It makes me so angry....

Have you seen this? Are you enraged? Horrified? Scared for the state of music? Scarred for life?

I think I'm all of the above.

I was taken by a photograph of you...

You need to click the pictures to see the whole thing. Trust me, it's usually worth it.





Sara and I, right before I went through the check-in process



Tillamook County Cheese? I know they have jails...



Warrender Park Crescent



RAINBOW



People keep playing GOLF here.



That's my street



That's what I see when I walk out the door in the morning



Gratuitous floor shot for Mum



It just chills out there, like all the time...



When I die, please dedicate a park bench to me, and my dog.



Mhairi, Cara, Jason, me, right before S Club.



For Kristin Jackson Browne



Did you doubt that it was magically delicious? Wait... wrong country....



For Brian



And you thought Hampshire had weird statues?



On the one hand, it's cool to see a church that John Irving wrote about... on the other hand, I really wish he HADN'T



For James



Flexing my stealth muscle on the move, for KJB



Doesn't this just reek of America to YOU?



What about now?



The WATERS OF LEITH, for Brian



I love this man



The Unknown Sailor?



I'll buy what he's selling



I wasn't.



Ran into Paul Rudd.... for Kristin



Cara, Robert, Jason, Mhairi, and me -- at the Sorting Ceremony

A quick lesson in stereotyping, and then some words

Or: How to tell the Scottish from the English

Scottish boys have rugged faces and... very styled hair.

English boys have soft faces and... very styled hair.

Also, you know middle school dances, when the girls are all a solid foot taller than every boy in the room? That's sort of what Scotland is like, except College Edition.



Mom: I love you. Please send the James Dean mug; I've been at a loss without him.
Anne: Thank you so much for the kettle! It's much more convenient than trying to pour the water from a saucepan.

And to the DedRingers, who apparently think puns make everything better, I'm very disappointed in you. I think you two are better together, so please don't kill off the band. (As for puns, they DO make everything better, but I'm still mad at you.)

The sirens sang so sweet and watched the sailors going down.

Today, I saw a three-legged dog and a rabbit on a leash, waiting patiently for a bus. Today, I entered a John Irving novel. I've also decided that Sunday is my adventuring day. Monday-Tuesday, those are my reading days. Monday at 2:30 (14:30) I also have a creative writing workshop with my fellow writers. Wednesday, I have class until 1 (13:00), then I get hot chocolate. Thursday, I have class at 2 (14:00) and that ends at 4 (16:00). Friday, I have class at the same time as Thursday, but after class, at 4 (16:00) I go for hot chocolate.

And turn off the lights, but that's just me.

Saturday is for nothing-ness.

And Sunday I adventure. Today, I went to Leith, down by the waterfront. I saw a sailor with no face -- taking the idea of the unknown soldier to extremes, perhaps -- the church where William Burns seduced Daughter Alice the choir girl tattoo artist, the aforementioned three-legged dog and Peter Rabbit. There was a sun-shower and a rainbow, making Edinburgh officially a fairy-tale city. Graffiti soothed my already-chilled nerves and compelled me to not be afraid. I saw the Waters of Leith, which does sound like an Irish song, Brian. (Leith is pronounced "Leeth," not "Layth" or "Lieth.") I saw seven buses with Paul Rudd's face on them -- pictures to follow. Elvis advertised "Books, CDs" and an old man in suspenders and a scally cap painted the outside of a bar moss-green.I met a German shepherd named Harley, like the motorcycle. I found the Blues Brothers in a storefront, against a tartan background, and on a shelf above some Navajos. Dizzy Gillespie is alive and well, or at least inspiring pubs in Leith. Vinyl Villains reminded me of James; it's his type of record store. Oh, there are some giraffes outside an enormous cinema, along with a giant foot, giant hand, and something that looks inexplicably like a dismembered neck? Some people like Morrisey; others think he is, uh, a very dirty word. And thus they deface posters of him. I won't be posting that particular picture here, but it will eventually make its way to my facebook, I'm sure


For those of you who were riveted by my ineptitude, and I know you exist (cough, KJax, cough), you will be disappointed to hear that neither of us mentioned it when I went in yesterday. So that was... good. He also gave me the directions that led me to the waterfront. I asked him for the best way to get to the docks, and he was telling me about buses and said if he hadn't knocked out the wifi the day before, he could show me on a map. To which I replied, "I have a map!" Also that I would like to walk, instead. And he showed me on the map how to walk there. He also pointed out which area of Leith he lives in. We chatted about gentrification and performing bears for a bit -- I was reading Hotel New Hampshire, bien sur -- and he almost chastised me for not using my "Loyalty" card. (Seven drinks, get the eighth free!) Something to do with me wanting to pay for my hot chocolate, and him thinking I didn't have to...

