Crab Poll Explanation

I should probably give a brief explanation for my last poll question, "Where do you keep your crabs?" The possible answers are: A- "On the kitchen floor in a dark corner where people can't see them until they step in the bucket." B- "Under your pillow so the tooth fairy can switch them for a puppy because that's what you wanted in the first place." C- "In your friend's bedroom so that he/she can have company while you're away."

The evening I posted that question, I had dinner at a friend's house where I helped cook the chicken and vegetables a little bit. While mixing the tomato sauce into the pan, I looked at the floor because I accidently dropped a piece of pepper. That's when I noticed a small bucket next to my feet pushed against the wall in a dark corner. There were two huge dead crabs in this bucket, but there wasn't enough water in the bucket to cover them. They were so close to my feet that I could have very easily stepped on them before I knew they were there.

I asked my friend, "Do you have crabs?" Friend: "WHAT?" Me: "I think you might have crabs. You should come over here and check." Friend: "Excuse me?" In hindsight, I should have chosen my words differently. When she saw them, she explained that those crabs must have been her flatmate's crabs. We never quite realized whether or not the crabs were still barely alive or dead, but I think one of them moved just a little bit. I personally think it'd be awesome if they were still alive, got out of the bucket, and walked around the apartment in the middle of the night.

When you said to read the whole book, did you mean the cliff-notes?

Even though I'm exhausted after spending most of my evening reading about how different nations and peoples have remembered and commemorated various wars (such as how and why Americans have removed Anne Frank's Jewish identity and real suffering in the most popular movies and plays), I decided to write a quick post before my laundry downstairs finishes.

Today I had my second day of class, and I feel like I've just been tackled by Terry Tate, Office Linebacker. The professor pretty much gave us a list of reading assignments and told us "good luck." Frantic and shell-shocked, my fellow classmates and I dashed to the library, browsed the online catalogue, and roamed the rows and rows of books. It felt like one of those game shows where contestants are in a grocery store and have to throw random items into their shopping carts before the competition got everything first. There are obviously not enough books for all 20 students in the Peace and Conflict Studies M.Litt, but some of the articles are online. We've also been collaborating and making copies. So far, there has been more peace than conflict.

I knew from reading some other assignments last night that the professor may assign a chapter from a book, so I was expecting the same thing from today's professor. When I found one book today, I double-checked the list to see which chapter I had to read (may I remind you that this list is not short). When I did not see a chapter, I realized I was supposed to read the whole book along with other books before next Monday. Naturally and eloquently, I asked, "Are you shitting me?" Granted, this book is under the "suggested" and not "required" reading list, but the "suggested" list means, "we suggest you read this unless you enjoy failing and wasting a lot of money on a degree you couldn't get." At least that's what I thought it means, but there is absolutely no way I can read everything on the list. I just don't see how it is humanly possible to do all this reading for class and then create "Reading Groups" with my classmates where we'll read still other books. We'll see how it works. This adventure reminds me of rushing for my old fraternity (I hope I'm not divulging any Shawreth secrets here) when we were told to do some outrageous task we could not possibly complete.

Yesterday in class, a professor told us, "You should feel like the water is up to here." He put his hand just below his nose. "Come talk to me if the water is up to here." He moved his hand to his eyebrows. Another professor told us about how the school built the staircase in such a way that the space in the stairwell is too small for someone to jump and kill himself. That observation didn't make the next year sound too delightful.

Before I left Mississippi, a friend asked me, "So are you going to real school?" He asked because so many of our classmates from Mississippi College went to the 'London Semester,' which is a play semester and academic cakewalk. I thought about that question tonight in the 'brutalist' library as I read about how British war memorials in the First World War helped communities grieve together as politicians exploited the unveiling ceremony to promote their own interpretations. Yes, I'm in a real school.

No Talent Ass Clown

The Career Center across the street had an open house event where they gave us bags of goodies. I'm pretty excited about it. Along with a copy of the Financial Times (which is printed on pink paper... that's a wee bit odd... why would they do that?), a highlighter, post-it notes, shampoo, a highlighter, spray-on deodorant, and pens, they gave me juggling balls. I'm very happy about it and have decided to use this as a golden opportunity. Since the Career Center gave it to me, I wonder if they're telling me I should pursue a career as a street performer or clown. I shouldn't knock it until I try it, so I'll start practicing soon. I've already found a website to teach me how to do it. In a couple weeks I'll be standing in front of the Union juggling and flirting with all the pretty girls who walk by... I wonder if that's a great way to meet girls or not. It's all about being interesting.... or maybe not. I wonder if the police will arrest unregistered street performers. I'll let you know soon enough.

Mad Researcher

There was a pub crawl and rave in St Andrews tonight, but I decided to be a dork and skip those events so that I could get some reading done at the library. After walking over there, I realized the library was closed. Still, walking there felt cool because the cold wind was blowing off the North Sea, I was walking past a chapel dating to the 15th and around other old buildings, I was wearing my heavy French overcoat that makes me feel European, and 18-year old "Freshers" were frolicking from pub to pub. Meanwhile, I was giving up a fun evening so that I could get work done. The whole experience made me feel like a mad researcher who just had to stay up long past midnight so that he could discover some new secret. It might sound boring, but trust me... it's cool.

