August 12, 2007

• I am a Bacchae. Hear me belch.

  I know that one of my favorite exports from Scotland is going to be this nation’s jaunty, lighthearted references to drinking. No longer will I go out for a drink; but I’ll gladly join you for a slurp. If I have the misfortune of contracting a hang over, I can say that I’m “a bit jaded” the next morning, before admitting that I was “absolutely wankered last night.” Here you can get pished, pissed or steamin’, which seems a lot better than in America, where you can get wasted, trashed or shit faced. You’d think that with those options, Americans would be the heavyweight drinkers in this world; an hour in Scotland would prove you wrong.

  Drinking here is more socially acceptable than it probably should be. 14-year old girls drink cheap bottles of rose by the bottle-neck in graveyards, under over passes at night. Old men stagger on sidewalks, muttering to themselves, sweating hopps. Midnight in city centre is a zoo of amazingly drunk women trying to make their way home, teetering dangerously on stilettos. Men move in packs, chanting football songs and reeking of hard cider. My morning run, taken before the street sweeper can clear the ravages of the night away, is an obstacle course of vomit and human shit, strewn about the sidewalk. Oh Glasgee. Why don’t ye know when to quit?

  Something that took me a while to catch on to here is that all the real business at work is done after 5, in the pub. If your boss asks you to come along for a slurp, you should go. And don’t be afraid to get drunk. That’s what going for a drink means here: getting pished. Or at least a little pished. If you are like me, unable to cope with hangovers (I’d rather be dead) drink your drink slowly. Let yourself loosen up naturally. Take the liberty of ordering the group snacks when it’s your turn to buy a round. Switch to cranberry juice or tonic after you’ve reached your limit and let them all feel jaded in the morning. You’ve got your morning run to do; you don’t have time in the morning to spend with your face retching into the toilet bowl. But you also can’t afford to not go to the pub, where your boss becomes your friend and tells you all sorts of useful information, the two of you bond, you get all that praise (and more!) that you’ve always wanted, and suddenly you have a stellar recommendation that you need for when you move stateside again. That was my Friday.

  Saturday, Shaun and I went to the Edinburgh International Festival — that’s the big theater thing you’ve probably heard of that has a hoppin’ Fringe Festival. We made our way through the throngs of theatre-happy tourists to a staging of Bacchus starring Alan Cumming in drag as Dionysus and a gospel choir of beautiful black women as the Greek chorus. The choreography and songs could have been tighter (yes, it was a musical), and the scripting could have been less expositional (yes, I know this is the style of Greek tragedies, but if you are going to go ahead and make it a musical, don’t be afraid to adapt it in other ways too). Overall though, it was a pleasure to watch. I laughed out loud more than a few times and was wildly impressed with Alan Cumming’s naked butt, which also featured in the play. The butt was extraordinarily muscular – with hearty side divots and everything. It was the kind of butt that takes millions of squats and ceaseless leg lifts. I just hope the rest of the crowd appreciated it as much as I did. I’ve worked out to Tammy Lee Baker’s Buns of Steel video; I know how hard that shit is. The rest of Alan Cumming performed delightfully as well — his comedic timing was perfect and his expressions are priceless. Frankly, I love him. He reminds me of my best-est of friends. I wish he was the man who Americans thought of when they thought of Scottish people; Sean Connery is freakish and I’ve never in all my time here heard anything remotely like that bizarre accent he slurs out of his bear-encrusted mouth.

  Today, we threw a little brunch party for friends to come over, sip mimosas, and rifle through our worldly possessions to take stuff home with them. (We’re trying to unload all the books, cooking bits, and other random things unworthy of a trans Atlantic crossing before we move out of our flat). I made a cherry pie and apple/carrot muffins. We laughed non-stop, ate too much sugar, and now I’m farting all over the place from the champagne. Why is champagne served at social functions?!?! It has so many fart-inducing bubbles! Luckily, the giant bloat seems to have a timed chemical reaction that only over stimulates the gastro-intestinal tract about 5 hours after drinking it, and by that time the party is probably over. But just think of how many post-celebration romances have probably been thwarted over the course of history by bloating and gas pains.

  I realize that this entire post is getting a bit too graphic, but really I had to write about the farting thing:

  a.) Because it’s funny.
  b.) Because I don’t want you to feel alone in you’re champagne-induced farting. It happens to the best of us.

  Anyhow, my excitement about our Greece trip this Tuesday is now bordering on rabid. I am foaming at the mouth and fearing water. Dispite the hydrophobia, I got a new swimming suit for the trip that I can only describe as Cave Woman meets Bond Girl. It came in the mail yesterday and when I tried it on I lamented that I ever have to wear real clothes at all. Bathing suit only! OOGA!
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  How’s your weekend?

  OH! I forogt! I ran into a bird today. A hidous pidgeon. You know how sometimes, if you are really unlucky, a bird flutters into you? Well this time, I ran smack into a bird’s meaty belly. A cluster of the mangey things were pecking on the sidewalk that I was running on this morning and when I approached, they all took to wing. But one was particuarly slow and due to a timing miscalculation on both of our parts, I ran my forehead into it’s horrible, germ-infested breast. It’s wing got tangled in my bangs and it’s feathers stuck to my sweaty forehead. I screeched and flapped my arms and about a block later, dry heaved, thinking about how I’m too young to die of Avian flu. Yuck!

  MONDAY MORNING EDIT: Ha! This post was obviously a little tipsy (probably don’t need to tell you that). I laughed out loud, scrolling through this morning to see that I’d written that Sean Connery had a “bear encrusted mouth.” HA! Yes. He eats a lot of bears. Raw ones. I mean, how many times have you seen Sean Connery with bear meat and fur just smeared all over his face? Millions. It’s basically every picture taken of him, ever. Including the baby pics, before he even had teeth. Seriously – there’s a whole E! True Hollywood Story about it. Somebody get that man a napkin. HA! Um, no. I meant to put a “d” on the end of that “bear.” Sean Connery has a “beard-encrusted face.” Scratch Smokey; I meant facial hair. Note to self about tipsy blog posts taken.

  • 3:37 pm
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