The Most Beautiful Map Ever Created

Had to share this one with you folks. A map of the United Kingdom, with the locations of all the odd place names marked upon it. I long to visit Penistone myself, while others may prefer an excursion up north towards the East Breast. Thanks goes out to the BBC for this invaluable piece of reporting! I anticipate that my friend Ken would like to visit Spanker Lane. Design your own vacation so you can tour them all!

Destination: Disaster

Most folks think that the life of a travel correspondent is a glamorous collection of fillet dinners washed down with champagne and caviar. Alas, I do not spend my time in a five star resort or have a secretary to make all my travel plans and foresee any difficulties that may impede the journey. The hard economic times have even forced me to let my personal masseur Sven, who usually accompanies me everywhere, move on to greener pastures. Sven, sad to say, is a figment of my admittedly twisted imagination/my need to get out of the house more.
Without the assistance of my fictional entourage, I am forced to make many of my travel plans myself, and at times I must deal with the hassle of actually being transported to the exotic locations I am forced to visit in order to bring you these reports. Although the destination will be kept secret for the time being, I will now relate to you the trials and travails I encountered on my most recent journey.
First off, there was a long trip via airplane involved. I don't have the traditional problems associated with flying. I have never experienced motion sickness in the air and I don't tremble with fear at the thought of a fiery wreck unless I hear the pilot mention how baked/drunk he is over the loudspeaker.
No, my main difficulty is being tall. Most American airlines nowadays have designed their planes to squeeze in as many people as they can. The catch is that these humans need to be about five foot three to fit in the spaces into which they are squashed. Being about thirteen inches in height over this arbitrary number, I am a wee bit uncomfortable during any flight, much less one of six hours in duration. If only my legs would fold up like an accordion so that I could stow them away in the overhead bins.....
Fortunately, our pilot was on some sort of mission to arrive at our destination (you would be too if you knew where we were going), so we recklessly cut off a number of planes and zoomed on out of the Philadelphia's airport. My sardine-like confinement aside, the first half of the flight was about as enjoyable as one could expect. I perused the year end Rolling Stone and prayed for sleep to carry me away in its embrace (even though I never sleep on planes I foolishly keep the faith that the next time is going to be different).
All of a sudden I was woken from my daze by one of the more wretched smells I have ever encountered. I looked around, wondering what could have produced such an impressively nauseating stench. I immediately, spotted the culprit, a two-year old boy who was showering his father with his love. Or, more accurately, a massive pile of vomit, much of which the child managed to cover himself with as well.
The parents, knowing how unlikely young kids are to purge themselves of various internal fluids, had neglected to bring a change of clothes with their carry-on bag. Therefore, the aroma of two hour-aged baby barf potpourri filled the cabin for a good half-hour before the stewardess managed to rescue us by covering the lad in US Air's high quality blankets.
The incident mercifully behind me and my seat mates, my brother and some random woman who never spoke the whole flight, moved on with our lives and waited for the long airborne nightmare to come to a close. At least there weren't any snakes on the motherfucking plane. I have had enough of those motherfucking snakes.....
As the sun rose in the eastern sky, breakfast was served and we came to the happy realization that we would soon land. Unfortunately, the barfing boy had a sister, who apparently was jealous of her brother's accomplishment and desired to get into the act as well. Her mom and dad decided to play catch with her as they fought for the right to disown their children first. Two vomit-covered parents later, this flight was beginning to resemble a certain scene in "The Exorcist" (no not the one where Linda Blair shoves the crucifix into her snatch).
Mercifully, after a thirty minute period spent with a broken Certs jammed into my nostrils, we came to a gentle landing at 9 o'clock in the morning local time. We had arrived! Just a short trip through customs, on to the baggage area, pick up the rental car, and the vacation has begun. There was one teensy problem. Half the customs officials had gone on a wicked bender the day before and had decided not to show up (guess which country I was in now). Their computers had taken the day off as well, although I can't say for certain that they were hungover as well. Add to these worrisome details the fact that four flights from the United States landed in the span of fifteen minutes and you have a recipe for disaster.
When we walked off the plane, the time was nine in the morning. Although that was the current hour, our bodies, not knowing we had switched time zones on them, disagreed, claiming the true time was the middle of the goddamn night. As we sat in a line that did move and seemed to have no end, our initial excitement at escaping the plane was tempered and our energy levels crashed to nil.
You wouldn't think that sitting inside a fuselage for six hours doing absolutely nothing but reading, listening to music, and watching movies could be exhausting. Sadly I felt as if I had just finished running a marathon. Check that, I probably couldn't finish a marathon. I felt as if I had just walked all the way to the mailbox.
Two hours later we finally trudged to the end of the line. At this point the line forked and we had two choices. Murphy showed up just in time with his law in hand and we picked the really slow queue. The official servicing the folks in front of us had the kind of sublimely slothful worth ethic that would make even the laziest slug or tortoise turn even greener with envy.
We watched with an ever-growing sense of disappointment as the people in the other line flew through immigration and on to freedom. Murphy, not yet done with us, sent our customs official to the bathroom just as we neared the front. Finally, as we neared complete physical and mental breakdown we reached the official's kiosk and were set free to wander the land.
Nearly ten hours of hell had finally come to an end. I hope whatever country I am in is worth the aggravation it took to get there.

