Sometimes it's hard to tell the wishing from the well.

Podcasts were pretty clearly invented by the devil. Podcasts, blogs, facebook, email, all of it. Invented by the creepy androgynous floating creature in The Passion of the Christ.

Star lyrics I'm dying over:

"The rain fell hard on the roof that day.
You telephone from far away.
I see the ocean from my room.
All I could say was,
'Are you coming home soon?'

The static whispered in my ear
But in a moment your voice was clear.
'I need some time,' you said to me.
That's when I knew you were gonna make me lonely.

You were gonna make me wish for the time
Right before I was born, when every living breath
Was another new dawn.
Or the time I was five at the top of Peak Hill
And the wind almost took me away."


Seriously, them intrepid Canucks be crazy. And am I intentionally avoiding the subject? Am I stalling like a kid trying to write fifteen pages on a book he hasn't read? Probably, but my best papers have been about books I never read; let's be honest. Or, books I only half-read. (And because some of those papers were apparently pretty memorable, I won't name them. Because it would suck to disappoint certain high school teachers.) It's just that, where Clyde is concerned, there's a whole lot of "bursting into tears" involved. And I think I scared the guy working box at Festival Theater.

He deserved it.

"Do you have any Jackson Browne tickets left?"
"Yes, plenty!"
"Really? Wow, awesome. I'll be back this afternoon!"
"Wait -- I thought you said Ry Cooder. Jackson Browne is sold out."

It didn't even take thirty seconds. I was down then UP then crashed into the hard, cold earth like a Russian space shuttle. In what universe does "Jackson Browne" sound like "Ry Cooder"? I get it; they both cover Warren Zevon songs. That's not acceptable. So yes, my knees gave out and I instantly started crying. I could barely get out, "Oh-kay." He started to tell me that I could check back, but I'm pretty sure I had my "Other Ashley" face on by that point, and I looked murderous. Jesus Christ, I don't even remember the last time I had that face on. The one I don't control, that looks like someone who isn't me, the one that almost made me believe that I maybe had an evil twin. The face that my mother explained to Heidi as, "I can just see the moment of the change and I can't describe it. It's like Ashley is completely replaced by someone else. Someone evil."

I cried the entire walk back to my flat. I'm checking every day from now on.

At least I saw Lloyd before the news. Am I ashamed of my reaction? No, but he doesn't need to see that. I saw him as I walked TOWARD the theater, and there was a super-awkward "Not quite sure how to handle this and acknowledge you... I know I should, but, uh... Hi." moment. I'm just saying, my walks are always awkward, tears or no.



Josh Ritter is about the coolest cat around. I was listening to NPR's "All Songs Considered" interview with him and they ask him about looking audience members in the eye, and he just went off on a three minute ramble about Edward Hopper. Seriously, boy, why are you doing this to me? One of the best living songwriters, easy, and then you gotta go and bring it all back to art and windows and "Don't you want to know her story?" Not as much as I want to give you my ovaries? And then, later, he says, "When a baby smiles at you, it's proof that you exist," as a means of explaining what good music makes you feel.

Father. My. Children.

Aside from that, he's just very affable and sincere and I liked his story about potatoes that then led into "Temptation of Adam." ("What five letters spell apocalypse, she asked me./I won her over singing W-W-I-I-I and she smiled and we both knew that she'd misjudged me." So good, ferrilz.) And he's one of only two men I've ever listened to who can write songs about telling women to take off their clothing and not have it sound completely grimey. "You were naked as a window/But I'll take all that nothing/Over nothing at all."

Decidedly less charming? Jens Lekman. But is that really fair of me? Oh, who cares? I'm not his biggest fan and never would be. Though, he had one thing right. It sure was the opposite of hallelujah. (I'm assuming that was the message you wanted me to take away from Night Falls Over Kortedala, yeah?)


Now, Jakob -- Dylan, children, please, the only one that matters -- is sort of a rad little pistol. He played the Folk Festival this past August and I'm listening to the podcast of it (seriously, who needs to actually GO to shows anymore?) and how on Earth can you not laugh? First of all, Dylan. Newport. Legen -- wait for it, and I hope you're not lactose-intolerant because the second part of this word is -- dairy. [In desperate need of a new How I Met Your Mother.] And then he says, "I thought I'd do us all a favor and just begin with the acoustic guitar. And for those who are wondering, I couldn't make up my mind, so it is acoustic, but it does plug in." Trouble-makkar, I see what you did there. Clever boy.

