Happenings in the American countryside

This is a pic of the house.

As you can see, I live in the countryside and it's teeming with wildlife at this time of the year.

There's a doe 'breakfasts' on the lawn every morning and the other day we came out to discover she'd had triplets during the night. I'm going to try and get a photo when they're less scared.

Early yesterday morning we had a bit of drama. Police and ambulance sirens shrieked in the stillness and a chopper arrived and began to hover above the house. We ran out to discover it was the news chopper from our local NBC affiliate out of Philly. Turns out our neighbor and a friend had decided to go on a fishing trip to Canada (only a couple of hours away by air) and his plane crashed within seconds of taking off from their house. Turns out his friend was a surgeon and he called 911 on his cell phone but the emergency rescue couldn't find the whereabout's of their plane because it was so foggy. An hour later they found it (and them) hanging upside down amid some dense trees. Both escaped with minor injuries, but the plane wasn't so lucky. Don't think it'll be flying ever again.




Sometimes we just sit on the front door steps drinking spritzers and listening to the bluebirds (beautiful bright blue with red breasts), chaffinches, red wing-tipped blackbirds and wrens some evenings. Occasionally a hawk will soars high in the sky and the birds go ape-shit.



This is a view of the iris beds. Fantastic this year, though they're now done for the season. Next come the lilies.

Adam will be in Manchester

It's thrilling for novelists when their first book is about to hit the book stores. From this side of the pond I've been watching and cheering and laughing at Caroline Smailes' journey as her already critically acclaimed novel In Search of Adam has been wending its path toward the day of publication, which will be June 14th.

On that day, Caroline will in Manchester (in a new 'launch dress') for her book launch party, as will members of her innovative and exciting independent publisher, The Friday Project. Caroline's novel is the first to be published by their Friday Fiction imprint.

She and I have been in touch and I will be reviewing her book on this blog soon and she will answer a few questions so you can get to know her a little better.

In the meantime you can check out Caroline's blog on my Authors who blog sidebar and catch up on her ups, downs and doings as she has traveled the path from unpublished writer to published author in two days time.

Way to go, Caroline. Enjoy your launch.

Twins offering their faces to the sun

Planted this clematis three years ago on one side of the archway leading to the front door of the house. For the past two years it's looked pathetic, but this year it just grew and grew and produced about twenty beautiful flowers the sizes of side plates.

These two grew side-by-side and I couldn't resist taking a pic. Twins, I guess. If you enlarge the photo, they look so vibrantly palpable, it's as if they can be touched. Incredible.

Took some pics of the house to put them up later on. To much time on my hands at the moment!

Turning it over

Yesterday afternoon after a marathon session--and it was a marathon session with no interruptions permitted and the imbibing of lots of cups of rich, fragrant Puerto Rican coffee, no switching over to the internet at the flick of a button (the peril of having high speed) to check pinging emails or surf fav' sites--I finished the first draft of what is still called America and Me:The first two years.

(I've decided the title stays until I come up with something I feel is the publication title, which will in all probability be in the US first as it's set mostly here. I know. I know what you're thinking. Publishers acquiring the work change working titles all the time. However, I lucked out with A Son Called Gabriel because my US publisher loved it and didn't consider anything else. My second novel, Unusual Steps, will also get to keep its title, but more about what's been happening when I have something concrete to relay.)

It really is so satisfying to enter that final period (full-stop elsewhere) on a manuscript and gaze at the screen and say 'I've finished the first draft.'. It came in at 87,872 words; 31 Chapters and 313 pages. It's also split into three sections--the first and tiniest dealing with London followed by New York and Pennsylvania in a more or less equal split. I'm pleased with it, but know from my experience of working on 'Gabriel' that scenes will be added and deleted. The difference is that I have lots of material to work with.

I am now turning the project over to my subconscious--which'll work behind the scene as I focus my attention on other things--editing, chopping, analyzing and rewriting so that when I take it out again I'll be able to start writing immediately. It took me a while to trust that this is a necessary part of the creative process. I look forward to it, though I'm sometimes accused of being too distracted or 'far away', not enjoying living in the present because my mind is indeed working out issues, toying with alternative words and improving descriptions,etc. and can tune out. One thing I do know is that, during the rewrite, I will give the chapters titles rather than plain old numbers, something I've never before done.

It's been a tremendously positive experience writing about how I came to America and my first two years here. I highly recommend writing about your past to everyone. Life moves so rapidly today, I think we forget to take stock and see where we've been and how people coming into our lives and experience has affected us. I'd forgotten so many of the downright whacky and funny things that have happened to me here and the struggle to assimilate and it's shown me how American I've become.

When is it art and when is it shite?

Though I mull this question often--especially when I start reading new books whose covers I find attractive--this question came into sharper focus when I learned the iconic album Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club was released by The Beatles forty years ago today. Though I was far too young to understand its significance then, I am always deeply moved every time I hear one of its tracks played out of the blue on radio now. That it is still relevant and moving today is a sign of true art in my estimation.


I wonder if the same will be said forty years hence of another Brit's work. The artist Damien Hirst will exhibit his latest and most expensive piece at a gallery in London early this month. Renowned, admired or ridiculed for his steel and glass tanks containing a 'pickled' shark, sliced cows, whole sheep and sides of hogs, he has now cast a skull of platinum and encased it with 8,500 diamonds in collaboration with a Bond Street jeweler, which will sell for fifty million pounds to an art collector. The artist states the piece represents his 'to hell with death'--what better way to depict it than taking the ultimate symbol of death and covering in in something that represents absolute luxury, decadence and desire.

Already speculation is mounting as to whether the American financier Steve Cohen who bought Mr. Hirst's shark for millions (a shark that is now so deteriorated another replacement had to be pickled and installed) will now pony up for the skull. Or will it be new Russian money or a rich Arab, perhaps?

Some speculate that Hirst is taking the mickey, that by creating this piece from such expensive raw materials he is really deriding all the nouveau riche art patrons who fork out huge sums for his and other similar works.

Is a shark pickled in formaldehyde that rots and has to be replaced art? Or is it just a shark suspended in formaldehyde? Is the art the original shark or is it the replacement shark?

I don't have the answer. What I can honestly say is the following: if I had fifty million dollars I would neither buy a jewel encrusted skull nor a Jackson Pollack.

