Out Crazying The Crazy

A while back, I'd wanted to draw my six readers' attention to a creative counter protest in San Francisco in response to perennial protester Fred Phelps. But then time went by, and you know how these things work.

But hey now! It's relevant again! So here I go!

For those who may not remember Fred Phelps and the Phelps Family Singers, they're the "God Hates Fags" people, recently in the news because a dead Marine's father was ordered by a judge to pay the Phelps' family legal costs, because the Marine's father sued the Phelps for protesting at his son's funeral. Bill O'Reilly ended up stepping in on behalf of the Marine's father and paying the legal costs.

This is but one example of the Phelps Horror Show.

Anyway, San Francisco! So you might be surprised to hear that there are some freaks out there. And freaks are funny. So the freaks made some crazy-ass signs to out crazy the Phelps' crazy-ass signs. I'm partial to the one that just says, "ME!" but there are a couple of real gems in there.

Also, you can play around with your own crazy signs here. I made this one:


So how is it suddenly relevant again? Well, a fella called Jason Levin received his inspiration from the wackiness of the sign makers in San Francisco and, in the tradition of the Yes Men, has come up with an idea that's part performance art, part activism, and part sheer lunacy.

The short of it is that Jason hopes to destroy the Tea Party movement by infiltrating and pushing it further away from the mainstream, so that Everyman looks at them and says, "Well, that's too fucking crazy for me."

His people may or may not be the people saying the craziest of the crazy shit you hear coming from the Tea Parties. So if members of the Tea Party start claiming that Obama performs deviant sexual acts, a member of Jason's group might say, "Yeah, and the president also fucks goats!" The best part is that the Tea Party won't know who's legitimately crazy and who's just fucking with them. Maybe a real Tea Bagger thinks that the president fucks goats. Just maybe. Who can tell?

Go, Jason.

Keep Warm, In-Laws

This post from Titivil led me to this picture from Boing-Boing. If that doesn't make you say some semblance of "Holy shit!" I don't know what will.

Chilly and wet the Scots are used to. Arctic, not so much. We're talking lows in the zero-degrees Fahrenheit realm. And most of the buildings are old and drafty. So I hope the in-laws in Edinburgh have durable central heating and properly double-glazed windows. And I hope the in-laws in the Highlands are burning toasty peat fires and huddling together over some delicious soup.

Probably the person doing best in this whole scenario is the missus' father, who has MS and rarely leaves his home. His flat is in a relatively new building with good heating and decent windows. Plus he has a stash of meals-on-wheels in his freezer. But that's the evils of a governmental safety net for you. Fucking socialists.

This kind of cold in Scotland is fucked up, B&E readers. And in case you don't already know, the UK is one of the places that will become decidedly colder due to global warming, as those warm North Atlantic currents that keep the islands relatively temperate become flooded by the ice cap runoff. So how long is it before this type of winter is the norm?

Heather Must've Made that Nasty Potato

Hey, B&E readers! I've insulted a Scot! And it wasn't even the missus!

Heather didn't much care for my review of the bad Scottish cuisine from our trip last May. And apparently she didn't stick around long enough to read my raves about the better food.

Alas, she seemed particularly irritated at my attitude toward the baked potato with tuna mayonnaise:

What did he expect when he ordered a baked potato with tuna mayo? And what's wrong with tuna in a potato anyway?

Bloody typical yank.

Why don't you just stay over in America and eat your McDonald's you tosser.

Well, I couldn't say nothing, so I posted the following comment back, one I don't expect Heather will ever see:

Dearest Heather, if that is indeed your name...

First of all, I'm not sure what about this posting makes you think I'm a bloody typical yank. I'm married to a Scotswoman, and her father (who ordered the tuna-in-a-potato concoction) is also a Scot. I think that makes me an atypical Yank.

Also, I'm not bleeding.

Secondly, I don't eat at McDonald's. It McSucks.

Thirdly, I love Scotland and the Scots, which might explain why I fell in love with and married one.

Fourthly, Scotland relies on tourism for its economy, and insulting the tourists won't do much for the future of the country.

Fifthly, when my father-in-law ordered a baked potato with tuna mayo, he was expecting both the potato and the tuna mayo to be edible. They weren't.

Sixthly, tuna in a potato is like putting corn on a pizza. If you're still reading this, Heather, I would like you to explain this particular phenomenon to me as well.

Seventhly, I don't particularly want to stay over in America all the time. It's good to get out of the country for a change in perspective once in a while. When we Americans don't see the world, we tend to invade countries. Not good.

Eighthly, I only occasionally toss, but fair point.

Ninthly, the missus has much to say to you about this, but this is my blog, so she can either add her own comment or stop telling me what to write.

I would like to express to Heather my deepest and sincerest apologies for insulting her national cuisine.