"I was born in the summer of Sam, smaller and sooner than planned/In the spitting image of a man raised by wolves."

Daddy Dylan? I think my favorite Dylan song is pretty obviously "My Back Pages." The Joan Osbourne/Clyde cover version of that song for the "Steal My Movie" album is stellar.


Do you think that if I pull a "strategic hover" near the load-out things will just fall into place for me? If I stand at the load-out, where the trucks roll in? If I sniff all around it, like a half-grown female pup? If I'm not hard to talk to and look like I have no where to go, do you think they'll give me a pass so I can get in to see the show? What if I wear a badge saying, "Hello, my name is Rosie"? I do think that I would be obligated, then, to leave with the drummer. And we all know how I feel about drummers... (Wait, scratch that, Susannah -- exception to every rule, don't forget.) Saddest song he ever wrote, by his own admission.


Back to Scotland. Exam schedule is out and all my exams are the second week of May. Because we all know how well Ashley can multitask. After that, what will I do? Probably write, right? Adventure all over? Climb Arthur's Seat? Every. Single. Day. Work on pulling together my Div II, most likely, and getting myself organized for Div III. Working on my PC app, because apparently, April 1st is just the deadline if you want an on-campus interview before you leave for the summer. Maybe this was the wrong semester to go to Scotland. But you know what? There was never going to be a perfect time and this seems as good as any other, really.

Anyway, tonight Ashley and I went for fish and chips and got deep-fried Mars Bars. Because if I went to Alabama, I'd eat a deep-fried Twinkie. And I've decided that deep-fried Mars Bars are my new favorite food. Because it's chocolate. And grease. What part of that is a fail? Oh, hey, there's a Canoli Season type picture of me with my delicious treat, and it's probably the grossest picture ever taken of me. Needless to say, I love it. So here you go, some pictures of Mars Bars, and because I never got them up, the pictures of the imported snow from ages ago.

By the way, blame D for all the new updates. :)

I still prefer Vincent...

Today, I watched The Passion of the Christ. I feel, now, that I owe him something. Not Mel Gibson (though I'd give him some things for free if he ever came knocking) but Jesus. Which I think was the intent. And for the most part, despite a few hokey moments and a bit too much gore, I though the film was a visual success. The opening scenes in Gethsemane were especially captivating. Though, the end had a sort Saturday morning CCD feel. I was also glad he included "My god, my god, why have you forsaken me?" because that's my single favorite line in the entire Bible. Was that a very weird thing to say? I don't really know. (Alan Hodder might.) But I do know that the entire time I was watching I was also thinking, "I met the man with the thorny crown; I helped him carry his cross through town." Especially when that man actually helped him carry his cross through town! One more: "Blinding me, his song remains, reminding me: he's a bandit and a heartbreaker. My Jesus was a cross-maker."

Anyway, the past week and a half have been busybusy. That's not even true. I've just been hanging out. Saturday, I got my hot chocolate to-go and hit the National Galleries of Modern Art. Exhibits featured "Blind Hollywood," which Sara might appreciate for its irony. The artist took very famous promotional material and cut out the film stars' eyes, replacing them -- or not -- with mirrored paper, black paper, or nothing. Both more and less creepy than carrying Sean Biggerstaff's eyes in your pocket, right S? I wandered through "The Islands" by Charles Avery. Wandered, well, that's a stretch. Stopped and read it all, and there was a lot to read. Curiouser and curiouser. (Does that make anyone else think of Mrs. Lewis? And poor Mr. Lewis, for whom death was surely a glad release?) Avery really thought it all out; it's exceptionally detailed. I stood in awe. No grinding up chalk and calling it art for him, nosir. No throwing paint at a canvas and seeing what sticks. I liked it, really, much more than Jackson Pollock. I'm not buying the print of it -- not even if that were possible -- but I liked it. Made more sense to me than a plain white canvas or some of the stuff Punky and I saw back in Dublin in tenth grade. But van Gogh, well, he's just how I roll, son. Him and Cezanne. Post-impressionism is what's good, children. Remember that.

