Antidote

In case you missed it, Evil Incarnate died earlier this week.

Even the British media is touting American jingoistic propaganda. I cringe to think how heinous the coverage must be in the Fatherland. For an antidote, learn the truth about Ronald Reagan.

Boy

I stared at the boy for a long time. He finally noticed me and whispered to his friends. They looked at me too. They all smiled, and I couldn't tell if their smiles were self-satisfied sneers or genuinely curious grins.

They knew what I wanted. I didn't approach them. I was too scared.

For all my talk about how much easier it is over here, how much friendlier everyone is—it's still hard. It's still very, very hard.

The doc provided me with the analogy to a classroom. Some children thrive in experimental classrooms where everything is hands-on, whereas others thrive in stricter classrooms where memorization is key. Either way, they still have the same issues they need to work through.

And I still have a lot to learn—clearly.

Happy Endings

Ever since I decided I would move to Scotland, I've been looking forward to writing to all my friends back home to tell them how fucking fabulous it is. I'll be sending that email within the next few days to tell them how beautiful it is here, how wonderful, how cultured, how this was the best decision for me, and so on.

I could have written a rough draft before I even arrived, and every word would have been true.

But

I still don't have a place to live. It's forcing me to ask a lot of questions about myself that I don't want to ask. For example, most flats are either for "professionals" or "students." There are lifestyle considerations, to be sure, but also tax reasons. Professionals pay council tax; students don't. So while, I think my lifestyle is more like a student's (and God knows, I don't want to grow up), most students don't want me to live with them because then their flats would be taxed. And all the professionals like to talk about how they enjoy "quiet weeknights inside."

And I don't have a job. I look at the classifieds and they just make we want to cry. I don't want to work in a call center. Or manage things. Or have clients. Or any other of a long list of buzzwords that mean nothing.

All that said, I feel I belong here more than anywhere else on the planet. I love this city. And it's so easy to forget how toxic American culture is.

Annabel and I have been talking about how Americans like to view their history in movements. Civil rights, for example, was a struggle, one that creates heroes and ideologies. The same changes occured in Europe around the same time but without the fanfare. It's a foreign concept to the American state of mind, but maybe social change just happens, with or without our interference. George Bush's policies simply aren't sound. They aren't sustainable, so they too will wither away eventually too—and from that perspective, the election really doesn't matter does it?

Even if the worst case scenario came to pass and environmental destruction wiped out half the planet's population in fifty years—so what? Half the population would survive and continue doing things, building civilizations, and so on.

To an American mindset, that thought sounds like shameful apathy; to mine, it sounds like blissful reassurance.

Go Here

This boy was cool enough to link to my site, so you should visit his too.
http://www.thatqueergeorgiaboy.com/

Drunken Blogging

Thank you for reading (Vivian). This is my first drunk blog since arrival.

I adore this city. I adore this city. I adore this city.

I had forgotten what a thrill it was to miss night entirely. I enter a club just as the sun sets around eleven p.m. only to see it rise again when all is said and done at three. The sensation is indescribable.

Also, everything I thought I would miss turns out to be better over here. For example, I knew I would miss Trader Joe's if only for its Fresh-Pak Stir Fry Vegetables. Not only does Tesco have stir-fry veggies but it has a variety of at least six different kinds. Also, I thought would miss peanut butter, that staple of the American diet. Not only has Tesco started stocking peanut butter in the last two years since I've been here, but it's the best I've ever tasted (even the wheat bread is fantastic).

And the boys. I went to Evol at The Liquid Rooms tonight. (Curse you, Tim, for never telling me just how fucking hip it is!!) And where else in the world is Outkast mixed with Madonna mixed with The Strokes mixed with Morrisey mixed with Belle & Sebastian. Indie kids are hipper here than anywhere else in the world—if more confusing.

For example, I found the coolest boys in the world tonight. The had this whole shushing and pointing thing going on; that was their dance: they would hold a finger to their lips and point at whoever they chose. So I had enough to drink to join in. The music was too loud to talk, but they were willing to play. And the cute blond boy danced with the cute brown-haired boy, and then he ran his hands down his back to his butt. Then, later in the evening, the blond boy made out with a girl. I don't understand. Are indie kids so hip and nonchalant that they enjoy feeling up their friend even though their both straight? Or do gay boys just make out with girls here? Or are they bi (even though bi boys are actually a myth in America)?

Any insight would be greatly appreciated.

Most significantly, however, is simply the fact that I lost a flat. Not just a flat, really, but the flat. Basically, it was a beautiful, spacious room with leather furniture and bay windows. And dead center of the bay windows was the most stunning view of the castle I've ever seen. (Heaven says what?) Unfortunately—and I will talk about this flat and curse this man until the day I die—the landlord won't let to non-student so as to avoid the council tax. UGH. Nonetheless, I've seen some other flats, and they look promsing. I'll keep you posted.

Until then, know that Edinburgh can do no wrong.

Cheers.

Here

I had forgotten how stunning this city is. Of course I remembered its landmarks—the Scott Monument, the Castle, Carlton Hill—but I had forgotten that the streets themselves are beautiful: the stone apartments, the cobblestone streets, the nestled churches.

I am at a loss for words to describe this city. I nearly cried when I saw the castle today. My heart soars here.

My view is slightly skewed in that I'm staying with Annabel in her gorgeous Victorian flat with twenty-foot-high moulded ceilings and hardwood floors (and rent so low it makes me choke). And its a five minute walk to the supermarket or to a pub (or ten or twenty) or a club or a cute, hip, gay cafe. Or a bookstore or a fresh fish shop or newsstand. And all these walks are beautiful.

And I'm going to live in this area, so in less than a week, my flat will be a five minute walk from all those places. I stand by what I said before leaving: Edinburgh is a lot like Heaven.

For my devoted fans who actually read this thing: I'm sorry I haven't sent you an email yet. I don't have anything to report yet, but I'll write soon.