Ireland pics

An illustrative version of events soon to be followed by a river flowing with prose. If only the dam holding back my literary capacity can at some point give way to the Hemingway that no doubt lurks inside.

Good Will or Bad?

I just threw away a couple of pairs of underwear after bringing home a haul of new ones, which I received for Christmas. I hate to just trash old clothes, but, while pondering the idea of donating the boxers that were not ripped to Good Will or the Salvation Army, I got cold feet. The idea of someone else wearing my underwear kind of freaks me out a little bit. Am I just a total bastard with a heart of stone or is this acceptable thinking? I understand that I won't be able to see the dirty deeds that are done to my old underclothes, yet still there is the sensation of dread that accompanies the thought of their donation to some pervert. Most of these freaks probably don't care to wear anything down there anyway, as it makes flashing folks easier. Think about it man/woman! Or don't, that might be a better idea.

Ireland

Apologies for a lack of posts lately, I have been in Ireland. Info on that bit of craziness soon to follow.

They Are Not a Jukebox!: Blasted By A Sound Wave in Spartanburg

Ground Zero: often thought to be the location of the terrorist attacks that took place in New York City in 2001. In reality, Ground Zero is a heavy metal/punk/hardcore music bar located in Spartanburg, South Carolina. The two locations are not without some haunting similarities, even if Spartanburg probably doesn't make the terrorists' list of 1,000 places to jihad before you die. I recently journeyed to the very apple core of this rock n' roll fruit basket to see Local H and The Electric Six perform, and will now relate to you the horrors of what occurred within its hellish depths.
Ground Zero is located amidst the heart of the American textile industry. Unfortunately, like the rest of the products our nation once manufactured, these jobs have been outsourced to China or some other foreign land where chopsticks are considered necessary tableware. What I instead ventured into was an industrial wasteland reminiscent of Eastern Europe after the end of Soviet rule (or Northern New Jersey for those of you whose geopolitical understanding is limited to the United States).
Empty buildings of stone and concrete littered the landscape, which could only have been made bleaker if a series of tumbleweeds had rolled down the thoroughfare. One of these edifices happened to have the words Ground Zero sprayed on the side, in what appeared to be more of an attempt at graffiti than a rational attempt at signage.
Inside the warehouse, which is what the building had clearly been in a former age, a heavily tattooed and pierced middle-aged man laughed at my silly attempt to pay with a credit card, pointing out that they were lucky to even have electricity much less a computer system. After some negotiating I was allowed in, and I peeked around the corner to see what I had gotten myself into.
The soothing sounds of NOFX coming from the stereo served to decrease my apprehension immediately, and as I turned the corner, a huge open space appeared before me. With an entire football field's amount of room stretching before me, I wondered how many people would be coming to fill what seemed to be an abandoned airplane hangar.
As it turns out, this area, which the owners refer to as upstairs, was not the place where the performance was to occur. No, this empty cavern was home to the upstairs bar, which was crammed against the wall, myriad chairs crowding in around it like football players in a huddle. One wonders if they could have created a bit more elbow room, what with the 27 acres of openness stretching behind nearly into infinity.
Down a massive flight of six stairs was our true destination, where I found the surroundings much more intimate and homey. That is, of course, if you like the color black (or rather the absence of color) and concrete. The regulars were all dressed in black as well, and were remarkably friendly with the bizarre foreigners, of whom I was one, who so foolishly chose to garb themselves in another hue.
Visiting the urinal in preparation for the show, I was given the opportunity to multitask - I could pee on the stickers of various bands taped to the inside of the trough while compiling some phone numbers for later. FYI, if you are a girl, or a boy and you anticipate having to drop a deuce, wear a pair of Depends to the show instead.
Things quickly got underway with two opening acts warming up the crowd. I highly recommend checking out the first band, which was known as Automatic Dough. I would give you a link to their My Space site but since this is a newspaper, you wouldn't be able to click on it. The second band was named something and they played some songs, but that's really not worth getting into right now.
Thoroughly warmed up, I tensed myself for the entrance of Local H. Originating in Zion, Illinois, Local H (pictured above) is a rare two piece hard rock act best known for their songs "High Fivin' Motherfucker" (requests to hear this tune were turned down by a fellow audience member who pointed out that the band was not in fact a jukebox), "Eddie Vedder," and "Bound for the Floor" (the one where the guy uses the term copacetic so much you just had to look up that particular collection of letters in the dictionary).
After some initial problems with the sound (the sound check involved 20 different uses of the word fuck), the duo began to play, and in this writer's opinion, commenced to shred in a most effective manner. The drummer, Joe Daniels, smashed his sticks in violent thrashes reminiscent of the mentally ill. Comparisons to the character Animal from the "Muppets" were all too obvious for those of us in attendance. Scott Lucas, the vocalist and guitarist, was no slouch either, pumping out a driving guitar sound that, combined with the work of Daniels, made one wonder how two people could put out such an immense amount of noise. "California Songs" off of the album Whatever Happened to P.J. Soles was a definite highlight.
Just to give a contrasting opinion, I will mention that my friend Dan went to the upstairs bar and grabbed a drink, where he was informed that Local H did not kick enough ass to warrant the attention of those assembled there. Apparently, the regulars only like music if it is loud enough to make their ears bleed. To each their own, I suppose.
Electric Six took the stage to cap off the night. For those of you who have never heard of them, get off your ass and download, then purchase, either of their first two albums, Fire! or Senor Smoke. Both discs highlight the strengths of this eccentric crew. When at their peak the group combines all the best aspects of Queen, the Darkness, and various dance bands into a musical melange that would satisfy even the most sophisticated aural palette. I wore a fat smile as I jumped up and down to my favorites, "Dance Commander," "I Buy the Drugs," and "Danger! High Voltage," all of which were played during the hour and a half set.
I must warn you if you plan on seeing Electric Six play, that the singer does have a tendency to blather a bit in between songs, and his warped attempts at humor were successful only about half the time. Not a bad average for baseball I suppose, but there were a complete moments when awkward silence was the crowd's only response to the bizarre ranting.
Don't let this one bit of negativity keep you from seeing Electric Six , though, they truly are something for every music fan to experience at least once. I would say the same for Ground Zero - although not aesthetically the most welcoming place I have ever visited, the downstairs area where the bands played made me feel as if I was listening to these bands in a garage with some of my closest friends. What else can you ask of a venue?

