Curling Gold!

     The Olympics are on. And let me tell you, as one who has been following the Olympics everytime they come around, it's a different experience to watch them in another country. Here in London, no one will let you forget that Great Britain has not won a gold medal in the winter olympics for 18 years. They hoped it would come from with their top ranked Skeleton slider, but when she came in third behind two Americans, the hopes of a nation seemed to fall thin once again. Until...Curling! That's right, giant shuffleboard on ice, which for some reason is an olympic event. The women's curling team finally brought home Great Britain's first gold medal since 1984 amid astonishing statements like 'The whole country has been gripped by this high pressure game!' 'A more perfect stone was never thrown under greater pressure.' 'Are you as excited as I am?' No, I'm not.
     Commentators tried to make us believe that the 'sport' of curling will now become a source of national pride, inspiring school children across the United Kingdom to take it up as an after school hobby. I can see it now. 'Mommy, I don't want soccer spikes. I don't want to grow up and be a famous footballer and marry a Spice Girl like David Beckham did. Instead I want a brillo pad on the end of a stick, a few pollished granite rocks, and a pair of felt-soled shoes, so I can grow up and play a game no one's ever heard of, like Rhona Martin. Golly Mom, isn't she hot?! C'mon, Mom. All the other kids are doing it! Pleeeze?'
     And to think, England had to rely on the Scots to bring them their elusive gold. For the entire British curling team, players, coaches, commentators, and interviewers, were all Scotish.
     Meanwhile, the Australians were after their first Winter Olympic gold ever. And I was in an Aussie bar in London, with Aussie friends, when four short track speed skaters fell down on the final turn and let the last man standing glide across the finish line to claim Australia's first winter gold. And then, just a day or two later, they claimed another. In an entirely seperate event! The acrobatic arial ski-flipping type thing event. Two real gold medals in two real sports. Good on ya', guys!


