firbush weekend part 4

The third day at Firbush was as fun as the previous. It started out with kayaking in the morning, which left my arms pretty shot. Still, the scenery on the loch was great, and I never pass up a chance to kayak. In the afternoon, I went mountain biking. It started to rain, and foolishly, I had worn my only pair of sneakers, and a pair of dickies. Between the rain and the puddles, both my shoes and trousers were thoroughly soaked, and caked in mud. The mud, snow, and rain, made what would have been a pretty tame ride seem almost epic. The climbs seemed grueling and the downhills wicked. All in all, it was a blast. Unfortunately, it also made me realize that I’m not in the best of shape, as I was feeling pretty winded after some of the longer climbs. Too much begging off of skating and running in Edinburgh on account of the weather, I guess.

I had just enough time to shower and hang my clothes out to dry before dinner. Dinner was hilarious, though probably only to me. It started out with what seemed like a little game of “20 questions with the vegan”. Some of the questions were the standard fare, but the girl sitting next to me responded as I suspect an eight year old would. “Can you eat this?”, “How about this?”, “What about that?”, “Why can’t you eat that?”, and the kicker, “Could you ever marry someone who wasn’t a vegan?” Sheesh. If that wasn’t enough the sorority girl from Denison, who was sitting across from me, couldn’t seem to understand how my parents, having attended the University of Michigan (apparently her favorite college football team), could bear the fact that I was attending OSU. If it wasn’t so ridiculous, I would have been annoyed, but it was just comical. The comedy of the night was made complete on the van ride home when there was a short BBC radio piece just ripping into George W’s eloquence (or lack thereof). I love the British media!

When I got back to the flat, I had missed the film society’s screening of “Dancer in the Dark”, but Iain, Marco, and some girls from nearby flats were about to go out to the cinema to see “Vanilla Sky”. They invited me along, though I suspect it was only so that Iain wouldn’t have to sit next to a stranger (a bit of a phobia that he has, apparently). One of the girls from the flat across the hall stopped by and hilarity ensured. I think both Iain and Marco fancy her a bit, and the common room immediately turned into the Iain and Marco show, with both of them trying to vie for her affections. That wasn’t all the hijinks for the night, though. On the way to the film, Marco’s girlfriend Agatha (pronounced Aga-tuh, I guess it’s Polish) walked into a pole. It was one of the funniest things I’ve seen in a long time. We got to the film late, and it was sold out, so I decided to go out to a pub with Rob and some of the girls. I’ve been to a bar in Columbus, maybe twice, but here I didn’t have anything better to do and I didn’t want to come off as the anti-social flatmate. Hey, it’s a cultural experience. The pub was nice enough, even with the cheesy acoustic guitar act. It was definitely a lot more chill than places in Columbus, and I felt more comfortable with the absence of insecure frat boys looking for a fight. Still, it was a little weird since I didn’t know anyone very well except for Rob. Luckily, Agatha struck up a conversation and that pretty much occupied me for a while. Agatha is a talker, and though the conversation wasn’t uninteresting, I just couldn’t keep up with her ability to talk and talk and talk. All in all, I had a good time at the pub, though I doubt I’ll spend too much more time in the pubs in the future. We went home, and I was pretty tired, but not so tired as to miss the opportunity to talk shit about Iain’s mom. My past two living situations have utterly ruined me. It will take me a long while before I am able to go long periods of time without talking shit. Oh well, it’s good recreation, and as Iain said, it keeps the wit sharp.

firbush weekend part 3

Before dinner, we were all sitting in the common room, when a couple of guys announced that all the men ought to follow him upstairs. What kind of ridiculous macho bullshit is this, I thought, but I soon found out it was part of the traditional “toast to the lasses”, and followed them upstairs. Every year, some Scots celebrate Robert Burns, the national poet, with a night of food drink, and craziness. Part of the tradition, apparently, is the “toast to the lasses” in which the males write a toast, ideally in lyrical form, poking fun at the ladies and the ladies respond in kind. Robert Burns was a bit of a womanizer, so I guess the tradition is appropriate. Still, it got pretty ugly with a room full of guys. There were the obvious suggestions about poking fun about women being in the kitchen, or women drivers, or women’s suffrage. It went way beyond that, thoughm with one kid making it apparent that the word to rhyme with “calling” just had to be “snowballing”. It was hard not to laugh at some of the cracks, but in all honesty it was pretty creepy. It was hard to tell where the joking ended, and the full blown woman hating began. The end product was filled with ridiculous stereotypes and sexual innuendo. Not exactly to my liking. I know it’s all in fun, but in the end, we live in a world where women with the same job title, skills, and qualifications as their male co-workers still make significantly less money. So, I could only laugh so much before feeling a bit pissed off.