Oh, and did you hear the one from Friday morning? "I'm going to start putting alcohol in your hot chocolate," he said, joking. And what did I say? "I don't actually drink." Followed by, "But the one time I got drunk, I got really good at Trivial Pursuit."

Because yes, I am that cool.

Waiting for the other spoon to drop

So I suppose I should tell you about Juice Monkeys now. It is where I get my non-Dunkin Donuts hot chocolate, and it is not white. It is chocolate-chocolate. With whipped cream.

So the first time I went there, I was thinking, "Awww, this place has a name that reminds me of middle school." The second time I went there, it was for the free wifi. The third time I went there, well:

So there's this Irish boy. (Famous last words...?) He's from Galway, and is super cute. He's always smiling, and he likes some excellent music, like Jeff Buckley. But not just "Hallelujah" Jeff. No, the first Jeff Buckley song I heard him play was "Forget Her," which is wicked legit. And he has read the Brontes and has an opinion on them -- which is to say he prefers Austen, but an opinion is an opinion -- and he writes.

Needless to say, I've developed something of a crush on him.

So when I'm home, I drink a lot of hot chocolate. And with the wifi, I've been drinking quite a bit of hot chocolate. Which would be fine, but it offers me lots of opportunities to make a fool of myself. Like the time I asked him what he studied and he told me had a masters in psychology. And I, of course, dropped my spoon. Which is one thing. But I bent down to pick it up, and I fell off my chair.

I had been waiting, you know, for the other spoon to drop.

Which it did this afternoon. And rather spectacularly, I might add.



I stopped in for a hot chocolate today after class with Kevin from New York and Robert from Milwaukee. Lucky Charms (copyrighted by SFerry, 2009) was working and he told me to take a seat and he'd bring my chocolate over in a minute. So he brought my hot chocolate over and I hung out drinking it and talking sports and politics with Kevin and Robert (Yes, Courtney -- that's what I said, too!) When it was time to leave, there were two people placing an order at the counter, but I hadn't paid. He told me I could just pay him next time and I smiled and thanked him very politely. And I left gracefully as possible.

Which isn't very.

As I pulled open the door and held it for Robert and Kevin, my shoulder banged against the wall. And a light switch. Which turned off all the lights in the front of the shop. But there were three or four switches and I was forced to immediately weigh in my head the value of my two options: trial and error, which could be spectacular or disastrous, and just running away.

I promptly fled.

Meanwhile, back at the dump...

Feeling a bit homesick as I wandered the Meadows and ate my sausage roll at 8 AM the other day, I spied a seagull just fluttering his wings a bit.

"Oh, why hello, Jonathan Livingston Seagull! I never expected to see you here!" I exclaimed, certain he and I were alone.

Until, of course, I turned around and there was a man with his small child. Just staring at me.




"Feed the birds, tuppence, tuppence a bag."

I'll show you mine if you show me yours

The Puritans, to American studies majors, seem to be an utterly American phenomenon. After all, the Puritans chartered a boat and escaped to the rocky coast of Plimoth, where they established the first "permanent" American colony. They were driven out of England, and eventually the Netherlands, to the big, wide-open continent of North America. Ours.

Funny thing about being in Scotland, then. On the first day of my "Literature and Politics in Early Modern Scottish History" my professor cited an American definition of Puritans (one I have heard since roughly second grade, every November like clockwork) with reverence and astonishment. As if she could hardly believe that an American scholar could provide a clever and succinct definition for what was surely a British phenomenon.

(The quote, by the way, is roughly paraphrased here: A Puritan is a person who is very afraid that somewhere in the world, someone is happy.)

I had forgotten that before being driven out of England by the King's religious restrictions, or severe lack thereof, and even after settling in Plimoth, that they considered themselves English, still. That it wasn't a burden for them to have to send lumber and goods to the King, because he was their king. So too had my elementary school teachers. (Sorry, Mrs. Dorsky, I don't mean to throw you under the bus for doing your job.) Which isn't fair, I suppose, since we all knew in the backs of our minds that these were British folks who wrote up the Mayflower Compact and ostracized my beloved Hester Prynne (the most empowered fallen woman in literature and I love her for it). Even the Puritans born in America didn't consider themselves "American" and legally, they were still subjects of the King. Which makes them, legally, and technically, British history.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. Hey, remember Squanto? Lets make hand-turkeys and collect leaves. What is the definition of a "cornucopia"? (This, I believe, truly is fundamentally American, like baseball and Fenway Franks. But I'll keep surveying people.)

