Saturday 28th November 2009 - The Deference of the Young

          I listen mostly to NPR on my computer.  Currently, I use WQED, which I picked up off-air while passing Pittsburg.  I find light classics make it easy to read, and sometimes even write, without being too distracted.  But I was certainly thoroughly distracted today, by a programme from Salt Lake City.  It was highlighting the talents of young musicians, one of whom, at ten years old gave us a terrific rendition of that hoary old trumpet test piece, "Carnival of Venice", triple-toongin' an' all (as I understand it, triple-tonguing is like when you hum a tune and say "dugga-dugga-dugga" at the same time)  Anyway, I found myself in one of those rare moments when I just had to applaud the radio, even although they couldn't hear me, and I was on my own.  There is, I seem to remember, a moment like that in the film of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest", when the "Chief" throws the ball (I think).

 

          Later that night, there is a grown-up lady in the bar, about my age.  The barman is quite young, and, as well as being a volunteer fireman (the firehouse is across the street) he is from West Viriginia, not far from that Glasgow.  But, being from West Virginia, he is unable to stop himself referring to this lady as "Miss -----'.  I think it is possible he was unaware he was doing it.

          A notice behind the bar proclaims that they have a shuffleboard league.  The proximity of Shuffleboard and Grown-up ladies, of course, drives me to a frenzy.  They promise to let me play, but when we get through the back, this shuffleboard table bears almost no resemblance to those of my Montana triumphs.  It was more a kind-of electromechanical version of 9-pin table bowling, using a shuffleboard puck.  When I described the game I knew, they said they called that "long board".  This game, like 10-pin bowling, lacks any contact with the enemy.  The "long board" version, like bowls on grass, has the thrill of symbolic contact.

          A man sat beside me and ordered a large Chivas Regal, which he proceeded to stuff with ice.  He asked if my accent was Scottish or Irish.  He said he was part-Irish or Scottish.  He was certainly part-black, like the President.  I told him he couldn't possible be part-Scottish if he did that to Chivas Regal.  I guess he must have been part-Irish, 'cos I had to explain it to him fairly slowly.

Friday 27th November 2009 - Black Friday

         The day after Thanksgiving appears  to be called "Black Friday".  It's a shoppingfest, where all the shops claim to reduce their prices by more than anybody else.  I was advised to stay away from shops, since it is sometimes fatal.

         There was no need for anyone to worry: the Thanksgiving-dodging went on so long last night that it was nearly noon before I surfaced, with no intention of going near anywhere.

 

         I met a man who wants to change the constitution of the United States: no small challenge.  His case, as far as I could follow it, was that if you were a tenant, you didn't have the same protection from the state invading your privacy as an owner did.  If, for example, the state requires your landlord to provide smoke alarms, it can enter your premises to check if he's doing that, even if you don't want it too.  He's got a point, of course, but it's not a battle I can see him winning.  It is probably a general truth about all "Nanny" state activity, that they are invading the privacy of the people they profess to be protecting, and they no doubt abuse these responsibilities from time to time.  He wanted people to support him.  They wanted to talk about something else.

 

         Later that night, we talked about my next stop, Glasgow Delaware.  I managed an American joke which they understood.  "Where is it near?" they wanted to know.  "It's in Delaware", I said, "everywhere's near everywhere else in Delaware."

         We also had more bad taste jokes on the TV.  Like "Altzheimer's isn't all bad - you get to meet new people every day!"

Thursday 26th November 2009 - To Give Thanks or Not to Give Thanks

          I paused and thought about what I might have to give thanks for, and I realised, immediately, that arriving on the Queen Mary certainly knocked the Mayflower into a cocked hat.  On the other hand, the representatives sent to greet us by the current inhabitants' government were not nearly as welcoming.  One wonders what the original founding fathers would have thought if the natives had said "I'm afraid we can only let you stay for six months": might have changed the whole course of history.

 

          Everyone I pass wishes me a Happy Thanksgiving, even those who don't look like they're enjoying one themselves.  Montgomery County is really a suburb of Philladelphia.  It's the 20th richest county in the US, and one of only 30 with a Standard and Poors AAA rating, but it sure doesn't look like that where I'm staying.