Dinner consisted of haggis, chicken, tatties and neeps (which I think are mashed potatoes and turnips, though I’m not entirely sure), and some weird vegetarian option. The coolest part was that the haggis was brought into the dining hall to the sounds of a kilt clad bag piper, and then addressed with the Robert Burns poem, “To a Haggis“. Unfortunately, there was no vegetarian haggis as I had hoped, and the vegetarian pasta had cheese in it. It wasn’t a big deal, but the the others around me soon noticed my empty plate and put me on the spot with their misplaced sympathy. It’s just a bad scene. I really don’t care. I can happily go one meal without eating, but it’s really hard to convey that when you have a half dozen eyes staring at you as you try to explain that really, it wasn’t a problem. I always get flustered and I think I come off as someone who wants to be a martyr rather than someone who doesn’t care. I found out that the potatoes were e vegan, at least, so I didn’t starve.

After dinner, someone read a bit about Robert Burns’ life. He lived the hard life of a farmer, and his life was filled with womanizing and heartbreak, but through his poems, he managed to capture the essence of the Scottish experience. He wrote of themes that were significant to his life, that of a Scotsman, and wrote in the Scot’s language instead of refined English. I think it’s pretty rad. I don’t think the US even has a national poet, and if it does, I sure as hell can’t picture Americans gathering together to read poetry in a celebration of national heritage. Next came the toast to the lasses, and given the poor delivery, it sounded even more crass than when it was penned. Luckily, as per the tradition, someone had added some more positive couplets about the ladies at the end. The two guys who did it obviously had a great deal more poetic talent than the rest of us, because the closing was rather well written, clever, and sincere. The girls’ response had a bit of a different tone, though it was also pretty raunchy. They decided to address each of us lads in kind. I felt that with my verse (“and Geoffrey who seems like the strong silent type, but maybe those buckeyes just aren’t that bright”) I got off a lot easier than some of the other guys.

After dinner, the tables and the floor was cleared for the ceilidh (I think it’s pronounced like kay-lee), a traditional Scottish dance, filled with drinking, dancing, and carrying on. Some of the older people in attendance tried to lead us through some traditional Scottish dances, but as most of the kids were either drunk, or like myself, woefully uncoordinated, it was pretty disastrous. I was intent to sit the whole mess out, but someone insisted that I be her friend’s dance partner, so I was eventually dragged, to my dismay out onto the floor. To be honest, though, despite my utter lack of dancing ability,and my general hatred of traditional dancing (square dancing in high school gym class has, I fear, scarred me for life), I had a good time.

By the end of the dancing, even the oldest of the “adults” were pretty drunk. And were dancing every bit as crazily as the college kids. We were also treated to a demonstration of the hallmark of traditional Scottish attire, the kilt. Evidently, the traditional kilt is a huge piece of fabric that can be rolled, pleated, and tucked in a number of different manners to provide formal wear, battle wear, a covering while sleeping, and much, much, more. The modern kilt, was invented as part of military dress in an attempt to attract more Scots into joining the British army. We also got a healthy dose of kilt humor. (“What’s worn underneath a kilt? Nothing ’tis worn, everything’s in perfect working order!”)