But it gives rise to some serious soul-searching. What is American history and when does it begin? When does America become "America," no longer under the domain of England? (The easy answer might be "1776, duh," but even that isn't really true. Because many of the colonists saw themselves as a free people before that, which is part of what led to the tension prior to the Greatest War Ever. Some people saw themselves as English right through the war. Our own history is never as unified as we'd like to think. But that's a different entry) Why is it that both British scholars and American scholars lay claim to the same group of people as falling into their exclusive historical domain, and to what degree is all history universal, in the sense that we are all people and history is communal property? ("We are all connected to each other, in a circle, in a hoop that never ends.")

But John Smith really is a part of this discussion. Just look at his portrayal in Pocahontas, yeah? He is blonde, blue-eyed, and voiced by Mel Gibson, who at the time seemed as golden and American as Tom Brady. That's like Brad Pitt playing Vasquez or Ponce De Leon with an American accent, or Tom Cruise playing a Nazi without a German accent...

John Smith wasn't an American. He didn't even settle in America; he went back to England. Is he a part of "our" history or a part of "their" history? And is this possessiveness of history really a good thing at all? Probably not. But it exists, this concept of "my history" and "your history." Isn't one of the great things about history that anyone can study it? That it belongs to the people who want it? When countries acknowledge their shared history, such as both World Wars and the Reformation, the study of that history becomes that much deeper and richer. When you accept that the nailing of the Ninety-five Theses to the door of the Wittenberg Cathedral marked a crucial turning point not just in German or Italian history but also in English and French and Spanish history, and not just in religious history but in political and social as well, then you can come to a much fuller and rounder understanding of what Martin Luther did. The Reformation is something everyone in Europe shares. From Henry VIII to Martin Luther to Pope Julius.

So Scotland, England, all of Britain, hell, let's throw the Netherlands in there for good measure. I want to know what you can tell me about the Puritans, about the Pilgrims. And I'll show you mine if you show me yours.



Note: It seems the British don't want John Smith. I asked my flatmate yesterday what she learned about John Smith, and her response was, "John who?"

"It's here they got the range and the machinery for change"

It seems that we have reached a point where we are all tired of being divided. Because, in America, unity is what it's all about. Right?

Yeah, and there really is a fountain of youth in Florida, of all places. Cities made of gold (my Boston comes close to that, actually) and whiskey streams, all that jazz.

What happened post-9/11, the "re-unification" of America, was a fluke. Our natural state as Americans is combative and argumentative. It's one of those things I like so much about our country. And Barack, I love him, but he talks about there only being one America -- which is sort of true. But that one America is one great big family, full of the same constant squabbling and petty disagreements that all families are prone to. (Raise your hand if you thought going on the silver standard was the answer to all of our problems? William Jennings Bryan? Anyone? Anyone?) We're all constantly taking sides; it's what we do. Even back in the beginning, you think everyone was gung-ho about the Boston Tea Party? You think they were all stoked that they had no tea in the city, unless you wanted to drink the salty harbor water? No, Sam Adams was cool with it, but it was pretty much his idea, and he drank beer for breakfast instead of tea, anyway. Because he was a badass.

They were divided into three camps, really. The sons of liberty, who were all about this "Don't shoot 'til you see the whites of their eyes!" "For Boston!" "Give me liberty or give me death!" "My only regret is that I have but one life to lose!" super-sized, value-meal pride. The Loyalists, who mostly cowered in their houses and ran away when the men with torches came to smoke them out. Because the English are posh and get Germans to fight it for them, why don't you understand I can't get gunpowder on my dress reds or dust on my breeches! (I may be simplifying the Loyalists' side a bit.)

And then you have the people who were just sitting back and watching it all happen, who were likely recruited by the Sons of Liberty and the Minute Men (Motts in a Minute: for the American Revolutionary in your life!) and then watched as their children died in a brutal, muskets-and-bayonets war. I'm not, after all, trying to glorify the American Revolution. It's a fascinating case-study, though. Hey, doesn't that whole "recruited by the Sons of Liberty" segment look an awful lot like the working class Americans who watch their children join the ranks of the military today? Another grand American tradition, no doubt.

