leavin' trunk

A fiend I am for naming blog posts after song titles. "Leavin' Trunk" wasn't written by the Black Keys, but their rendition of it is particularly good. With that out of the way, I'd like to announce that I'll be taking a brief hiatus. I'm going out of town. The 'rents and I are going to visit my great aunt and uncle (Uncle Bob and Aunt Barb) in Benson, Arizona. We'll be gone a few days, and I probably shan't blog (probably). We've got lots of cool stuff planned, and we're going to be living in a trailer. I'll finally get to see what that's like! So, hold all my mail, feed the dogs and put all my records back in the proper order when you're done listening to them. OR ELSE. I'll be checking... And have a very Happy New Year, folks.

cocktail review no. 25 - Tom and Jerry

Ha! Previous record smashed! THREE cocktail reviews in a row, by golly! Postman, you've done it again. I mentioned earlier that the tower topper was redolent of cooking, reminding one of the smells and sounds and sensations of a kitchen full of happy people during the holidays. Well, this drink is actually cooking.

• 1 whole egg, separated
• ⅛ teaspoon baking soda
• 2 tablespoons superfine sugar
• 2 ounces (plus 1 teaspoon) light rum
• 6 ounces hot milk
• ½ ounce brandy
• ⅛ teaspoon grated nutmeg

In a mixing bowl, whisk the egg white until it forms soft peaks. In a separate bowl, whisk the egg yolk until it gets frothy. Fold the white into the yolk. Add the baking soda, sugar, and one teaspoon of the rum. Whisk it all together to form a stiff batter. Pour the batter into a warm beer mug and dissolve in it 1/4 of a cup of the hot milk. Add the rest of the rum and the brandy; fill the mug with the rest of the milk; stir, and sprinkle the nutmeg on top. See what I mean? Froth this, whisk that, stir here, sprinkle there. And "soft peaks"? What the hell are "soft peaks"? What the Sam Hill is "folding"? Jeez, I could've gone off on a tangent and made lemon meringue pie if I'd wanted... That being said, this drink is dynamite, and well worth the work. You have a frothy, fluffy medium disguising a hefty rum-brandy-nutmeg kick. It's similar to hot buttered rum, though a great deal more work-intensive; but it is also smoother, tastier, richer, creamier, and heartier. It's more flavorful and somewhat more comforting, particularly at this time of year. Nothing beats a hot mug of this while watching the original cartoon version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas (which, in my opinion, is the only credible version; Jim Carrey's be damned). I'd say it'd be good for a game of Taboo or Pictionary on New Year's Night, too. And I'd be willing to bet it's perfect for cuddling. Happy New Year!

cocktail review no. 24 - Mudslide

Yeah, okay, I know. This is a cold drink. You're not supposed to be having cold drinks in wintertime, right? Ah, phooey. Have what you want. My folks are still having martinis every night, and it's tough to get much more summery than that (unless we're talking mojitos or zombies or scorpions).

• 1 ounce vodka
• 1 ounce Bailey's Irish Cream
• 1 ounce Kahlúa
• 1 ounce half-and-half

In a shaker half-filled with ice cubes, combine all the ingredients. Shake well. Strain into an old-fashioned glass almost filled with ice cubes. As a matter of fact, ladies and gentlemen, the mudslide is the first alcoholic drink I ever tasted. I was over at the house of one of my grandparents' friends: a jolly, round fellow named Jim, who asked me if I liked to drink...and forthwith made me this cocktail. I was 19 years old. I whipped this drink up a few nights ago and man, it's even better than I remember. I'm not much on vodka, but this here libation is a four-way made in heaven. (And I'm always up for a four-way.) The vodka, after its wont, takes on the flavor of the Bailey's and Kahlúa. The Kahlúa lends a chocolate-coffee sting, while the Bailey's backs it up with whiskey and more cream. (It's a crime that I've gone 23 years of my life without tasting Bailey's...that stuff is incredible.) The half-and-half creates the perfect binding agent, easy on the draw. There's nothing better than a mudslide if you're in the mood for something decadently sweet and smooth. (Just make sure you've got a warm fire going, or are cuddling with somebody special...or both.)

cocktail review no. 23 - Double Standard Sour

And so, as the Eve of the New Year approacheth, I shall bestow upon thee the benediction of delicious cocktails. Let there be booze! Like gin and whiskey but don't want to limit yourself to one or the other? There's a cocktail for that.

• 1 ounce blended whiskey
• 1 ounce gin
• 1 ounce lemon juice
• ½ teaspoon superfine sugar
• ½ teaspoon grenadine
• 1 maraschino cherry
• 1 orange slice

In a shaker half-filled with ice cubes, combine the whiskey, gin, lemon juice, sugar, and grenadine. Shake well and strain into a sour glass. Garnish with the cherry and the orange slice. This seems a good candidate for New Year's Eve because it's really like two drinks in one. It's a mildly evil combination of a whiskey daisy and a martini. You can taste the gin and the whiskey both. This is a sweet and sour cocktail, like the whiskey sour, but with the gin sting to remind one of the martini, and some grenadine to add some bizarre cherry flavor out of left field. Just be warned: thanks to the grenadine, this drink is pink. (And slightly cherry-tasting.) Guys: if you're comfortable enough in your masculinity to not care if you're drinking a pink drink, try this cocktail. Ladies: go for it. You might like it.

fly by night

Sweet! I've been waiting for a chance to use a blog post title that was both a play on words and the name of a really good Rush song...I never thought I'd get my shot...

