Ode to a Bail-out

Hello friends.  I’ve been out of the blogging loop lately due to personal overload, what with relocation relocation relocation, a wedding, a honeymoon, a fiancée and then a wife who, poor thing, required a fair number of doctor and hospital visits, AND full-time teaching for the first time in two years.

So we’re back, if I may use a plural construction to signify the bond between writer and reader.

So I was driving back to East Boston from work at Framingham State College, when I heard news on the radio about the latest, and perhaps least likely, of the industries going to Washington DC with hats in hand, looking for bail-out money.  For some reason my poetical juices were flowing, so I wrote this godawful poem:

As I drove home yesterday, listening to the radio,
I heard a sad and strange claim on the DJ’s show.
Many industries want bail-outs, their fair share of Uncle Sam’s money,
they are flocking to Washington like bees to sweet amber honey.

The variety of industries may shock you, as it did me,
(My choice of words like “Amber” and “did me” is no anomaly.)
Get this, the companies wanting money will make you forlorn-o,
For two firms, claiming vast needs — gulp! — sell porno!

Yes it’s true, that largest and most profitable of businesses,
Even porn is suffering from cash flow illnesses.
Larry Flynt, of “Hustler”, and the guy from “Girls Gone Wild”,
need FIVE BILLION DOLLARS, so the Treasury phone they have dialed.

If you know of gainful employment in journalistic poetry, please let me know.  Or better still, just send checks.

Boston Boxes

Greetings All.

I hope your world is a sea of tranquility, and better than mine.  Yesterday was pretty rough.

You could say I experienced a spot of bother.  A tsunami of bother is more like it.  As you may know, Michelle and I have at last moved into our condo in East Boston.  It had been rented, so we couldn’t move in until the first of August.  We painted the living room and bedroom, and assembled monster IKEA bookshelves, since we own lots of books.  Friday the new bedroom furniture arrives, and Saturday the movers will bring all the rest of Michelle’s stuff that she has had stored at her parents’ house when she left for Scotland, including a new mattress to go on the new bed.  Sleeping on an air mattress is best left to children and dead people.

Of the three bookshelves, we thought it would look good if one of them had the optional glass doors, but one of them was missing the little black knob.  Plus one of the bookshelf panels didn’t look right.  Rather than face the bureaucratic hell of getting IKEA to fix my problem, I went to the hardware store just down the street to see what Adid could do for me.  I grabbed a small panel with the color I wanted and left.

As you know, I bought a gorgeous 1996 Audi A4 Quattro 2.8, with paint that looks new since the ophthalmologist who owned it kept it in a garage.  It’s no surprise: I like to look at my car.  As I walked out the back door I glanced lovingly in the car’s direction.  Gulp.  It wasn’t there.

I shook off the sucker punch and walked out into the street for a better look.  Wait, did I park it there or somewhere else?  I parked it RIGHT THERE, dammit.  Then I noticed that there were no cars on the street at all…?  I glanced up and saw the sign on the pole, informing all that on the 2nd and 4th Tuesday of every month cars are not allowed on the street due to scheduled street-cleaning.  My car had been towed.

I called Michelle, and she suggested I go to the police station in the neighborhood, since they would know what company handled the city’s towing needs, and where the car would be.  Great, so now I faced a towing charge, at least one day’s “storage” fee, PLUS a parking ticket.  I went off to find some advice.  Adid said that there are complicated scheduling arrangements involving street-cleaning and snow-removal, and that parking tickets and towing are pretty common in this part of the city.

Michelle came home for lunch to help me out, and we walked the few blocks to find my car, which somehow had escaped dents, scrapes, nicks and other heart attack-inducing flaws.  One hundred seventeen dollars to the towing company, and another forty for the parking ticket.  Great.  Oh, we were just getting started.