Turning my musings to the book world, I find I am confronted with the same dilemma when I begin a new book, most often fiction. Sometimes I will eagerly begin to read a work from a much celebrated writer, a writer who's feted and puffed in the review sections of newspapers, a writer who's won prizes, and a few pages in I slam it shut and set it aside in disgust. At first, I used to blame myself when I could not enjoy such a work. After all, he or she was critically acclaimed so who am I to judge that it's illiterate, plotless, whiney? (the latter relating to nonfiction).

Now I just say it's shite and move on.
Some might say that I'm a writer and thus jealous because these writers have received tons of exposure, sold millions of books, and their opinions are swallowed whole when they render them in public. But it's definitely not that. I love good writing. And shite is shite, whether it comes from an unpublished or much ballyhooed author.

The parrots of the city I love

It's no secret I LOVE San Francisco. I fell in love with it from the moment I read the first chapters of Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City in my cozy London home in Ravenscourt Park and it's a love that has endured, especially now since I went on my own book tour to the city a few years ago and instantly felt at home albeit houses and apartments have become outrageously pricey and there were a lot of homeless which was very troubling to me. It reminded me of nineties London when Margaret Thatcher threw the mentally ill out of the hospitals and institutions to make the National Health Service leaner and meaner. Some say there are homeless in San Francisco because, unlike say New York City, the city has a heart and provides services for them. Others say--admittedly those entirely of a strict and right-leaning Republican mindset--that there are homeless because of the 'damned liberals.' I don't know what the reason is, but they are there in abundance.

So it was a pleasant surprise that my local PBS station aired The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill on the telly last night. The documentary follows Mark Bittner, an out of work musician, a man who is not concerned with the rat race and at ease with himself, as he transforms from a chap who just happens to feed sunflower seeds to the cherry-headed conures (and one blue-crowned conure called Connor) living wild in the city.

I'd heard of the wild parrots, indeed had hoped to see them during my visit but they proved elusive. If only I'd known of Mark and his cottage perched in Telegraph Hill with its magnificent view of the bay during my visit. Apparently, the flock started when a few conures that had been brought from South America as pets were deliberately released by San Francisco residents years ago and they've bred and been able to survive because of the warmer climate and abundance of food. (New York City and other American cities have their flocks of wild parrots now, too.)

At first Mark was merely curious about the birds, but then gradually he learned about and from them and became something of an authority on their habits. With a little macho bravado and humor, he states he does not love the birds but then acknowledges it's not true and breaks down when he discusses the death of one parrot that he'd taken in because it was horribly injured and how it showed him great affection, particularly on the night it died, affection that he'd found very strange and palpable when he'd carried it to its sleeping place for the night. Next morning he found its fragile carcass beside the heater;during the night, knowing it was dying, it had managed to crawl across the room so as to be close to the heat as parrots do when they're cold and sick.

During the documentary, the viewer is treated to the glorious sight of the flock (about fifty birds) swooping and diving in the azure skies above the shimmering bay and city. Two parrots are very different from the others. One is called Mingus and somewhere in his life's journey he broke his leg and thus can't function fully within the flock. As a result, he does not like to fly with them because they pick on him and much prefers to stay indoors, though he has a Jeckyl and Hyde personality so Mark punishes him for misbehaving by putting him outside. Another character was Connor, a blue-crowned conure (a different species) who was tolerated--and tolerated--his cherry-headed cousins, but was never fully accepted. He would come to the defense of the smaller cherry-heads if they were being bullied by their larger siblings. Once he had a mate, but she died. Later, he was introduced to another blue-crowned conure and the two formed an extremely close bond, despite the fact that a mistake had been made and his companion was male. His friend was called Busby (I think that was it) and he was an indoor bird but proved very jealous when Connor left to fly wild with the flock during the day. In the end, Connor decided he'd couldn't handle the possessiveness and stopped coming indoors to spend time preening his friend.

Mark lost his apartment a year ago and had to say goodbye to his birds because he moved to the other side of the bay. Shortly after he left, the documentary producer, Judy Irving, returned to do some last bit of filming of the birds. It was fortuitous because it was Connor's last day of life. Three hawks (they're the flock's mortal enemy) attacked and there is a picture from a SF resident on that day showing a hawk with a conure under its claws that's believed to be Connor because of a wisp of blue on his head. He was fearless of the hawks, only flew away when he was sure there was mortal danger, but perhaps old age caught up with him and he made a fatal error.

A check of the website shows Mark is back on Telegraph Hill again, living next door to his old flat, and he's now married to Judy and writing a memoir about his experiences. (He had a very straggly ponytail which he'd said in the documentary he would cut when he had a girlfriend.)

A gem of a documentary from PBS's Independent Lens.

Hovering parents

While drinking my coffee as I surfed the morning news shows, my attention was seized by a segment about 'helicopter parents' and 'black hawk' parents, the latter being a recently minted pejorative term for those who cross the parental/adult offspring dividing line to commit acts that are at best deceitful, at worst border on the criminal in order to protect their Gen Y 'children.'

Gen Y refers to people born from the early eighties onward and apparently they are the most pampered, over-achieving, technically and financially savvy, and parentally micro-managed generation ever to enter the workforce, which they are now doing in huge numbers. Their schooling, hobbies, friendships and social activities have been meticulously managed to exhausting degrees. The upside is that these young adults feel very connected to their parents. The downside is that these young adults feel very connected to their parents.


Gen Yers are used to constant positive feedback from their parents and, as they enter the work environment, fully expect to have this affirming, ego-boosting feedback shuttle continue from their bosses and become disorientated, resentful and alienated when it doesn't. Simply stated, they have been unable to cut the apron strings and continue to involve their parents in the minutest details of their lives, allowing them to write their college entrance essays (hence the term 'black hawk' parents because Mom and Dad are prepared to resort to this and other forms of cheating in a sort of 'the end justifies the means' strategy), to scope out possible employers, prepare their resumes, attend and inspect the workplace,interview bosses and in other ways interfere.

It must be said that some Gen Yers resent their parents continued interference in their adult lives, though the parents ignore their wishes and often justify the unreasonable interference by asserting they are simply looking after their investment. Indeed some corporations have become so frustrated with this form of bizarre parental interference that they now invite parents in to inspect the workplace and arrange for personnel departments to discuss their 'children's' prospects were they to accept a job with the company. I kid you not.

