And back again... Scotland (continued)

So, aside from the Edinburgh Dungeon, the museums, galleries, grand homes, and other touristy attractions I visited. I also had the opportunity to sing karaoke.

Scottish karaoke is a lot more pub-style sing-along than to which I am accustomed. And, there are certain songs and groups that are more popular in the UK than the US. So, Betsy and I sang Friday night in Glasgow at a pub we chanced upon with karaoke on our way back to the hotel.

Saturday night, in Edinburgh, we sang at a pub called the Ivanhoe (first pub found without a urinal trough).

Sunday night, we decided to try out the gay scene at CC Bloom's. We sat near the entrance drinking pints of Tennant's (beer). And, hark, what did I hear the drag queen announce from the other room?

You got it. Karaoke. Odd thing, I couldn't understand the drag queen, half the performers at the Edinburgh Dungeon, half the bar staff I encountered, and a fifth of the people who I passed. And yet, I can hear "karaoke" in any accent from 100 yards away. The Scottish brogue was so thick, I had quite a time asking people to repeat what they just said. For example, "currant squash" (pronounced krunskwa) is concentrated currant juice some people add to their ciders for an already bad tasting ale to taste like cough syrup diluted in a bad tasting ale. So, anyway, three nights of karaoke... I've obviously had a marvelous time.

I sat next to a gorgeous man in a blue pinstripe suit during the return flight. He had green/hazel eyes and a slight salt and pepper tinge to his brown high and tight hair. He was tan and had splendidly sinewy hands with big fingernail beds. He had probably shaved his arms/hands (and I can only assume everything else) last Thursday or Friday because the hair on his hands and wrist had the look of patchy and prickly new growth.

Before we took off, he was texting via Blackberry to his girlfriend (Kate E.) I counted 10 long texts before we shut the cabin door. I figured he had had a lot of sex the previous weekend. He was friggin' gorgeous, and whether or not he was making the sappy romantic lines up for the hell of it, he definitely had quantity over quality. Her picture (same as on her myspace page-yes, I'm that nosy and, yes, I looked her up) was his phone background picture.

"I miss you so much...I love your mind...No matter how far...I want to hold you...You mean so much...Our time together..." Blah blah blah...He sent 20 messages via the telephone/email system attached to the seat/video system, and each one of them he had to click through the alphabet via arrows for paragraphs of over-the-top romance at 40,000 feet. He repeatedly checked the inbox waiting for a reply from her. And yet, he didn't get any uglier. Well, that was until I noticed the skoal container and the diet coke bottle between him and the window. I cannot imagine having to kiss someone who chews tobacco. Smoking I can handle, but chew? And yet, somehow, he didn't get any uglier. Somehow the chew brought his all-too gorgeousness slightly back down to earth. The faults gave the angel that he obviously was an earthly mortal quality. There were 5 short texts after we landed (I assume she fell asleep reading all of his texts since it would have been 2am UK time).

I snuck peeks at everything he texted Kate E. and rolled my eyes every time. He would sometimes take a break from the love-texting to read an article in The Economist. How sexy is that?

Chew. Spit. Text. Spit. Read an article. Spit. Text. Spit. Repeat.

There... Scotland (5 nights with pub karaoke and urinal troughs)

Last Tuesday evening, I began my trip to Scotland. At the Virgin Atlantic check-in counter, the counter representative was trying to decide who to bump up to first class due to overbooking in economy. I got a nod of approval for my hat, belt, and shoes, and was more than pleased to accept the upgrade. After a glass of champagne, a grilled shrimp salad, a variety of cheeses, and some Bailey's on ice, I had a hand and arm massage from the beauty consultant and drifted off to sleep in the first class pod bed.

Skip ahead to the Scotland part... I'm having a fabulous time with my friend. We went all around touring the countryside (30 shades of green) and small fishing villages (that didn't smell fishy). And what was the first Scottish attraction that caught my attention?

The ruins of some Scottish abbey?

Nae.

An old castle fortress wall?

Nope.

Urinal troughs.

Cannae be possible?

Let me preface this part of the story. I rarely see urinal troughs in the United States. I can barely remember them at the baseball parks to which my father dragged me for Royals games. But, Scottish pubs and, yes, even the Scottish National Portrait Gallery had one common denominator, urinal troughs. If it was just one, I probably wouldn't have cared. But almost everywhere we went, there were urinal troughs to be found. And it didn't even make sense to me. Urinal troughs in America are usually the length of a whole wall. But these Scottish troughs barely covered the space that would have housed two ordinary urinals. Was this some attempt at efficient use of space? I am pretty sure American urinal rules would still apply (Urinal selection, spaces between men, etc).

It almost became a game to take pictures of every pub urinal trough I encountered. The picture on the far left shows the longest urinal trough at a gay bar called CC Bloom's in Edinburgh. The vertical picture is from a pub in Glasgow on Princes Street. The picture with blue tiles (above) is the urinal trough from the National Portrait Gallery of Scotland in Edinburgh.

My Big Fat (Not At All Greek) Weekend

I met this professional photographer at karaoke one night who gave me his card. I come to find out he can also play the piano and shares my love for music and jazz/pop standards (Sinatra, et al).

He invites me over for a music-filled Friday night, singing standards by his piano. I wasn't exactly sure if it was a date, or if other people might have been invited, or even if he had a boyfriend. Long story short (I'll spare you the details), we have a good musical time and, sometime after 1 AM, we discontinue the musical sing-a-long and begin kissing and, well, you can guess. Post-coitus, while I'm dressing, he says something to the affect of "don't take this the wrong way" or "don't be offended, but..."

(Advice to the few who will actually read this, don't ever start a conversation after a sexual encounter with any of the aforementioned phrases.) He continues with saying something like "you'd look even hotter if you worked out." I'm not quoting him exactly, but the jist is the same.
Wouldn't everyone look better if they worked out? Is there a need to tell anyone in particular this fact? And no matter what the semantics or word placement "You would be hot if you worked out," "You should work out," negate any internal compliment that may be present. All that you are left with is "You're fat" or "You're not as hot."

He actually did realize that he just said something that could be taken offensively, and tried to dig himself out of the hole he started by mentioning my frame is well-suited for muscle, etc, etc, etc. More surprised and embarrassed than offended at that point, I try to act nonchalant and just continue the conversation while I make my exit.

The next evening, I head to karaoke as is my usual custom. I sing some songs, the highlight of which was to be "I am changing" from Dreamgirls, my tribute to the husky solidarity I felt with the big-boned Effie (whether Holliday or Hudson). Unfortunately, I forgot that specific karaoke CD in my car, so I leave for a moment to go retrieve it.

While climbing in to reach from the driver's side to the passenger side for the CD... rrrriiiipppp! My rear pocket caught on the side of the door and my jeans ripped (see photo). And, yes, I was wearing underwear, I found those jeans, which were my favorite and very tight, were uncomfortable in any undergarments except jockstraps or thongs.

This would have been a great time to go home to avoid any embarrassment. Unfortunately, I had 1) Not paid by bar tab, and 2) Not sang my Dreamgirls song. So I had to return to the bar, pay my tab, and sing my song (and try not to show the entire world my left cheek). And did a cute guy start talking to me? Of course. And would I get up off my seat to follow him and talk to him on the other side of the bar risking bare ass visuals for the other drinkers? No.

On the way home, I could not think of any worse way to end my big fat weekend. First I get called fat (indirectly), then I bust my favorite jeans (quite directly).