Maureen, my contact at the Edinburgh shipping company who sent home twenty boxes of my stuff, emailed me a shipping document and told me to expect my stuff to arrive around Monday, August 4th.  Sure enough, I received a call from British Air Freight that the pallet of boxes had arrived, and that I could come and take possession after it had cleared Customs.  In order to collect the boxes I needed to rent a van, which I did in Braintree.  It was large and bulky, with steering and handling like a smallish oil tanker.  We set off for South Boston, where the big commercial piers are, trying hard not to hit other cars and trucks on the convoluted highway system Boston has evolved over thousands of years of highway engineer inbreeding.

We found our way to the right place, and were told to take the paperwork up to Customs, just upstairs and across the hall.  We had a nice chat with the police officer with the Scottish last name, who told us that he married an Englishwoman.  (I tell my “Scotland story” whenever I run into someone who might find it amusing.)  We compared notes regarding little British expressions that make themselves at home in our speech, such as “bloody”, “dodgy”, “loo”, and so forth.  The guy wouldn’t stop talking, but I see that as a good thing, since such a person will help people he likes if they need it.  Soon we were heading back downstairs to show the completed paperwork and get my hands on my stuff.  (This all took place this way because I was told that either a shipping broker could handle the paperwork or I could do it myself and save the broker’s fee.)

Back at British Air Freight the guy took our documents, now stamped with the approval of Customs.  He said everything was OK, and gave me a form to take to the warehouseman.  We walked over to the fenced area of the secure warehouse, handed over the document, and waited confidently.  Oops.  One of the lesser lackeys came over and told us there was a “little problem” with my property, and that they were “looking into it.”  Uh huh.  Then the more important guy came over, with a smile on his face.  He told us that the shipping company guy was 65 and couldn’t read anymore, and then showed me the document the old guy had handed me, which had someone else’s name and address, and listed the contents of the shipment as “cat”.  He laughed and asked me for my original paperwork, and then zoomed off to get my stuff with his forklift.  He even helped to load it all into the van, this while we compared stories of studying in Scotland and his kids in college.

At long last, with my 20 boxes of books, clothes, CD’s, DVD’s, shoes, hats, kitchen miscellany, glassware and everything else — my entire life, in other words — we headed back to the condo in East Boston.  Arriving safely, I backed the van into the tiny lot, to better unload it all.  Of course you can’t see a damn thing, even with a plethora of mirrors, and while I was making sure to not hit Michelle’s car, there was a modest crash and the tinkling of glass.  Whathef*ck!

I had hit the phone pole, breaking one of the rear door’s windows, and now the inside of the van’s cargo area, and most of the street for three or four square blocks was now decorated with tiny bits of broken glass; street bling.  Michelle sprang to my aid — she is phenomenal at doing this — and assured me it was no big thing, and not to worry about it.  My heart was pounding as we unloaded the van in record time.  I carried each box to the top step of the first floor landing, and there Michelle grabbed it and piled them into a previously unknown space in our 457 square-foot condo.

My blood pressure was still off the charts as we finished, and as we got back in the van to return it in its less than pristine condition, my love reminded me again that it was OK, everything would be all right.  God she’s great.

As we drove back to Braintree, every little bump, which would have been smoothly absorbed by the Audi, brought more silicon-based cacophony.  Michelle, a senior insurance claims investigator, said this sort of thing happens all the time with rental equipment, since people have rarely driven such vehicles, and all we’d have to do is pay the deductible.  Sure enough, when we returned the van and told the guy at the counter with the long pony-tail, he was equally blasé and appreciative of our honesty; he noted a fair percentage of renters who damage equipment simply park and dash.  Michelle whipped out her credit card and handled the deductible charge, and suggested we go to her parents’ place –  two minutes away — to relax before heading home.

She recounted the story of my bad day to her folks, who were sympathetic and kept saying “poor man!”  Her mother had been incredibly helpful and generous — both of them have — and so I had sent a dozen pink roses that morning to her mom, who couldn’t get a smile off her face.  Herb brought me a small, restorative bourbon.

On the way back, we stopped at a grocery store we like, where I bought my Sugar Doodle a couple bottles of New Zealand sauvignon blanc, her favorite wine, and a steak for me.  We eat mostly fish and chicken, and she is dead-set about fitting into her wedding gown, but I needed a nice piece of dead cow, which helped me, after a couple martinis, to forget the worst day I’ve had in a while.

