If it ain't Scottish? It ain't Crap! (If it aint crap? It can't be Haggis)

Anyone who says Scotts aren’t dour has never seen a Scottish Bagpipe Band (“Corps?” “Group?” “Gaggle of Inebriates?”) play. The drummers drum their simple (think of a metronome on speed) bits with ferocious intensity and equally ferocious scowls. The pipers look like blowfish, cheeks constantly expanding and contracting as veins pop on their necks. In this case though, they also look like blowfish with arms attempting acts of sexual congress with more than mildly disinterested tartan octopi. The resulting sound is just about right for this image and its harsh and jagged edges also fit with the Whiskey we were forced to toast with……

Which is jumping ahead of my narrative. This weekend was a break in the death march to a Terminal Degree from the “Just Barely Accredited Maser’s Program.” As I have over 50 pages of rough draft in hand I thought it might be sensible to get my proposal approved – it would be a sad day (and drunken night) if that weren’t to happen. So I sent my proposal off to my two advisors and was done, for the moment, with that. This is also the week before school begins (which includes a “professional development day” for which I had a variety of tasks to complete). All was done by about 1:00 on Friday and after 1.5 hours of bullshitting with the guys in IT, I was on the road out of Big City. It wasn’t very crowded on the road and after 30 minutes lost in Lodi – trying to find the secret road to the cool little towns below Highway 49, I was on the backroads and breathing calmly. And breathing in the smell of the multitude of skunks which have chosen this week to loiter in the middle of the streets and achieve conversion to Jesus’ Sunbeams. I must have gone over, around, and through 20 skunks.

Spent the first night in a hotel, just to soak in the lovely aloneness. Then up the hill to see Beloved Sister who had a surprise for me… which I have sort of introed above. She had a ticket to the 26th Anniversary Robert Burns Celebration in Reno. So we raced down to Circus-Circus and a ballroom with 400 Scotts and their surly sympathizers. All of whom were either in kilts or suits. My black jeans and leather jacket kind of stood out. If I had been Black I would have really stood out. I was trying to do the math on how likely it is in the US to have over 400 people together in one place and have no Blacks, but I wasn’t sure how to express the probability of something statistical not happening as the sample size increases. And I was starting to get drunk anyway. I suppose it isn’t surprising in a group of Scotts, but everyone, with two exceptions, was as White as God’s Chosen Children. One exception was my brother in law, who was the only Hispanic in the joint and the other was, unaccountably, and Asian guy in one of the Bagpipe outfits. He was appropriately dour, and so he fit in. Besides kilts and suits, the crowd was notable for a high percentage of shaven heads and aggressively bristly moustaches.

And the bands? Just didn’t smile. Well, there was one gaunt fellow who did smile now and then, but it was the kind of smile you would expect on the other side of contract you were just about to sign with your own blood. I have a picture of that fine lad, but I couldn’t catch one of his rare smiles.

Our table was interesting as well. On the other side of my sister there was a burly lawyer and his new wife (he really hadn’t done so well in the “trophy wife” category) and as I later discovered this seating was.. uh.. interesting. There was also another firefighter at the table and everyone but me was local, so the conversation quickly turned to what had been destroyed in fires, parking downtown, and vicious gossip about common friends who weren’t present. I concentrated on trying to drink my Whiskey without hucking up. Later, the conversation inexplicably turned to the importance of anvils and the manly men at the table took turns comparing the size, breadth and “swing” of the anvils they had in their garages. It was properly bizarre and I’m not sure if it has happened anywhere else in the world. I was lucky to be there.

Then the events proper began. A bunch of Scottish people (you could tell because the men wore dresses and the women had enormous calves that were, in some cases, the actual size of calves) marched about onstage with flags and instruments until they became bored and then dispiritedly wandered off.

Then it was time for the Haggis Ceremony. If you don’t know what Haggis is you are better off and should immediately close this page. Haggis is a Scottish dish composed of all of the parts of dead animals that can’t even be put into hot-dogs in the United States. The Wikipedia reports it is:

“sheep's 'pluck' (heart, liver and lungs), minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock, and traditionally boiled in the animal's stomach for approximately an hour. It somewhat resembles stuffed intestines (pig intestines otherwise known as chitterlings), sausages and savoury puddings of which it is among the largest types. Most modern commercial haggis is prepared in a casing rather than an actual stomach”

Sheep’s “pluck,” eh? I might have started that word off a bit differently. Anyway, I snapped a photo, which you can see right over there…

Then it was time to eat. We had Haggis-Oon-A-Stick (Yes… “oon”.. you should hear how these farking foreigners speak); Haggis–Braised Haggis in Haggis Sauce; Haggis Soufle with Haggis-Whip Rampant, Haggis-Stuffed Butternut Squash on a bed of Haggis, and for desert; Haggis-Cakes with Confectioners Sugar and Candied Haggis paste.

And a bit of Whisky, purely for the sake of digestion.

The bandleader’s name was Rick James and he never even mentioned “Super Freak.” Brother in Law and I both failed to win the raffle for the sword (“There can be only one!”) which proves the whole raffle was rigged.

Taking pictures I noted the table I wished I had been at. As I was snapping photos (EVIL!!!! BIL had taken the best photo) I noted a table with 5 kids at it (meaning only 5 adults at the most) and alla that beautiful wine in the photo, empty whiskey glasses, and a couple of drained cocktails. Eff the Scotts, these were my people!

The celebration ended at about 9:30 and we went off to gamble all night, drink Pisco Sours, Whiskey Sours, and flirt with sweet, sweet, cocktail waitresses.

Actually, being old, we went home and went to sleep.

And then this last photo is of the boy we were all there to see...