 

          Later that night, I struggle down to the nearest bar to join a small but dedicated band of Thanksgiving dodgers.  They are watching a TV channel called Comedy Central, with a ventriloquist called Jeff Dunham, of whom I had not previously heard.  As was once said about Tom Lerher, Mr Dunham's muse is not fettered by such considerations as taste.  To give you a flavour, one of the sketches was entitled "Achmed the Dead Terrorist Hits on a MILF".  (For those of you unaware of what a MILF is, don't look it up on the internet unless your malware and virus protection is comprehensive and bang up-to-date.)  In another, the puppet justifies misremembering someone's name as "Vagina" by claiming that she's French!

 

Wednesday 25th November 2009 - Come from Texas

[The title is an insider's reference to Clint Eastwood, his greatest film, "The Outlaw Josey Wales" being based on a book, "Gone to Texas" by one Forest Carter.  It's a good book, to which the film is fairly faithful.  (I've started, so I'll finish) Forest Carter has a fascinating bit of history.  He subsequently wrote a really wonderful book called "The Education of Little Tree", about a young Native American brought up by his grandfather. He wrote it as a part-Cherokee story teller, about his own history.  It was much-lauded by the intelligensia, adding to Native American culture.  His name should have been a bit of a giveaway: he was named for a Civil War Confederate General.  It turned out that this Forest Carter had been a speechwriter for the Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan: embarassment all round.  But, and I repeat, but, it was a very good book.  Makes you grateful the Hitler was a lousy painter, doesn't it?  Imagine he had been good.  Would his paintings have been sought after "for their own sake"?  Mind you, if he'd been a good painter, he might not have destroyed most of Europe.]

 

          I have been collecting law enforcement shoulder patches on my trip.  It all started in Montana, when the Police Chief said "come round, I'll give you a shoulder patch."  Ever since, I just go and ask.  Well, actually, I agonise over asking, because, if it was me, I would refuse.  And I hate worrying or puzzling people with guns.

          In the Montgomery County Courthouse, in the front office of the Sheriff's department, there was only one man without a gun, and he asked me how he could help.  I said I wanted to talk to someone about a shoulder patch, and he said that would be him.  And he gave me one.

          At the same time, in the courthouse, I saw a map which said that Glasgow was actually in Pottstown Borough.  So I thought I'd better go back to Pottstown (it's only 20 miles) and ask them for one too.  This is a city police department.  I got to talk to a young dispatcher, armed, it looked like, to the teeth, through artillery-proof glass.  He thought my project "awesome" (that probably tells you something about his age).  He wanted ID, and took down my address.  He said they would send it to me.

 

          Because it's Thanksgiving tomorrow, and I don't know what'll be open, I stop at a supermarket on the way back, to buy some provisions.  I can't find something I'm looking for. There is a young lady checking the shelves, and ticking boxes on a list.  I ask her where I might find what I'm looking for.  "Oh", she says, "I don't work here.  I've never been in this shop before".  So what could she have been doing?  Had she misunderstood 'virtual shopping', and instead of going to virtual shops to buy real goods, she was going to real shops and buying virtual goods?  It would certainly save her a lot of money: retail therapy at low cost.

          So I wandered on, and found a young man filling shelves.  This had to be a better bet.  But he claimed not to work there either.  Perhaps nobody works there.  Perhaps the checkout is really a bank branch, and the suppliers just leave things on the shelves for some accountant to work out payment.

 

          Later that night, I got my last quarter.  Just in case you were still wondering how Texas got into it, the quarter coin comes in many editions, with the states on the obverse.  I have been collecting them, just by checking my normal change.  And for some time now, I have only been missing Texas.  And, finally, Texas turned up.  So I now have the full set.  Well, actually, I don't, because there are also editions for the overseas territories (Puerto Rica, etc) and there are two mints, with a small mark on the front, 'D' for Denver and 'P' for Philladelphia.  But I'm not going to get caught up in that.  The next thing I'd be looking for proof coins, then I'd be trading and so on.  I'm collecting Glasgows, not coins.