Grains of Truth

As you will recall from my recent missive on martinis, I am trying to empty the flat of food, drink and condiments in time for my departure later this week.  This causes some unusual combinations, and while my tongue has taken some esoteric journeys, I am none the worse for wear.

In St Andrews last year I bought a rice cooker, the advantages of which I was taught long ago by my buddy Gary.  When Michelle was here we ate mostly pasta, but since I have been alone I have mixed it up a bit more, and have enjoyed experimenting with Indian food.  Running against the grain, as it were, I prefer brown and wild rice to the more bland white rices, and when you add some sautéed vegetables to some Indian sauce it’s not bad at all.

If I cook rice as a side dish, to take things up a notch I like to add a little butter, non-fat if it’s around, and maybe a little splash of sesame oil.  I like that mysterious, nutty quality that sesame oil brings, and it hasn’t killed me yet.

Last night I was in the mood for some low-intensity comfort food after a long and rigorous day of shopping on the tourist-strewn Royal Mile, so I reached for the rice cooker.  Sadly, I was out of butter — both regular and non-fat — as well as sesame oil.  Then I noticed a small jar of peanut butter.  Hmm.

If I can add butter to the rice and water in the cooker before I turn it on, and if I can also add sesame oil, why not add a blob of peanut butter?  (It was the smooth kind in this case.)  I measured the rice and added the water, and then I spooned out a glob of peanut butter the size of a golf ball — the larger American ball, not the smaller British ball — and tossed it in.  I switched the rice cooker on and then fled the room, having run out of courage.  Nestled safely in the living room I poured a glass of wine and waited.

In a little while the kitchen and hall were filled with that rich, satisfying smell of peanut butter, something like Mom’s homemade peanut butter cookies.  When the light indicated that the rice was done, I removed the lid and gave it a good stir and sniff.  The rice was moist and heavy, and smelled intoxicating.  Usually I look at rice as a filler vehicle on which you pile something interesting and nourishing, but I was shoveling this stuff down.

If you like to experiment in the kitchen, and Michelle LOVES it when I experiment, you might want to try mixing in some green onions or some crumbled bacon.  Tune in next week, when we see what happens when you use jasmine rice with peanut butter and jelly.

Some Thoughts on Gin and Vermouth

Ladies & Gentlemen,

I have spent a fair amount of my career, my career as a drinker, thinking about that sublime melange combining gin and dry vermouth in propitious proportions.  My conclusion is this: it’s a good thing.

As we speak I am conducting further research, with gin from the freezer.  As the aim in these recent days is to run out of everything in time for my departure on Friday, I am prematurely out of vermouth, so I am making do.  Making do with a bit of citrus is not a very bad thing, so sometimes the mix-master on duty tosses in a bit of lemon, lime, or even a slice of pear.  On stranger days, when such luminaries as Kingsley Amis or Hunter S. Thompson come to mind, I add a pinch of cinnamon or ground cloves.  OK, weird, I know, but cloves has always been my catnip, and there are worse things to dump into the shaker.  I won’t list them here.

What kinds of things do you do?  What sorts of gin do you prefer?  What botanicals, additives, condiments or accessories do you toy with?  What martini stories do you know?  Please share.

My most important martini story by far started when I discovered, back in fall of 2006 in St Andrews, that Michelle liked martinis.  We went to a bar on South St called the Gin House.  We imagined speciously that they knew something about martinis.  But after I requested two martinis, and saw the very young bartender proceed to pour two large glasses of Martini and Rossi dry vermouth, I knew we were not on the same page.

