continental divide

 In northern Scotland it rains in late summer like the sun shines in upstate NY. 

"Fuck this country," I thought. No wonder our ancestors left.  

The 1998 Blair Athol scouting Jamborette was in full effect.  In the early twentieth century, we invented a way for the youth who were not old enough to join the military to get the experience thanks to Lieutenant-General Robert Stephenson Smyth Baden-Powel the first, may he burn in hell.

At thirteen years old we had slept on the ground for a week and schlepped through the mud like the American civil war.  In the evenings we'd pile into an over-sized communal circus tent with a two man cover band rocking their limey socks off to the hits of the day.  The crowd favorite was easily The Rembrandts 'I'll be there for you.'  Absolute shite.  Hopped up on liters of the regional favorite bubble gum soft drink Irn Bru we pogo danced like jack rabbits on meth amphetamine until the shaggy cows came home.

A week later me and a fellow scout follow lengthy instructions to cross the countryside unescorted via series of trains to meet host families we would be crashing with.  The son immediately pawn's me off on his unsupervised foul-mouthed crew of compatriots while he's at work.  They promptly get wasted on bargain malt liquor listening to Korn and Green Jelly in a semi-circle exchanging porn mags. 

"Little pig little pig let me in...not by the hair on my chinny chin chin."

The night is a blur. We proceed to a local suburban music festival where kids are getting wrecked and passing out on the lawn.  Suddenly I'm hanging with a group of somewhat familiar faces wandering off to a local Chinese joint hoping these idiots don't accidentally leave me somewhere.

A few days later we somehow make it back on the plane.