Then I got to Steve McQueen.

I have a rule. It's a simple rule, and one I had, until recently, never had to enforce. Well, Steve McQueen, congratulations! You've won. Here I was thinking, "I didn't know Steve McQueen made art other than movies!" Which was terribly naive of me, I'm aware. But it's where my mind went. There, and to Harrison Ford, but I miss someone's bright baby blues, I guess.

Anyway, my rule: as soon as a museum makes me cry, I'm done.

Drawer upon drawer of faces the size of postage stamps. Name, age, rank. "If you ask them, they'll tell you." The exhibit is called "For Queen and Country." You're smart; do the 'rithmetic yo'self.

And obviously, the only thing that cures a broken heart is chocolate. So I got some. By which I mean three. I think if Vincent had hot chocolate available to him, he might have been happier.

But I forgot about the three men in kilts. And the bead shop. Oh, dear.

The bead shops. I've found... both of them. Which is to say, the two tiny bead shops that, area-wise, are about 75% of Gemstar, Gemstone -- together. Severely disappointed. And their nicer beads look like cast-offs from America's bargain bins. Which is rough, let me tell you. I'm a bit let down, but now I know why no one on Etsy responded to my pleas for the names of good bead shops in Edinburgh. They don't exist.



Kilts? Yes, please.

Walking toward Stockbridge down a turnpike covered in snow -- and the 'burgh seemed dreamlike on account of the frosting -- I encountered three young, fairly attractive men in kilts. Being rather unashamed of who I am, the girl who takes pictures with Freedom Trail guides for kicks, I asked one of them if I could take his picture.

"Guys, guys! A tourist wants to take a picture!"

He must have said it four or five times. And my question is, why should I be ashamed of being a tourist? I mean, have you seen what they consider to be American culture? Navajo Indians and the Blues Brothers. If I was walking down Boylston Street in full Red Sox super-fan regalia and some Scottish guy asked to take my picture, I'd totally understand. And it wasn't even the kilts, so much as it was the people wearing them. Because I had seen loads of old-timers wearing them. (Old-timers, you know, my fan club?) But young guys with styled hair? Now that's exciting!

Anyway, I took the picture as quickly as possible because, despite being kinda judgmental, they were kinda nice, too. And they stopped despite being late for a bus. So I leaned in close as I walked by -- and I swear to God this is the coolest I have ever been and will ever be -- said, "The kilts aren't even in the picture."

And away I walked, the American Tourist.




Kevin-from-New-York and I went to see The Double Life of Veronique, which was a little too deliberately provocative for my tastes. And it took the first idea -- of Veronique's double-life in Poland -- and dropped it completely halfway through in favor of something entirely new. Arbitrary shots of Veronique pining over pine trees and her father pausing as he works on something made of pine. Creepy marionettes. Gratuitous nudity. Eh. Interesting concept, disappointing film.

I went to the Elephant House for the first time. Uh, yeah. That one. Where that book, about the boy, with the scar, was written.

I gave a presentation in my class today on Alexander Montgomerie and James VI. Apparently, James VI was a great poet. That makes one of us. Truthfully, though, he was pretty rad.

Robert and I got dollhouse sushi today, but we paid people-sized prices. Koi -- be aware. They also don't have any koi at all. Afterwards, we ate ice cream. Robert also informed me that it is very weird that I have a crush on certain doctors. By which I mean Lloyd Lewellyn Jones, our Hollywood epic professor. It's not a real crush, like others I might have. It's like the kind of crush unnamed friends have developed on lit professors. It happens.

Apparently, you can ski indoors in Glasgow. This is upsetting on so many levels, I hardly know where to begin. So instead I just.... sputter.

I went for a one-pound pint on Monday with Susannah and her friends. Nice people. I had fun. Really dislike beer. And pretension. Just throwing that out there. I wish she wasn't going to London for a week.

Oh, and Kristin: Reel Big Fish is playing out here.

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."

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.