As what happened at every bar in the UK, I had to instruct the man or woman behind the bar in the fine art of constructing a martini cocktail.  At a hotel in Stirling there were cocktail shakers behind the bar — a good sign.  (The universal bad sign was the absence of olives; you simply can’t find olives in a bar in the United Kingdom.)  But when I told the bartender to fill one of the shakers with ice, he used his ice tongs to carefully place precisely three cubes into the shaker.  I said, ‘no’, there should be more ice — so he added three more small cubes.  At the brink I told him ‘NO’ you must FILL the shaker with ice, which must have been a wholly alien thought for him; I think he sensed wisely that I might erupt and destroy the hotel if he didn’t end his miserly attitude towards ice, so finally he added a sensible quantity.  When at last we had our cold drinks in hand, with a bit of lemon instead of an olive, we calmed down — I calmed down — and we enjoyed the salubrious effects that gin and vermouth provide.

I hope I remembered to pack my shaker.

Do not suffer thirst.

Tortuous Science Lessons

A moron in Ohio masquerading as a middle school science teacher might be — should be — fired for branding a cross in a student’s arm.  Read that sentence again.  A guy somehow hired to teach science, the kind of “science” that comes out of the Bible, used an electrostatic device in a demonstration that “burned” a cross on a student’s arm, a painful, unwanted mark that lingered for weeks.

Rather than actually teaching science, John Freshwater spent his time in class imprinting religious symbols onto students and ranting about homosexuals and sin.  He refused to expunge the religious dogma that flavors creationism, while attempting to discredit the robustness and value of carbon dating as a tool for validating evolution.

It’s no wonder we have fallen behind other countries we used to lead in science education, since we allow people clearly unfit for the task into the nation’s classrooms.  Why does the system allow these idiots a pulpit for proselytizing when science teachers should encourage students to learn to think scientifically, like brave Copernicus (1473 – 1543)?  Copernicus proved by observation and analysis that the Earth spun on its axis, and like the other planets rotated around the sun, which refuted long-held and incorrect beliefs.  The official position of the church was that the Earth (and God by implication) was perfect in its immutability, and was fixed and still, while the planets, the sun, and all the other stars rotated about it.  Even though it didn’t make any sense.  Back then, speaking out against religious dogma could result in censure, loss of employment, incarceration, torture and death.  The church was so threatened by advances in science, and the loss of control and respect which inevitably would result from having its foundations disproved, that a combination of cruelty and dogma was its chosen strategy.

Haven’t we progressed in the last 500 years?  Isn’t it time we moved on?  Isn’t it time to fire John Freshwater and try to ensure people like him are not allowed into science classrooms?

Perhaps Freshwater should be exiled to doctrinaire Louisiana, land of incarcerated intellect, where he would be welcomed rather than censured, and he could reflect on the interesting link between his loss of employment and his student’s torture.  I look forward to the death of incursions by religious rubbish like creationism and intelligent design into science education.

Martian Ice Cream

Scientists are excited by recent discoveries of ice below the surface of the planet Mars. They will be busy for the near future performing analysis of data provided by the Phoenix lander, NASA’s latest successful probe sent with expert dart-thrower precision to the red planet. This correspondent has just learned that data is not the only thing that will soon come out of the scientific mission.

The Mars family of McLean, Virginia, written about previously in these pages and the secretive owners of the billion dollar candy business of the same name, intends to harvest frozen matter from the planet to market what will be called Martian Ice Cream. It will come in a variety of out-of-this-world flavors, but unfortunately will sell for astronomical prices.

Industry speculators believe this will prove to be a very profitable move for the confection company, due to the current gloomy economic picture. People are likely to spend on comfort food and short-term luxury items when prospects for the future are dim. With the huge increases in the prices of oil and food, the alarming rate of failed mortgages and rising unemployment, a big dish of exotic ice cream might be just the thing to mitigate the malaise and put smiles back on the faces of Americans. Especially if those Americans are very rich, given that Martian Ice Cream might prove to be the most expensive ice cream in history.

Watch this space for more news about Martian Ice Cream coming to a store near you!

He’s Hired!

After a mid-May interview at Framingham State College, your Blogmaster General was hired as new full-time temporary faculty in the Department of Economics and Business Administration. I had a nice long chat and lunch with Bob Wallace, the department chair, and after a pleasant walk around the typically leafy New England campus I met with Dr Robert Martin, the Vice President of Academic Affairs.

