On Scotland...

Part I.

As much as every Westerner (typically of the liberal verity), faces East for inner sanctum or South for better livin, espoused by other cultures and hemispheres; there is a place in our own imperial dynasty of stodgy O’dWM (Ol’dead White Men) that ceases to be less than alive, colorful, backwards, and most unique.

Scotland is such a place...

Here is the bird that never flew; Here is the tree than never grew; Here is the bell that never rang; Here is the fish than never swam. Glasgow Coat of Arms



After the winter of eternity in Prague—a record for a half-century, I left the cold for one of piss and rain. To a NW native, Scotland feels like home—a well-fed and watered malaise that thrives in heroine-poking, literary-flipping, Indy-rockin- climate. On that fertile soil, I found Scots to be most down to earth—qualifiedly: the real rock salt. My first two months spent in Glasgow was a modern fairytale: of thunderstorms and hot oat pies, trolls singing in arms, track-suited demons, sniper gargoyles, saris in flying colors, and ever-more, tender faeries traipsing in pointy leather boots and tight pants-- a flop of bangs perched at top of their heads to hide their legacy, ears. Scottish blokes are not as tough as their progenitors. After all, this is the land that lulled us to the sweet sonic of Belle & Sebastian.

“Judy and the Dream of Horses,” in fact, is the underscore to my time. In Scotland, every storm has its rainbow-- and a sottish man underneath it (yes, that antiquated term is strikingly a derivate of Scottish). Even the air in Glasgow is fortified with fermenting yeast; the streets sparkle of broken glass and the pastures are the most verdant of bowling greens!

And do the people breathe life! It was a shock first to realize that people were speaking the same mother tongue as myself, and second, that they were words were disarming and for the most part, kind. Scots have a voracious appetite for interaction. This joviality was wholly foreign after meandering quaint alleys in Prague without so much of a “Dobry den,” from anyone—not from the well-dressed elders rummaging through the trash, nor a sniff from their hatchet-dropping dogs. I suspect that life is enhanced in Technicolor after living in the grayscale that lies behind the former iron curtain. Where every Glaswegian bloke can strum his melancholy on an acoustic gee-tar, and every girl can and will throw a mean uppercut (see statistic on female-to-male violence are highest in Scotland). Where every man can drink like a whale and every woman can—well, also drink like a large aquatic specimen. (Statistics can also prove that, rather unflatteringly). Garrison Keillor, eat your heart out!