Interestingly, I noticed a few years into living in the States that America parents really do seem to have trouble letting go in comparison to Europeans parents in general. They still refer to their children as kids after they've left for college, for example. Perhaps it's the laws that have something to do with it because I've always found it a bit bizarre that someone can vote or marry at age 18 yet can't buy a bottle of booze until after turning 21 here. Let's face it, one is a fully functioning adult at 18. In Brit and Ireland, we leave to go to university at 18 and we're on our own from there. That's how it should be and, in this respect, I think the European approach is far more mature. I think helicopter parents just doesn't exist as a dysfunction over there.

Here's a link I came across at ABC to a day in the life of a helicoper parent that I thought you might find amusing...or sad depending on one's perspective.

I suspect this dysfunction to be more associated with mothers than fathers but time will tell. Though I realized many years ago after the thunderheads of teenage angst and petulance had dissipated, my parents were actually very normal. Now I know it.

My bleatin' neighbors

I've been noticing an intriguing and welcome phenomena in Bucks County of late. It's to do with goats. Yes, goats.

First I should explain that, although I live in a rural area that's easily commutable to both Philly and NYC, there isn't much farming done here any more. In fact many of the old farms have been purchased by wealthy New Yorkers for the most part and they use them as their weekend getaways. (My township historical society is currently on a mission to find photos of Dorothy Parker at her old farm which lies a stone's throw from my house for a book they're doing--it was a humble place rich in the aroma of its Quaker roots then but through the years has metastasized into a multi-million dollar mansion that's hardly recognizable though the grounds are stunning. It's said she wrote Big Blonde there, which is one of my favorite stories of hers.) Of course, there are still some old families here who still own their farms, but they are now the exception to the rule as opposed to the rule. Sad, but true.

One family near us has a sign out that says "Organic chicken, beef and pork." And the township or County gave them a problem about their hanging the shingle for a while instead of giving them a whopping big bloody tax break. It'd surprise me if it was the township because, all in all, they are in favor of preserving rurality and its traditions. Many residents here are not in favor of cookie-cutter development of the kind the Toll Brothers and others like them do throughout the US, which is the erection of McMansions or tract housing. Oh, you can call these places enticing names like "Summer Meadows" or "Pastoral Mews at Bluebell Farm," but they're still McMansions or tract housing at the end of the day. In addition, the damned school taxes always jump horrendously when these houses get built in country areas.

Anyway, back to my goat observations. As I drive through our County I'm seeing more and more herds of goats at some of these farms. And some of the farmers have constructed interesting climbing and play areas for them because goats are intelligent and love to explore. One restaurant in the area also has a herd of goats, right beside their own organic vineyard--and their wine's (red and white) drinkable which might surprise some because we're stuck in Pennsylvania. An old llama and donkey and a flock of guinea fowl and turkeys live there, too. It's wonderful, refreshing, a tonic for the eyes.

I'm very very happy to report it's a growing phenomenon because I'm spotting goats grazing on farms in New Jersey, too. Maybe the Federal government has given these last remaining farms a subsidy to make goat cheese or something, I don't know. But if they have, kudos to the Federal government and the USDA.

A word about 75,000 words

Yesterday I reached a critical point in the writing of my first work of nonfiction, the one about my coming to live in America, and have been toying with the idea of publishing an excerpt on the blog.

Anyway, I reached a critical point yesterday and passed the 75,000 word mark. I don't exactly know why 75,000 thousand words is so important, but suspect it's because it would be a pleasingly thick book, a book with heft, if it were to be published tomorrow--the sort of heft that asserts 'I have 270 ragged-edged pages inside for you to feel and I am well worth the $24.95 you'll fork out for me in hardcover.' ($24.95 is a sort of median price for hardcovers here in the US.)

I also know the ending now--the final scene ran in my head yesterday like the speeding ticker tape at the ABC TV studios in Times Square--and the manuscript will come in at around 80,000 words in its rough form.

Of course, word content doth not a quality book make. I know that. That takes good writing and an interesting story, which requires a great deal of drafting and redrafting until one is sick of the manuscript so one doesn't ever want to see the manuscript again, hates and loves and hates and loves the manuscript, sometimes wants to hurl it into a blazing fire because it makes one think one is a shite writer. Oh, and a great book requires a great editor.

But, to get to the love-hate-love stage I must have words, at least 75,000 words. Because then I know I have written a book and I can slash and add and edit with impunity. I can because I do not have to fear facing a blank screen page that cries to be filled. I need to have that knowledge. It's my security blanket.

Now to think up an interesting title because I don't think America and Me cuts it for me any longer.

Volvo Mom

There I was in my car, stationary at the traffic lights this morning, when Volvo Mom pulled up alongside me in a silver-gray station wagon. Early thirties, very pretty in an intellectual sort of way and swaying her head from side-to-side wildly as she sang along to whatever song was belting from the radio. She struck at the steering wheel a few times, then began drumming enthusiastically.

Something flitting in the back of the vehicle caught my eye. Her child escaped from its booster seat, perhaps? (I did see the empty booster seat.) But surely this could not be possible. Volvo Mom buys a Volvo precisely because they're sturdy and safe, a veritable army tank on wheels. I looked into the back but still could see nothing.

I resumed watching Volvo Mom who was now swaying her head more vigorously. She bent towards the radio, turned up the volume, and began to drum even more enthusiastically utterly oblivious of her surroundings and now I could now hear the heavy beat of rock music rushing from the cockpit. Further movement. I turned my head quickly and found myself staring into the eyes of a handsome Pomeranian. Its cute little paws balanced on the ledge where the frame of the door and the window connect, the eyes large and glittering like amber in sunlight. The doggie pushed away from the window and disappeared only to return three seconds later. Again our gazes locked and this time his ears pricked comically and he opened his mouth.

"Yep, this is my Mom and she's crazy about music," he seemed to say. "She does this all the time."

The lights changed to green. Instead of rushing from it as I usually do, I pulled away slowly and the Volvo passed by with the cute Pomeranian still staring out at the world, Mom's head still swaying wildly as she crooned.

I really bet she's a lot of fun to know.

Dare Poodles pee on Bushes?

Just listened to an excellent program on our local national public radio station about Tony Blair's resignation and what his legacy would be. The guests included an American chap living in the UK and an English man.

The American chap said Blair was instrumental in investing in and building up some of Britain's ailing quasi-governmental institutions including the National Health Service. He added the nugget that he sends his daughter to NHS doctors and hospitals and has found the service and experience very good in general. That surprised me and "tell that to my mother" ran through my mind. Wait times for appointments are horrid, so horrid Americans would find them unacceptable.