These meetings were followed by email salary negotiations, and after all parties were satisfied, I signed a contract to teach three courses for the first semester of the 2008-2009 academic year. Subsequent discussions led to my decision to teach an additional course one night a week, which will bring in a little supplementary income to what will be in late October a new family. The contract provides for my employment at the College for one year, and Bob gave me assurances that this foot-in-the-door could lead to long-term employment.

I had sent out dozens of email applications to colleges and universities in the Boston area, aiming at deans and department chairs at schools that offered business degrees. Since I could not find Bob Wallace’s email address on the Framingham website, I sent him a résumé and cover letter through snail mail. When I write a cover letter for a job application, I try to put a little zing into it. The résumé should be dry and just the facts; the introductory letter should contain some of the writer’s personality. My introductory letter included not only a summary of my teaching experience and an assertion that I would make a great fit at Framingham, but also told a little of my Scotland adventure, of how I hoped to study golf history at the University of St Andrews and then how I planned to marry a nice Boston girl when I returned to the USA this summer. It also noted that I had discovered how Bob, an economist, had published a paper on the economics of tipping, and as a former bartender and wine steward, I looked forward to comparing notes with him. Bob sent back a letter saying, “I loved your letter!” And yes, Virginia, he included that enthusiastic punctuation mark.

He also told me that he had been to Scotland a few times and had played golf at St Andrews and other Scottish courses — there was no doubt a bond had already formed. Further emails enhanced our new relationship, and it was clear he was close to hiring me, except for the tiny detail of not having yet met me in person. My decision to travel to Massachusetts for an interview unquestionably helped to seal the deal. Amazing to think that of all the applications I sent to colleges and universities in the Boston area, most sent back a tepid ‘thank you’ accompanied by assurances that my credentials would be “kept on file,” while Framingham’s response was so positive that it led to a job offer.

I have really good feelings about working with Bob at Framingham State College, and I can’t tell you how much weight it takes off my shoulders to know that I have a good job waiting for me back in Boston.

Amy Winehouse Plays the Old Course

Dateline Thursday, May 8, 2008

Amy Winehouse was released from police custody in London after yet another drug arrest. It was the second time in a week she had been arrested on drug charges, and then, inexplicably to this observer, released again nearly immediately after being incarcerated. Upon her release, on the advice of her drug councilor, she headed north to Scotland, where she played a therapeutic round of golf at the Old Course in St Andrews.

On the tee of the first hole, after Winehouse and her caddie Pete Doherty learned that the hole’s name was the “Burn” hole, they sat down and proceeded to light up a pipe filled with hashish. This would hardly have raised an eyebrow in London, but as this was St Andrews it provoked a response similar to that of Henry Bateman’s painting, “The Man Who Missed the Ball on the First Tee at St Andrews”. (See my “page” on the right.) I mean, people were shocked. The Secretary of the R&A escorted the couple into the clubhouse, where they were detained for three minutes.

The Secretary apologized for the delay, awarded Winehouse a par for the first hole, and hastened her to begin her round on number two.

At number 2, the “Dyke” hole, Pete whipped out a needle and added an impromptu tattoo of two women kissing to Amy’s upper thigh. A marshal penalized her a stroke for delaying play, but then rescinded it.

Number 3, the “Cartgate” hole, features a dangerous bunker down the left side called the Principal‘s Nose. Winehouse, hearing this, dropped everything and ran for the bunker. She jumped in, and immediately began snorting cocaine from an ingenious dispenser that looked like a golf ball.

Number 4 is the “Ginger Beer” hole, named for the refreshments sold from a cart owned by “Auld Daw” (David) Anderson back in the 1890’s. (Anderson had been a greenskeeper, ball-maker and caddie at St Andrews.) Amy pulled out a cellphone, and moments later a helicopter landed. A burly attendant emerged, carrying two cases of beer, which were rapidly consumed by the dangerous duo. A marshal penalized them two strokes: one for delaying play and one for not sharing the beer with the marshal.