As the dance came to a close, the punk rock looking girl that I had noticed at orientation sat down next to me. I had wanted to talk to her all weekend because, on face, she seemed like someone who I might have more in common with than the other kids, but didn’t say a word because I didn’t want to give the impression that I was trying to creep. Now, sitting next to her, I realized even more that she could easily be Alicia Arnold’s doppleganger. Just like Alicia, she seemed like the type of girl who was very used to making people uncomfortable. When she spoke to me, her first words were “Vegan, straight-edge, hardcore kid, right?” and I was definitely expecting the worst. Well, she was pretty drunk, but was a really interesting conversationalist. She was from PA also, studied philosophy and fine arts, was now studying abroad in Glasgow, etc, etc. I talked to her for a long, long time about vegetarianism, straight-edge, others’ perception of such things, siblings, our respective adolescence in small town PA, and about life in general. I don’t know if the conversation was long because she was drunk, or if I talked a ton because I was just glad to, for the first time that weekend, be speaking with someone who I felt I could relate with, at least in some small capacity. It was just one of those nice conversations, like the ones I’ve had with Varu, Erin, Patrick, Kevey, and now Iain that will definitely be some of the most defining aspects of my college experience. She gave me her contact info and I promised I would call the next time I was going to be in Glasgow for a show. If only meeting kids had been that easy this past summer.

It was almost half three when I finally got to bed. An hour later, I was sleeping happily, warm and content beneath my duvet, when I was awaken by a fire alarma nd a very drunk Taylor (one of my roommates for the weekend who also happened to have turned twenty one) insisting that “it wasn’t me” and “I didn’t do it”. The evacuation of the lodge, although brief, was not fun. Later that early morning, I was awaken again by Taylor, this time accompanied by a girl. I expected the worst, but she was only making sure he got into the top bunk without falling and killing himself and also making sure that he had a wastebasket ready to collect any drunken chunder. Lovely.

firbush weekend part 2

The second day at Firbush started early – 8:30 which is earlier than I usually get up for classes. The University of Edinburgh, thankfully, has no concept of lectures at 7:30. We ate breakfast, another meager meal on account of my dietary restrictions, but I wasn’t complaining. We then had a bit of a briefing for the day’s hike, a route that, on account of the absolutely horrible weather, was restricted to lower altitudes, and was, as we were told, suitable for ten year olds. We checked out a ton of gear for the walk. We had rain gear, boots, gaiters, the works. By the end of the hike, however, given the snow on the ground, and the rain in the air, everyone was glad to have the equipment.

I don’t know how far the hike actually was. It wasn’t a death march, by any means, but the inclement weather made it seem fairly long. I heard the distance of eight or nine miles thrown about in conversations later during the weekend. It was a long meandering walk which started on the paved road to the center, switched to muddy logging roads, even muddier trails, and then back to the logging roads. Throughout the entire hike, there was a steady amount of rain fall, leaving the outside of my jacket soaked.

The landscape of Scotland is pretty interesting. For the most part, it’s rocky as hell, and absolutely stunning. In the morning’s mist, as I looked out my window, I saw the imposing rocky hills rising above the shores of the loch. As we hiked, we got a closer view of the foothills and forests. Scotland is by no means known for its foliage. Indeed, most of what we saw were trees planted for logging. As we were told by one of the guides, hard woods are not very popular to grow because they take too long. Instead, mainly conifers are grown, and after a relatively short 30 years, they are chopped down and their pulp used for paper products. In addition to the lesson on logging, the guides, and one elderly guide in particular, made frequent notes about various native plant life and geology. Interestingly enough, we hiked mainly through logging roads on private property as the idea of a developed trail system, like many in the US is a bit unknown in the UK. However, at least in the country, there are no tresspassing laws, so as long as there is no damage, one is able to trek through the country as one sees fit.

By lunch time, it was raining even harder, and we had to sit on the wet rocks to eat. I was starving, and because of the physical exertion, my mustard, lettuce, and cucumber sandwich never tasted so good. I felt a bit awkward once again, as the group had seemingly split into the social groups which, presumably, had been formed the previous night while I was reading in my room. So, I just snapped some pictures of the mountains, and a nearby stream whose waters, recently augmented by the deluge, poured magnificently down the rocky river bed.