And there was actually a fourth type of person involved in this war: Benedict Arnold. But that's a different issue altogether.

Look at how riled about we get about sports. I was sitting in class and met a boy from New York. I asked him if he was Yankees or Mets and he praised the Steinbrenners as the height of moralistic behavior. (And Derek Jeter as the height of class -- there's obviously work to be done there.) We started talking about Manny, and how he let three lovely pitches float by him -- "Not the Cardinals, not the Mariners, not the Brewers. No, it had to be the Yankees." And suddenly, we were in a three-way debate with the boy sitting behind us, who happened to be from Milwaukee.

We're American; it's in our nature to be stubborn and hard-headed and to believe firmly that we are right about everything. It is in our nature to believe that we know what is best for everyone. And it is in our nature to be disagreeable and contrary. (Really, Mom, I'm just being a good American.) All this nonsense about the good old days, when America was one happy country and it was rainbows and butterflies all the time -- show it to me in the history books. Give me a period of time when the peace and prosperity were not interrupted by protests and civil rights' violations. When all Americans actually trusted and loved their government. When the government wasn't full of more pettiness and in-fighting than a clique of high school girls.

Basically, show me a period in American history when we didn't all behave like spoiled, entitled middle class high school students. I'm not criticizing, because I love America. And history would be so boring if we all got along all the time. And nothing would ever change. How stagnant would life be, if we were all placid and happy?

So I say, good for you, America. This country was born of division, not Kumbayah; we had to fight and bleed and kill and die for those things we needed, for the freedom we craved. And indeed, it is only through division and opposition that this country has moved forward. I sort of like being out of the slave-owner days, myself. And if we have to keep fighting for what we need, if people have to keep screaming until someone finally hears them, or gets tired of fighting about this and wants to move on to something new, then thank god we live in a country where we can do that. Thank god we can fight and claw our way toward equality, where we can sit on buses and refuse to move, where we can burn our bras and gather together to ask for an end to human rights' violations. Because otherwise, it would never happen. And it needs to.

I'm not applauding Barack for choosing someone to speak at his inauguration who is filled with hatred and venom toward an entire group of people, because that's not what I mean when I say that we need to fight, that there needs to be action-reaction. People like Fred Phelps are not the sort of Americans I am talking about here. But a team of people willing to have open debates, however dug into their own beliefs they are, that's what this country has always needed. And I'm not talking Jacksonian duels, here, guys. (Though, how awesome would that be?)

So, Mr. President, on this, the eve of your inauguration, I'm asking you to please not silence opposition and disagreement because it is the only thing that will ever save us. It's not that we always agree or see eye to eye that makes us great. It's that we don't always agree and we never see eye to eye, but we stick together anyway, we don't secede, we don't break off and form our own enclaves or countries. (Uh, usually. Well, at least, most of the time?) Like any real family, the fighting doesn't ruin us.

If this country needs a fight, a knock-down, drag-out brawl to get to the next level, then that's a fight I'll join. And if it looks like a bar fight with swinging chairs and flying kegs, then I'll know my darling brother has joined the fray, as well.




Oh, and I'm making a couple rules right now.

1. Catholics cannot marry non-Catholics, or they will be ex-communicated. No questions asked. Nor can Jewish people marry non-Jews, etc. (Hey, it's Church doctrine, sugar. I'm just doing what God says is right.)
2. Atheists cannot get married at all. (After all, it's a religious thing, isn't it? There should be no marriages that go unrecognized by the Church, right?)
3. If you only had a civil ceremony, your union is henceforth a civil union. You get what you pay for. And since the Bible mentions marriage, marriage has to mention God.
4. Brunettes cannot marry each other. Because, hell, I'm feeling arbitrary.



What's that, Thomas Jefferson, slave owner and lover of Sally Hemmings? The rights of the minority should never be decided by the majority? Someday, love, someday.

Do you remember Paris in the fall of '99?

I'll be back at it soon, though likely less chipper.

American Slapstick

So yesterday I decided to buy a ticket to see Teddy Thompson, so I walked the fifteen minutes to Queen's Hall. (SO EXCITING to live that close to the venue!) Of course, the ground in Edinburgh is always wet, always muddy. And I'm listening to John Fogerty, very American of me. Bouncing along, thinking, "How can you not smile? You're in Edinburgh!" And my foot slips in a spot of mud. And I nearly fall.

Nearly.