Anyway, to business:

Would you like to know what flying a plane at night is like? Get into your car and drive down the darkest street you can find. Good. Now turn off your headlights. Now imagine that your car is 2500 feet above the ground and has wings, and there you have it. That's what flying at night is like. The first thing that went through my mind as the wheels lifted off the ground at 5:20 p.m. on Wednesday the 23rd was, "WHERE THE HELL'S THE GROUND, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD?!"

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me begin at the beginning.

It was supremely odd to be standing there at sunset, on the wrong side of the locked airport doors, the cold wind forcing even me to zip up my jacket. I'd never been at the airport at that time of day. The sunlight was on the wrong side of the sky. Moreover, the runway and taxiway lights were all on. The runway's were a piercing yellow, but the taxiway lights were a soft dark blue. They were very easy on the eyes, and felt sort of friendly-like. Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Taxiway lights can't physically be friendly. They're just lumps of glass and filament that give off radiation in the visible spectrum. To lend an emotional quality to this action would be anthropomorphizing. But they seemed friendly, nonetheless.

I still couldn't believe I'd made it this far. Three hours of night flying, and that was that. I could take my written, oral and practical exams, and with any luck, pass them. Then I'd officially be a licensed, card-carrying pilot. But I also wasn't fully processing what I had to do. I would be FLYING at NIGHT. No lights, except a few small ones in the cockpit, and some on the ground, maybe. That fact really wasn't registering with me.

By and by, Harold and Debbie pulled up, and before I knew it I had the book in my hand and Harold and I were walking across the ramp to N42126. It was surreal. The sun had set. The day was fading fast. The runway lights kept glowing, as did the floodlights on the hangars. The rotating beacon was up and going, too, sending a beam over our heads at regular intervals like a lighthouse.

"Whoa, how cool is this?" I effused to Harold, shallowly. "The lights are all on!"

"Oh, I know it," Harold replied, as he was wont to do.

This would prove to be a night of firsts. We quickly preflighted the plane. The only thing we did differently was to visually check all the lights. Harold reached in and flipped them all on so I could see if they were working. We did the landing light first. This was the big, circular, yellowish lamp at the front of the plane. It shined straight ahead and down, performing the same function as a car headlight. It would allow us to maneuver more easily on the ground, and also SEE the ground as we were coming in for landings. Then there were the strobes and navigation lights: the flashing, blinking, glowing bulbs at the tips of the wings. Those were working just fine. There was the beacon (the red light on top of the vertical stabilizer, supposed to be on at all times to let people know that the airplane is running), and the taillight (just behind the beacon, at the rear of the tail fin). It's not really called a taillight. It's called something else, like a following light or something. It's there so any planes that are directly behind you can see you. Same function as a taillight, anyway.

The lights checked out, and so did the rest of the aircraft. After starting up, we headed for the fuel pumps. And so we arrived at the second first (does that make any sense?). Yep, I was about to refuel the plane for the first time. I taxied a few hundred yards north to the pumping station, got on the yellow line that encircled Pump 1, and stopped abreast of the fuel hose. (The landing light helped a lot.) Ordinarily, I'd just stood and watched as Harold filled the plane up from a tank in his truck. I'd never used the airport fuel pumps before. As with most things aviation-related, there's a trick to it.

• STEP 1: Take the grounding wire and clip somewhere onto the aircraft. The steel tie-down ring on the wing strut works just fine. (Grounding wires safely discharge any static electricity that builds up in the airplane. If you don't ground the plane, and the static charge builds up, and a spark goes off when you're fueling...well, that can be nasty.)
• STEP 2: Step over to the pump controls. Push a few buttons: what kind of fuel you want, payment option, payment amount (if applicable), then slide your card. Yadda, yadda, yadda.
• STEP 3: Grab the stepladder and set it up next to the wing. Take the fuel pump nozzle off the hook, reset the fill counter, rotate the nozzle head so you're not twisting the hose, climb up the ladder, take off the gas-cap, stick the nozzle in, and let 'er loose. CAUTION: The pump does not automatically shut off when the fuel tank is full. And the fuel really comes ripping out of that hose. Make sure you're careful and keep an eye on things so you'll know when the tank's getting full.
• STEP 4: Replace gas-cap, step off the ladder, and move to the other wing. Repeat step 3.
• STEP 5: Replace gas-cap, step off the ladder, and clip the nozzle back onto the rack. Step over to the pump controls again, finish the transaction, and get the receipt (if any). Roll up the fuel pump hose, automatically if possible. Unclip the grounding wire and roll that up, too. You're good to go!

Sound tricky? It wasn't really. You just had to be sure, Harold told me, to reset the fill counter after unclipping the hose nozzle, or else the whole thing would wig out. As mentioned earlier, you also had to be careful not to overfill the fuel tanks. That would've been difficult enough in the daytime. At night it was impossible to tell when the fuel level was getting near the top, except by sound. (You know how the churning and gurgling sound of a liquid steadily ascends in pitch as it rises to the top of a container? I listened for that very carefully.) Without visual cues, I had to stick my finger into the fuel tank to assay how near to full the tank was becoming. Not that I really minded, of course; avgas is inoffensive stuff. It won't eat your fingers off. It's dyed blue and smells a bit funny (Allison compared it to paint thinner), but it's harmless.

