just after Katrina and now have a condo on St. Charles Avenue, right on the parade route of many of the krewes including the biggies, Bacchus, Endymion, Rex, Zulu and the krewe started by New Orlean's native son, Harry Connick, Jr.

It's been a lot of fun watching the parades and I've caught mucho, mucho beads and mugs and trinkets, as well as having also a few celebs including James Gandolfini who plays Tony Soprano in The Sopranos, some pop band called Styx whom I'd never heard of until Saturday night when they passed by on a float, and American Idol's most recent product, Taylor Hicks. In fact, Taylor threw down a particularly attractive set of beads as he passed by, which I caught. They're definite keepers, though not because they came from the hands of Mr. Hicks.

Last night after the Bacchus parade, we went to friends Bob and Jan who preparad a most delicious New Orleans drink called Saccaran's (I think that's the spelling) which consisted of a blend of whiskey, Pernod, bitters and a bit of sugar.

More parades are scheduled tonight and all festivities culminate tomorrow which is Mardi Gras (or Fat Tuesday) in the last two events from the krewes known as Zulu and Rex. In the old days when the Catholic Church ruled supreme, these two parades ended all partying as Lent began. But nowadays, people head for the French Quarter for more revelry and fun, which is exactly what we'll be doing.

Bob (Jan's husband) is taking us on a tour of the devastated areas THAT HAVE NOT YET BEEN REPAIRED--a huge scandal in itself in my opinion--on Wednesday, which will be very sobering. I'll take some photos ande post them at some point on my return to Pennsylvania.

An inconvenient truth

This weekend I decided to watch Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth which is nominated for an academy award in the best documentary category.

All I can say is I was astounded. It's presented in the form of a college lecture--he's currently going about the country giving lectures about global warming and at one point says he's given about a thousand of the lectures--and he skillfully interweaves the huge threat to our environment with the relevant science which he explains in a manner that everyone can understand.

One concept he explains relates to the hitherto unknown levels of carbon dioxide found in the atmosphere today which prevent the sun's heat from leaving our atmosphere and thus contributes to global warming and changing weather patterns. Scientist have been able to go back hundreds of thousands of years by analyzing ancient ice cores, back though four ice ages, and have discovered we now have levels of carbon dioxide that are already twice as high as has ever been found on earth before. Gore illustrates how these unprecedented concentrations of carbon dioxide will continue to rise if left unchecked by climbing aboard a lift device used to raise studio lights and cameramen in film studios and having it rise in sync with an adjacent graph delineating the increase in carbon dioxide levels. It rises and rises until Gore is looking down at us as if from a mountain.

He also employs the canary in the coal mine analogy in two instances. One of the canaries is Greenland which is covered in a huge sheet of ice and is one of two ice sheets that work to keep temperature and climate regulated throughout the world. Greenland is melting at an astonishing and frightening rate. Should it melt completely, the world's oceans and seas will rise to such an extent that 60 million human beings will be displaced, including people in California, Manhattan, Europe (Holland will be totally under water) China and India. The list goes on and on. Displacing 60 million people can lead to a lot of global unrest it also should not be forgotten.

The depth of Gore's passion for this cause is illustrated by the comparison to the love he has for his son who almost died in a dreadful road accident. He states he could not imagine losing his son and the viewer can easily extrapolate and see he cannot imagine that we would lose this battle to save our environment. At times throughout the video, Gore's voice cracks with genuine emotion for the cause and only but the most resolutely determined to deny the truth he is telling will fail to be moved. He ends the piece with a warning that we must act now to save the planet and the United States must play a leading role because we are the largest economy and largest polluter, with Europe and China running a distant second and third respectively. It is disgraceful that this great nation has not ratified the Kyoto Agreement. It is clear each of us are personally responsible for the wellbeing of the world's environment and must adjust our activities to stop contributing to global warming. It is not by coincidence that foreign car manufacturers like Toyota are gaining market share at the expense of American car manufacturers who still insist on producing gas-guzzling SUVs' and are only half-heartedly investing in alternative fuel technologies. And it is a disgrace that Ford, GM and Chrysler cannot export vehicles manufactured in the States to China because they do not have products that meet China's more stringent anti-pollution standards. Yes, China has more stringent emission requirements than the United States. If this is not an indictment of our uncaring attitudes and destructive arrogance, what is?

Gore states we can change our fate but the window is closing. We took action and repaired the hole in our ozone layer. As Gore says there can be corporate profits and proper custodianship of the environment. We must stop buying into the nefarious propaganda of corporations who pay lobbyists to find scientists and offer them large sums of money to propitiate the lie that there is no link between man's industrial activities and global warming, etc. The debate is now over. 99% of the scientific community recognize the insidious link. It's time to end our indifference and stop the ridiculous hand-wringing and wailing "but what can I do?" as we drive around in these SUVs and crank up our air-conditioners during the summer and heat in the winter. It's time to think about holding the industries that damage the environment legally responsible and force them to make the necessary changes so future generations can enjoy a good, healthy and stable world.

Regardless of one's political party affiliation, we should all be immensely grateful to have a man like Al Gore trying to stir our indifferent consciences and stop global warming .

A blog carnival

Why don't you consider heading over to Bridlepath, a horse lovers blog, because they've got their blog carnival and have some brilliant posts celebrating the great Barbaro--including a link to the blog I wrote about him.

Here's the link to Bridlepath

Tetley to the rescue

Further to my last post, Jessica from TetleyUSA left a message on my blog offering to help me out with the dilemma of my vanishing tea stock. (Who would have thought I had readers at Tetley?) She said she'd love to send me some of their British blend tea to try.

After giving her an address to send the tea, I thought no more about it. This afternoon I went out to do some errands and on my return there was a box waiting for me outside the garage door.

"I'm not expecting a package," I said to Larry. "Are you?"
"No."

Though we're going away in a few weeks to New Orleans and then taking a one week cruise, it seemed far too large a package to come from the cruise line if they were sending us unexpected information about the trip.

I went to it and saw it was from DHL and it was for moi. Then I saw the sender was TetleyUSA.