Because I may well someday live in Heather's home country, it is not a good idea for me to burn any bridges. Can we be friends, Heather? Maybe Facebook friends? Can I follow you on Twitter?

The Controversy of Compassion

A very interesting and controversial thing happened in Scotland last week.

Kenny MacAskill, Scotland's Justice Minister, released, on grounds of compassion, the convicted bomber of the PanAm flight that blew up over Lockerbie in 1988, killing 270 people. The convicted bomber, Abdel Baset al-Megrahi, has prostrate cancer and, according to British doctors, has about three months to live.

A portion of MacAskill's statement and a pretty hard-hitting BBC interview can be found here. I urge you to watch both videos. It's a glimpse at justice in terms we don't usually hear in this country.

So... Uh, yes... Release of a convicted terrorist on compassionate grounds is, well, pretty ballsy.

And when al-Megrahi returned to a very public hero's welcome in Libya, people already angry about his release got even angrier. Even people in support of his release - and indeed MacAskill himself - were pretty angry about that display.

In our country, i.e. the United States, we don't have the element of compassion as part of our justice system. We have a "fuck 'em" attitude toward our prison population, embodied most clearly and cynically in the death penalty. In Scotland, however, compassion is a requisite part of the justice system.

President Obama denounced the decision, and FBI director Robert Mueller accused the Scottish government of giving comfort to terrorists.

So it's no surprise that there's a movement in the U.S. to boycott Scotland. Don't visit. Don't take advantage of its legendary golf courses. Don't drink its fine whisky. As someone who enjoys Scotland, its beauty, its food, its drink, and its women (or at least one particular woman), I think that taking this sort of action is really only punishing the people who participate in the boycott.

My heart goes out and always will go out to the victims of the bombing of PanAm Flight 103. It's incredibly painful to lose someone anyway, and losing someone through an act of violence, terrorism, or other means in which someone else can be fairly blamed must cause tremendous anger. Assuming justice was done and that al-Megrahi did indeed blow up Flight 103, I will never defend his horrific act of murder.

But by releasing al-Megrahi so that he can die with his family at home, MacAskill has said something about our humanity that you don't hear very often. We can rise above people who do us harm. We can recognize that people who commit horrific acts are still human, if not humane. We can value something larger than punishment and firmly grasp the moral high ground.

As the missus asked rhetorically and succinctly over the weekend, "Why is compassion controversial?"

I expect that the missus and I are in a small minority of people in this country who think the Scottish Justice Minister performed a beautiful, profoundly spiritual act of humanity.

My Late Spring Vacation - Better Food

In fairness to Scotland, I shouldn't let my last food post be the only real statement about the culinary arts in the country. We did eat some delicious food, too. I mean, come on, look at this gorgeous classic of British cuisine...

Not just fish & chips, but fish, chips, & peas!

And let's face some facts, B&E readers. The British invented the proper breakfast.

This is the Scottish breakfast at the Glengorm Castle hotel. Soak it in, readers. That's an egg, some mushrooms, a tomato, and three kinds of meat: bacon, sausage, and black pudding. It's made with blood. Mm... breakfast blood...

Here's the Scottish breakfast at the Bellacroy Hotel on the Isle of Mull. I got it without the black pudding, because it also included baked beans. Baked beans!

That's also a little thing they call a potato scone. Delicious!

Desserts are another particular specialty of the Scottish people.

That's sticky toffee pudding from the Caledonian Hotel in Fort Augustus (located on Loch Ness). If you have this option on the menu at any Scottish restaurant, get it. Just get it. Don't ask questions. Get it. Even at mediocre restaurants, it tends to be good. At good restaurants, it like God Himself dancing in your mouth.

The Caledonian also served up this delicious concoction, called a pavlova, which is a sort of meringue type of thing with strawberries and kiwi.

Tasty!

Not to be outdone, the missus' family prepared a delicious meal that ended with the best of all puddings.

That's stewed rhubarb, strawberries, ice cream, and the toffee sauce (one of the missus' cousins works at the Caledonian Hotel and knows how to make it proper).

Then here are a few other delicious treats...

That's salmon with smoked salmon on top. Those green things are actually fried and colored salmon tentacles. No, really. Seriously. I would never lie to you.

This is a smoked venison and melon appetizer.

I love smoked venison.

Those last two are both also from the Caledonian Hotel (where I also got the haggis).

We came upon this window display while walking in Edinburgh...

I still can't believe we didn't actually go back there to eat. Next time, B&E readers. Next time.

My Late Spring Vacation - Nasty Food

I've already shown some of the masterpieces of our culinary experience in Scotland, specifically the haggis and the Taste of Mull Platter for Two.

What's generally terrific about the food in Scotland is that it's legendarily crappy. So when you have a good meal (or even more rarely a healthy meal), it's a genuine surprise, and your experience is all the more pleasant for the hey-didn't-expect-that factor.

Typically, the food comes out looking something like this...