Blair deserves much credit for some successes and I think many Brits are just so angry with him over his support of the Bush administration's policy in Iraq that they overlook the good he has done for the country in general. The passage of time will rectify that in his favor. Britain's economy is doing well, I believe. He had staying power when it came to getting the two sides to talk and form a government in Northern Ireland. He ended the absurd system of privilege in the House of Lords by ending the right of hereditary peers to sit in the upper chamber of Westminster--apparently 92 hereditary peers are sitting currently but, when they die, their offspring cannot take their seats as before. It was time for modern Britain to end that sort of undemocratic crap.

His moniker as 'Bush's poodle' was discussed in the context of his unshakable belief that Britain has a 'special relationship' with the United States. It was pointed out that benefits of this 'special relationship' ran only one way, namely to America, during the Bush presidency.

Very illuminating for me was the fact that America considers and trumps up a 'special relationship' with no less than nine countries, including Japan--which it must actually articulate every time an American head of state visits Japan because they expect to hear it--as well as Poland, etc. In other words, the United States does not consider itself to have a 'special relationship' with Britain that is more unique, more valuable, more critical than any other countries enjoying such a title. An administration currently in power--whether Democrat or Republican--is perfectly happy when a country such as Britain asserts it has a 'special relationship' because there is no obligation or downside for America.

The conclusion seemed to be that this is where Blair did make a huge mistake; he was so driven to maintain this 'special relationship' that he was prepared to ignore the wishes of his constituency, namely the British people, and go along with the actions and policies of the Bush administration who, quite simply, did not care whether he agreed or disagreed with their decisions. In the end, Blair got only to influence America in a mere two instances--one being to do with Palestine/Israeli issues--as a result of this perceived self-sustaining duty to keep the 'special relationship' on track and thereby give Britain prestige.

It seems to me the next British Priminister should spend his time working with the European Union because that is where Britain's destiny and power is truly tied. That is where they can truly be effective. (Gordon Smith is apparently not a huge fan of Europe and is a bit of an Americanophile--loves the Boston Redsox, vacationing on Martha's vineyard (who doesn't?) and our economy, though is not hot on Mr. Bush.) Because, only when Europe speaks to an American administration regardless as to who is in power with one consistent and powerful voice will a 'special relationship' be acknowledged.

Scents and other simple pleasures

Every morning now I sit on the deck and drink my second cup of coffee after returning from the gym. I do this because this is the time in spring in Pennsylvania--most of the northern East coast really--when the Russian Olives and lilacs are in bloom and the breeze is heady with their thick sweetish scent. For having such small trumpet-shaped flowers, the Russian Olive--it's a shrub that grows wild here--sure packs a heck of a punch.

Just before dusk, I'm back in the garden--watering this time, because we hoed all the patchy parts of the lawn which the weeds claimed as theirs and spread some grass seed. It looks kind of ugly now but that'll change in a few weeks.

Sometimes, when I'm working in the garden covered in dust and sweat and sneezing because of the pollen, I stop full of amazement at myself. As a kid back in Ireland and an adolescent, I despised gardens and gardening, didn't give a shit about flowers and things. Now I'm out breaking my back to get it all beautiful and in shape just so we can sit out on the deck in the evenings, drink wine or sometimes beer, and listen to the finches, wrens woodpeckers and cardinals in chorus. We even put red flowers in the pots on the deck so we'll have humming birds stopping by in mid-summer to drink the nectar. Times sure change.

On an unrelated note, Debra Hamel of Book Blog has a new site called Twitterlit up and running. It gives the opening lines of published novels (mine is currently her first pick of the day, which pleases me very much) and if it tweaks people's interest to know what works they are, it then links to Amazon.com so you can investigate. Here's thelinkif you'd like to check it out when you get a mo'.

Sailing forth

Today is another historic day in the annals of Irish or British history (depending upon one's leanings)as the Northern Irish ship of state once again leaves the harbor under the control of its own citizens and begins the long voyage toward rehabilitating its reputation of being a bit of a bleak place to live and becoming a viable member of the world community. I am convinced they can do it because the Northern Irish are a tough and determined people. I know because I'm one of them.

The province has a new power-sharing government seated at historic Stormont castle. Democratic Unionist Party leader Ian Paisley and Sinn Fein's Martin Mc Guinness were sworn into the office as first and deputy first ministers and five years of British direct rule ended.

I wish them well and hope the two can find common ground and work together for the good of all the people. They owe it to the thousands murdered during The Troubles.

Marigolds and beer

Nothing like getting a bit of earth dirt on your hands in spring.

Yesterday was a warm, sunny day and I felt the need to do some outdoors work instead of sitting at my desk typing on the laptop. I like writing but sometimes get tired of it and just want to do some hard manual graft, the sort of graft that makes you feel like you've accomplished and achieved something of significance, the sort of graft that makes you feel good to be alive as you slake down a good, ice-cold beer afterwards--and I'm not talking about the weak mass-produced pee that passes for beer here in the US. No sir, I mean good beer, beer of the sort that that comes from Ireland, England, Germany, Belgium and American micro-breweries like Victory's Hop Devil here in Pennsylvania or Berkshire Brewing Company in Massachusetts. No matter how good a job I did working on a legal brief or how good I did in court of how well I think I wrote that paragraph or sentence in a novel, I've never been able to feel the depth of satisfaction I feel when I've mowed the lawn just so or mulched the flowerbeds so that the contrast between the ink-black mulch and bright green leaves makes an indelibly pleasing impression in my brain. I think I always feel this way because one can immediately see the fruits of one's labor, stand back and see the big picture--the sprawling velvety lawn, the lush flower beds.

So yesterday, I weed-whacked the untidy grass and weeds growing alongside the edges of the stone flowerbeds and underneath the picket fence. And after that was done, I got my trowel and dug deep into the musty soil, turned up the earth and popped fifty-five baby marigold plants into their new homes. I love the bright orange of marigold flowers and I love their lacy foliage.

Miss Brody thought carnations 'sensible' flowers. Well, I think marigolds are joyful flowers. In mid summer, after the lavish lily shows have come to an end, one can always count on the faithful marigold to maintain the sunny atmosphere...and they do, right up to the first frosts.

I can't wait for them to grow up and bloom.

Oops!!

We decided to go to our local town and have a sandwich for lunch as well as do a bit of shopping yesterday. Because I had my writers group meeting that day too and have to leave the house early in order to get to Jeanne's, I eat supper before Larry so always prepare the dinner a bit earlier and leave some for him to heat up later. It's about the only time I cook, really. Feeling like something tasty, I browned some chicken breasts in a pot, added mushrooms and onions, oregano and white wine--lashings and lashings of white wine--and then let it simmer. I was practically drunk with the fumes of wine wafting into the study as I labored at my writing. I was really looking forward to having this with brown rice on the side. Yummy!