Wow, she sent it by courier, I thought. Highflying VIP teabags! It made me think of the ad on telly where the United States Postal Service Priority Package on top of the reception desk chats to the lowly plant in the foyer, telling it in a snobby tone that she's a very important legal document and has no time to talk because she's waiting for the postman to come and collect her because she has to be at court at a certain time--theme being the postal service comes to you. I rushed inside and tore open the package. Inside was a Tetley gift bag containing a box of British Blend tea, a small canister of English Breakfast tea AND a new blue tea mug.

Moreover, the lady had written me a note in which she expressed a hope that I'd enjoy the tea and gave a brief history of Tetley, which is an English tea company (a fact I knew) and that teas from 30 different countries are purchased at auction and blended in England by trained tea masters (facts I did not.)

So I'm now sitting waiting fro the kettle to boil to make a cuppa of the British Blend. I chose this one because she stated in the note it would taste the same as the tea I've been carting over from teh UK through the years. This nugget of info I decided to treat with a bit of Irish skepticism while waiting for the kettle to boil.

Pause while I tend to the tea things, fetch a chocolate chip cookie (not usually on the menu, but a treat today given the specialness of the occasion) and drink my tea--not from the new mug. I must confess to being a trifle nervous because I intend to be honest in my assessment and suspect Jessica (if she reads this) will consider me an ungrateful tea whore if I cannot praise the gift.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It is true that a watched kettle refuses, simply refuses to boil.

Anticipation and nerves continue to dual. To assuage the latter, I decided to perform a sniff test of the British Blend teabags and my last two bags of the UK tea. Both have the same aroma so things look good. The same Tea Master blender, perhaps?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tea's over. It tasted excellent. While it was not the exact same flavor as the tea I'd brought over from the UK, it has the same strong body and pleasing flavor. Because the tea sold here is made by the same Tetley tea masters in the UK, I wondered why there would be a difference. Then it dawned on me. This tea was fresh out of the packet and mine--purchased seven months ago--is older and has mellowed. In any event, I can now buy my Tetley tea here. But I'll also buy some when I'm visiting over on the other side because...well, it's fun to bring something from home. It's feels like you're bringing a piece of home back to your other home. Maybe that also accounts for a bit of the difference in flavor, too.

A spot of rationing

In the afternoons, I like to brew a cup of tea and have it with a biscuit--that's a cookie here, not one of those God-awful doughy things called biscuits that looks like an English tea scone (though not in taste) which one can buy together with a bucket of fried chicken at KFC and other places and is regarded as a deliciously Southern thing. I hate Grits and I hate Southern biscuits.

Coffee is my preferred beverage in the morning--not the weak American blends that are flogged by Maxwell House and Folgers--good strong blends like Pilon, which is Puerto Rican and tastes rather like Italian coffee. I've even been known to mix the Pilon with the mass-marketed stuff to improve it.

I am just as fussy about my tea. It must be a British blend, something like English breakfast or the more smokey tasting Irish breakfast blend. But my fussiness does not end there. The tea must actually come from Britain or Ireland. I cannot abide what masquerades as tea on the supermarket shelves in the United States. No matter how long it's brewed, it never seems to break through the 'dishwater' barrier. It looks sickly no matter how pretty the teacup it's in. It's flavorless on a bad day, tinny on a good. That the tea over here is not good is quite understandable because Americans are not a tea-drinking nation--though Larry has informed me that coffee was once offered as a freebie to American housewives who bought a packet of tea.

This afternoon I noticed my 'tea tin' in the cupboard contained only two more bags and so I went into the pantry to retrieve more from the Tetley 'self-closing' packet (the glue on the red tab device is poorly designed and so it doesn't close as stated) I'd brought back from Northern Ireland. There were only ten left. A chill ran through my heart.

This weekend when I speak to Mum I'll have to ask her to send me over a care package chop-chop. Also must remember to tell her to write 'professional sample' or 'book' on the package or I'll get stuck with ridiculous import charges, which will spoil enjoyment of exported tea because I will remember as I indulge. The other alternative, of course, is to go to one of those pseudo Brit shops they have over here where they sell things like sausages, bacon, steak and kidney pie, pork pie, Cornish pasties, shortbread, Hartley's jams, lemon curd and Digestive biscuits, most of which are in various stages of fossilization or moldy as a good Stilton because no self-respecting ex-pat is going to fork out eight dollars for a jar of marmalade or packet of McVities biscuits that they can get for a quid over there.

Oh, what to do...what to do. Must go. Kettle's boiling.

An artist's tribute

Following her comment left on my blog, I discover an artist fusing art with social activism.

Do check out artist and horse-lover Ashley Cecil's tribute to Barbaro

Barbaro

The first horse that entered my consciousness though I was too young to have appreciated his greatness was the magnificent Irish racehorse, Arkle, a champion and legend. Another very famous Irish steeplechaser was Shegar, though he was stolen in his prime from his stable and never recovered--presumed shot when the thieves (many theories abound as to who they were) could not get the owners (a consortium) to pay the two million pound ransom they were demanding.

The next legend was the diminutive Stroller (14.2 hands), a show-jumper ridden by Marion Coakes who was famous when I was a boy. God, I loved watching the spellbinding beauty as the pair of them soared with ease over the jumps at various competitions including the great win at Hickstead. (He died in 1986 of a heart attack at the age of 36.)

Captivating me after that was Red Rum. I was still a teenager and he won the Grand National three times and all of Britain and Ireland loved him. I wagered for the first time in my life on him and won a tenner. (He died at age 30 in 1995 and is buried near the starter post at Aintree.)

And then came Pennsylvania's Barbaro. How we rooted for him to win the triple crown and how we watched in agony as he sustained a terrible injury during the initial stages of the race and had to be withdrawn.

I was filled with respect for his owners, Roy and Gretchen Jackson, who did not bow to the call of greed by having him destroyed as so many owners do in order to cash in their multi-million dollar insurance policy. They knew their horse. They knew his indomitable spirit and will to live. They loved him.

And he improved, thanks to the care of his wonderful vet Dr. Richardson and the team at Penn's veterinary medicine department, and we all believed he was going to win his fight and retire to the meadow, retire just as Smarty Jones did the previous year, retire as is the right of all good racehorses.