It's hard to fuck up a sausage roll and chips, although the ketchup (or "tomahto sauce" as they like to call it) was sorta blah.

The other food came out looking even worse...

That's "prawn Marie Rose" on top, and I have no idea why they call it that, or indeed what it even is. I also have no idea what inspired the missus to order it.

Her dad ordered the "tuna mayonnaise" version of the potato that the missus ordered. He was equally disappointed.

That's tuna salad on a baked potato. Some might call it a tattie. I call it nasty.

The restaurant was appropriately named...

I guess we really should've had low expectations.

My Late Spring Vacation - Bruise the Willow

The missus and I actually planned this trip to Scotland to coincide with the missus' mother's 70th birthday. We (mostly she and her brother) planned a surprise party, complete with food, drink, a ceilidh (pronounced kay-lee) band, dancing, and sordid people from her dark, dark past.

We rented a hall...

Put together some decorations...

And had tables and tables of food and drink...

It was really a lot of food.

A ceilidh is a Scottish dance party. The band consisted of three members: a guitarist, a fiddler, and a piper (mostly Irish pipes in this case, although he did break out the bagpipes toward the end).

The sign was made by my sister-in-law, by the way, and is the name of the missus' mother, not the name of the band.

Most ceilidh bands have a caller, in this case the fiddler, who talks you through the dance steps for the particular dance ahead of time. Most dances are actually pretty simple and repetitive, so even if you struggle in the beginning, by the end you feel like an expert.

Most dances are also joyful and celebratory, and therefore exhausting. After a particularly rousing number called The Flying Scotsman I had pretty well soaked my shirt completely through and was about three minutes from a stroke. We feel fairly certain the band made up this particular dance as a means of seeing up the skirts of many ladies as they spun around in the air.

Strip the Willow is a popular Scottish dance, and the band ended our ceilidh with a rousing version that worked in everyone in attendance. Men and women line up across from one another down the length of the entire hall. Like so...


Then you (in American group dancing vernacular) swing-your-partner-round-and-round, swing away from your partner to the next person in line (of the opposite gender), swing them round-and-round, come back to your partner and swing round-and-round, and then down the line accordingly. When the whole party is in on the action, it's a long line and a whole lotta swinging of your partners round and round.

Some people get rather into the swinging round-and-round, and Strip the Willow is not without its dangers.

Um... This is the missus' arm, four full days after the party, still not recovered from the overzealous Strip the Willow dancers.

But if that's not a sign of fun dancing, I don't know what is!

My Late Spring Vacation - Isle of Mull

Whenever the missus and I visit Scotland, it's largely a family visit. With family in Edinburgh and the Highlands (and a lovely family to boot), this isn't exactly a problem for a tourist such as myself.

But on this trip, we carved out a few days on the Isle of Mull for the two of us. Mull is one of the Western Isles, which are, as you might guess, a series of islands off the Western coast. They're all rugged and dramatic and beautiful and shit.

To get to Mull, one takes the ferry from Oban. If you're American, you've possibly only heard of Oban because a whiskey comes from there. It's a port town. And apparently, they're the seafood capital of Scotland.

We challenged this claim with some smoked salmon and oysters.

We weren't disappointed. So although it felt like an audacious claim, we couldn't disprove it during our hour in Oban.

It's a 45-minute ferry ride from Oban to Craignure on Mull, and as you approach, you get a pretty nice view of Duart Castle.

The Scots know drama. Cliff-side castle? Come on, people.

Mull was the splurging portion of our trip, so we stayed at Glengorm Castle.

Glengorm was built in the 1850s, so it's not the classic Scottish castle experience, but that means it's comfortable! It's a very nice place and comes with a beautiful estate, good for walking (Americans call it hiking). It came with lots of green space, sheep, and views.

It also came with some standing stones.

They are curious indeed.

For dinner that evening, we went into Mull's biggest town, Tobermory. If you're American, you've possibly only heard of Tobermory because a whiskey comes from there. But perhaps you've seen photos of the town, too, because it's a colorful port town in Scotland, often featured in calendars, etc.

It's cute. We took a chance on a restaurant and had a decidedly mediocre meal. We'll skip that part.

The next day was our outdoor day, so it was a little unfortunate that it was one of the few drizzly, cool days we had. But that didn't ruin the fun. We drove to the Ulva ferry terminal (a generous term - there's no terminal, and the ferry across to Ulva is just a small motor boat). A slightly larger boat picked up a group of us for an excursion to the Treshnish Isles and Staffa.

The Treshnish Isles are uninhabited (by people) and the home to a large puffin colony. So this particular excursion company offers what they call "Puffin Therapy" tours. Lie on the ground near the puffin burrows, and you'll find yourself within three feet of puffins.