After lunch, we walked a bit before the group split in two – those who wanted to take a faster route back to the lodge, and those who wanted a bit more of a hike. I opted for the longer route, and about a dozen of us proceeded further up the hill with Dennis, our guide. As we got past the logging roads and a dam and water pipeline, we came upon some sheep grazing. Dennis told us that they were “cast ewes”, ewes that had not borne lambs during the last year, and were therefor put up in higher grounds to basically fend for themselves. The realities of sheep farming in Scotland, we were told, were quite grim. Many farmers find it hard to make any kind of money raising sheep, and some can’t even give their flocks away. It was pretty sad to see the poor sheep, their coats a sorry combination of spray paint (used to identify one farmers flock from another) and mud. We began to cut back down the hill, this time through a series of sheep pastures. This, we were told, was more like normal Scottish hiking, no trails, or paths, just cutting one’s way through the countryside. It was really cool, albeit precariously slippery at times. We had to jump a few streams, but we also got to see more sheep, and some other cool sights. We were shown the remnants of a “black house”, so called because of the color of the thatched roof that would turn dark from the smoke of a wood fire. These primitive houses were used by sheep farmers when they were away tending their sheep. Sometimes the houses would be divided into two, one half for sheep and the other for humans. Needless to say, it didn’t seem like a very pleasant existence, but seeing the old stone structures was very cool. We hiked some more, crossing more deep streams, and climbing over more fences. Eventually, sopping wet, but happy about our days accomplishment, we made it back to the lodge, only a few minutes behind the other group.

We had enough time to ditch our wet clothing and shower, before the Burns supper. The showers were multi-person and it was a bit of a throwback to high school gym class. Not a big deal, but a bit weird. Especially when some girl inadvertently walked into the men’s changing room while I was in the shower. Eep!

firbush weekend part 1

When I walked to class Friday morning, it was cold, but the inches of snow that covered the ground as I rushed to the bus were nonexistent. The snow began to melt as the rain began, but this only created a thick layer of slush on the sidewalk which made my shoes damp and my steps precarious. I walked to the university sports center, where we would meet for the weekend trip, after a lazy afternoon of eating grocery store samosas, playing with GPG for my computer security assignment, and watching a very stoned Iain exchange sheepish glances at me from across the common room. When I got to the meeting place, I loaded my bag into the trailer and waited about making small talk with people whose name I had long since forgotten from study abroad orientation.

The van ride to Firbush, the university’s outdoor center, took nearly two and a half hours on account of the inclement weather. The ride was excruciating at first as I found myself engaged in more small talk with some girl from Denison. We talked for a bit about racial diversity and racism on college campuses which was interesting, but nothing I hadn’t heard before. The conversation continued and I felt like I kept talking and talking just so I wouldn’t seem rude and have to deal with the awkwardness of an abrupt end to the conversation. The conversation eventually ended and I found myself engaged in another conversation that basically involved arguing the finer points of the revolutionary war with one kid, sarcastically, using “The Patriot” as his primary source of refutation. This was amusing and entertaining until we felt the van sliding backwards down the hill.

It turned out all the weight of the van’s occupants, as well as the trailer full of luggage was too much given the snowy hill. We had to get out, unhitch the trailer, move it to the side of the road, and then push the van up the hill. It was cold and snowy, but it was just the kind of ridiculous hassle that ends up being good fun. When we finally got the van to the outdoor center, a meal of Pizza, soup, and salad were waiting. I couldn’t partake in the pizza, but the soup and salad were allright.

After dinner was pretty much a repeat of the initial Arcadia orientation, where I had met all the kids before. The outdoor center had a bar, and most of the kids partook in its offerings. I’m not really uncomfortable around less than sober kids, provided that I know them pretty well, but when it’s a bunch of strangers, it’s awkward as hell. I didn’t want to deal with it. Too much like the American scene that I came here to get away from. So, I spent the rest of the evening like a nerd, playing chess on my Palm Pilot, and reading the textbook for my computer architecture class. That was the most work I got done all weekend. It was kind of a bad scene. I had that all too familiar feeling of being pretty frustrated, and feeling really, really out of place. I just hoped that the next day would be more what I expected when I signed up for the trip – crazy outdoor activities and scenery, as opposed to drunk American kids acting like drunk American kids.

code as art

I wrote this in response to the following question on the opensource mailing list:

Just want some opinions on a couple questions.  Sincel iterature and other forms of writing are copyrighteds hould code be?  To take it further forms of writing can be though of as art, does or can computer code be considered art?