At noon, Larry came back from the other house, peered into the pot and said,
"Where are the carrots? There's no carrots in here. My Chicken Caban recipe has carrots."

Shit, I'd forgot the damned carrots. Without a word, I went to the fridge, rummaged and found an entire pack of peeled baby carrots and chucked them into the pot.

He turned up the heat and we started to chat about our trip to Europe that we're organizing at the moment.

"Hey, let's go and get that sandwich cos' I'm hungry," I said.
"Okay."

I went out to the car. A minute later he came out and we drove to town, which takes about twenty-five minutes because we live in the Pennsylvanian sticks.
Just as we entered the tacky part of town, the part where all the car dealerships with their huge American flags and tinsel bunting lay, I said, "Did you turn off the Chicken Caban?"
No response for a moment. "You know, I can't remember."
"Well, try."
"I think we'd better go back."
"What? let's get a sandwich first. I'm sure you did turn it off and just can't remember."
"No, let's go back now."
I turned in the yard of a tacky car dealership and started home, fuming because I was now ravenous--the sort of ravenous that's exacerbated by the fact you're being denied food.
"Hurry," he said.
"I don't think we want to argue with that," I said, nodding to the cement truck ahead.
"Go. You've got room to pass."
I ignored him.
Twenty minutes later, we drove up the driveway and he told me to stay in the car because he was sure he'd turned it off. Five minutes passed and still no sign of him. Another two minutes and I went inside. The stench of burnt chicken and a wall of smoke vied for my attention. he was nowhere to be seen, but the pot was in the sink, its base black as tar and thick with chicken skin that had merged with the metal to make some form of strange amalgam.

He came in from the back garden carrying the lid.

Well, there goes supper," I said.
"We just got here on time. Another five or ten minutes and the walls and ceiling would have been shelacked in grease."

I shuddered to think of the hours we'd have had to spend cleaning the kitchen cupboards, etc. And because we'd opened the two main doors before we'd left, the fire alarms hadn't gone off.

A little sad about what I would not be having with my brown rice that evening, I picked up a carrot that still looked the correct color and tasted it. It was acrid, tasted of burnt steel, smoke and chicken, the bitter taste imprinting permanently on my taste buds.

"All I have to say is you wash the pot..." I said. "...if it's salvageable."

A rigid mindset

Today's a holiday in Europe celebrating workers and it reminded me of a story I was told at a party. I met someone who manages a large corporation and he told me he'd helped three Irish guys (in this case all came from Northern Ireland) obtain a visa to come to the US to live and work here in order to get some experience. I think it's the visa program that succeeded the Donnelly Visa program because the successful applicants must return home again rather than stay permanently in the US.

These chaps arrived to work at his company. He noticed two of the men quickly became friends, but made no effort to befriend or socialize with the other man.

After three months or so, one of the two chaps comes up to him and says, "Did you know that other Irish fella' working with us is the other sort?"

(The man telling me the story was American Irish and brought up Catholic.)

The manager knew exactly what he meant and couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I just waanted ye;' to know, like," the Irishman said, as if he were doing his American boss a huge favor and he should immediately fire the guy.

Astonishingly or not surprisingly depending on one's perspective, the other man left and the manager wasn't sure whether he went home or decided to travel around the country. To me the only thing that was surprising was that this Catholic chap felt he had a God-given right to spew his hatred and prejudice in the United States and try to influence his superiors. And it's incredibly sad, too. He gets a visa to work in a sophisticated environment in a large US city, an opportunity to gain some top-notch work experience,and all he can think about is that someone he is working with is an Irish protestant. Talk about leading a limited life. And he's going back to Northern Ireland without learning a thing.

A host of golden daffodils

Last Friday was the first anniversary of our Cockerpoo Spice's death (that's him in the photo across), so of course Larry and I went to his grave and just stood there remembering him and the good times we'd had throughout the seventeen-and-half years of his full life. His grave looked pretty.

Last fall, one evening when the Pennsylvanian air was icy and thick with the promise of a wicked winter (a promise that wasn't kept...thankfully) I planted two large packets of daffodils on the grave, nine in each of the four corners and then mulched the top. It had been mucky but satisfying work, a sort of labor of love performed in the dusky solitude. It also brought to mind another beloved dog I'd once owned.

Sandy was a corgi-terrier mix and I'd had him when I was a kid back in Northern Ireland and he'd died prematurely, poisoned by the British Army who used to sneak up to people's houses late at night and listen at the windows in hopes of hearing people talk about being in the IRA or planning something, etc. (I lived in a staunchly Nationalist area.) To stop the dogs barking, they fed them poisoned meat to kill them and my Sandy must have ate a piece because I found him dead, his mouth caked with spent froth, in the garage next morning. Anyway, Mum allowed me to take the day off school to grieve and I held his rigid corpse for hours before I wrapped my school tie around his neck and buried him in the garden. (Thanks for that, Mum.)

We bought Spice's daffodils on a whim. We'd been visiting a local garden store and happened to notice them in a bin--an 'end of season' sale sort of bin--and as we hadn't decided how to mark his grave, they seemed the perfect answer. We figured they'd beautify the area in spring and be a lasting reminder.

To my surprise, when we arrived at the grave last Friday, the daffodils were in vibrant bloom, most of them anyway. It was like our dog was giving us a gift.

Today, I had a call from a feature editor of a website that's running a tie-in feature with the film entitled Year of the Dog starring the incomparable Molly Shannon of Saturday Night Live fame. It's about a woman and her dog, and the dog dies, and how she tries to rebuild her life, etc. I'm looking forward to seeing it. I'll link to the interview when it posts on May 5th.

As I reread this, I realize some people will think this guy's crazy writing about his grief over a dog, but I don't really give a damn. People need to grieve. They need to grieve over humans that die--in my opinion, people don't grieve sufficiently about anyone other than very...and I mean very...immediate family nowadays, and even then their grief's not for long because they get distracted with stuff that doesn't mean much in the end--and they need to grieve over their animals. It's good and right, period.

Yoga 101-First inflate your ball

Yesterday was a magnificently sunny spring day in this part of Pennsylvania. As I outside on the deck drinking coffee and listening to a woodpecker drumming against the trunk of a nearby elm, the phone rang.