     It's about that time again. Time I let you all in on my latest adventures. Well most of them, anyway. The ones fit for young sheltered eyes such as your own. ;)
     Shortly after we last heard from me, I was able to finally break the happy vortex that is Edinburgh, Scotland, and jumped onto a Hop-on/Hop-off backpackers tour of the Highlands. We left Edinburgh at about 8 in the morning, and drove for a few hours before reaching our first destination, a whisky distillery. But from that point on, it was all knowledge-filled exciting stories of how the Highlanders defeated the English time and time again with the dreaded Highland Charge before finally being wiped out at the battle of Culloden Field.
     Towards the end of the day, we stopped at the shores of Loch Ness where I (and the other 7 people on the tour) decided to pass on the option of getting hypothermia. We did NOT swim in the icy water. Something that actually surprised me. I thought that I would have been the first one to strip down and dive right in. But with the wind, and the chill that cut through all the layers of clothes that I had on, I passed on the opportunity, deciding that it was more of a summer activity. Maybe if I had seen the monster rumored to live in its icy depths I would have rethought my decision and jumped in for a swim with ol' Nessy. But she was no where to be seen.
     We ended the first day in the town of Inverness on the Eastern point of Loch Ness and the whole group went down to a pub for dinner. There we listened to Jenny, a member of our tour group, sing us a song about Radium -- the element -- as she accompanied herself on the banjo yukelele she brought along. God bless open mic night.
     That same night, I read about Canibal Iron Mike Tyson taking a bite out of Lennox Lewis. And I began taking notice of the entire world around me slowly going mad.
     A few days later, on my way to the Isle of Skye, I dunked my head in a gently flowing river to gain eternal beauty from the Kelpies that live under the water. Two days after that, on my day tour of Skye, I washed my face and head in a mystical waterfall to gain good luck. And later that same day, I dunked my head into another river to gain more eternal beauty from the Kelpies who lived there. Different river, different Kelpies. And now, like the Jolt Cola of Men, I've got all the luck and twice the good looks! You remember Jolt Cola; All the Sugar and Twice the Caffene.
     On the way back to the hostel that night, I found myself explaining to our Scottish guide that the reason for deep fried (in batter) Mars Bars is simply to make the original version the low-fat, healthy alternative.
     Meanwhile, I wonder what the sentiment is back home about Camp X-Ray. Because the spin-doctors over here are having a field day with anti-American propaganda. But then, it really comes down to the same Every Man Against the Government media that goes on across the world. I just hope everyone is able to read between the lines, and not believe everything that is printed.
     One day in Fort William -- I think it was a Monday -- the rain fell horizontally, if you can call that falling. An icy wind with 120 mph gusts seemed to keep it from actually hitting the ground. The next mornings newspaper headlines read "STORM OF DEATH KILLS 8." Man, all we ever get back home is "STORM WATCH 2000." And that's for just a gentle drizzle!
     Walking through town a few days after the STORM OF DEATH, a snowman stopped me and asked, with genuine concern in his voice, "Excuse me, Sir, do you smell carrot?"
     Somehow I managed to keep an expressionless face as I looked at him, trying not to stare at his nose. "Nah, man," I said, "I think it's just you."
      "Weird. Oh well, thanks anyway."
      "Sure thing." I walked on into town.
     When we reached the William Wallace monument a few days farther on, our guide didn't need to point out the irony of the statue of 'William Wallace' bearing an uncanny, unnatural resemblance to Mel Gibson with the word 'FREEDOM' carved boldly on its base, while the entire structure, freedom and all, stood locked behind a wrought iron fence to protect it from the vandals who tried to deface and destroy it shortly after it was built.
     Back in Edinburgh again, Jimmy had grown a Mullet. He was convinced he could still pick up women with his hair like that. I pulled him aside at the pub and carefully explained the vast difference between picking up in spite of a mullet, and picking up because of a mullet. He took a few seconds to digest this information, and then assured me that he understood. In spite of, or because of, I think he went home alone that night.
     Having had my fill of Haggis, and walking on ground that had the consistency of a wet sponge, I carefully navigated my way through the 'NO BLUE' zones of Britain down the east coast to Yorkshire. Home of Yorkshire Puddin'. Everybody loves Puddin'! I had a rare chance to watch one of the UKs four TV channels while in York, and quickly regreted the decision when the show was over. I wasted an hour of my time listening to a 'scientific' program try to tell me that oxygen (a natural corrosive and explosive) was responsible for slowly killing us all. For with every breath we take, oxygen enters our bodies helping the free radical blood cells corode and destroy our blood vessels. Damn that oxygen! I always felt it had evil tendencies! Solution: breathe less. Slow down your heart rate by not exercising and eating almost no food. A few of the other people in the lounge imediately lit up cigarettes in an effort to get that filthy oxygen out of their lungs. Ahh, science.
     A brief pause in Salisbury (no steaks in site) for just enough time to check out the only visible proof of Alien life visiting planet Earth. Stonehenge. 3,500 year old giant Erector sets of stone arranged in full and half circles conviently matching the direction of the sun on specific days, leading researchers to speculate that it might once have been (and still works as) a sort of calandar. Alien Erector set, I say.
     Salisbury is also home to a Cathedral boasting the tallest Spire in England, and one of four existing copies of the Magna Carta, the model of America's own Bill of Rights. Out in front of the cathedral with the tallest spire in England I watched three people carefully pose in front of a statue for their photo. But with their arms around each other in a friendly embrace, they completly blocked the statue they were posing with from the camera lens. But then, this is England. Where the 'religion' of Jedi Knight will be an official check box on the next Census form because so many people wrote it in on the last form. And where the whole country is capitivated (before curling became the biggest event of the year) by the rediscovery of a Star Search type show called Pop Idols. Where people actually seem to like the boy bands who are even worse then N'Sync. Is the world coming to an end?
     So here I am back in London, the city that combines the celebrity aspect of Los Angeles, the hustle and crowds of New York, and the politics of Washington DC, and mashes them all together in a cold wet climate, and calls it civilization.

     In the most respectful and greatful way possible, I'm done with England. It's time for me to move on to the Homeland. Time to really get down to business and explore my roots. In Ireland. She's been tempting me for far too long. Teasing me like a beautiful stripper with thistles on her tassels, and a shamrock-shaped glitter-green g-string holding a fresh pint o' Guiness just out of my reach. It's about time you stopped that teasin' and danced with me, little lady. What say you and me throw a party 'round about the 17th and see who shows up? You bring the Leprochauns, and I'll bring my dancin' shoes.
     And speaking of shoes, I learned a new Confucious-type saying during my time in Scotland:
     If you are angry with someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes.
     Then you'll be a mile away from them...and you'll have their shoes!

Props to my Peeps, and Peace on the Mothership.

Chris

Hey Osama, can I borrow your shoes?