I would argue that code is art, and that the artistic nature of code lies within the algorithm as well as the elegance of implementation.  To appreciate code as art, I think it’s first important to realize that typical feats of engineering, design, architecture, or any sort of utilitarian object can be appreciated as art.  Now, the question of whether having something displayed in an art museum makes something art is open to a great deal of debate, but I think that it’s certainly an affirmation that a work at least has some artistic qualities.  So, go to any art museum and one is sure to find numerous instances of objects, which initially had a great deal of utilitarian value (ceramics, armor, tools, etc), now appreciated as art.  Similarly, take something like a Frank Llyod Wright building.  I’d really like someone to argue that doesn’t at least approach art.  I think the last example is particularly interesting because with Wright’s architecture, the form is completely inseperable from the function.  That is, rather than the artistic qualities being simply adornments to a utilitarian central theme, the artistic elements are the central theme, from which the utility follows.

So, I think that code can be considered art.  Let’s take a pretty easy example.  Last year at the Wexner center, they had a clock which was synchronized with satellites and displayed images of human faces for the hour, minute, and second places of the digital clock. Obviously for the art to exist, it requires the use of some sort of programmed code.  It is important to make the distinction between this sort of art, where the executable code is essential to the work as a whole, and computer-generated art such as the latest pixar movie or one of Csuri’s works.  In these cases, the art is a by-product of code, rather than the art being inexorably linked with running code.

So where does this leave source code?  I would argue, that if one accepts that the image clock example represents code as art, then source code must also be art.  Since running code is just a transformation of the source code (that is, the essential quality, the algorithm is preserved), the source code has all of the artistic qualities of the executing code.  This follows the argument, that I agree with at least, that a print of a famous painting still constitutes art since it captures the essential quality of the artwork.  The fact that it is viewed with some extra levels of indirection is inconsequential.  To argue that source code is not art, because it is just a string of ASCII text would be like arguing that a work of “real” art is not art because it cannot be perceived by all viewers in the same manner. Certainly a computer programmer, viewing someone’s source code, could gain a reasonable perception of it’s manifistation when viewed through multiple levels of indirection (e.g. compiled, linked, loaded, and executed). Another good example of my claim is HTML.  One can generate some visual objects which, I would argue could easily qualify as art.  However, if one actually wanted to obtain the work of art itself, one would receive an ASCII text file.  I think one could argue successfully that the artistic properties of the work are inherent to the ASCII file, whether it is viewed in a text editor, or interpretted by a web browser.

webcam

I don’t have internet access at my flat, so my real-time webcam isn’t running. However, I wrote a perl script to upload archived webcam images to the web server so one can see snapshots of me from the last 24 hours. Check it out here.

city run

Originally written on 20.01.2002.

I went for a run this morning, the first time since I’ve been in Scotland. It was a pretty nice day when I walked out the door, it wasn’t too cold, and the sun was *gasp* shining. However, by the time I hit Dalkeith road, the wind was picking up pretty hard. I ran past the community pool, and the university dorms to a huge set of hills/cliffs just outside of the center city called Arthur’s Seat (I think). These things are enormous and imposing. Looking across the city skyline, one can’t help but see them in the horizon. Well, by the time I was at the cliffs, my run had turned into a hike, but hey, the hill was steep. As I climbed the path, gulls circling overhead, I got an amazing view of the city and got a really good idea of how big the city is. Hey! I can see my house from here. My house as well as the football stadium, the castle, the big domed building by Bristo square, and way off in the distance, the Firth of Forth. When I came down from the hill, I ran through the streets of town, still sparsely populated on the Sunday morning. I headed west on the Cowsgate, before cutting back towards my flat through the meadows, this big grassy park in the middle of Edinburgh. It was a good run, and a good way to see the city.

boys of the lough

Originally written on 20.01.2002.