It Ain't Thanksgivin Without No Grits

Thanksgiving is a holiday created by and for Yankees. I don't mean just the Evil Empire nine from New York, but the entire region of the North such as it existed in 1865 when history ended due to the unfortunate surrender of Robert E. Lee (everyone in Dixie knows Appomattox was a conspiracy, Lee would have never given up - I suspect a second gunman or a black helicopter or something). Massachusetts liberals dreamed up the idea many years ago and have foisted their culture on us in one of the most insidious flanking maneuvers of the culture wars.
Raised as a southerner, I have to wonder why we allow our regional uniqueness to subverted by this so-called tradition. There is little doubt in my mind that with a little tinkering, we can take this day, meant to celebrate our thankfulness for all that God has given us and taken away from the Indians, and make it our own. Southerners killed just as many Native Americans as anyone else, there is no reason we should be given short shrift.
What changes need to be made to add the required regional flavor? The meal is, of course, the centerpiece of the holiday, so any improvements should start with a full-frontal assault upon our taste buds. Some of our Southern neighbors have already seen the light and begun to fry their turkeys. A step in the right direction to be sure, but we must go further in our attempts to take back the day. First, go outside and fill the closest wild turkey full of lead. After plucking and dressing your bird, marinate the bird in sweet tea, fry the bugger in lard, and stuff her with grits n' gravy. We will eliminate the traditional mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and corn. French fries, onion rings, and fried cranberry sauce (try it you'll like it) will make for some tasty, healthy Southern treats.
Don't forget to prepare for the vegetarians as well. Always have a bottle of Wild Turkey on hand for those who don't eat the real thing! They will want to be part of the celebration, too.
The atmosphere in your home is also crucial to making the day a success. Plant a few confederate flags in your front yard to let everyone know that you mean business. I know this space is usually reserved for storing old appliances and rotting vehicles, but be flexible with your decoration - Thanksgiving only comes once a year, unless you are half-Canadian. Feel free to have a bonfire going in the back yard, your family and guests may need to keep warm, depending upon the weather. If you have a couple of wooden crosses sitting around the house, just use those.
Manners and hospitality are an integral part of our Southern Thanksgiving. Yankees are rude and impatient - don't allow any of that foolishness in your household. During dinner, wait for your elders to be served first, and give them some time to eat before you grab yourself a plate. Grandma and grandpa may have to share one pair of dentures and, if so, they will be a little slower to masticate than the rest of the crew.
Also, always have enough grits on hand to satisfy your guests. There should be an unused tub full of grits and gravy sitting out in the front yard if necessary. Don't let this food go to waste, even if you aren't hungry anymore. Grits are well-known to sustain the health and vitality of your skin as well.
Take these bits of advice and you can count on a Happy Thanksgiving next year. That is, of course, your family isn't composed of a bunch of total ass holes.