Despite these hardships, the task was accomplished without explosions or (excessive) spillage. We put 26 gallons in, 13 in either tank. Then we clambered inside the plane, fastened our seat belts, put on our headsets, and taxied out for real.

And then, there came a third first (?!?!). The wind had eschewed its usual direction and was blowing out of the north at 5 knots. That made it just windy enough to warrant taking off from runway 36 instead of runway 18. Just to clarify, runway 18 and runway 36 are, in fact, the same runway. They just point different directions. Runway 18 points south (180 degrees on the compass rose). Runway 36 points north (0 on the compass rose, but since you can't put "0" at the end of a runway, it's 36 instead, for 360 degrees). If you've ever, by any chance, peeked out the window of an airplane as you circled an airport and caught a glimpse of those two big numbers painted at the end of the runway, and wondered what they were for, now you know. They are named for and indicate the heading a plane would follow when taking off or landing (minus the zero at the end).

At Apple Valley, pilots take off and land on runway 18, mostly; that is, they take off to the south, and come in from the north. That's because the wind usually blows from the south around here. That's not an accident. Airport runways are usually constructed according to the general wind direction in the area. It's good sense: you'd naturally want to take off and land into the wind (which generates more lift for your wings, because there's more air moving over them). When the winds are calm, you can take off from whatever dang runway you please. When winds are 5 knots or higher, however, you want to take off from the runway that's pointing into the wind. And, since the wind was coming from the north, that naturally meant we'd want to use 36.

Now, I've never taken off from runway 36 before. Nor landed on it. Two more firsts. Here's the picture. So far everything's been a piece of cake. We're on the ground, there's lights everywhere, the landing light's been limning the way ahead perfectly. All is well. Now here comes the acid test. The plane lifts off the ground. Suddenly we're climbing through a sky devoid of light but for the skeletal remains of the sunset, and the first elusive stars.

"WHERE THE HELL'S THE GROUND, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD?!"

There was nothing below me. NOTHING. Just a black void. If I was afraid of heights or the dark, I'd probably have turned into a shivering, palpitating lump of jelly right then. When we got 500 feet off the ground, Harold instructed me to turn crosswind. I could now see a few lights. There were a few houses out there, and the big limestone quarry in the next valley over. But those were still only tiny islands of light in a sea of tenebrosity. I looked ahead and could just barely see the Granite Mountains, a swathe of blank darkness against the purple star-lined horizon. They seemed terrifyingly close in their indistinctness. Needless to say, I didn't need any urging to turn downwind, away from them.

I wasn't scared. I had suddenly realized the full extent of the task ahead, that's all. Now I knew what I was up against. Up until this point I had been like, Well, yeah, okay, I'll be doing the same thing I always do, but, you know, in the dark. I had received my wake-up call. I was going to have to make some adjustments in my thinking here.

I took stock. The dashboard lights were woefully inadequate to the task. My night vision's not the best, but even so I could barely make out my airspeed and attitude indicators. That would be a problem, but I figured I could work with it. A little creative squinting would do the trick. As for actually landing in the dark, well, I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. I looked up.

The entire valley was filled with light.

The lights of Apple Valley, Victorville and Hesperia were laid out beneath us like the fields of a fluorescent farm. Up and to the left I could see the scattered pinpricks of house lights in my neighborhood in the foothills; the distant twinkling of the Mountain High ski resort, way off in the San Gabriel Mountains; and of course, the enormous grid of streetlights and stoplights in the town directly below. It was an awe-inspiring sight. I'd seen cities from the air many a time, but never this well. Nor had I ever been flying myself over them. This was something new, and it was something else.

We practiced eight touch-and-go landings that night. It was a bit rough at first—I bounced the plane down hard a few times (because runway 36 actually slopes up and meets you, okay?!). Moreover I just wasn't adjusted to landing in the dark. That big landing light helped, but I was still having trouble gauging the actual distance between me and the ground. First I'd flare too low. Then I'd flare too high. Either way, there'd be quite a jolt on landing. Descents were a bit nerve-wracking, too. I looked out of my window once a quarter-mile from the end of the runway and saw the roof of somebody's house just 100 feet below. I was so close I could've read the number on their mailbox, if they'd had one. That woke me up, let me assure you. I didn't look down again.

Eventually I got the hang of it. Tonight Harold and I did an hour-and-a-half cross-country flight to General Fox Airport in Lancaster. I'd been there before, too, but in the bright day. This time we were navigating solely by GPS. When we took off the sky looked like this:
 


But by the time we'd made it to Fox, touched down, taken off, and turned back east again, my view resembled this...


...only darker. That beat-up old 1974 Cessna doesn't have as good panel lighting as the one in this picture does. Creative squinting, creative squinting. The moon was nearly full, and cast a soft blue light (like the taxiway lights) on the sleeping Earth. The evening was hazy; that combined with the blue moon-glow and Palmdale's plentiful streetlights made me feel more like I was piloting a submersible over the sunken-but-thriving city of Atlantis.

We detoured around Victorville because there was an Air Force C-17 practicing landings there, but the rest was simple. We descended slowly over the familiar, warm valley of light, entered the pattern, and landed safely. We taxied to the hangar this time instead of the ramp (Harold was going to replace a cockpit gauge over the New Year break), climbed out and rode back to the airport building. The taxiway lights still glowed their cheery blue.