On number 5, the “Hole O’Cross”, she hooked her drive into the Elysian Fields along the left of the fairway, where she encountered a group of autograph-seekers walking along the beach that runs next to the course. She head-butted the first three, causing the rest to flee screaming. The marshal did not assess a penalty in this case, because head-butting is encouraged in Scotland, and to sign autographs would have slowed down play.

As you probably know, the 6th is called “Heathery”. There is a cluster of bunkers down the left named the Coffins. Winehouse and Doherty were greatly amused to lie down, after shooting up some heroin, and pretend they were dead and in pine boxes. Smart money suggests this will happen sooner rather than later.

When Winehouse and Doherty discovered that the 7th is called “High” hole, Doherty produced a Thai stick the size of a golf club, and soon thereafter the two golfers were puffing away on it.

Lost and disoriented, they skipped the 8th hole, “Short”, and stumbled on to number nine, “End”. Doherty saw the historical note on the golfer’s guide telling how the Kruger bunkers, far to the left, date from the Boer War. Winehouse, whose ears were ringing at this time, thought that Doherty called her a whore, and so slashed his head with her sand wedge. Pete, feeling no pain by this time, saw the trail of blood roll down and stain his shirt, which he admired for its realistically blood-red color. The marshal was going to penalize them further, but then considered what’s the point?

Number 10 is a good hole, named for Bobby Jones by St Andrews admirers after he passed away in 1971. Winehouse noted the quote from Jones printed on the scorecard, about competitive golf being played mainly on a 5 ½ inch course, which is the space between your ears. She found this to be so hilarious that she and Doherty each popped 5 ½ Ecstasy tablets, and rolled around in the gorse.

The 11th hole, “High” confused the pair, because they thought they had already played the High hole. (Here I should mention for Old Course neophytes that the Old Course is unusual in that there are seven “double” greens. These extra-large greens serve double duty in that one part of the green is used for an outward bound hole, and then another part of that green is used for an inward bound hole. For example, the outward 5th hole, “Hole O’Cross (out)” shares the same green with number 13 coming in, cleverly named “Hole O’Cross (in)”. Likewise with holes 6 and 12, and 7 and 11, sharing greens and to some degree names.)

Let’s get back to our detailed and dispassionate narrative. Winehouse and Doherty were confused by the arcane course layout and nomenclature, so on the “High (in)” hole, they noticed that they hadn’t smoked any crack cocaine yet, whereupon Pete produced the hardware and applied the pyrotechnics. The marshal was spotted later sobbing uncontrollably in a large thistle bush.

By the time they recovered their bearings they were on number 13, “Hole O’Cross” in that homecoming direction we talked about. Winehouse hit into a nasty little bunker down the left called the Cat’s Trap. Doherty pulled out a cat he had recently trapped, which had been tied up with duct tape. With dramatic flair he picked up Winehouse’s ball from the bunker, replaced it with the snarling cat, and exhorted her to hit the cat instead of the ball. Doherty is reported to have said, “They don’t go very far, but I love the sound they make when you hit them real good.”

A marshal swooped down before her back swing attained that full athletic coiling, and plucked the cat away in time, recognizing that the cat was indeed his own. He penalized Winehouse nine strokes, the same number of lives that cats purportedly have.

The 14th hole is called “Long”. Menacing the left side of the fairway are four bunkers known as the Beardies. Winehouse took the opportunity to impugn Doherty’s pathetic excuse for a beard, directing much scorn on the few scraggly hairs that are seen more often on old ladies whose eyesight has failed. This caused a bit of an imbroglio, made worse by the fact that Doherty had just created and consumed a new cocktail made from two cups each of vodka and Scotch whisky, and was feeling maudlin.

Number 15 is a beautiful hole, the “Cartgate (in)”. Learning that the pair of mounds in the fairway used as an aiming point were called Miss Grainger’s Bosoms – I’m not making this up – Winehouse again whipped out her cellphone, and soon a huge black SUV appeared. Out popped an artsy-looking, androgynous specimen, who on the barked orders of Winehouse, began to apply green body paint to Amy’s now-bared breasts. When finished, and when Winehouse lay down on the ground, the resemblance between the actual golf course and Winehouse’s upper torso was astounding. When notified by radio, the Secretary called the R&A lawyers to see if this was some sort of copyright infraction, but was instead told it was merely bad taste.