It was not to be. Another infection came and he tried to overcome the odds. But it was not to be. On this day of first snow in the commonwealth, Pennsylvanians learned at ten o' clock in the morning from a sad yet resigned co-owner and from an emotional vet that it was 'enough' and they'd put their beloved horse and spirited hero, Barbaro, to sleep. He'd fought but in the end could not overcome this new infection arising from that complex fracture he'd sustained on that fateful day at The Preakness. He'd had good days during this extended eight months of life, but he'd also had much pain and enough was enough.

Farewell trusty Barbaro

The visit

Charles and Camilla flew into Philly from London on Friday night on a British Airways airbus. He didn't want to take a private chartered flight as he was mindful of protecting the environment. They were in town to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the Academy of Music and, apparently, it's been one hundred and forty seven years since a Prince of Wales visited the city, officially. They holed up in the Four Seasons hotel on Friday night, then did a tour of the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall the following day followed by the event at the Academy.

Coverage of the visit was by our local 'fires, shootings, murders and storm warnings' media and milked extensively, though the number of welcoming American 'royalty groupies' looked to be scant no matter how diligently they tried to disguise it. (We also had to endure a barrage of advertisements featuring an American male actor attempting to speak in a "By Jove" upper-class English accent with the purpose of flogging the Philly Inquirer--I think it was the Inquirer.) One young couple walking briskly past the Four Seasons entrance on Friday evening--the coldest day on the East coast thus far this year and the only people braving the elements--were stopped abruptly by a reporter and asked, "Are you here to see Prince Charles?"
"No," the woman said. "We're going into the bar next door. Why, is he in town?"

Predictably, the local media resorted to every conceivable cliche to highlight the irony of members of the Brit royal family taking a tour of America's cherished sites of liberty and revolution the following day. The national media appeared indifferent though, allocating only a twenty second spot to show a fleeting image of a hatless, smiling Camilla and Charles visiting the Liberty Bell--I thought I saw Camilla tenuously extend her gloved hand to give it a pat or a poke at one point as if taking the measure of the crack's severity--which I guess spoke volumes about the importance of the visit in the eyes of Americans. Also very predictable was the throng of members of the silver-haired 'Brits living in exile' groups waiting to cheer them as they passed by aboard the 'Duck'(Philly's amphibious half boat, half van tourist vehicle), many of the men wearing tartan kilts and head dresses. Okay! Okay, I'm joking about Camilla riding a tacky Duck--there's a limit to being environmental.

From Philly, Charles and Camilla boarded a train--a private one, not the Acela Express--to New York City where they toured a charter high school in Harlem before they dropped by the Harvard Club for a drink and a nosh while picking up an environmental award from Al Gore. At one point, I laughed heartily when a journalist asked a young African American woman standing outside the charter school what she thought of the royal visit to Harlem.

"I'm so happy to be here," she said. "It's historical...I never thought I'd get to shake hands with Prince Charles and the Queen."

From her heart

One of my Gather friends, the poet Barbary Chaapel, wrote an article recently about having a heart attack. As the symptoms of male and female heart attacks can be markedly different, she would like to share her experience so that women can be more aware of the condition.

Here is her article in full:
-----------------------------


HEART


Somewhere in this hospital, someone is baking

A blueberry muffin for my breakfast.

I'm allowed out of bed today

To sit in my corner window, wish

Upon the white-stars-falling-snow-storm,

Breath in the scent of potted white hyacinth

Wrapped in purple paper on the cold window sill.



We’ve been told there are differences in men’s heart attacks and women’s heart attacks. Now I know first hand. Here are some of the things I observed or learned from my heart attack:



* An elephant did not sit on my chest.

* The EKG at the ER did not show my heart attack.

* My mysterious, lower leg pain that had made me cry in the night never
returned once the stent was in place.

* My fatigue for the past year had a reason.

* Those previous pains that I had last May and October, lasting half hour, Was Not a
panic attack!

* Chronic stress will eventually try to kill you.

* The medical staff at the ER really does move as fast as they do in TV
dramas. Thank heavens!


ATTACK OF THE HEART: From A Feminine Viewpoint

On January 17th, 2007 I was standing at my kitchen sink, doing dishes and looking out the window at a green cardinal in the butterfly bush, puffed up from the cold. Bill was cleaning Tom’s kitty litter. Ordinary day. I began to have piercing pain in the middle of my chest, radiating through to my upper back. My shoulders and upper arms felt dead with pain in my elbows. The pain immediately spread to my neck and jaw. My upper teeth ached like a severe toothache. I had a drenching cold sweat. I became nauseous.

Bill asked 911 or drive? I said drive. Our hospital is thirty miles away and takes one hour driving time because of our road terrain. We live on a one lane dirt road in mountain-curving country.

We decided long ago if possible in an emergency one of us would drive the other to the ER. An ambulance would first have to find our unnamed road, then their policy would be to drive us to our nearest, tiny hospital, which would not have a cardiac doctor on staff.

Luckily, the roads were bare of ice or snow. Bill put on the Jeep’s emergency
blinkers and prayed coal trucks, timber trucks, other drivers would pull off the road and let him pass them. For the most part, they did so. It took us 45 minutes to reach the ER.

Once in the ER a flurry of activity began for me. The EKG did not show a heart attack, but the lab tests and my own demeanor showed the attack was still in progress. The heart catherization and stent emplacement in the 100% blocked artery gave me immediate relief!

Five days later I am home. I will celebrate Valentine’s Day this year on a
different level, sending love and profound thanks to those who saved me, to family and friends.

And love to my own heart.

Stirring memories

Been reading John Grogan's Marley and Me (he's a reporter for the Philadelphia Inquirer) while on the elliptical at the gym. It's about he and his family's life with their labrador and it's a very interesting and entertaining read because their dog was large for his size and a bit mental. I'm coming now toward the end and Marley is old, arthritic and coming to the end of his life.

Already, I've begun sniffing with occasional hot leakage from the corners of my eyes while on the machine and doing my best to conceal it all so that people--especially Hornet who may see it as weakness and move in to gloat!!!--on the adjacent machines don't think I'm mental. It's hard to maintain a stiff upper lip because his descriptions--the prose is spare and pointed--and the dog's condition are bringing back stinging memories of what we went through during Spice's final days almost a year ago.

Worse, I'm finding it increasingly hard to open the book because I know what's coming and dreading the moment I turn the page where it's described. But so is life, I suppose.