You figure out pretty quickly why it's called Puffin Therapy. You can't help but feel happy when you're so close to these tiny, social birds. They actually rather like the human presence because we protect them from their natural predators, especially seagulls. So they come out in droves when the tours show up.

They swim, fly, and burrow. Is there anything puffins can't do?

Ah, puffins...

Here are lots of people looking at puffins.

Even with the group, though, you could really feel like you were getting good one-on-one time with the puffins.

Look! Flora and puffins!

Yes, there are many more photos of puffins, B&E readers, but they'll be doled out over time.

From the Treshnish Islands, we headed to Staffa, with its dramatic lava formations and Fingal's Cave, which once inspired Mendelssohn to write an overture. Natural, hexagonal shapes serve as steps to the cave. Staffa's companion is Giant's Causeway, across the sea in Ireland.

Here's Staffa from the sea...

Here's the inside of Fingal's Cave looking particularly like a hand-colored postcard from the 1950s.

And then this is from inside looking out.

Then, this is a crazy formation coming out of the sea.

And finally, a shot of some people standing above the cave on the cliff-side.

After a long day in the drizzle, we headed to that night's hotel, the Bellacroy, the oldest on Mull, where we also felt like we deserved a fine meal.

All local goodness, from left to right: crabs, langoustines, smoked salmon over arugula (out of view under the langoustines), cheddar, chicken liver pate, rare beef (with mustard sauce), venison (with a sauce we couldn't identify, and it was better without), and mutton with chutney, served with unseen oatcakes and roll and salads. They called this "The Taste of Mull Platter for Two." Yes. Outstanding.

On our final day in Mull, we walked and drove around the northern half of the island. And we had some spectacular weather.

In Calgary (the one in Canada is named for the one on Mull), we went to a gorgeous beach. Only lunatics swim in the freezing-ass water, but it's pretty amazing.

We also discovered that Calgary has some art going on. In the woods above the beach, there's an Art Walk Through the Woods. Here's one of the sculptures.

Mull features a fair number of windblown trees, and we came upon this particularly dramatic example.

Mull also has all of these dead boats around the island. I sort of think they add to the beauty of the island.

We took the scenic route back to the ferry (not that there's an unscenic route).

A full time on Mull, I must say.

The thing is, we have to go back to Mull. We didn't even see the southern half of the island, which is bigger. I could spend the rest of my life going to Scotland - or perhaps even living there - and I just don't think I'll get to see all of it that I want to see.

My Late Spring Vacation - Haggis

No, not Paul Haggis, you wacky Crash fans.

The missus and I have been together for something like six-and-a-half years, married for nearly five of them, and we've been to Scotland together four or five times. Maybe six. I was also in Scotland for a week back in '93, during my semester abroad.

And yet, I'd never tried haggis.

Some people avoid it. After all, according to Wikipedia, haggis is made of the sheep's "pluck": heart, liver, and lungs, then mixed with oatmeal, spices, and other mysteries. Oh, and it's usually encased in sheep intestines.

Really, haggis is just like any of those other "leftover" foods - the innards of an animal, in this case a sheep. After all, it makes sense to use the whole animal.

But people run like hell from haggis. Maybe it's the name. Who knows?

Anyway, I never avoided haggis; I just never tried it.

Well, the missus' father took us out to a nice restaurant in his little town located on Loch Ness, and I ordered the haggis appetizer.

Those are oatcakes on the side of it. Oatcakes are Scottish crackers, only better.

I spread that haggis right on those oatcakes and ate the hell out of it.

Good times, indeed.

The missus has a couple of cousins who work in the kitchen at this particular restaurant, and apparently the chef adds some cream to her haggis recipe. That's less typical, but it sure tasted good.

So what does haggis look like before it's cooked up? We got a few items from the local butcher, and I caught a glimpse of raw haggis for sale. We didn't buy any; perhaps an adventure for another time. But here it is behind the counter...

That's black pudding next to the haggis, by the way.

What does it look like before it's haggis in a butcher shop? A little something like this...

My Late Spring Vacation

Hello, B&E readers. The missus and I have returned from our trip to Scotland, and now comes all of those posts you're all such immense fans of. It's like a slide show, only blog style.

You lucky, lucky bastards.

Anyway, I'm working on it. Stay tuned. Did I mention yet that you're lucky, lucky bastards? Well, you are.

Required Posting

In the last couple of days I was really hoping to write a little bit about Xe, the mercenary army formerly known as Blackwater. That's pronounced "zee." They retooled their website, and amazingly enough, the "history" section says nothing about the founder or the former name. Yea, rebranding!

But Xe's already getting its own bad name (just like the bad name you gave love, according to Bon Jovi). Four Xe contractors opened fire on a civilian vehicle, wounding two Afghans. That might be a problem in and of itself, but the contractors were also off-duty, drunk, and not allowed to be carrying weapons at the time.

[Web redesign story via TPM, and Xe mercenary shootings via HuffPo.]

