There's a fellow here arguing that American poets are incestuously close. Prizes awarded to friends and all that. In Scotland things are different. We poets are bound by ancient rite, union rules and dues of half a crown a year. We're to keep, in the back pocket of jeans usually, like a dance caller's sheet, a list of nice things to say about Bonnie Prince Charlie, William Wallace, tatties, neeps and haggis, the authenticity of the current stone of Scone, kilts, bagpipes. Here's my problem. On Saturday night I unfortunately misplaced my list, left it in a pub, along with a battered leather jacket and a new stem cell line. So here's the rub; before Monday I've to track the thing down or, word is, the Glasgow heavies will be knocking at the door to fit me up for some concrete verse. David Ritchie Portland, Oregon ------------------------------------------------------------------ To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off, digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html