On the 16th, the “Corner of the Dyke” hole, another bit of theatre unfolded. Guarding the green directly in front is the Wig bunker. Coincidentally, Amy had hit her ball in there, and by this point she was so frazzled due to the lack of intoxicating stimulants, that her own wig began to shift and droop most distressingly. The black bouffant monstrosity atop her head took on a life of its own, one perhaps more meaningful than its former owner. Strange that with the wig down completely covering her eyes, Winehouse hit the best shot of the day, a phenomenal sand wedge that flew towards the flag, landed gently, and then rolled into the cup. She didn’t see it however, because she and Doherty were still in the bunker, drinking from a large box of wine.

The 17th hole, the infamous “Road Hole” runs along a low stone wall fronting the Old Course Hotel. There were so many fans wanting an autograph, or to hear a few words of enlightenment or a song from Amy, that the Black Watch was called in to restore order. To assist with morale Winehouse threw empty beer bottles at the crowd, which quieted them down quickly.

The last hole, named for Old Tom Morris, is where the famous, ancient bridge over the Swilcan Burn is located. (I have a photo of my dad standing on that bridge, and I treasure it.) Winehouse and Doherty, having downed a half bottle of Valium, decided it would be easier to crawl under the bridge than walk over it, and emerged dripping wet if none the worse for wear. Winehouse’s considerable eye make-up was at this point running down and covering both sides of her face in black, the whole impression that of three piano keys. There’s a deep swale in front of the green, the much dreaded “Valley of Sin”, and here this reporter will refrain from detailing what took place between these shining examples of celebrity.

I will tell you that the next morning, Amy Winehouse’s unconscious body was found hanging from the obelisk that stands very near to the 18th green, the Martyr’s Monument. If that particular juxtaposition has any meaning for you, please let me know.

Prepping to Go

My blog may change to a biweekly affair for a few days, or few weeks, as I prepare to leave Edinburgh and move to Boston. There are a million details to take care of, too many books to box, clothes to pack, golf memorabilia to stand and hold, and then wonder why I still have such weird treasures.

My money says that you probably haven’t read all the fiction and other fun things on my site yet, so you shouldn’t feel slighted for not having suitably new and stimulating copy available to you. So go back and read such goodies as “Thoughts on the Cooking of Fish”, or “The Secret Life of Crumbs”, or “Crema Contendere” my satiric piece on coffee-tasting. Since this is on the surface a mostly golf weblog, you should read “A Niblick in Time”, humorous golf fiction in the style of P.G. Wodehouse.

Next week I am going back to Boston for two weeks, partly for a job interview and partly to see my fiancée, a sweet, wonderful, beautiful girl who is working at a job she hoped she would never have to do again. I’ll be back in Scotland at the end of the month, and then make the final push to leave permanently around the end of June.

Please stop back here again soon; I appreciate your visits.

Parenting, and a Little Golf

You are the parents of young kids or teenagers. You want to know if you are good parents or not. One question: do you regularly allow your kids to go out unsupervised very late at night? Then you are bad parents.

It’s that simple.

I don’t care if you live in the UK or the US or in Russia. Through your indifference or diffidence or just incompetence, you are not doing your kids any favors, and you are making the world a worse place. Congratulations.

Recently I read about a shopping mall in Maryland, the Boulevard at the Capital Centre – and yes, I agree, the name gushes pretentiousness – which has decided to start a new program next month, which will ban anyone 16 and younger after 9 pm, if they are without adult supervision. (Here’s the article.)

The move follows recent disturbing trends in teenage violence across the US and the UK, and mimics policies in place in other American malls, such as the country’s largest, the Mall of America in Minneapolis. As can be expected, teenagers, reacting to any diminution, real or perceived, in their freedom to do anything, anywhere, anytime, are against the policy.

Sierra Gillian, 17, and showing the wisdom and maturity of someone ten years younger, called the initiative “dumb.” She then goes on to unleash a powerful tautology: “If something is going to happen, it’s going to happen.” Wow.