Anyway, this is that posting I put up on B&E at least once (and sometimes twice) a year, in which I give you advance warning of an absence. I didn't take the time to line up any prearranged postings or anything, and unless my day today goes a lot differently than I imagine it will, I won't.

Yes, that's right: I'm going to be out of town, and although I'll probably have some semi-regular internet connection, come on people, it's a freakin' vacation. I'm vacating, for crying out loud.

Oh, and burglars? We have a really large person house-sitting for us, so don't get any ideas. We've given the large person permission to check our mail and kick your fucking ass. He's from Xe, the mercenary outfit formerly known as Blackwater.

Pat and The Scotsman

Pat Robertson has once again done something offensive. I know! I KNOW! Shocking!

In reference to gay marriage, he said that from here it's just a hop, skip, and a jump to pedophilia, bestiality, necrophilia, and indoor-plumbiphilia.

Equating the LGBTQCI (and any other letters that may or may not encompass what has generally been known as the "gay community") with pedophiles is something I've known was wrong since... oh, I don't know... I was nine? I grew up near the park in Topeka known for gay cruising.

When we moved into our house within walking distance of Gage Park (or Gay Park, as it was sometimes called), members of our church congregation (of which my dad was a leader) warned, "Just make sure you don't let your kids walk around there by themselves."

My dad was quite the progressive among our particular Lutheran community (we were Missouri Synod, if any of you readers out there happen to be "in the know" about Lutheranism), and he had a knack for playing innocent and, dare I say, stupid as a way of being challenging and non-threatening at the same time.

"But if they're gay, won't they be more interested in me than my children?" My dad was also a fairly handsome man, and this was invariably true.

But for some of the Lutherans he knew, this was perhaps the first time they'd been faced with a church leader who said, well, anything about gay people. And his innocent question actually got some closed-minded people thinking about gay people differently.

So now, these fathers were more fearful for themselves than their children when in Gage Park.

Alas, the awareness of my own father (who may not have even known any gay people at that time in his life) has not found its way to Dickhead Robertson.

Now bear with me here, as this might seem like a tangent, and it sort of is...

Pat Robertson has links to Scotland. He once said that Scotland is a dark land where homosexuals are unbelievably strong. So it was surprising about ten years ago when he formed a partnership with the Bank of Scotland. He was expected to get that 700 Club flock of his to support the bank. The Scots, knowing what a Dickhead Pat is, were not pleased, and the deal eventually fell through. But you know, apparently if you're Pat Robertson, money is more important than your morality.

Money, it turns out, isn't Pat's only link to Scotland. And the distaste for Pat doesn't necessarily extend to other conclusions. There seems to be an intrinsic link between homosexuality and pedophilia in Scotland. Or at least that's true in Scotland's leading newspaper, The Scotsman.

My brother-in-law was recently sitting on the jury of one of the most horrific criminal cases I've ever heard about. It was the prosecution of a big child pornography and child sexual abuse/assault ring. The details of the case were so shocking that, for the first time ever, the Scottish court kept psychologists on call for the jurors, should they need immediate counseling.

Due to a previous commitment, my brother-in-law had to be released early from his duty as juror, but the case has now come to a close with guilty verdicts across the board on all counts. The Scotsman had the story. (If you are at all squeamish about child abuse, I wouldn't recommend following that link.)

Within the story was this sentence:

Two of the men – convicted sex offender Neil Strachan and gay rights campaigner James Rennie – were convicted of sex attacks on children.

Come on, The Scotsman. You should know better than that. His gay rights activism is completely separate from his role in sex attacks on children. And to link homosexuality and pedophilia is irresponsible and homophobic. It's also totally irrelevant to the story.

You're making an implication that furthers discriminatory stereotypes about gay people that I've known were stupid since 1982. Shame on you, The Scotsman.

Oh, and fuck you, Pat Robertson, you colossal Dickhead.

One Hundred. You Heard Me: One Hundred.

So at my job back in August, one colleague said something about her boyfriend doing the hundred push-ups challenge. Six weeks to a hundred push-ups.

We appreciate quick opportunities to blow off steam at my job, and it's a genial atmosphere full of hard work and laughter. It's a pretty good job. So most of us decided we'd try out this six-week workout.

You begin with a test. Do as many as you can. I've never had much upper body strength, and the fact is I am, as the Scots might say, a big girl's blouse. I also haven't done much working out of any sort over the past few years, and I sit at my desk all day writing (and we're not on manual typewriters or anything, so even my fingers are pretty weak). I had pretty low expectations.

Eight, OK? I could do eight.

So we worked our way through the thing. There were six of us participating. A couple tried it out. A couple others never bothered. But on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, beginning at the end of August, we did push-ups as a group. Camaraderie, B&E readers! 5:00 pm rolls around and someone shouts: "Push-ups, people!"