There's pros and cons to flying at night, just like anything else. The best part is that you can see other airplanes. It's a lot easier to spot traffic, thanks to strobes and beacons. Landings are trickier and navigation can be a little nerve-wracking, but all in all, I enjoyed myself immensely during my three hours of night-flight.

Take it, Geddy.

Look, Ma! I got another one!

A thousand thanks to JennyMac from Let's have a cocktail... She has presented me with this, my second blogging accolade, the I Give Good Blog Award...because, in her words, all of the people to whom she gave it "contribute something great to BlogWorld." I don't know what I can say, except thankyouthankyouthankyou, JennyMac. That warmed the cockles of my heart. I truly appreciate the thought, the word, and the recognition. Ditto for you, and best regards. You give pretty good blog yourself... As with many other awards going around the blogsphere, this one has some provisos. First, make a cocktail. Then, pick out some of your favorite bloggers. Then, send this award to four of them. Tell them why you think they give good blog (heh heh heh). In JennyMac's words, "There are SO many fascinating, witty, and fantastic bloggers; let's invite them all to the party." Well, I've made myself a cocktail. After somehow going without sweet-and-sour mix for a week, I managed to procure some today while ducking into the local supermarket for dog food. I was finally, finally able to kick back with a whiskey sour this evening, after a long easy day of walking, getting a haircut, and reloading a few hundred Colt .45 cartridges. It was eminently satisfying. Okay, now to pick the four lucky bloggers. This should be simple. There are a lot of good ones out there, blogs that never cease to make me smile, think, or sympathize. These blogs inspire me, encourage me, stimulate me on a fundamental level. And believe me when I say that's not easy to do. I have high standards. These blogs exceed them.

• Entrepreneur Chick - This witty, fearless lady has multiple business concerns on the go, and is always attending some high-powered function or shindig. She's never at a loss for something smart, funny and feisty to say, nor a pearl of wisdom concerning the business world. If you're a burgeoning entrepreneur yourself, or just want to read about the exploits of a bold and brassy businesswoman, this is the blog for you.
• The Whole Blooming World - A quiet, beautiful, florid, introspective blog, in which a New Mexico mother, writer and inveterate learner discusses life: its intricacies, its loveliness, its pain, its lessons, its subtleties, and its interconnections.
• It Was Dark, Stormy and I Lost My Serial Comma - Here is Man. Man has kids. Man has divorce. Man has unusual friends. Man has likes and dislikes. Man has funny addictions. Man has hilarious observations. Man has nothing but the deepest love for his children. Man wears mismatched shoes. Man is good writer. Man is humorous writer. Man is heartstring-tugging writer. Go read. Now.
• [carrotspeak.] - The lyrically-written account of a Kentucky army fiancée, her life, her man, her friends, her obsession with Twilight, her worries, her woes, her joys, her highs, and the innermost workings of her heart. She's got so much love and beauty and hope inside that it's almost heartbreaking to read her stuff sometimes...but that, in my opinion, makes it all the more worthwhile. Her words are moving, yet tinged with humor and inherent determination.

Check 'em out, folks. It's worth your while. Them's the rules! However, I think I'll go a step further and tell you about some other blogs I think deserve some honorable mention:

• Fortune Cookies and Men
• It's On.
• ResidentAlien
• smithyblogs
• Stranded on Gaia
• Ramblings of the Bearded One
• From the Faraway, Nearby

Th-th-th-that's all folks! Congratulations to the winners...keep those delectable musings coming.

appeasement

THE STORY SO FAR:

Alli and Andrew find themselves in the middle of Las Vegas at midnight on the morning of Friday, December 18, 2009, with four hours to kill before Allison has to be at McCarran International Airport. Blue Man Group's show has finished, and the two have no definite plans for the remainder of the night. What will happen next?