But that doesn't stop a car full of boys from rolling down their windows to point and laugh loudly as they drive past me. Why should I be the only person who's allowed to laugh at my carelessness?




Teddy Thompson, January 30th. I cannot even begin to comprehend how lucky I am.

Safely o'er the friendly main

Having arrived safely in Edinburgh, legally and in high spirits, I promptly unpacked and... conked out. (The hours on the phone discussing my lack of a student visa proved useless when the Dublin immigrations officer merely asked to see my letter of acceptance. Relief!) But I fell asleep. Only to wake up at roughly noon. Sleep again until three, then sleep until five. At six o'clock, I went to what I thought would be bed for the night. Alas. I woke up at midnight and found it impossible to fall asleep again. So I stayed up.

People I have met:

A French boy and Scottish girl who live in flats 2 and 3 at 102, and whose names I cannot for the life of me recall.
Noah, the boy from Seattle who goes to Haverford. He sat beside me on the plane from Dublin to Edinburgh.
Heather, the girl who goes to school in Arizona but lives in California.
Shahreen, a girl from Pakistan who broke my heart by telling me she goes to Vassar.
Adam, from Milford, who lives in flat 12 and is very much like a nervous, shy Michael Ross. Only less right-wing and argumentative.

At orientation, they declared Edinburgh the brainiest city in Europe (most degrees per capita, natch) and highlighted the monuments of David Hume and fellow thinkers that are unusual. "Typically its war heroes and military leaders that get monuments, but not in Edinburgh." I laughed and thought back to Boston and my recent Sam Adams pictures. I do love me some rabble-rousers. But the thing is, Sammy is right next to writers and thinkers. Boston is a city as seeped in academia, but that's not the point.

I love this city. Minarets and towers, churches and cathedrals, and when, in a rush of exhaustion and frustration, I began to regret my decision to study abroad at all, when I began to feel like I'd made a horrible mistake that would never be rectified -- whose face should peer out at me from behind a plate-glass window?

Yes.

This city is that perfect.

Jackson Browne was staring out at me and I remembered why I was here. Why I love traveling. Even though it was a moment of warm familiarity, of homey goodness, I was so glad for it. It was just enough, not too much, and my shoulders uncurled themselves.

Also, this afternoon I was sitting in a bar on South Clerk Street, and they were playing the NFL playoffs. Philly beat the Giants, hallelujah, and the Steelers beat San Diego. I discovered boys who know less about (American) football than I do! I almost improvised some bullshit explanation about how the game was played, but it surely would have ended with, "But really, the team with the most homo-erotic points wins, so touchdowns don't mean anything." Anyway, sitting there, all of a sudden, Mark Knopfler starts coming out of the speakers. I mean, really? Really Edinburgh? Thank you! I sat there for two hours, but my bill only came to three pounds, forty pence. So when it came time to pay the bill, I put a five-pound note on the little tray and the waitress went to get change. When I told her I didn't need any change, she practically fell apart into little beams of light. (And that, folks, is how we do it in America. Except, our waitresses are far less appreciative. There, we tip a lot so they won't spit in our food. And they consider a twenty-percent tip a right, not a perk. Fools.)

The city. Minarets and towers, cobblestones and harsh, warm winds. It's much, much warmer than I expected. "It's so cold," they've all been saying, "So sorry the weather isn't as welcoming as it should be." Seriously? It's high thirties at worst. It feels like September. My feet were sweating today as I walked around the city. Crossing the street is an adventure. I keep forgetting which way to look first. People are out and around playing soccer -- football -- all the time. It's pitch black at 7 AM, because the sun comes up only after 8 AM. This will take some getting used to. I'm sure that at some point I will stop being awake for sunrise. When the jet lag is gone.

Oh! Here's something super cool. If you have a map open in front of you and scratch your head, every person on the sidewalk will offer you directions. And the cab drivers are chatty, really friendly, and will stop their meters to wait for you. They warn you against the Polish cab drivers, too.

Around every corner is another old building, another gorgeous view of the city. There are hills in this city. Big, green, undeveloped hills. For hiking. Yeah. Hiking. (I know, right? That's exactly what I said!) I found a sitar/belly dancing shop. The Scottish version of Hot Topic, and, oh yeah, walking around a park today, there was a rainbow. An enormous, perfectly formed rainbow. Because why the hell not?

The construction workers are all so posh, too. Initially, I was sort of like, "Oh, hey! My people!" Until I noticed the Burberry scarves and polished boots, of course. How could I not laugh? Walking out my door every day, I cannot believe I live here, in this city whose newest areas are older than Boston's oldest. It doesn't seem fair. My life is certainly charmed, eh?