Six-week workout, my ass. I'd say it was just us effete white collar dweebs, but one of my colleagues very nearly made the women's Olympic field hockey team. That woman is strong, and that woman can do push-ups. So it's not just that I'm, as the Scots might say, a total Jessie. Six-week workout, my ass.

Still, we were making progress, and we forged onward. If we couldn't complete a week's workout, we worked our way through anyway, and then repeated the week. A couple of people gave up, and dropped out. But most of us stuck it out.

Ten or twelve weeks into the workout, we all ended up taking a couple of weeks off around the holidays, which set us way back. But we came back and picked up where we left off. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. 5:00 pm.

About three weeks ago, our field hockey player did 105 push-ups, finishing the challenge. The rest of us forged on.

I did one hundred push-ups today. The last three were a little feeble, but I did them. From eight to 100 push-ups in six... months!

This big girl's blouse of a Jessie did 100 push-ups.

Gee, That's Too Bad

Because the missus hails from Scotland, we're having a constant discussion about when we might move there. It's a "when" conversation, not an "if" conversation, but the "when" does a lot of shifting about depending on our lives here, the economy, her family, my family, etc. And even though winding up there seems inevitable, we often speak of the pros and cons in general of the move across the Atlantic.

Fred Phelps has been a topic here on B&E before, and as someone who formerly lived in Topeka, I try to do as the Topekans do and ignore him as much as possible. There could be, and I'd guess that there is somewhere, a daily report on the evildoings of Fred.

Those of you not in the know, Fred Phelps is the pastor of Westboro Baptist Church, a.k.a. God Hates Fags. You've probably heard about them protesting military funerals, funerals for gay people, and just about any funeral in Topeka.

So I always like a bit of good news about Fred, and it appears that he and his daughter Sheila (and God Hates Fags spokesperson) got themselves barred from entering the United Kingdom. Apparently, they were on their way to protest/harass a college production of The Laramie Project (about the murder of Matthew Shephard) in Hampshire.

Alas, the Phelpses announced their plans on their website, and the Border Police decided that the Wesboro Baptist Church is an extremist hate group that doesn't deserve entry. Well done, Border Police. That I'd never have to see Fred Phelps and his cultish family again is a major "pro" for moving to Scotland.

But think about it, Fred. If you're not being granted access to protest this particular play, maybe God's telling you you're wrong. Maybe God hates you, you Dickheaded asshat.

[Thanks to my lesbian ex-girlfriend for the link.]

Grr... Health Care Industry... Grr...

I'm a fortunate American with health insurance. One of the benefits of my job is that my employer kicks in to the kitty for a health plan for the lot of us. I'm very pleased with my doctor and have no complaints about my care.

It's also expensive. Even with the employer contribution, the missus and I are paying a bunch of money per month for our coverage. We had our annual meeting with the insurance rep, who consistently delivers bad news about costs. This coming year prices are going up more than 11%. So now the missus and I will be paying even more than a bunch of money per month.

The insurance rep told us that this increase is comparable to the 10-12% annual increases in costs for health care.

Imagine that: Health insurance costs are rising faster than the rate of inflation. I wonder if the for-profit model has anything to do with that.

So part of this Obama Mandate for Change includes reforming the health care industry. To continue the fun of his grassroots support system, the Obama campaign/administration is hosting Health Care House Parties! Woo-HOO! Par-TAY! I'm totally fucked up on health care!

Naturally, the health care industry wants in on these House Parties, so they're crashing, sending employees and satisfied customers to get in on the action.

If you love things the way they are and want to continue to pay more and more for less and less coverage so that shareholders get a bigger return on investment, join the health care industry's movement to crash the house parties!

I guess if these jokers want to argue for the status quo at Health Care House Parties, more power to them.

But this system is fucking bullshit. Mixing profit with matters of life and death... uh... not right.

Last year, when the missus and I had to take her father for an overnight visit to the hospital in Scotland, he had to fill out two forms that asked for name and address. That's it. Yes, he shared his room, but the care was outstanding and the facilities terrific. I tell you what: socialized medicine looked pretty goddamn good to me. No one profits off the man's unfortunate health.

Can we finally get a single-payer health care system in this country? Especially now that insurance plays such a large role in the demise of, say, the auto companies?

What Other Elections?

Believe it or not, there was at least one other election around the world in the past few weeks. Scotland featured a special by-election for a seat to Parliament.

As I've discussed before, UK Prime Minister (and Scotsman) Gordon Brown has been having a hell of a time running the country since Tony Blair left office with a pantsful of shame (that whole Iraq War thing really didn't go down well with the electorate). The Labour Party has been in hell, much to the pleasure of the Tories nationwide.

But the Tories really don't do well in left-leaning Scotland, so Labour's demise has been the Scottish Nationalist Party's gain. And recently, the SNPs have been winning in elections that just a few months earlier they'd have never been considered contenders.