In the House last night

Regardless of whether one is a Democrat, Republican or Independent, last night's State of the Union address underscored something I think we do take for granted in the United States, namely that we live in a stable democracy. Sure it's flawed and under constant threat from the insidious encroachment and corrupting effects of 'big money', unscrupulous politicians and lobbyists--most of whom are from my profession, unfortunately. But nevertheless it is a democracy that functions and we are free to pursue happiness and do as we please so long as we do not act outside the boundaries of the rule of law. And yes, there are other models of democracy, but I do believe the American model is one of the most tested, vibrant and, because of America's current position as the sole superpower, subject to extreme vitriol and ridicule when its appointed leaders make mistakes.

Last night as I watched George W. Bush walk into the chamber of the House of Representatives, we could see the embodiment of our democratic institutions. The three pillars of American democracy--judges of the Supreme Court in their flowing black robes, members of both chambers of the legislature, and members of the executive as represented by Bush and his cabinet--were gathered to hear about the state of the union. For the first time, George W. Bush entered the chamber with another political party in control of the legislature and paid his respects to a Madame Speaker, the first woman ever to be third in line to the Presidency. That shift in political power had occurred at the ballot box and not the battle field. He delivered his speech in a more conciliatory tone than in the past and the opposition gave standing ovations when they agreed with what he said and remained respectfully silent when they didn't. The shift in power and gathering of the three branches occurred just as the founding fathers intended all those years ago.

I think we forget all these basic truisms because we're so focused on the detritus of living our lives and forget about the Constitution. I think we forget that we are all Americans at the end of the day regardless of our political persuasion and that our objectives are the same----at least the majority constituting fair-minded, rational Americans--that we are working for the greater good and prosperity of America and for all Americans, working to make the world a better place to live, that we know our system is flawed and corrupt and constantly has to be tweaked and improved, but its framework is rock solid and does work. Coming from Northern Ireland, I've seen another type of democracy firsthand that doesn't work because one of the political parties refuses to participate in the process with integrity because they want back their absolute power, want to bring down the government. They adhere to a warped ethos of 'no surrender' and, as a result, no true and lasting progress can be made for the benefit of the citizenry as a whole. In short, they are not mindful and do not care for the betterment of their population as a diverse whole.

The same applies to the Middle East whose leaders regard democracy as a word to be feared and spurned except in the case of a smattering of states. Often, I try to imagine Arab populations watching the results of an American election coming in on election night and wonder whether they feel a sense of awe when they see political power transfer from one party to the other and next morning see us getting up and going about our business as normal. I also try to imagine what they feel when they watch the State of the Union address and see the three branches of government gathered in the chamber. This year, I wondered too about their thoughts when they saw Nancy Pelosi stand up and wield the gavel to bring the House to order. I wondered if these concepts are so alien they don't even think about it, or do they hunger for their own version of democracy. Maybe they're not even allowed to see the American political process in action, although I believe the totalitarian regimes such as that existing in Saudi Arabia and Iran can't restrict the programming on television as they used to do.

In any event, I'm happy to have been born and live in democracies no matter how flawed. But I really do wonder what the everyday Arab thinks...

Whoopi fun

I was listening to Wakeup with Whoopi with Whoppi Goldberg and her co-host Cubby on the radio this morning, as I do when I'm not listening to NPR. She's hilarious, good-spirited unless it's railing against something she doesn't like such as NYC's mayoral office's recent decision to close down a respected, well known hospital when so many poor people are going without proper medical treatment and she was encouraging New Yorkers to attend a protest rally (the show's out of New York City but syndicated throughout the country as it deals with topical items that are national in scope) and am glad she's back on the airwaves. This morning--I guess flowing from Hillary Clinton's decision to run for president this weekend--she's decided she should perhaps run as well. (Her attitude to national politics on the show is to 'just add a sprinkle because we don't want to scare the people, do we Cubby?') Cubby thought running would be a bad idea as Whoopi has skeletons, but she retorted something to the effect that we all have something in our closets and the self-righteous people who threw stones at President Clinton got caught up in the fire because all she could hear was the sound of breaking windows all over the US at the time. Check out her website, which I'm providing because according to Whoopi if you add an 'e' or another 'i' to her name by accident, you'll end up at a whole different kind of Whoopi.

Regarding my own website, this weekend was a bit of a milestone. My publisher's website guy had sent me an email before Christmas that my website domains were up for renewal and, after much deliberation, I decided I wanted to take over responsibility for my site. So, after much backing and forthing and setting up a new hosting account and having the domains transferred and renewed and him sending things called FTP files--sounded very scary and something I wanted to avoid getting involved in because I dislike dealing with technical stuff--to the new site, the transfer is complete and I am now utterly in charge of www.soncalledgabriel.com and damianmcnicholl.com. In the future I think I'll have my website redesigned around my name as many authors do and its current content revolving around the novel will become one element of the website design.

Since I've also recently upgraded my blog, I now have the possibility to transfer its contents so that the blog will also reside within the website at some point. But that's down the line and I'm in no rush. We'll see. Baby steps.

There are consequences

Grey's Anatomy star, Isaiah Washington, admits he has some major issues he needs to address. In October, he attacked co-star Patrick Dempsey after Dempsey was angry that Washington called another of their co-stars, TR Knight, a 'faggot' when Washington was angry about being kept waiting on the set.

While it was common knowledge among the cast that Knight was gay, it was not common knowledge in Hollywood and Washington's public outburst effectively 'outed' him in a profession that is at best squeamish about having gay actors play leading roles. Being a human being as well as an actor, Knight felt he could not allow the slur to pass without comment and stood up to the plate to announce in an interview with People Magazine that he is gay and Washington was out of line.

Even more shocking, Washington (who'd apologized to the cast and suits at ABC in October about his outburst) showed he'd no balls and that money and retaining his job were of more importance than personal principle because he denied calling Knight a 'faggot' when asked about the October incident by a reporter as the entire cast was interviewed about their win backstage at the Golden Globes.

I do like Grey's Anatomy this season--last season, I stopped watching it as the plot lines were a bit too mushy and maudlin but am glad I gave it a second chance the writers are back on form--and like to forgive, but I think in this instance Washington must go. In America, we keep saying 'there are consequences to our actions' and this is a case where Washington must be made to pay the price. His apology in October appears to have been insincere.