It was Lee of L&L.

"Hello, I need to ask Larry something," she said.
"He isn't here. What's up?"
"I've bought a yoga ball and I can't get it to inflate using my compressor. I've tried everything."
"I'll tell him to call."

Later, after doing some weeding in the garden we decided to fetch some black mulch to dress up the flower and shrubbery beds, so we decided to kill three birds with the one stone--get a tuna sandwich for lunch from our local WaWa (Indian for goose), buy a truck load of mulch from our local puppy mill that also doubles as a 'mulch dispensary' in Spring, and call in with L&L to see if we could sort out the Yoga ball problem.

To my amazement, Lee was still working on it, Lynne dressed in a caftan with her mane of long blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, clearly exacerbated but still giving instructions. The ball was purple, large and flat as a pancake, the compressor straining like a jet engine as Lee held the hose with a valve inside the ball's opening.

"You're taking up yoga?" I said.
"Aha...hopefully." She nodded at what should be a ball.
Lynne was consulting the writing on the box. It was a Yoga novice's dream--mat, wooden thingie to help with body posture while performing the more complex contortions, and the aforementioned pancake-like, lurid ball.

"I can't believe they don't give instructions how to blow the ball up," Lynne said. "She looked at the black hand pump that had come with it. I've given up on this."

"I've got about twenty metal valves and tried any that will fit inside the ball's air hole and still that compressor won't fill it with air," said Lee.

Larry checked the compressor and hose. It was functioning properly.
"That's wierd," he said.

He took a valve he'd brought, stuck it inside the ball's opening, wiggled it about and then switched on the compressor. Stll the ball remained defiantly flat.
He tried another valve with the same result.

"Oh, wait a minute," he said. I think the white thing inside the air hole has to come out."

"I don't think so, Larry," said Lee.

Nevertheless, he took a knife and pried it out. It was long, sealed at the end, but its core was hollow which had allowed the valve attached to the compressor to be inserted without rupturing it.

"It's a plug," I said. "You've got to pump the air into the hole and then insert the plug to keep the air inside.

Sure enough the ball began to fill with air as soon as Larry inserted the valve and started the compressor.

We laughed at how such a simple thing could be so baffling.

"Come for drinks at five," said Lynne. "We'll sit on the veranda and watch the sun set."

An unwanted peacock

It's a sad day in the States as throughout the country people have the victims and families of the Virginia Tech shooting in mind.

I've been trying to decide whether NBC was right or wrong to air (and pass on to other media outlets) the video tape the killer sent them. Though it was undoubtedly very painful for the families of the dead and injured, I think on balance they did do the right thing because I don't believe what the talking heads and some shrinks are saying, namely that they're giving the shooter a voice beyond the grave a podium he never had or deserved. The reason I think they did the right thing is because people need to know why this chap did what he did and what he looked like and how he acted. From all accounts, he was bullied, taunted mercilessly, made to feel inferior and I really think the public has a right to see the type of human being that's produced by years of that behavior. He was a disturbed individual who began to hate and I suppose eventually that hatred drove him mad and delusional.

However, I could have done without the damned NBC peacock logo being emblazoned on every image regardless as to which media outlet was airing it. That was crass and contemptible behavior and showed a complete lack of respect in my opinion. NBC stated how they sympathized with the victim's families but they had a duty to inform the public, yet at the same time one of their employees sat and inscribed their logo on each tape/CD they distributed to other media or required the outlet to include the logo in order to ensure NBC got the credit. That is what is truly tasteless.

Floody Taxes!!

Tomorrow's the deadline for filing our federal and state taxes here in the US and, as we're currently in the end throes of a horrid Nor'Easter here on the East coast that's caused a lot of flooding and disruption, I thought I'd share some pics of waterfalls nearby where I live as they're so beautiful.

I really feel bad for the folks living near creeks, streams and rivers who haven't taken out floor insurance--though hopefully there won't be that many people this time around because we've had our share of heavy rains and floods in the past two years. We're not affected as we live high up, though there's a stream flowing through our property that's usually a trickle and this time it managed to put on a rather lovely show.

Is hate speech also free speech?

It was 'Survivor' night last night and we have this thing going with our neighbors for a couple of seasons whereby we go to their house or their come to ours beforehand. Last night was at our place and the conversation got around to Don Imus's firing for calling the Rutgers ladies basketball team a racial slur, namely "nappy-headed hors". I don't care that that is part of the 'rap' vernacular and thus invented and used by black rappers everyday. That is not a defense.

To be honest, when I first heard it, I got that 'hors' alluded to whores but I did not get that 'nappy' means kinked hair.

Anyway, our neighbors both thought that Imus had a right to free speech that was protected by the Constitution. Jessica said that people who hate have a right to make hate speech, to say something she does not like or agree with because hate speech is also part of the right to free speech. She said she was Jewish and there are many people who say hateful things about Jewish people that she does not like, but the right to free speech must be protected. Larry and Scott seemed to agree, Larry even saying that many people in America say horrible racist things about Puerto Ricans and he just ignores it or laughs it off. Their argument also followed the line of 'let the market decide', that if people don't like it, they can switch off the radio or TV or not buy the magazine or newspaper, etc.


I could see their point, but in the end I concluded that free speech must indeed be protected but there are some forms of speech that is so abhorrent, so derogatory, so destructive that it is not true speech at all. It is hate or prejudice, uttered to incite a targeted audience, and thus it is dangerous because, when received by that audience who may have the power to take action against the victims of the diatribe, it can lead to bloodshed and even murder. Moreover, the fiction or analogy of people being subjected to hate speech as being people operating in an open market is not applicable. Not everything in our society can be reduced to a question of market forces.

In my mind, the state has a compelling reason to prevent hate speech from occurring and can take all action available to it to remove the speech from the airways. I would even go further and add that the government should take action to remove such speech from private airways, such as those streaming cable TV, satellite radio, etc. into our houses.

I believe we, humans, are in a constant struggle to evolve, to become better, to reach higher levels of justice and compassion for our fellow human beings and hatred, discrimination and bigotry have no place in the evolutionary cycle. Neither does Don Imus's 'jokes.' He went to the trough one time too many and it is just that he pay a price and his time at CBS and MSNBC is now over.

Of course, politicians and other leaders in society should take a look at themselves and ask why they were prepared to overlook his jibes at African-Americans, gays and lesbians, and women in order to appear on his show and get their own messages out in the past yet stated they wouldn't again appear on his program before it was actually canceled. I'd say that is hypocrisy.