Why can’t kids understand that such restrictions, limits or controls are for their own good? Oh, yeah, it’s because they’re kids; they don’t understand because they are not yet adults.

In the May 4th Sunday Times Magazine was an article about the spoiled children of Moscow’s new batch of billionaires. Every licentious dish is on the menu, every hedonistic appetite is satiated. And they’re still teenagers. One young man is celebrating his 17th birthday. It’s 3 am on a Friday, and the scene is the Rai, a nightclub popular with Moscow’s young and very wealthy. Drinks, drugs, and chauffeured Hummers take the place of family time and salubrious role models.

One rare voice of reason is heard from a wealthy Moscow mother: “I have no doubt that many rich kids will either be in rehab or addicted to a shrink by the time they reach their mid-twenties. I do all I can to make sure mine won’t; ultimately the parents are to blame.”

Boris Arkhipov, a professor of child psychology, says of kids who are spoiled by parents who lavish money and presents on them instead of time and parental influence, “Discipline for many is a problem. They don’t accept authority.”

Closer to home, nearly every weekend night, very late at night, and by this I mean from about 2 am to much later, I hear out my Edinburgh flat window very young voices. Not very young as in young adults in their twenties or thirties; no, I mean kids younger than 15 or 16, and often sounding closer to twelve. What are they doing out that late? Why on earth do their parents allow that? And why do these kids sound as if they are drunk?

I’ve spent enough time bartending to know the sound of someone who has had a trigger amount to drink. You know what I mean by trigger, don’t you? It’s that point when speech begins to slur, and people become repetitive and either jolly and giggly, or they go in the other direction and become argumentative and surly. These latter types can quickly turn violent.

There is nothing at all wrong with my sounding like a curmudgeon and complaining about how things aren’t now like they were back when I was a kid. When I was young, we were told “no”. We were punished if we did something wrong, which is how it ought to be. We were controlled and did what we were told. We were given chores and taught the importance of work, and we were taught how to behave. ‘Please’ and ‘thank you’ were assiduously drilled into us, and we were respectful to adults. That’s a key point there, that we were respectful. We grew to understand that there was a certain amount of deference owed to adults: they knew things, they had been places, they had gone through various kinds of war, and they could do things we couldn’t.

I regularly read in the UK papers how groups of violent teenagers and young kids, often drunk, roam the streets and attack and sometimes murder hapless adults. How could things have possibly gotten so bad? It’s the fault of the parents.

As I think back to when I was a kid growing into a teenager, my younger brother and I were raised in a strict household. It was strict but there was also a very generous amount of love and time spent with the whole family. Older and wiser now, it strikes me that parenting, good parenting, is very difficult. It involves a great deal of work, patience and time. It also requires the parent to place a greater priority on being a parent than being a friend, and also requires the mom and dad to learn how to say “no”.

Kids will offer up their best acting learned from watching movies, and use the oldest and least compelling arguments, such as “But all my friends do…” Weak parents, the kinds that don’t care how their kids turn out, won’t marshal the strength to tell them ‘no’. The kids turn to Plan B, C and D, and scream, cry and plead; sure a parent can be lenient and say ‘yes’ now and then as a reward for good behavior, but most of the time, when your kids want to do things that they shouldn’t, like go out with their friends late at night, they need to be told “no”. It’s like any other exercise: it gets easier the more you do it.

There are far too many parents who are happy to let the TV be the babysitter. There are far too many parents who would rather let their 12 and 13-year old boys run around Edinburgh late at night, evidently after drinking cheap cider, than be brave enough to tell them “no”.

Originally I was going to finish with an impassioned section exhorting parents to get their kids — boys and girls — to play golf. I was going to tell how my dad taught me and encouraged me, and how he helped me to learn some of the important lessons golf teaches. Lessons like the primacy of being honest, playing by the rules, and being respectful of others. But I won’t. I won’t go to all that trouble because I’m going to go play golf right now, after I send my mom and dad an email and tell them I love them.