It is not acceptable to use the 'N' word and it is not acceptable to use the 'faggot' word, either. Children have been beaten up and called 'faggot' for years in playgrounds--in fact, it's now conceivable Mr. Washington could have been one such bully during his school days--and Matthew Shepard was tied up, tortured and killed in a lonely Wyoming pasture for being a faggot. Have we not moved forward?

A producer of the show is reported as stating it's not acceptable to fire Washington and to think about replacing him with another black actor. She holds the view that that is insulting to blacks. Obfuscating or attempting to mitigate the real issue, HOMOPHOBIA, by introducing the issue of black discrimination is at best disingenuous. Forget about the tons of money you're earning and try and set the world right in this matter. It is good Mr. Washington is showing a willingness to change his attitudes but there are consequences and the price must be fully paid.

A lesson now learned:Part I

I'm Irish and am burdened with what I suspect to be an Irish Catholic complex that I can't quite throw off, but am making strides to do so. This complex relates to a reticence about telling another Irish person--even an Irish American--about one's achievements, which in my case is the publication of my novel, A Son Called Gabriel. As I said, this complex is solely limited to Irish people and thus indefensibly bizarre. I imagine it comes from growing up in a conservative tradition that, while wholesome and caring in general, has a tendency to regard any form of talking about one's abilities and successes as boastful and arrogant.

In my day--though I do not believe it to be the case now, at least with regards to children--a person was given short-shrift by a quick-tongued family member or jealous, tongue-wagging neighbor if they did not qualify their success in academia, business or sports with a sally to the effect 'I was lucky, that's all' or 'it was all to do with prayer' or 'I went to Lough Derg...or Knock...or Lourdes, etc.' In other words, for the recipient of the success, it was just not done to say 'No, I wasn't lucky. I really worked bloody hard!' or 'yes, I do deserve it' or 'I did make a lot of money in the business because I knew what I was doing, etc.'

Americans, by contrast, are so confident and refreshing in this regard. They simply announce they did something great and it it is not mean to be boastful (okay, with some people it is, but we all know that type of arrogant jerk and they're found in every culture.) In other words, the success is feted by friends and family alike and no-one talks behind the successful person's back about how 'full of shit they are' or 'where did he or she get the brains to make money, because it sure didn't come from the father or mother's side of the family?' or 'Pure luck is how he got it.'

In my case, this complex manifests in another insidious way, which is the true subject of this post. I have a reluctance (even, perhaps, a shyness) to tell Irish people who inquire about the nature of the novel about what the plot is about because, well...er...ahm, it deals with sex including homosexuality, the former being a difficult and the latter taboo topics in the Irish milieu. Often I resort to banality or avoidance as a means to stop having to talk at length about the work and my writing of it (i.e.) I tell them in a roundabout manner about the plot, trumping up the Irish political and heterosexual issues and rarely mentioning the fact that the boy is struggling with his sexuality and this afraid and confused.

Why do I do this with my fellow countrymen and women? Is it because I'm afraid? Is it because I, too, am burdened with an inability to talk maturely about sexual matters and divergence? Is it because I wish to protect those whom I know are likely to be conservative and narrow-minded?

The answer, am now convinced, is a bit of all of this.

At a Barnes and Noble signing during the book's softcover campaign, a man with a weather-beaten face entered the store. He greeted me (the table was near the door) and began to chat. I learned he was a brickie and from Northern Ireland. He picked up a copy of the novel and saw it's subject-matter was Irish. He appeared delighted. As we conversed further, I concluded he was from nearby where I grew up--even mentioned a name I knew but pretended I didn't--and began to sweat.

"So what's your book about?"
"It's a young boy's coming of age...and there's a dark secret in the family," I said.
"Would I like it?"
"I...I'm not sure. There's some complicated issues in it."
He laughed, then scoured the blurbs and flap copy. "Any sex?"
A surge of warmth occurred under my armpits. "Nothing graphic."
Well, I'll tell you what. I'm looking for a book for my girlfriend but I'm going to come back for one. You'll sign it for me?"
"Aha."
I willed the remaining hour to fly so I could pack up and leave. He didn't appear and I began to relax. Twenty minutes later, he returned, picked up a copy, and asked me to sign it."
My mind must have been working overtime in his absence and out came, "I don't think it'll be your sort of book."
"What do you mean?"
"It deals...it deals with a sexually confused boy in part?"
"What...he's growing up gay or something?"
"Yes."
A silence occurred. I watched the people milling by the "Summer reads" table while he examined inside the book, flicking through and stopping to read passages here and there."
"Okay, do you sign it for me now or do I have to pay for it first?"
I was shocked. "Oh, I'll sign it now."
"Thanks...and we're not all backward, you know?" He grinned.
"What do you mean?"
"My accent might be broad and all, but I've been around quite a bit and I know a thing or two about life. I know about gays."
I was stunned. I'd concluded he was a brickie, Catholic and conservative, was probably a guy who'd tortured the lives of kids at his school who he thought might be gay.
"And my girlfriend will like it, too. Can you put her name in the inscription too?"

As I watched him walk toward the cashier, my mind tried to process what had occurred and how it was me who's made the assumptions. A lesson had been taught. But had it been absorbed. Had I overcome a scourge of my upbringing? No. That became apparently when a senior Irish American man befriended me at the 'Y' and recently found out from someone I was a writer who's published an Irish novel.

[technorati: Ireland, Northern Ireland, Irish, Irish Literature, conservative, catholic, novels, writing, culture, shyness

Dues got

I was delighted that Helen Mirren won not one Golden Globe, but two. First, she won for her role as Queen Elizabeth 1 and then later in the evening for her role as Queen Elizabeth II. I laughed when she said Queen Elizabeth already has her orb so I'm going to keep this.

I was also delighted when America Ferrara won for her role as Ugly Betty, which I was reluctant to watch initially when it first appeared on ABC but then got hooked when there was nothing to watch one night on the telly and got hooked. It's full of good, intelligent writing, certainly enough to make you forgive the occasional cliche and forays into stereotype. Ms. Ferrara's speech was full of genuine surprise, delight and gratitude--the sort of raw emotions that make you joyful that they won--not the usual professional litany of 'thanks yous' and 'this is a thrill.' The same applies in equal measure to Jennifer Hudson, who made a class speech when she won for her role as Effie in Dreamgirls.

