Scottie: > Yes, Dr Kosuzko, that's me in the corner of the bar > as I'm to be descried at noon, December 30. White tux... > discreet bulge where the Biretta nestles over the splenic flexure... > the exquisite, dark one on the left arm - my wife... > and, on the right, the extravagant red-head - Helena... > > '...the name'sh Bowman.... Shcottie Bowman....' I stumble in awkwardly, tall and inelegant like a second-string college football quarterback and still blushing slightly after having used "here" as a verb. My worn grey wool jumper marks me as a twenty-something, but, in conjunction with my inscrutable pleatless green trousers, doesn't betray my nationality. The lovely Irish-Norwegian farmgirl at my side looks almost native, except for the 40 ounce Budweiser cradled in her left arm. I survey the crowd, pausing on the white tux. At first, the red Biretta throws me off--but then I notice the hunting earflaps and everything becomes clear... December 30th it is, Davy Byrne's, high-ish noon. -- Matt Kozusko mkozusko@parallel.park.uga.edu