Well, B&E readers, the economic crisis can upend politics in the UK, too, it appears. Gordon Brown is a bit of a wonky economist, and of any world leader, he's been hailed as one that's taken some of the boldest action. Now, I don't know enough about economics or about what he's done exactly to know if his bold action truly is brilliant or it just seems brilliant, but either way, Gordo's experiencing a bit of a renaissance at the moment.

And he's got his first electoral win to prove it. In the recent special by-election in Glenrothes, the SNP candidate was predicted to defeat the Labour candidate, who happens to be the headmaster at Gordon Brown's old school. Brown, with his sudden surge in popularity, actually campaigned for the man, something that would've been certain death to any Labour politician in Scotland a few months ago.

Lindsay Roy won the Glenrothes seat. This is perhaps particularly significant because Roy's district borders Gordon Brown's. It was close, and the SNPs did better there than ever, but the economic collapse may just be causing Scotland's populace to go back home to the political party they know.

You better believe that the missus and I will be keeping our eyes on these developments.

Roger That

Roger Federer beat Andy Murray soundly in the U.S. Open final. The Great Scottish Hope will return, people. Fear not.

Scotland in the Finals!

The missus and I (and the missus' father) are very excited about the official arrival of Andy Murray to the international tennis stage. Yesterday, he completed a shocking upset over #1 seed Rafael Nadal at the U.S. Open to go to the first Grand Slam Final of his young career.

Now, followers of tennis have been vaguely aware of the temperamental Scot for some time. After all, he is the current #6 player in the world (and will be #4 after the U.S. Open).

But Andy's not what one would call a "crowd favorite" (unless you're a Scot or married to a Scot). His early matches at the Open were played in the Grandstand, since they save Arthur Ashe and Louis Armstrong (who was one hell of a tennis player) Stadiums for the popular kids.

He's a cocky S.O.B., but that's part of the charm. He'll flex his biceps after victories. He's moody as hell, and gets very angry with himself, something those of us who are hard on ourselves appreciate. He states unabashedly that he only plays for himself (and perhaps the Royal Bank of Scotland, his sponsor).

Much to the chagrin of the Wimbledon crowd (especially the well-mannered English, who like their heroes polite), Andy flatly states that the U.S. Open is his favorite tournament. After all, where else do you get to play in front of the stars of your favorite television program (Entourage) and your favorite comedian (Will Ferrell)?

He's not going to feel the pressure of being the first Brit with a legitimate chance at winning Wimbledon in 750 years (or however long it's been). He plays for himself, not for the country. He's not falling into the Tim Henman trap.

The missus and I watched him play at the Open last year, when he was coming back from an injury. He really didn't look good, but the worst part of his game was his head. He muttered "fuckwit" to himself when he'd back bad shots and wallow in the points that could've been. (We had our front-row Grandstand seats and could hear the mutterings.)

And that's been the biggest turnaround in his game. Not only is he 100% physically, but he's also much cooler. He's calm under pressure.

Alas, whether he likes it or not, this evening, Andy plays for the Scots. He may think he plays only for himself, but try telling the missus' father, who speaks to his daughter after every match. We're actually a little concerned about the missus' father's health.

The U.S. Open Final begins at 5:00 p.m. EST. You better believe that I'm rushing home from work to watch Andy take on Roger Federer in the final. This Roger fella is sort of like the Yankees of tennis. So maybe this will be his year to fall.

Anonymous Requests

Generally I ignore anonymous when they comment (and yes, that's the plural pronoun with the singular antecedent, which I believe in, since English has no gender-neutral pronouns for such a scenario and I don't want to be sexist ("he") or awkward ("he or she")). So where was I? Oh, right! Anonymous says...

Hi Bald & Effective. I have a request. I am hoping for another explanation for simple American's about the recent Scottish Elections. Having followed your blog I somehow think it is important (Even if only to keep the plot line going), but the link in the post didn't boil it down they way you do. Thanks to You and the Scottish MS. if she is the one pulling the strings in advance.

First of all, anonymous (if that is indeed your name), thanks for the comment and thanks for reading.

Second of all, you'll want to be careful about your use of "Scottish MS." Scotland has the highest per capita rate of Multiple Sclerosis in the world. So while I know you're speaking of "the missus," MS can certainly be misconstrued.

Now, to answer your question (and keep in mind that this is really just my understanding of how government works in the UK, so I could very well be way the hell off here)...

This by-election victory is, yes, a victory, but is really a big deal symbolically, more than actually. The election was for the Labour-held Glasgow East seat in the British Parliament (the big one in London, as opposed to Scottish Parliament in Edinburgh). So the SNPs just won a single seat in the British Parliament. But...

Glasgow East has been a Labour stronghold. It was considered the third safest Labour seat in Scotland, based on Labour's majority after the previous election (whenever that was).