Not so, the acceptance 'speech' of Mr. Baron-Cohen who won for his role in Borat, a film I haven't seen yet but will. Hey, the guy's funny, witty and, yes, being earthy is part of his stichk, but he should know when to switch off the Borat alter ego, reign in the drive toward eccentricity, and accept a prize with a bit of grace. He should also know to take the measure of his audience, in this case an American audience. For five minutes, we had to listen to him skewer his uncomfortable, black-tied sidekick and talk about his having to endure the guy's testicles against his face and the guy's personal smells from between his legs, etc. You get the visual, I'm sure. Cracking one joke made the Globe audience laugh, but then it quickly became uncomfortable when he went on and on...well, like Borat...and he was eventually 'played off' and had to start his litany of 'thank yous' to the rising strains of the orchestra. I just wish he'd taken his cue from Meryl Streep--she appeared on stage earlier--about how to slip into a role and how long to play it during an acceptance speech.

The Joan Rivers and daughter team were on the telly this morning attempting to render humorously low brow opinions on the fashions and accessories worn by the women (and a few men) at last night's event. She was somewhat subdued for Joan, though still pushy because she was in a lather to get it in that she and her daughter (she's started to Botox or something now too judging by her peculiar lip profile) were wearing some kind of silver material in their dresses just like all the other hot actresses who were doing so at the awards. No matter how hard I try, I can't somehow force myself to peel my eyes off Joan's face when she's on the telly. It's just so stretched, so flawless, so astonishing.

[technorati: Ugly Betty, America Ferrara, Sacha Baron Cohen, Jennifer Hudson, Joan Rivers, Dreamgirls, Borat, Merryl Streep, Helen Mirren, Golden Globes

Getting their dues

The buzz is certainly that Helen Mirren and Judi Dench are strong contenders to win the Best Actress award at the Golden Globes for their roles in The Queen and Notes on a Scandal. I'm routing for either of them, Mirren because I saw the movie and loved it and Dench because, while I haven't seen the movie, I know what a tremendous actress and how professional she is and know it would be well deserved.

I watched Mirren last week on the telly when she was interviewed by Morrie Shafer of 60 Minutes and the chemistry between them as they ribbed one another was palpable.

At one point Mirren, who was born Ilynea Lydia Mironoff, walked through the working-class seaside resort town (Southend-on-sea) where she was raised--her father was a penniless Russian aristocrat and her mother a working-class woman--and she said her family were always regarded as a bit eccentric by the neighbors. As a kid, she and worked as a 'blagger' at the fun-fare and demonstrated how she was required to attract passing members of the public to the rides by shouting out something nonsensical to them. When they'd approach and ask what she said or wanted, she'd repeat the nonsense and then quickly segue into a spiel inviting them to try whatever ride she was trying to sell. Great training for the theatre, she went on to say.

At one point, Morrie asked if she or her husband ever regretted not having children. Looking him straight in the eye, she replied 'absolutely not' and went on to say that they'd have prevented her from the freedom to follow her path in life. It's a decision shared by some married couples I've got friendly with here in the states.

I could almost hear the collective clucks of disapproval from many women (and men) who believe the chief purpose of life is to marry and have children--especially some demanding parents who believe they have an unassailable right to become grandparents (some of whom were lousy parents, it might be said). I've even come across such people on occasions, people who look at you oddly when you say you've never wanted kids. So I admired Mirren's assertive honesty and conviction here. Not everyone is destined to have or want children and there's nothing the matter with people that don't...or their articulation of it.

On the other hand, Dench has one daughter (Finty) by her late husband, Michael Williams--also a great actor who died of cancer six years ago--and they're very close, so I can imagine her saying the opposite of what Helen Mirren said if she were asked the obverse question. I've seen Finty accompany her mother to the various awards ceremonies. This morning Dench was interviewed for a piece on Sunday Morning on CBS and there was a very poignant moment when she said she's been working very hard ever since the death of her husband. When asked if this was her coping mechanism, there was a pregnant pause that spoke volumes.

It's tremendous to see older actresses celebrated--Dench is 72 and says she has no intention of quitting--and respected for their craft and getting their dues because I find the tendency in America to exalt young actresses and put the older ones out to pasture very shallow and, frankly, despicable.

[technorati: The Queen, Movies, 60 Minutes, Sunday Morning, Notes on a Scandal, Helen Mirren, Judi Dench

A Royal dilemma, what, what?

In the US, we're getting our share of glimpses of Prince William's attractive long-term girlfriend, Kate Middleton, at the moment because of intense speculation (and there's still six months before the 'silly season' due to lack of news begins over there) as to whether he'll pop the question and thus make her the Queen of England twice removed. Apparently the paparazzi are hounding the poor woman every waking moment, though we're told she's handling it with poise and dignity. Yesterday, I caught a snippet on the telly of her coming out of her apartment, strutting down the sidewalk, and getting into her VW Golf in a manner eerily reminiscent of Diana, though with one exception in that she was smiling.

As she's not entitled to any security from the Royal family--unless she's out clubbing with William and then it comes as a sort of add-on--the Queen has in effect asked the paparazzi to bugger off and leave the girl alone. Known to be a frugal woman who once is reputed to have asked her guests to put on an extra sweater when they complained they were 'a bit cold, Ma'am' while staying with her at Balmoral, she may be concerned she might have to splurge on a bit of security for the lass. I can just imagine the conversation between her and Philip.