 

Tuesday 24th November 2009 - It's Not What You Know

          I like to start at the Historical Society, absorb a few names, before I head for the courthouse.  Unfortunately, The Historical Society chooses Tuesdays to stay open in the evening, and therefore doesn't open till the afternoon.

          So I start at the courthouse.  Being a city, it has gentlemen with guns to look up my bottom before I get in.  And when I get in, it turns out that the Recorder of Deeds is now in another building.  They think it's quite funny, but they return my knives, cameras, and recording devices without a murmur.

          This county is computerised.  I can look up names, I can look up addresses, but I can't lift up big heavy tombs and bump into the right thing by accident.  There is no 'collateral' searching.  So I find very little.  To be fair, it must be much better if you're a lawyer doing what the records are kept for.  I find references to "at what is known as Glasgow", and "Glasgow Estate", but nothing leading back any distance in time.  Of course, when it acquired its name, this was Philadelphia County, and a crown colony, so all this is probably a waste of time anyway. 

          As President Reagan said after he got shot, "All in all, I'd rather be in Philadelphia".  (That's what W C Fields proposed as his epitaph, but it was never used as such).  Perhaps I need to go there.

 

          The McCalls, it would seem, were a fabulous family, in the sense of rich and powerful.  George and his wife had their portraits painted by Hessulius, the pre-eminent American portrait painter of the time.  The children belonged to exclusive dining clubs, one of which restricted itself to 25 members.  They married into other wealthy and powerful families.  One daughter married the son of the Governor of New York, himself a Scot, another the son of the President of the New Jersey Provincial Council, and yet another the Mayor of Philladelphia.  The sons, like their father, were on the City Council.  They were active in the Dancing Academy, an attempt (apparently successful) to emulate the goings-on in Bath (don't forget, this is a colony).  But they were also active in the St Andrew's Society, which, although it enjoyed dining and socialising, also did charitable work among the distressed Scots of Philladelphia.  Half of them were married in Christ Church, where George was a vestryman.  Christ Church is sometimes described as the first church of America, with seven signatories to the Declaration of Independence, including Benjamin Franklin, in its graveyard  (the St Andrew's Society, by the way, boasts five).  Christ Church, perhaps surprisingly was CofE.

          One very odd fact has to be reported.  George's second daughter, Anne, married her cousin, who had come from Scotland, and was named for their grandfather, Samuel.  And then her younger brother, who was also named for their grandfather, married someone called Anne.  If you wanted to hide your identity, you couldn't do it better.

          And it wasn't a "rags to riches" story, either.  The grandfather, Samuel, was a wealthy Glasgow merchant, and the grandmother was the daughter of a (Scottish) Court of Sessions judge. 

          I guess if George wanted to call this place "Glasgow", "Glasgow" it was going to be.

 

          Later that night, I found myself drinking from a glass advertising the "Intercourse Brewing Company"  "Ho, ho, ho", I thought, "they're real cards, these micro-brewers.  That's not a gnat's gnipple away from "Dog's Bollocks" and the like.  But it does seem an odd package, beer and intercourse.  Not reputed to go too well together.

          So I asked the Landlord.  "Oh, no", he said, "Its from Intercourse.  That's just up the road."  And so it is.  I've looked it up. 

          It's even got a Best Western, the "Intercourse Inn".  You couldn't make that up, could you?  "Why don't we go away for the weekend, darling, get to know each other a bit better". 

          "What a wonderful idea, darling.  Where shall we go?"

          "Well, I know a wonderful little Inn, darling, very out-of-the way".

          "What's it called, darling?"

          ...

          It's not going to work , is it?

Monday 23rd November 2009 - No Comment

          The sky is getting gey dreich (do words like that have proper spellings?).  It makes low-flying birds more visible.  There are lots of geese flying south (I assume it's south).  Not huge flocks, just Vs of 3, 5, up to maybe 12 or so.  It reminds me I should be doing the same.  This indian summer can't last.