We found ourselves in the middle of the Venetian with nothing to do and no further plans. Fortunately, a town like Las Vegas is quite an amenable place to be under those circumstances, let me tell you. We'd hoped to catch the fountains at the Bellagio, but for some reason it seemed as if they weren't running that night. They ran on the hour, every hour, and though we'd never been far out of sight of them since about 4:00 that afternoon, they'd never gone off. I was bummed. I'd caught glimpses of that show from the car as my parents drove down the Strip, and it had seemed fantabulous. It also meant that we really now had nothing to do for four hours. Hmmmmmmm.... We took to wandering. We wandered everywhere, up and down the Strip: into the Paris Casino, right under the gigantic replica of the Eiffel Tower (the elevator was closed, unfortunately); all through the Bellagio, and the multitude of shops and bars and restaurants there; and into the Monte Carlo, where I finally took a crack at gambling. I'd been wanting to try it for some time, and had been wondering if I'd get my chance; Alli had declared that she'd sit it out. Not the gambling type, Alli, I guess. But I didn't want to inconvenience her. Far be it from me to go gambling and leave her sitting there, bored, when she was my special guest. But Alli was insistent: this trip was not all about her. I could gamble if I wanted, so I decided to try. I wasn't brave enough to actually try a real game with live dealers and players. I wasn't sure what all the chips were worth, and I didn't want to make a fool of myself. So I settled for something with worse odds but lower stakes: video poker. I pumped in a buck for a penny-ante poker machine and started playing. And get this! I won $3.25. I was on a losing streak when, quite suddenly, I got four fives. Bang, I had made a profit. I debated briefly whether or not to keep going; I ultimately decided against it. Might as well quit now, when I'd won. Then I could actually say I'd gambled and won in Vegas! I cashed out and then Alli and I debated what to do next. We still had two hours to go. It was 2:30. Her flight left at 6:30. It was advisable to be at the airport no later than 4:30. Our feet were really hurting, what with the 10 hours of walking and standing and moseying we'd been doing. We decided to give in. I purchased a deck of cards at the Monte Carlo's gift shop (that had actually been used on the gambling floor!), and Alli and I adjourned to Denny's. Yes, there was a Denny's right off the Strip. True, it resembled a space station, but hey, it's Vegas. We went in, sat down, ordered some nonalcoholic beverages and snacks, and relaxed for a bit. We were both on our way out. We'd been up for nearly 20 hours now, and not just standing still, either. Our brains were fogged up and our eyes were bleary. Nonetheless, we put a bold face on it. We ate, drank, and plotted. Our pre-printed list of free Vegas attractions was out; most of them had closed down by now. We had been plotting to go see the Aquarium at the Silverton; but that was prohibitively far to walk. The MGM Grand's lion exhibit had shut down at 7 p.m. The fountains at the Bellagio weren't working. The Tower elevator at the Paris Casino was closed. We were out of options. Defeated, we walked back to the Jeep with one hour to go. We chucked all of our purchases into the backseat, climbed in, shut the doors, and just sat there in silence, looking out over the landscape of glittering skyscrapers and flashing neon lights. Despite my best efforts, I dozed. I don't know if Alli did. Her seat wasn't reclined. She seemed to be just looking and thinking, looking and thinking. We had been exhausted into mutual silence. Even the turmoil inside me had died down, and my heart and mind had achieved a rapprochement. Soon it was four o'clock. "Well," I said, "we'd better go." I started up the Jeep, pulled out of the parking lot (making quite sure to look behind me carefully as I backed out), and within a few minutes, pulled up to the passenger drop-off point at the McCarran International departures terminal. I scarcely remember helping Alli unload, giving her a final hug goodbye, getting into the car and pulling away from the curb. I was tired, I was sad that she was leaving (already), and it was rotten cold outside, with a stiff wind. My mind could scarcely form a cohesive thought; too many sensations and feelings and distractions. I got back into the Jeep and watched to make sure she got inside okay with her stuff, of course. But then, once she was in, and it was just me, Roger, and the road again...well, my mind sort of went blank. I now had to face that long three-hour drive home, by myself, in the dark. Just outside of the city I stopped and got some gas. That stiff wind kept blowing. The night was pitch-dark. The distant glow of Las Vegas seemed somehow blank and unwelcoming now, even more artificial. From the gas station bathroom, I could hear the two cashiers arguing about some trivial money matter. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so empty inside. I'd always hated partings, and the hollow, dead feeling that accompanied them. It hit me especially hard that night. There I was, in a gas station bathroom in some godforsaken corner of Nevada, about to brave the lonely road home in the dark of night. It seemed a sad, ignominious, inglorious end to such a luminescent thing as Alli's visitation. I got back on the road and headed south down the I-15 once again. Now the real battle began. As I sat in the car, slowly warming up, surrounded by the white noise of the engine and the wind outside, my exhaustion and sleep deprivation loudly declared their presence. Things began to get dicey. It's a good thing there weren't many other cars on the road at that hour. I began to notice that I was slipping in and out of consciousness fairly early on. I'd "wake up" and find the car heading slowly onto the shoulder, or into the next lane. I'd find my head drooping, or my eyelids sinking slowly shut. My brains felt like they were being dunked into a warm bath; I'd have to shake my head forcibly to get them back into open air again. I'd correct the car's course with a jerk, worrying that some highway patrolman would see me and run me down. This was bad. I still had another two hours to go. I began to question my decision to drive home right after pulling an all-nighter. I'd been up for 24 hours. My body was rebelling on me. It was just a question of whether I could quell the uprising or not. If I didn't... I forced that thought out of my head and kept my eyes locked firmly on the dimly-lit patch of asphalt in my headlights. Then I noticed something interesting. Whereas before I could make out nothing of the landscape around me, now I could perceive the jagged outlines of the mountains to the east. Their black edges thrust up visibly against the lighter purple of the late night sky. "Dawn is approaching," I said to myself. Well, that would make things easier. Once it was brighter my mind wouldn't be screaming "SLEEP!" at me so loudly. Nonetheless, I figured a little creative help wouldn't hurt. I rolled down my windows and jacked in one of my favorite CDs, The Big Come Up by the Black Keys. They're a two-man blues duo out of Akron, Ohio, and boy, do those guys rock. It's nothing but booming, bashing drums and raw electric guitar riffs, plus some soulful vocals. It's enough to wake anybody up. I turned it up LOUD and settled in for the home stretch. Driving along in that Jeep, songs like "Busted" and "Heavy Soul" blasting out of the radio, the freezing wind howling in the cracked windows, the pale blue-yellow lights of dawn creeping into the firmament, is another thing I'll never forget. Appeasement was mine. Nothing had happened between us. There was no embarrassment or ill-feeling left behind, only goodwill and friendship. Even the car accident had been forgotten. Things were as they should be. I felt at peace inside as I drove along. I was glad she came, glad she had fun, glad I'd gotten to do things with her. That was enough. I just about made it home. I pulled into my driveway at about 7:00 a.m., shut off the car, staggered inside, and said hello to the folks. I paused only long enough to text Allison, thank her again for coming and wish her well (and check my e-mail) before hitting the sack and sleeping until three o'clock in the afternoon. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of Allison's visitation.