If you start looking for signs, they are everywhere. But they all say different things. Does coincidence exist? Did I look up at just the right moment, or did just the right moment grab me and force my eyes up? I guess that depends on whether you put faith in horoscopes or not. Are we supposed to be where we are, or is it all happenstance? What is inevitability?

"What's coming is coming. We just have to be here to meet it when it does."

People I will/already miss:

Mom, Dad
J+D
KJB and family
SV
Favorite Cousin
The Parks family
Grandma
Grandpa
Uncle Bobby, baby Bobby
Squeaky and family
Cory
Rachael
Hannah
The kids at the preschool
Brian W.
Brian L.
Brian M.
Christopher Semple
(I may have missed you... I'm sorry if I did..)




Things I will/already miss:

Dunkin Donuts whenever I please
Greasy pizza and salty french fries
Dad's omelets
Zevon
Hendrix
two-hour phone conversations
the American movie industry
water pressure
Cranberry bogs
Panera
Making jewelry
Snowstorms
Snow flurries
Snow
My DVD collection
HD TV
Homemade cookies
Texting Matt during Sox games
Texting Matt whenever, about anything Sox-related
Regularly heated rooms
Working at the preschool



My mailing address:

Ashley Weckbacher
102/13 Warrender Park Road
Edinburgh
EH9 1DN
The UK


Send me stuff and I'll reciprocate, I promise.

From Scotland.


Listen to:
"Leaves and Kings," by Josh Ritter

Where I woke, sobbing for joy

So there has been a lot of talk lately, about remaking the Heights. You know the ones -- they wuther? Anyway, I know you're thinking the same thing I'm thinking. "Why fix what isn't broken?" An I say to you, sometimes, we just need a new Heathcliff to drool over. So please don't rob me of that.

Considering all that has happened in the past week or so, I need some well-mannered frivolity, which is to say some good, old-fashioned panting over fictional characters. So I've decided that I will cast the twenty-ten refurbished Wuthering Heights. No one loves it more than me, after all. And you have to understand that I don't think anyone could be a better Heathcliff than my boy, Ralph. And I was surprised by how obvious the choice was, once I stumbled upon it. As for Cathy, I don't think I've found anyone yet who is quite what I'm looking for. And as for director, well, that one is a toss-up.

Director: Either Tim Burton or James Ivory.

Truthfully, I'm really leaning more towards Ivory, but he's old. Ang Lee was my knee-jerk reaction because he's got both the sensitivity and the eye to make the film stunning -- and we all know how well he handles epically doomed love affairs, don't we? And it just didn't feel right. The pieces didn't slide together quite the way I wanted them to. Then it hit me: sweeping, epic, doomed love story. Integral commentary on the British class system. The Remains of the Day!! Which means James Ivory. He would get the tragic element of the story just right, and same for the moodiness of the scenery.

Tim Burton is a much less obvious choice, and if he would promise to make it less cartoonish, I might consider him a more formidable contender. Also, two of the smaller roles will be filled by some of his favorites, but we'll get there. He'd nail the gothic palette and dark undertones, so I am really wishing I could marry Burton and Ivory so that we could get the perfect blend of gothic drama and romantic yearning.




Now


Nelly: Helena Bonham Carter

Slightly sassy and matronly without ever having been married. You know, I think she needs to go back to her period pieces and accept the character actor she is destined to be. Also, she's a more surprising choice than most and would do something fun with the role.


The neighbor (narrator): Johnny Depp

Johnny loves the story, but he's too old to play the wild gypsy lover. He would take this role and run with it -- could probably film it in three days and he would make it creepy, add an extra layer to it. If you're into that sort of thing. (I did consider Paul Bettany, but he'd play it straight with none of the goth humor that Johnny could bring forth from the role. And the character is almos a farce, so...)


Isabella Linton: Kristen Stewart

Boring, bland, and annoying. Nearly pretty and willing to be submissive to a dominant man. Kristen just needs to be herself, as she was in Twilight. Think I'm being harsh? Maybe I am, but tell me who I was describing that first bit -- you can't tell the difference between Isabella and Kristen, can you?



Ok, having cast the three most boring roles (and not necessarily with boring actors!) I'm going to call it a night. Stay tuned to see my (DELIGHTFUL) choices for the rest of the characters. :)

Heathcliff is such a coupe.

I leave in a week

That's all.