The Scots grew to dislike Tony Blair a great deal. They're a largely anti-war people and Labour has slowly been screwing Scotland over the past decade or so. Couple that with Alex "I am not a fish" Salmond's strong anti-war stance, and a lot of disaffected Scottish Labour voters have turned their attention to the Scottish Nationalist Party.

Scottish Labour had hoped that Gordon Brown, the current prime minister who is in fact Scottish, would win over the Scots again. But with the mortgage crisis, gas prices, and all the crappy problems we've got here hitting them over there too, any popularity he may have had at the beginning has evaporated like a fart on Orkney (it's windy there).

With Brown and Labour's complete lack of popularity in Scotland at the moment, Alex Salmond and the SNPs have been running any by-election as a referendum against Gordon Brown, and it's been successful, but nowhere as successful as in Glasgow East.

The SNPs saw a 22% swing in their direction in Glasgow East to win the seat away from Labour. This is an enormous swing. If there were a by-election in Gordon Brown's district and the swing to the SNP was that high, he would lose his seat (and his prime ministership or whatever you call it).

The ruling party in Britain (currently Labour) decides when the next election takes place. A law I don't fully understand determines the window in which they have to call an election. My understanding is that the latest it can happen is 18 months from now. And Brown, his and his party's popularity in the crapper, has no intention of doing it before then.

But conservative (Tory) leader David Cameron is hammering Brown hard to have the elections sooner, that the country can't take another 18 months of this type of rule. Minority parties can sometimes affect when an election takes place by getting popular support for elections. Cameron's theory is that the latest defeat of Labour by the SNP shows how out of touch Labour is with the country, and the Tories are primed to reclaim their majority, even though the Tories are the fourth most popular party in Scotland currently, after the SNP, Labour, and Liberal-Democrats. So Cameron's whole thing is political maneuvering, using the SNP victory to weaken the ruling party. It might be working.

Meanwhile, Brown may have a Labour revolt on his hands. If Gordon Brown is costing the party elections, maybe we should oust Gordon Brown, thinks Labour.

I hope this helps clarify a little, and I hope that I'm getting the gist of it all. British politics is very confusing to me. But also very interesting.

I Come From the Land Down Over There

Children of the 80s will remember the Australian band Men At Work. After all, this is the group that introduced most Americans to Vegemite. A Musack form of their hit "Down Under" plays today under Qantas Airlines ads. "Who Can It Be Now?" is a question I ask myself every day.

But here's something I didn't know for 25 years. Colin Hay, the lead singer and songwriter for the Band Down Under, isn't Australian at all. He hails from Kilwinning, Scotland.

I feel as though some fraud has been perpetrated on the ten-year-old version of myself who bought the "Business As Usual" cassette all those years ago with his hard-earned allowance. I was buying the Australianness of it all.

I'm beginning to think that maybe Scotland really does have a claim on just about everything.

That's What We Call Full Spectrum

Ask pretty much any Scotsperson and they'll tell you that the Scots invented everything. Generally speaking, when such topics of conversation come up in my presence, I nod and agree and fall back on a completely true positive statement: Scotland is the most beautiful place I've ever been.

Yes, I do think that many superlative statements about Scotland are valid. But the Scots seem to like living in the extremes. It's the most beautiful country in the world, perhaps, and it's also the knifingest country in Europe and the drinkingest. They've got the world's preeminent theater and arts festival and bucketfuls of heroin addicts.

The Scots also offer us the best and worst in English language poetry. We'll use this simple love/luve poem by Robert Burns to demonstrate some of the best (from 1794):

O my Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!
And fare-thee-weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile!

Burns plays with language and repetition and beauty, and one can really feel the power of his luve. Yes, it's good shit, and Robert Burns is so revered (and rightly so) he gets a national holiday.

William Topaz McGonagall--poet, tragedian, hand loom weaver--is also a product of Scotland. Widely hailed as the writer of the worst poetry in the English language, he composed his poetry "under the divine inspiration." Yes. Yes, he did. For example, from some time in the late 1800s:

'TWAS on a Monday morning, and in the year of 1884,
That a fire broke out in Bailie Bradford's store,
Which contained bales of jute and large quantities of waste,
Which the brave firemen ran to extinguish in great haste.

They left their wives that morning without any dread,
Never thinking, at the burning pile, they would be killed dead
By the falling of the rickety and insecure walls;
When I think of it, kind Christians, my heart it appals!

Because it has caused widows and their families to shed briny tears,
For there hasn't been such a destructive fire for many years;
Whereby four brave firemen have perished in the fire,
And for better fathers or husbands no family could desire.

It goes on for eighteen stanzas, dear B&E readers, but I think you get the point. If you haven't yet had your appetite for McGonagall sated, this archive is your online home.

A special thank you to Yahoo! News for bringing my attention to the Bard of Obvious Rhymes.