turmoil

Yes, you guessed it, folks: we woke up early again. This time, the morning of the 12/17, we had to get down to the airport for Allison's flight. Her introductory ride in N42126, I mean. I was going to usher Allison into the world of aviation, and Harold and Apple Valley Aviation were going to help me do it. We drove down to the airport, met Harold, and soon enough he and Allison were preflighting the plane. I helped as best I could, explaining things as I went, a tad over-zealously perhaps. Alli was bold as brass. She got in, strapped in, and watched attentively while Harold went through the motions of starting the plane. Once we were on the taxiway, he let her take over. She got the hang of taxiing real fast. Impressive. Most impressive. We pulled off at the end of runway 18, did our run-up, and then cruised onto the runway. This was the moment of truth. Allison had the controls for the long run down the tarmac. She kept us straight and true, and lifted us off the ground with hardly any dips or bumps. Soon, we were at 5,500 feet, floating contentedly along above Apple Valley. Harold put Alli through some basic maneuvers, being his usual cheery, helpful self. She remained cool and collected, like she'd been flying all her life. She didn't cackle like an idiot, nor panic. She said, calmly, that it wasn't as hard as she thought it'd be. We did some turns, and then flew around to see what we could see. We flew over the golf course, Interstate 15, Southern California Logistics Airport, Bell Mountain, and finally circled back to the airport and landed. Alli gave me one of her signature grins as we unbuckled our seat belts and climbed out of the plane. I'd love to show you some of the incredible pictures I got, but I can't, because I didn't get any. I forgot my stupid camera, both for this flight and for the duration of our time in Las Vegas. More's the pity. I took some incredible shots with Allison's camera, however. If she ever starts a blog, and she uses those photos, you'll know who took 'em. In deference to the amount of sleep we'd been getting (or rather, not getting), we elected not to head straight off to Vegas after the flight, like we'd planned. Instead, we came back to the house and sacked out again for a couple of hours. Well, we tried to, anyway. Alli curled up on the futon in the front room with the TV and dozed for a time; I did my best, but I just wasn't sleepy. That's just the way I am. Once I get up, I'm up. I can't get up, do something for an hour or so, and then go back to sleep. I showered and then began planning our route in Vegas. That meant I got no extra sleep that morning of the 17th. It would come back to haunt me later. But by and by, we hit the road. About noon or so we finally got everything of Allison's out of the house and into the Jeep. We also exchanged Christmas gifts: I gave her some dominoes and a fun card game called Quiddler (where the cards have letters instead of numbers and you have to make words); she gave me another fun word game, mentioned earlier, called Bananagrams. Mom got Alli some notions from Bath & Body Works, which she appreciated (they smelled like vanilla). Then we climbed in and headed out. I don't think I'll ever forget that sunlit ride back to Vegas. It was bittersweet, I can tell you that much. There we were, Alli's iPod plugged into my car radio, Alli sitting beside me and knitting socks for her sisters for Christmas, singing softly and beautifully along with her favorite tunes, me joining in with my broken yowl whenever one I knew came up. And all the while, the fact that our time together was almost over kept looming. It would be goodness-knew-how-long before I'd see her again. Harmonious yet strange is the marriage of rapture and despair! And, underneath the deep-seated affection I had for her as a friend, was another feeling, more desperate, more insistent, more infuriating. It coalesced as a wordless interrogative, and nagged at me unmercifully those last few hours. It had been nagging at me ever since I knew she'd be coming. Do I make a move on her or not? I didn't have an answer to that question. My rational mind and frivolous heart were at war, endlessly attempting to formulate one. The resultant turmoil wreaked havoc in my brain and gut. I felt, during some periods, as if I was sitting on an anthill, as if my spirit were slowly being eaten alive by venomous, mindless Myrmidons. I couldn't sit still, nor think rationally. My Cro-Magnon mind was gone. There was a blind, mute, unspeakable monster loose in the halls, demanding action at any price, no matter the risk. Go for it, the monster bellowed. I can't. She's not interested in me that way. It's impossible. I'm too scared. What if she's unwilling? I couldn't handle it! my weaselly ego whined. Thou craven! the monster screamed. What hast thou to fear? This could be the start of something beautiful! This is your second chance! Don't blow it! But what if she says no? the weasel almost sobbed. Damn it, man! Show some backbone! howled the monster. Are you going to let one potential moment of embarrassment get in the way of a potential lifetime of happiness? No, but what if— And so on, and so on, and so on. You all have been here before. This is high school stuff. You don't need me to spell out the rest of the conversation. It leads right back to the place it began, an endless litany of vacillation, exhortation, courage and cowardice. It's a funny thing: no matter how much you think you've matured in life, when it comes to such a simple thing as asking a girl whom you think you might go places with to take the next step in step with you, you can't do it. Because deep down inside, we're all third-graders. We know we like that boy or that girl, but love is such a big huge mysterious unknown THING, and we're all so worried about opening our hearts to others and possibly getting burned, that we don't act. Instead, we deflect, dodge, run, hide. We project. We drop hints. We hedge. We hem and haw. We stammer. We try to look cool. We pose. We posture. We challenge. We pretend. I'm sure, somewhere in the universe, there must be some planet, somewhere, where, when Male Inhabitant A discovers that he loves Female Inhabitant B, he simply walks up to