          I'm now in Norristown, the county seat.  It's only a journey of thirty miles, but it puts me on the outskirts of Philladelphia, and it has all the feel of 'big city' about it.  I have found an even cheaper place to stay.  As I check in, I meet with a lady in what passes for reception.  She is looking for toilet paper.  She is clearly in shock.  "Have you stayed here before?" she asks.  What she is trying to say is "Don't stop!  Run for it.  There's still time!"  But I have already looked round.  Girls have such silly standards for these things.  I resist the temptation to explain the economic facts of life to her.  I nod and "umm" sympathetically, and allow her the role of victim.  The man behind the grill is more practical: he gives her the roll of toilet paper.

          It's OK.  The only real problem is the usual one with cheap motels: the TV remote has been lost, and they've upgraded several times to new cable systems.  So I have to find out which channel the Cable delivers on, then I can watch something.  But the remote will not access the TV menu, so I can't adjust the colour.  The American TV colour transmission system is called NTSC, translated by engineers, when I was involved it cable TV, as "Not The Same Colour".  The last person to have a remote which could adjust the TV has turned up the colour and the tint (NTSC has two colour controls, which is one too many) and the brightness.  So it looks like those first transmissions from the moon, coloured in by a small child  But that suits me.  I'd rather read, and listen to the radio over the internet.

 

          I try to avoid the TV and the papers.  When I bump into the news, these long polemics leap to my lips, and sometimes even my pen.  People who are not here need the benefit of my wisdom.  Sometimes they even make it to the first draft of the blog, and then have to be cut out. And, of course, they taint everything, and when I cut them out, there's sometimes almost nothing left.

          I have to remind myself that when I was actively involved in politics, nobody paid the slightest heed to any of my carefully prepared polemics.  Why on earth would they listen now?  Even I don't want to hear them.

 

          Later that night, I venture out for some entertainment.  In the dark, this part of town is clearly run down.  Which is strange, because it is the inner west, and that's usually the best bit of a town.  It reminds me of North Kensington and Notting Hill all those years ago when I first came to London.  These were once spectacular houses.  Some of them are vast enough to qualify as country houses back home.  But they now have large numbers of mailboxes outside.

          And I notice something I've not seen before.  Some of these big houses are semi-detached.   Really big, fancy semi-detached houses, dating back a century or more.  Here, a 'semi' (pronounced Sem-eye) is an articulated truck.  I wonder what they call these houses?

Sunday 22nd November 2009 - Real Football

          This being Sunday, I declare a day of rest.  I have to pack up to move on anyway.  Pottstown has been a very comfortable and pleasant stay, but there wasn't really much to do.  Glasgow is nearly invisible, and doesn't even run to a roadsign.

          Scanning through the sports section of the complementary newspaper, I see that there is a big soccer match on tonight.  That should provide some interesting comparison with back home.

 

          So, later that night, I take myself of to my regular hostelry in the town centre.  The owner insists on giving me a souvenir T-shirt.  I take advantage of his generosity to ask if one of the six TV screens could be devoted to the soccer match.  All the screens are showing football, bur he obliges.

          This is the MLS (Major League Soccer) Cup, the final championship playoff game between the winner of the Western Conference, LA Galaxy (with you-know-who) and the winner of the Eastern, Real Salt Lake (how that happened I can't explain).

          The game has a lot in common with its European counterparts.  There is clearly a lot of happy banter between the players and the officials.  The TV director provides plenty of close ups of players gobbing.  Some tackles produce Oscar-winning injury performances.  There are lots of foreign names on the backs of shirts (although that doesn't make them foreigners here).  And David Beckham's appetite for silly haircuts remains undiminished.

          The game provides two 45-minute sessions of advert-free TV, which is quite remarkable in itself.  In fact, soccer has a number of difficulties establishing itself here, going non-stop being one of them.  The other is that it doesn't seem to lend itself to statistical analysis.  American sports fans rely on constantly updated statisitics to classify players, teams, and games.  Because I was watching under sufferance, I got no sound, so I was spared the stats.  I was also spared the commentary, which pleased me no end.

 

          Tomorrow, I'm off to the county seat, Norristown, to look over the Courthouse, and, hopefully, the Historical Society.