The Queen pours herself some Rice Krispies from the tupperware, adds milk and takes a seat at the table where Prince Philip is reading the newspaper. She turns her gaze to watch the news on the telly and sees Kate surrounded by photographers yet again.
"This really is so like the Diana situation...when she was hounded so mercilessly by the paparazzi, isn't it dear?" she says to her husband. "It's very worrying. We can't have all that happening again."
"What's that, Cabbage?"
"The way this poor girl...Kate...is hounded...so utterly familiar, isn't it?"
"I do hope William comes to his senses soon." He peers over his newspaper at the telly. "How long's it been now? Two years? Time to stop sowing his wild oats and find the proper sort of woman....a woman commensurate with his station"
"Yas, but they're getting hard to find...and I don't think we can say anything too strong about that anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, his mother was a commoner, too."
"There's commoners and then there's commoner's, Cabbage. Diana was a Spencer, not the offspring of merchants."
"I suppose."
"No supposing about it. We're the Royal family and, as such, the country expects us to do the right thing. We can't have bring someone in whose grandparents were coal-miners, can we now? We can't have someone in whose grandparents stood downstairs by the fountain to cheer and clap when your mother and father walked out on the balcony."
"No, I suppose not. Do you think we should extend security to her, though?...until William...comes round."
"What? I think not. Only members of The Family get security." He emits a snort of laughter. "Ask Tony when you see him next. Tell him to pay."
"Hmmm." She flicks her eyes back the telly. "She doesn't dress like a Sloan even...jeans, jeans, jeans. Not once have I seen a decent tweed skirt."
"How could she? She's not even a Sloan."
"The parents are self-made though, dear. This is the new Britain. You don't think it would help The Family's image a little if I dipped into my purse a little for her security?"
Philip guffaws. "Maybe we've got a few pieces from her parent's catalog in this very room."
The Queen looks around her. "Very much doubt it, dear...I don't believe they deal in tupperware." She sighs. "Sometimes I think I should just let Charles take over the business."
"Don't go all dark on me, old girl."
"No really, I mean it. No one understands how hard it is...well, except perhaps for Helen."
"Helen?"
"Mirren. Remember how she said in that interview we saw...you know...how she's changed her mind about me. She knows now how hard it is for me and appreciates the institution."
"Royals can only understand other Royals, dear. She's an actress. She knows you'll see the interview and is angling for a spot on next year's Birthday list."
"Do you think so?"
"Of course. Actors are all the same...all self-serving. I hope you're not softening, Cabbage. I was not portrayed flatteringly."
"No, you weren't, were you?" A silence occurs. "I am just so tired of eating Rice Krispies. I think we should move to cornflakes or Weetabix after these are finished. What do you think?"

[technorati: Royal Family, Queen Elizabeth, England, Prince William, Kate Middleton, Paparazzi, Helen Mirren, London

Penn Epiphany

Last Saturday night was our annual Epiphany Party (12th day of Christmas a.k.a the visit of the Magi to adore the baby Jesus a.k.a Little Christmas throughout Latin America, Puerto Rico, Spain, Italy and I think France, too) and it was a hoot. In Ireland, it's not a party event, rather a Holy Day of Obligation involving a pop-in to church for mass. Because Larry's Puerto Rican, we celebrate and hold the party on the actual January 6th night regardless as to which night of the week that date falls on.

The party has become a sort of unofficial end-of-party-season event among our friends and, we always vow to keep it 'small this year'--more so on my part--but invariably never do. This year we had forty guests and we keep the list reflective of the neighborhood we live in so we have gays, lesbians and straights, Christians, Jews and atheists in attendance, all sharing a love of good food and alcohol including vino, lashings of vino. Larry, of course, served up the traditional Pernil and rice with pigeon peas--this year with a bit of a twist because he added pieces of dried mango and apricot that made it even more yummy. In addition we serve sauerkraut--which is my Irish contribution to the bill of fare!!!!!

Next morning, we rose early to travel up to the University of Pennsylvania (Penn) Museum where David Silverman is the co-curator of the exhibit Amarna, Ancient Egypt's Place in the Sun. It's sort of an appetizer to the national Tutankhamun and the Golden Age of the Pharaohs exhibit he's curating that begins at the Franklin Institute in February when it moves to Philly from Los Angeles. David and his partner Gary had organized a private tour of the exhibit--before it opened at 1.00 pm to the public--with brunch afterwards, and all twenty guests were required to be in the museum lobby at 10.30 a.m. precisely to keep things on track. Both Larry and I are geographically challenged and it didn't help Gary had inadvertently written among the directions 'Take 676 East towards Philly Airport....when he meant 676 West." We whizzed up I95, luckily encountered no traffic cops, and the Egyptian Gods were with us because no matter how many mistakes we made--and there were many including a foray into one of Philly's dodgier neighborhoods--and much cursing, we still made it into the museum carpark at 10.28 where an ashen-faced, nervous Gary was meeting other arriving guests, having just been informed twenty minutes earlier by one of the party that his directions were wrong. It all went well and everyone, bar two, got there on time.

What a magnificent exhibit. Truly fascinating. What was most enlightening was how Tut's father, Akhenaten, moved the Royal Court to Amarna and then proceeded to extinguish the ancient Egyptian's worship of many Gods in favor of a single God, which was the sun known as Aten. Moreover, he consolidated his power by stating that worship of Aten could only be achieved through him as Pharaoh--only the Royal family and priests could enter the temples--which in effect elevated him and his family (including Queen Nefertiti) to the level of a God. In this way, the Pharaoh became divine. Effectively, he established a new religion with the Royal Family at its center and the God Aten was no longer depicted as an ornate figure--similar to the ones we see depicted in the tombs--but rather as a simple disc with sun rays that ended in hands reaching to the Pharaoh and his family's uplifted hands. Akhenaten's 'renaissance' if you will was short-lived however, because his son, the boy king Tutankhamun, came to understand his father had been wrong and returned the Royal court to the ancient capitals and reinstated worship of all the Egyptian Gods, restoring Ra to his role as the supreme God, the God of creation.

And as I was about to leave the exhibit--my tongue already anticipating the first refreshing slake of ice-cold Mimosa--and was peering at the God Amun's miniature statue (the one featured on the Museum's exhibit details page), I had an epiphany. I thought about our own modern day relationship to God (or lack of it) in His/Her/Its many manifestations and how the various world religions have been manipulating and packaging God and associated images to their audiences in order to serve their ends throughout the millenia. Are they so very different to Akhenaten?