Can we hope Rush Limbaugh and others of this ilk are next?

Bringing down Rosie

Well, I guess this has been gathering steam and will undoubtedly gain more so in the wake of the Imus in the Morning debacle for which it looks like he's going to pay with the loss of his job. Rosie O'Donnell, who's known for stirring a bit of controversy, now has some fellow called Ethan Czahor gunning for her. He's started a website and is asking people to sign their names on a petition to have her removed from THE VIEW. The strategy is apparently to get 100,000 signatures (though he appears to be having trouble with false signatures) and then approach the show's advertisers and demand that pull their advertising dollars.

I took a driveby his site and it looks pretty slick, though I came off with the impression he's a bit of a misguided chappie who needs to do a bit of living before appointing himself to the task of determining who's a patriot in the United States. Of course, he could also be shrewdly trying to build up a bit of a buzz and land himself a job on the Fox News Network or with a right-wing chat show. In that case, I wish him luck. They deserve such a talent.

His beef is that Rosie is unpatriotic and not a proper American by spouting her mouth about a possible governmental conspiracy and the inability of fire to melt steel at the World Trade Center. I don't watch the show and didn't see her rant about that, nor do I know if fire can melt steel or not. He also says she's anti-Christian.

I had a like-dislike relationship with Rosie that comes down ultimately on the side of more liking than disliking her. Sometimes I find her a little unpolished but I've disliked her temporarily only because I once left a message on her blog telling her about my newly released novel when it came out in 2004 and asking if she'd like a copy and was pissed when she didn't get back to me. By hey, it was self-interest and I got over it because it may not have been her cup of tea anyway. Besides, she was off the air then and I'm sure thousands of people leave that kind of thing on her blog. To tell the truth, I never went back to see if she left a message.

I like her because she stands up for what she believes and is unafraid to speak her mind and take on bullies, something I can imagine she's had to deal with growing up on Long Island. She's also hilarious and I like hilarity. I so enjoyed her spat with Donald Trump, especially when she did the exaggerated comb-over on the view to poke fun at his ridiculous hairstyle.

So Ethan should get over himself and concentrate on getting a real job and stop trying to court the liberal vote to your cause by saying you once voted for John Kerry but regret it now. It's unpatriotic to try to stifle free speech. Go to a good law school and bone up on the Constitution and Bill of rights...if you've got the grades to get in, of course.

The bees have AIDS

A few years ago I became really interested in the subject of genetic engineering when I learned how much GMO foodstuff crap is on our supermarket shelves here in the United States and how quietly it has been allowed to become part of the American diet despite our absolute lack of consent. Supermarkets here say such corn and tomato products do not differ in any way from the natural varieties--also official USDA policy--and they have no means of preventing it from coming on the shelves. This is a lot of bullshit because an American supermarket chain doing business in the UK, for example, is not allowed to stock GMO products on its shelves over there and is able to take action to comply with the law.

Well, now from Der Spiegel comes an article about the mass number of deaths occurring in the bee populations and how it could become a world crisis because we need bees to pollinate our plants and create food, etc. The bee population in the United States where thousands and thousands of acres of land are given over to the growth of genetically modified plants is also being decimated; some are referring to it as the bee AIDS.

Now researchers are looking to see if it is genetically modified corn and other plants introduced into our environment that are causing these deaths, that a poison has been created from the "Frankenscience" that is proving fatal to bees.

No doubt big agribusiness will try to obfuscate the facts if this proves the case and we will have to take action to end the 'experimenting' on Mother Nature. When I read articles like this, I am glad the European Union for all its problems and flaws is growing in power. I think Europeans are more aware of the dangers in this area than we are and will, through their actions, move us away from our dangerous indifference.

An interesting spot

Feeling like eating some good ribs, we went to a local restaurant we don't frequent a great deal last night. It's very basic, owned by an Irish-American, and they stock excellent beer from all over the world including a number of Irish beers (Beamish, Harp and Bass) as well as offerings from some good American microbreweries. (At the moment, I'm very into hoppy beers and one in particular--Victory's Hop Devil--really fits the bill. They also don't rip their customers off with outrageous prices fro imported beers.

Unfortunately, they'd already sold out of ribs even though it was only six o'clock. As one enters the cavernous room (to the unfortunate smell of stale cigarette smoke because Pennsylvania still allows smoking in the bar areas), many might walk out for fear they'd entered a redneck joint. And the barmaid, though slim of figure, in her early forties, has done a lot of living and suffered hardship because it's written on her face.

It has the feel and ambiance of a redneck bar. However, a closer inspection reveals an assemblage of an entirely different clientele. There's a healthy flock of gray-haired 'early-bird special' folks, the snowbirds who've just returned for the summer from their condos in Florida. They perch at their tables, yakking among themselves while sipping from their glasses of water (always from the faucet), deliberate on the specials of the day and question the waitress to death about them, and then after ordering launch into grandchildren comparisons, yada, yada, yada. There's also the sophisticated New Yorkers, the ones who drape their Saks Fifth Avenue jackets casually over the cheap chairs and order a baked potato sans butter and cream instead of chips yet tuck into the Prime rib au jus like it's the last to be had on the planet. Of course, they also order the special wine (that's what it's called in this place) at a $1 extra instead of the common garden Chateau Box. And there is a smattering of friendly rednecks and their families. While not meant to be judgmental though it will appear so, it is noteworthy how so many of their wives and girlfriends are obese (as are their children, though I must confess their choices of food undoubtedly cause the condition because it's always fried and apple sauce appears to be the consistent vegetable of choice.

The waitresses themselves are all in their early to mid-fifties, with 'smoked for many years' faces, a little butch-looking though they're straight but I think I'm correct in concluding they're no longer interest in men for sex. They exude the slightest hint of dangerousness, a sort of 'don't even think about giving me trouble and don't ask for food substitutions.' I like it. You know where you are with them and they can crack a joke. They also sit beside the customers at their tables when they feel like it--only the regulars and even when they're eating--and share the latest gossip, which always seems to be most welcome judging by the commonality of paused heaped forkfuls before mouths thrust open with surprise and/or shock.

All in all, a very interesting spot.

Mirna and Charla

Generally I'm not into reality shows, though have been watching Survivor. This season, as it's on a Sunday, I decided to watch The Amazing Race and I'm really really glad I made the decision.

A number of teams race around the globe and every week--unless it's not an elimination week--one of the teams (all comprised of two people) gets sent home.