I actually don't feel too antisocial because I skipped the pub crawl and rave. Around dinner time I spent a couple hours drinking wine and mingling with everyone from my flat. I've also gone on a couple pub crawls already, and there are plenty more to come. I'm actually a little tired of the pub crawls. Moreover, I think tonight's events were more for the young "Freshers" and not the Postgrads, so I would have felt awkward around all those kids.

Exotic Mississippi

For the past few days I've met tons and tons of people from all over the world, and the same questions get asked. "Where are you from? What are you studying? When did you get into town?" I haven't met anyone else from Mississippi yet, and I feel special because so many of the other Americans come from the larger states everyone knows like New York and California. One girl even used the word "exotic" to describe Mississippi. I guess it's as exotic as I can get while still being an American. Of course, this distinction is not necessarily good. If anyone knows Mississippi, they generally know it because of the racism, ignorance, poverty, et cetera. For instance, I met a professor Sunday who told me about his experiences in the South during the Civil Rights Movement, and my students in France knew much about the racist South. I often reiterate the fact that I wasn't born until after segregation ended and that much has changed (and much still needs to change). Though I'm not proud of certain parts of Mississippi's history, I'm not ashamed to say I grew up and studied there. Hopefully, I can exemplify the New South as a Southern gentleman.

Americans often tell me, "You don't sound like you're from the Deep South. Did you grow up in Mississippi?" Yes. I lived my whole life there until I moved to France for a spell (and now for another spell in Scotland). Granted, I do say some word with slight drawl and make passionate use of "y'all" because it is the most beautiful word in the English language, but my accent is very mild compared to many others from the Deep South. When I worked at Starbucks in Clinton, MS, a customer asked me, "Where are you from because you're obviously not from around here?" "Uh... thirty miles away in Vicksburg." I've always assumed I developed my mild accent because neither of my parents grew up in the South. I like the mild accent because it sometimes shocks people and introduces me as a different kind of Mississippi boy.

All part of a nutritious breakfast

The "Full Scottish Breakfast" at the hotel this morning included haggis and baked beans. I can understand the haggis (I tried some so I could tell people later "Aw, thanks for offering me the haggis, but I've already had some"). I don't really understand the baked beans. Who wakes up and thinks, "You know what would go good with my Cheerios? Baked beans."

Where did all these hills come from?

I haven't been in Scotland since June 2000, and I notice things now that I never noticed in my two previous trips. For instance, I remembered Edinburgh being much larger (the population is around 470,000). It's not that I was a little kid 9 years ago because I haven't really grown since then. I just didn't pay attention to where everything was as I followed my family around and didn't have to worry about getting lost. Now I have to memorize where everything is as I have done in several other European cities. I've spent a lot of time in Paris and know that city very well. Paris is about 2.2 million inside the city and 10 million in the metro area. Of course Edinburgh is going to feel smaller as I walk around it.

I also forgot how many hills there were. I knew the castle was on top of an old volcanic rock, but tonight I discovered those other hills as I went up and down and around the city. At one point I got excited because I could finally go downhill, but then I realized my hotel was on the other side of the next hill.

Craig Ferguson once joked that "damp" is a color in Scotland. I thought about that as I walked around Edinburgh on this muggy and cloudy day. Everything seemed "damp." Even buildings I thought were new 9 years ago had rain stains on the exterior that probably won't go away. Maybe these photos depict what I'm talking about:

The Royal Mile leading from Edinburgh

Castle is filled with cheap tourist shops.

St Giles Cathedral. I really like the

Blue ceiling. It looks like the

Scottish Satire Flag.

This "cathedral" feels too small

to be a catehdral.

Stained glass window from St Giles Cathedral.

In this scene John Knox is giving a sermon for his

friend James Stewart, Earl of Moray, Regent of Scotland

from 1567-1570. James Stewart was assasinated and is

buried undeneath this stained glass. According to the records,

he was actually the first person to be assasinated with a firearm.

Next to the Regent's grave was the National Covenant,

which many Scots signed in 1638 in order to declare their

support for reformed worship and church government.

This Covenant eventually lead to the establishment of the

Presbyterian Church of Scotland in 1690.

I took a picture of my reflection in the glass.

Alley leading away from the Royal Mile

and towards the train station.

"Grassmarket" underneath the castle near my hotel.

There's a bunch of pubs here, so I tried a couple out.

The government used to have a lot of public executions

here, especially during the "Killing Times", which

happened during the reformation. There's a popular story

about Maggie Dickson who was hanged here for being

pregnant out of wedlock. When they put her in the coffin

and were about to bury her, the crowd heard moans coming

from the closed coffin. She was still alive, and the courts

decided to let her live because it seemed to be God's will

that she lived.

I did not have all that gray hair 9 years ago.