[technorati: Epiphany, Puerto Rico, Penn, University of Pennsylvania,Pharaohs, Nefertiti,Tutankhamun, Ancient Egypt, Dr. David Silverman, Amarna

A rolling stone can indeed gather dross

Often when I've had enough of reading, I like to sit on my recliner and watch the telly. Last night was one of those nights. I'd read quite a few pages of the latest book--Marley and Me--which I'm enjoying quite a bit. It's about a Philadelphia Inquirer correspondent, John Grogan, and his family (born subsequent to the dog's arrival) living with their incorrigible Labrador "Marley" in Florida and his wife and his attempts to 'house break' him.

It's coming around to mid-season for the networks and ABC, obviously deciding they wanted to be first out the gate and gain a bit of traction before the competition splays their wares, introduced a couple of new shows, including a comedy called The Knights of Prosperity. As I'd seen advertisements plastered on buildings in Manhattan when I was up a few weeks ago as well as having watched a few subsequent trailers, I was intrigued and decided to watch it. The premise is five or six characters (including a couple of janitors) decide they've had enough of their work, wish to make money fast to satisfy their divergent needs, and finally decide to rob Mick Jaguar when the principal character sees him on telly showing his luxurious Manhattan penthouse.

What an unsalvageable disaster. (I knew things weren't promising when the opening scene took place in a lavatory and it rapidly went down the spout from there.) I really like the Rolling Stones and Mick Jaguar, but I wonder what possessed him (other than perhaps to satisfy ego or a need to generate more PR because Mick's reputation as a shrewd businessman as well as a competent musician is well known) to get involved with such pitiful mediocrity. Mick plays himself and is seen describing his luxurious kitchen as he bounces through it, then acting mean to his androgenous Japanese valet--for example, kicking a soccer ball and hitting him in the face--and finally tossing tennis balls while dressed in gold-colored trousers into his indoor swimming pool where about six of his dogs are exercising. I've got a sense of humor and, had any of it been a teeny weeny bit funny, I'd have laughed.

In an attempt to make the sketch palatable to an American audience, who would find a show premised on robbing people blind, even rich Brits living in Manhattan, very alarming, the sub par writers toss in their own tennis ball of dialogue to the effect that some of the 'profits' will go to various charities selected by the robbers, including 'feline aids.' Right, you now see what I mean about the degree of wit and humor. Nor, can I assure you, was any cliche left unvisited. We were treated or must endure (depending on one's sensibilities) a scene wherein the male robbers salivate over a voluptuous Colombian robber--speaking in a painfully exaggerated Hispanic accent in case one missed where she hailed from--who leaves her waitressing job at a diner and is running away from a fellow countryman and drug baron called Henri, a scene of the unattractive male lead bending over during a planning meeting only to have one of his co-robbers point a laser pin light at his sizable rump while the others chuckle and, of course, a lacklustre scene of a botched attempt to gain entry into the building.

Someone I know was offered a job at one of these Hollywood 'writing mills' a few years ago and helped write a few episodes of a comedy that was scheduled to be aired mid-season. He hated it and the show didn't make it, either. Neither will this one. Mick's appearance--it may be only for one or two shows because I think Fran Drescher and Sally Jesse Raphael are also in line to get robbed, though I think the show will be canned before those air--can not save it from the Manhattan garbage heap where it truly belongs. Down the line, Mick may well come to count himself fortunate that his error in calculation was not viewed by many in the United States or that the show never made syndication and thus eligible to be offered for sale in his native England. I really do hope he'll stick to the stage he knows best in the future and leave comedy to the professional clowns.

Now back to Marley and me.

[technorati: Mick Jaguar, The Rolling Stones, England, Manhattan,ABC TV, The Knights of Prosperity, Marley and me, John Grogan

The deer hunter

The man who used to hunt on our land dropped by today. (Back when the land was still a ninety acre farm and woods, he called and asked if he could hunt for deer during the 'shotgun and rifle' season and Larry agreed provided he would post "NO HUNTING' signs on the property because he was fed up with drunken louts from nearby towns arriving to 'hunt' without asking permission, necessitating his having to contact the Pennsylvania game warden for our area who came out to arrest or fine them on a number of occasions--a dangerous proposition because many of them were so pissed they couldn't distinquish what was animal and what was human on the approach.

After a house was constructed on the last lot two years ago, it was no longer possible to hunt because of the Commonwealth's laws related to shotgun bullet distances, etc. and the hunter thanked us for the years he was permitted to hunt on the land and went on his way. (Twice a year, he used to arrive with delicious German sausages and bread from a bakery nearby from where he lives, as well as large bottles of rum which Larry used to drink but didn't have the heart to tell him he didn't drink spirits and not to buy it anymore. He did tell him eventually when the hunter happened to ask if he was still a 'rum man' one day but then the guy started buying him expensive vodka out of a need to buy him something alcoholic.)

This hunter's in his early sixties and from the old school--by that, I mean he's got integrity--gallons of it--and equal measures of good manners and knowledge of what's right and proper. (I think he's also lonely because his wife died of cancer a few years ago at Christmastime and his kids are grown up.) Even though he no longer hunts our property and has nothing to gain, this man still drops by with gifts around the holidays. We tell him not to bring anything, to just stop by and say 'hello', but he still arrives with large bottles of booze.

"I spent many happy years of hunting on your property,' he said today, after we'd finished our remonstrations. "I will never forget that. And you gave me permission when no other city people owning homes here would. I love the deer too, but these people just don't understand the herd in Pennsylvania has to be culled in order to keep them healthy."

I was moved because I understood where he was coming from and appreciated his honesty. He considered it a duty to continue to acknowledge a favor given him years ago. All too often today, people reciprocate or act decently only when they see an advantage or know they, too, will also gain something. Often they stop assisting-- even stop seeing a person--when the advantage or benefit to them as a result of the relationship ends.

I see this kind of behavior in business professionals and, in my opinion, lawyers are the worst offenders. I also see it among acquaintances. I see it in people who are parents. I see it in many adolescents, probably as a result of what they've seen their parents do. I've even been guilty of it in the past.

America seems to celebrate individuality above the many human character traits we should aspire to so perhaps this is one of the unfortunate results of such celebration. We tend to excuse bad manners by saying society's become too complex and we're all in a terrible hurry--that's a cop-out. The hunter reminded me about what's proper. Would that there were many people with his values and consideration, a man who cares about the deer he hunts and remembers favors granted in the past.

[technorati: deer hunting, bucks, pennsylvania, manners, old school, individuality