her, unafraid, and says, "I love you. Let's spend the rest of our lives together." If Female Inhabitant B doesn't love Male Inhabitant A, she says, "I'm sorry. I don't love you." To which Male Inhabitant A, completely free of embarrassment, mortification, self-doubt or angst, replies, "Well, thank you for hearing my proposal. Good day." And then Male Inhabitant A strolls off into the sunset, on the lookout for Female Inhabitant C. If Female Inhabitant B does love Male Inhabitant A, she simply says, "I love you too. Let's get married and move in together." And the two of them live happily ever after. Not as much fun as Earth, you might say. It's a helluva lot more straightforward and honest and open, though, you've got to admit. I'm actually glad I didn't put Allison on the spot during that car ride, or any time after. I needed some time to think. After I'd considered things properly, I figured that I'd done the right thing. Alli and I probably weren't meant to be. Our lives are going different directions, and there are some glaring incompatibilities between us that probably would be insurmountable obstacles in a marriage. (She considers modern art to actually be art, for Pete's sake.) So it's good that I didn't do anything stupid or hasty. But there was a considerable amount of turmoil going on inside me during that car ride, and our time in Vegas. Speaking of which, let's get back to it! We made it to Vegas fine, just after the sun had set and the strip was beginning to light up. Once again, I had to take a few runs at the parking lot. Having missed the turnoff a time or two, I finally managed to swoop in, pay $3, and find a good parking space. Whew. We were in. Now we could waltz about with impunity. First stop? Caesar's Palace. We were going Swatch-hunting. Don't know what a Swatch is? Well, neither did I. And I haven't been living under a rock for 23 years, either. Swatches are something you just hear about, I guess. They're Swiss watches (hence the name), which come in all sizes, designs, styles, and colors. Alli's Swatch (gaudily hued with brown, blue and green stripes) was winding down, and she wanted to replace it. The only Swatch store she'd ever seen had been in Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. Alli had been to Sin City before, visiting with her family, and had bought it then. That in mind, we elected to head to Caesar's Palace first, get her a Swatch, and figure out the rest. Oh, and we had tickets for the ten o'clock Blue Man Group show, but we had a few hours to kill before that (and after). So, after strolling down Las Vegas Boulevard for a half-hour, going over bridges, through construction tunnels, past people of all sorts and varieties, past the old man in the cowboy hat playing Christmas tunes on the accordion, past the two ladies in platforms on the street corner (one dressed like a devil, the other like an angel), past the Aria and the Bellagio and the Monte Carlo, we came to Caesar's Palace. Now, I've been to Vegas before. Driven past it many a time. Driven through it on occasion. Been into one casino (the Aladdin) a few years back. This was the first time in a long time, however, that I'd been on the Strip and inside one of the most famous casinos in the world. It was fantastic. I can't even begin to do it justice. I'm no stranger to glorified surroundings and I was still floored. Picture vast promenades, dotted with high-end shops on either side, a faux blue sky overhead, magnificent statuary and fountains every few hundred yards. The whole pantheon of Greek gods, their hair adorned with olive wreaths; nymphs, satyrs and hippocampi, surrounded by rushing water; and aquariums filled with the most exotic and colorful fish. Bars, restaurants, rare bookshops, jewelry and designer clothing outlets...it was almost too much to take in at once. I felt as if I was in the middle of a fabulous dream. It was a maze, a labyrinth, a spider's web of opulence and lavishness and sinful excess, seemingly brought down from Mount Olympus for all the world to see. It may all have been a sham, sure, but the illusion was compelling enough. That's one of the things I love about Las Vegas. It's all artifice, sure. But it's fun artifice, convincing artifice, cinematic, glitzy artifice. I'll take it. We located the Swatch shop, and spent a few minutes rooting around. The attendants informed us that, beginning at 6:00, a massive sale would begin. So we elected to find somewhere to eat and then come back after the sale had started. A quick consultation of the directory gave us a prime candidate: the Cheesecake Factory. Allison went all ga-ga when she saw that little name stamped on the directory board. But then again, she'd sampled the Factory's delights before. I hadn't. Boy, was I ever in for an eye-opener. Or rather, as it proved to be, a mouth-opener. We had to walk the entire length of the Palace's promenade once again to get there, but I didn't mind. It gave us a chance to peruse the stores, the fountains, and the faux opulence once again. We descried the restaurant at the end of a cul-de-sac, just past the giant aquarium. I didn't know where to point my eyeballs: at this aquarium or the impressive façade of the Cheesecake Factory. (Why am I using so many French words?) It was staggering. It arched two stories up (and this was indoors, mind), built to resemble an ancient Roman structure, as most of the storefronts in the casino were. Just standing in front of the reception desk, I could see a bar, tables with spotless white tablecloths, huge (faux) pillars, mood lighting, and quite a few people who looked more than happily fed. This was going to be good. And it was. We were ushered to our table, right on the edge of a balustrade overlooking nearly the whole restaurant, with a clear view up to the gallery-like ceiling and the second floor. It was like eating in a Roman palace, with pillars and rich tiling and soft yellow light all around. Like I said, fun artifice. I was truly starting to have fun. That turmoil had abated a little. What the hell, I said to myself. Just roll with it. Whatever will happen will happen and whatever won't, won't. Our server, John, a thirtysomething blond-haired man with short sticky-up hair and a cheery smile, came over, gave