First an art gallery. Then a concert of Celtic traditional music. How much culture can a kid take. Last night, I went to a concert by the band Boys of the Lough. As I mentioned before, they play a selection of Scottish and Irish traditional music. Sort of along the lines of bands like the Chieftans. They’ve got the full lineup – mandolin, fiddle, pipe, accordian, guitar, and cello and they masterfully blend these instruments through reel, jig, and walking song (though my undiscerning ears can’t make out the difference). Traditional music isn’t really my thing, but they were super talented and I enjoyed hearing about the history behind some of the selections. At times, they seemed a bit too professional and calculated, like the music definitely belonged at a crowded concert hall instead of a country dance. There were some definite high points, though. At a couple of points during the concert, the boys brought on an older female vocalist who sang both a cappella as well as accompanied by the band. She was singing songs that she had been singing her whole life and was visibly moved to sing them once again in front of the eager audience. Earlier that evening, I was watching this show called “Pop Idols” on television. The premise of the show is that teenaged crooners compete against each other on national TV for a spot at a big time record contract. This week they were singing big band standards, and for the most part, they sucked. Watching this older woman made me think about the persistence of traditional music. There she was, singing songs that were hundreds of years old. The pop kids might have their 15 minutes on the television, singing their little hearts out in cheesy, radio ready voices, but will their songs fill concert halls in 300 years?

van meene

This was originally written Saturday, 19.01.2002

Ok, go dig out your copy of Weezer’s Pinkerton. That’s right, you, cool guy. I know you’ve got one. Now put on “Across the Sea” (which consequently is the best damn Weezer song ever) and set your CD player to repeat. That song will be the soundtrack for this journal entry. Why, you ask? (Other than the fact that it’s the best damn Weezer song ever). Today I headed down to the Inverleith House with Timothy, his friend Leonard, and some other girl who lives in the same dorm as Timothy, to check out a showing of photographs by the Dutch photographer Helen Van Meene. Helen Van Meene is a much noted up and coming photographer, who studied for a bit at the Edinburgh College of Art. She is known for her photographs of adolescent girls, many of whom she simply meets on the street and agree to be photographed. Though she often uses costuming, props, and poses with the subjects she photographs, the photographs at least seem to capture a large degree of the personalities and emotions of the girls. The show that I went to see consisted of a series of photographs taken while the photographer was staying in Japan.

Her work is often met with some controversy. This is due to the eroticism sometimes exhibited in the photographs. For instance, in one of the photographs in the Japan series, a girl wearing only a bra (a news clipping at the gallery noted that the model was actually 24 and that she was glad below the waist) is slouched over the edge of her bed. In another, the faint outline of a nipple can be seen through a girl’s shirt. In other photographs, which we saw in a book of Van Meene’s early work, girls are shown topless. So, some children’s protection groups claim that the photographs are exploitative at best, and pornographic at worst. Having seen some of the photographs, I’m inclined to disagree. As one news clipping noted, it is odd that our culture accepts Britney Spears and her hyper-sexualized flirtations displayed everywhere, but balks at artistic portrayals of youth which allude to some sexuality. Indeed, it seems we as a culture are able to accept the idea that it is okay for Britney to bounce and jiggle in the spotlight for the sake of commercialism and pop-culture, somehow appeased by her vows of chastity, while we are made very uncomfortable about honest, intimate peeks at the sexuality of youth, particularly young girls. I admit it, the idea even makes me uncomfortable. But it shouldn’t. The antidote, I think, to reckless, cheap sexuality isn’t to censor or block out every erotic reference. The only way that sexuality can be redefined is by forcing it to be personalized rather than forcing it to conform to a single culturally-accepted aesthetic. I think that Van Meene’s photographs, which are sometimes erotic, but definitely not pornographic, do not so much entice the viewer with the cliches of beauty magazine culture, as give the viewer an occasional peek into the secret world of the budding sexuality of these girls.

The photographs in the Japan Series are quite good in general, and seem to share a common theme. In most photographs, the eyes of the subject are either closed or averted. This is an interesting effect which is particularly evident in one photograph of a young girl leaning against a door. Her dyed-blond, wig-like hair and garish makeup, to me, seem to allude to the cultural iconography of the Geisha, and seem to suggest that she wants to be noticed. However, under the scrutiny of the camera, she looks away. I think this captures perfectly the contrast between the shyness and the craving of attention that is so linked with adolescence. To contrast that photo is a photograph of two very young girls. One looks directly at the camera and both seem to be posing, hamming it up for the camera. This boldness of youth is a great comparison to the timidity of the young girls’ older counterparts. In another photograph, a girl, clad from the waist up only in a bra, is slouched, seemingly uncomfortably, over the edge of her bed. Indeed, many of the subjects in this series seem to slouch, crouch, or hang within the picture frame. Again, I think a really great snapshot of the awkwardness of adolescence.