One of the teams racing are two first cousins called Charla and Mirna. They are hysterical. I have NEVER laughed as hard as I did last Sunday.

Both women are 27 years old, live in Maryland, were born in Syria and grew up together in Armenia before coming to the US, and they love one another but usually bicker. Oh, and Charla is a 'little person' and quite rightly states that she sees no limitation in 'being a midget.' As the manager of six sports stores back in Maryland, I'd say she's right.

Mirna is a lawyer, drama queen, and a type A personality who is hopeless at driving a car or navigating when they're required to do so, often blaming her incompetence on her cousin's inability to read maps (Charla, do something...anything. You must contribute. It can't all be me) when she can't even find the handbrake in a parked car. Her search for it was priceless. In the end, Carla had to summon a taxi-driver to show her cousin where the handbrake was in a leg of the race requiring them to drive it to a forest on the outskirts of Warsaw as part of one leg. Poor Charla was bouncing back and forth in the back seat screaming "Can you blame me a little bit more, Mirna? Come on, blame me some more" while feeling very queasy at the same time because they'd had to eat two feet of Kilbasa sausage at a restaurant in order to move onto the next leg of the competition. Charla's little tummy was unable to cope--Mirna kept practically force-feeding her cousin the sausage and ordering her to eat faster--and they finished in last place, much to Mirna's annoyance

Poland and the Poles were not kind to them. Everyone they asked for directions on the city streets would not answer their beseeching questions (Mirna was actually screaming at them in the end she was so upset) and gave them wide berth until Mirna articulated, "Maybe they don't know to handle little people, Charla? Do they not have little people in Poland?"

On the last leg of Sunday's portion of the race, Mirna and Charla arrived at the forest to discover one of them had to don a suit of armor (all teams had to) and lead a huge black stallion 1000 feet to the entrance of a castle. Once completed, they could run into the castle and find the umpire who would tell them if they were to be eliminated.

Loud-mouthed Mirna announced she was terrified of horses so Charla suited up in the armor and it was hysterical seeing a dwarf (she was also afraid) lead this huge black steed toward the castle gate. Unfortunately, Charla kept being tugged by the horse toward the hedge every time it wanted to eat something. She kept tugging back while saying, "Nice horsey. Come along, nice horsey." At one point she even offered the horse a bribe--yes, you got it...a piece of Kielbasa.

Unable to control the animal because of her size and the armor, at various points along the walk, she and the horse literally walked round and round on the pathway in bizarre circles while Mirna screamed, "Do something, Charla. Another team is coming. Look over your shoulder, they are coming." She made it sound as if it was the Angel of Doom coming. Mirna's hands flew back and forth from her face like an Arab woman weeping and shrieking and she tore at her long blonde hair as she screamed, "Do something. They are coming. Walk fast. No, run, Charla. We will be eliminated. Eliminated, Charla Pull the horse hard, Charla."
At two points on the stroll, the horse jerked its head and poor Charla was lifted off the ground and fell prostrate on the path. Even as she lay dazed and confined by the armor, Mirna screamed, "What are you doing, Charla? Get up. They are coming. Look. Look. They are coming. We will be eliminated. Do you want us to be sent home, Charla? get up right now."

In the end they finished second from last and are in the race for another leg. Can't wait for the next installment.

What a nerve!

Goodness. So I open my email this morning and was informed that some chap called Mr. Joe Kerr who's of Irish descent and commissioning editor at one of the biggest houses in the US received the first six chapters of my memoir America and me late yesterday, spent until the wee hours of the morning reading it and rereading it in some fancy New York hotel, and now has made an offer and are prepared to pay a colossal sum. The catch is I have to make my decision by Friday at latest and title should change to From Ulster to here;the saga.

So excited was this person that they emailed the manuscript without my permission to a famous Hollywood director who has already been on the phone to him. Famous Hollywood Director will not under any circumstances allow me to know who she is until I agree to sign on the day I meet her. That is outrageous and wholly un-American. The nerve.
And they want Colin Farrel to play me. Oh, please!!!

What to do? What to do?

What's up, Philly?

Poor Philly's in the doldrums at the moment.

First, it's recently been downgraded from fifth largest city in the United States to sixth, the usurperer being Phoenix, Arizona. Admittedly Phoenix's claim to the title is a bit dubious because it's based on a seeming voracious appetite for including its very, very far-flung suburbia into the city for determining size. If Phoenix had a lot of snow in Winter, I wonder would it be as keen to include these towns and villages for purposes of determining high efficiency at keeping the roads clear and costs of doing so.
Hmmm, I wonder!!

I landed in Phoenix to change planes to San Francisco when on an author tour and I have to say it looked a bit too 'deserty' for my liking--a bit too hot as well. Philly's greener, but then again we have the dratted snow.

Another more disturbing Philly record is that it recorded its 100th homicide in 2007 last night and we're only just done with March. It's a record and a bloody terrible one at that. The murders are occurring in the poorest neighborhoods and involve African American drug gangs. And its anguished African American families that are suffering, their kids and mothers being shot as they gather on their porches or make their way to school. These gangs possess guns that one would expect to find in a theater of war.

They're now in the middle of a campaign to determine who the mayoral candidates will be from each party--Republican and Democrat--and I just hope the new major will do something after he's elected. Philly is, after all, a city with proud working-class roots, the City of Brotherly Love.

Working together...at last

Very gratifying to see that Ian Paisley--whom I admit I don't have a great deal of time for because he's as close-minded, bigoted and tiresome as Southern evangelicals with whom he strongly identifies--has agreed to work with Jerry Adams and help bring stability and progress to Northern Ireland. (Northern Ireland held elections last week and Paisley's DUP party which represents most Protestants without getting bogged down in minutiae about the diversity of Protestantism there and Adam's Sinn Fein which represents many nationalists won majorities and thus have the major say in how to form a power sharing administration.)

I just hope it's a genuine commitment, though at their first historic face-to-face meeting at Stormont castle (the seat of the Northern Irish parliament and a very attractive building, I might add) the two men did not shake hands which is a bit of an ominous sign. It's historic because, prior to this, Paisley has always negotiated using intermediaries and has not admitted to working with Sinn Fein whom he said were affiliated with terrorists.

Time will tell. Perhaps at eighty years of age and not in the best of health, Mr. Paisley is thinking about what he's going to say to his maker when called to answer for his conduct in the political arena. Either way, it's a move forward Northern Irish style and I shall be cautiously optimistic.

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.