The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

Now that I have been in Scotland for a bit I have begun to notice the great shadow the infamous creator of Braveheart still casts over this hilly northern country. If you venture into any bargain store in Edinburgh or Glasgow you will find many bric-a-bracs aimed at spend-happy tourists. These items range from the relatively funny "kilt beach towel" to the aggravating "William Wallace doll." Now, there's nothing wrong with the historical figure of William Wallace. The man heroically stood against the English in order to defend Scottish independence, and this I can respect. And I really can't judge the people who are making money from the dolls themselves; far be it for me to begrudge anybody the right to strike gold by abusing national symbols.

No, the William Wallace doll is an abomination because it is just a little version of that big schmuck, Mel Gibson. It is a vivid rendering, capturing accurately even the most Jew-hating contours of the man's face (from an era before the expert ironist decided to grow a strange Abrahamic beard). I know Braveheart is one of the most profitable things that has happened to Scotland since whisky became the local manna, but when you hold a lil' Mel in your hands you do not want to fight for your freedom, you just feel sorry for all the civilizations Mel Gibson has ripped off and made a mockery of (e.g. Scots, Mayans, ancient Israelites, and counting).

I could forgive this if it were a phenomenon confined to shops that sell inflatable heart-shaped mattresses and "I'm not as think as you drunk I am" t-shirts, but unfortunately Mel Gibson has managed to worm his way into actual history. I went to the city of Stirling one day, and visited the National William Wallace Monument, a great 19^th-century century-built landmark perched loftily on a lovely, green hilltop. After making my way down from the summit, I encountered something that morphed my good feeling into outright disgust. By the foot of the hill stood a big stone statue of Mel Gibson, mace in hand, screaming triumphantly. It seemed like stone-Mel knew he was ruining my time in Stirling and that there lied his ultimate victory over me. The word "FREEDOM" carved into the rock mockingly reminded me of how very trapped I was in the Mel-universe.

Next to the statue there was a plaque with the story behind the work written on it. Some poor guy carved the thing because when he was down in the dumps (slowly dying from some horrible disease), he watched Braveheart, and the movie had been able to fill him with national pride and confidence. I thought it was strange how the one thing that made this sculptor so hopeful in his final days was the source of so much unpleasantness for me. Why couldn't the guy have seen The Mary Tyler Moore Show on his deathbed and carved a statue of its namesake, like the one that dazzles in the streets of the fine city of Minneapolis, Minnesota? I guess some people just aren't lucky enough to get Nick at Nite.