The backgrounds of Van Meene’s photographs are notable as well. They are often simple, and represent the everyday environment of the photographs’ subjects. In one photograph, the series’ seeming signature piece, placed at the entrance to an exhibit, the background is filled with a tree sprouting many white blossoms. In the foreground is a teenaged girl, clad in a pure white overcoat. The white blossoms and the white coat seem to denote a metaphor, perhaps unintentional. As the flowers on the tree begin to blossom, so does the girl blossom from childhood to adulthood.

Inverleith House
(0)131 248 2983
Royal Botanic Gardens, Edinburgh, UK

An old house in the middle of Edinburgh’s Royal Botanic Gardens which houses an art gallery with a diverse range of art shows.

Timothy
A kid I met at the international student orientation at the University of Edinburgh who has similar musical/cultural tastes as myself. He’s from Albany, NY and goes to Haverford College near Philly. Reminds me of Josh if he were a scene kid.

out and about

This was originally written on 12.01.2002

A late night of Mariokart and sober onlooking of drunken antics left me pretty tired and I slept in until 10. I worked on entering some class notes into the computer and then went to fix some breakfast. When I entered the common room, Iain was there. He mentioned that he was headed for the local skate shop and asked if I wanted to go along. Of course I did, so after watching “The Family Guy” and playing a few more games of Mariokart, we went out. It was pretty cool to see some other parts of the center city that I wasn’t familiar with. As we passed Bristo square, the throngs of skate kids made me think that it would be a good day for a skate. Iain agreed, and we headed on to the skate shop, stopping first at Avalanche, one of a chain of
independent record stores in Edinburgh. There are like 5 of these stores in a very small geographic area. The Edinburgh kids are quite lucky. Though some American staples are un-represented, there was still a really decent selection of independent, punk, emo, and hardcore records. We went to the board shop which had a ton of snowboard and skateboard gear and apparel. Unfortunately, I’m flat broke so I couldn’t partake. After that, Iain took me to a street which he dubbed “Nu-metal Alley”. The moniker was pretty appropriate with young kids decked out in baggy jeans with stripes, piercing, and backwards red caps everywhere. In some ways, it’s sad, but in other ways, it’s cool. Edinburgh seems to have tons of places where kids can just hang out, unaccosted. That’s rad. I wish I could have just run around the city when I was younger rather than roaming surreptitiously from skate spot to skate spot or chilling outside of the Uni Mart or Taco Bell. “Nu-metal Alley” had a bunch of shops including a cheesy skate shop, a metal/goth apparel store, a slightly more mainstream record store, and a really cool and pretty inexpensive poster store. Edinburgh doesn’t have the best live music scene but the shopping can’t be beat. Why am I cooler than Tim and Peter? Well, I have a Weezer poster drawn by none other than Adrian Tomine (of Optic Nerve fame). It was growing late, and the light was fading, as is common around 3:30 in these northern parts of the hemisphere. I convinced Iain to come for a skate, despite his protests about an essay due on Monday. When we got there, it was packed with kids. A couple of really talented kids, and a ton of lurkers. It was like a crowded skate park-completely impossible to get a line. It was too much for Iain to deal with all the kids, but I took a few runs. On the way home from the square, I ran into Timothy, the kid I met at the orientation a week ago. He gave me his new phone number and I told him I’d give him a call about going to see Cave-In in Glasgow on Monday. I love running into kids on the street! There’s no better way to feel like you actually live somewhere. The day was made complete when Iain offered to give me his spare mobile phone for the duration of my stay here. All I had to do was pay for the phone cards (evidently pay-as-you-go, or pre-pay as it’s called in the states is pretty common here). Awesome! What a guy! So, I’m starting, albeit slowly, to ascend from luddite hell.