us our menus, and made some very genuine small talk. I took an immediate liking to him. He seemed somehow different from 98% of the other servers and waiters I'd met in my lifetime, who were friendly and helpful without being honest about it. Their demeanor, like the statues of in the Palace promenade, was artificial. John seemed truly pleased to see us and glad to be working where he was. That manifested in his conduct. He wasn't sappy or superficial, but warm and jocular. I appreciated that. After warning us that the portion sizes were enormous, John let us have some time to decide what we wanted. We could already tell it'd be a tough choice. I've never seen such a huge menu. It was like a book, as John had pointed out. There were pages and pages and pages of pastas, soups, salads, sandwiches, and other entrées. And that's not even including the cheesecake, which I will get to later. It deserves a blog entry of its own, I can tell you that much. We decided to have a drink while we pored over the expansive menu. Mojitos seemed like a good idea. We informed John, and before we knew it, a pair of tall glasses filled with ice, rum, sugar, lime juice, club soda and mint sprigs was set in front of us. And brother, believe me when I say the Cheesecake Factory makes a fine mojito. I hope they pay their bartenders well, 'cause that was the best dang mojito I ever had in my life. I could detect the rum, beautifully supplemented by the lime and sugar, underscored by the carbonation and perfectly tinctured with copious mint. Heck, I don't even like mint all that much, and I liked this mojito. I began to have very high hopes for the dinner to come. In the end, we decided on the spicy chicken chipotle pasta. We ordered one plate for the two of us, which was a good thing, because the portion sizes were indeed massive. A huge heaping bowl of penne, peas, asparagus, and a just-spicy-enough chipotle sauce was laid steaming before us, and we dug in with relish. It was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. Conversation practically died as we satiated ourselves, all the while continuing to admire our surroundings, trying to guess what language the Mediterranean couple beside us was speaking. (We had no luck.) But wait, I haven't gotten to the best part yet. This restaurant was named "The Cheesecake Factory" after all. It's famous for its cheesecake, ever since the founding couple got the business started in California some decades ago. The menu's cheesecake pages alone would've sufficed for an entire menu at a lesser confectioner's shop. There was so much to choose from. We'd gotten a tantalizing glimpse from the reception desk: there had been a glass case filled to the brim with dripping, gleaming, glistening slices of cheesecake of all shapes, sizes, hues and patterns. And that was only scratching the surface. We pored over the gigantic master cheesecake list, calling out whatever sounded good to each other. I thought the Chocolate Turtle, Dulce de Leche and Kahlúa Cocoa Coffee all sounded delectable. You can guess which one I chose in the end. Come on, I'm a mixologist. I like Kahlúa anyway. Getting to sample some in cake was an idea I just couldn't pass up. The description in the menu said that my choice was "chocolate brownie, Kahlúa cheesecake, and chocolate mousse" all overlaid. Come on now. Try and pass that up, even after a full bowl of chipotle pasta. Alli was vacillating as well. She had been on a pumpkin kick lately (she had tried to get the pumpkin pancakes at IHOP two days earlier, but they'd been out). However, she was also a lifelong fan of strawberry cheesecake. Both options were represented on that menu. What to do? In the end, her decision was made for her. When John returned and asked us what we'd like, he had to inform Alli that, unfortunately, the Cheesecake Factory was also out of pumpkin. So Alli went with strawberry, not without a hint of reluctance, and that was that. In seemingly no time at all, two humongous wedges of cheesy goodness were set upon our table. Both of us just sort of stared at them for a bit. It seemed almost a shame to eat them, they were so beautiful. My slice was sitting pertly on its plate, a dollop of whipped cream on top, another one right in front of the wedge, as if the cake slice was a ship crashing into a creamy iceberg. The slice itself was excitingly tinted, dark brownie underneath, lightening to muddy brown above for the cocoa and the cheesecake itself, covered with dark frosting cross-hashed with wavy light-brown stripes of mousse. Aw, man. Of all the times to forget the camera. After a moment, and an encouraging look from Alli, I picked up my fork and tenderly excised the first bite. I opened my mouth and bit down respectfully. Now, I don't claim to be a religious man, but whatever happened in my mouth right then was something like an epiphany. I could almost hear the heavenly bells ringing, the voices of the angels lifted in a hallelujah. It. Was. GORGEOUS. I've had cheesecake before, many times. I've just had your regular, straightforward cheesecake, no special flavoring or additives, though. I've also had a lot of cheesecake at (for lack of a better term) half-baked shops and restaurants who don't really put a lot of artistry into their creations. The preceding facts became readily apparent as I took that first bite. It was amazing. The Kahlúa wasn't overpowering, but lent a special coffee overtone to the overall chocolate flavor, which itself was explosive. The cheesecake and frosting melted in my mouth almost immediately, while the brownie remained solid for a good while longer, providing an intoxicating textural blend. Alli was no less absorbed. Her eyes were closed and she was emitting the occasional sigh. John came back to the table while as we devoured our cheesecake in a fugue. "Horrible stuff, isn't it?" he asked, with a mock-serious expression. "Terrible," Alli agreed. "Venomous," I concurred. "I'm sure," John replied. "I know you're just eating it to be polite. I can't stand it myself." All three of us grinned. "You guys need anything else?" "Could I have a glass of milk?" I asked, around a mouthful of brownie. John got one for me, and then gave us the bill. I made a point to comment to the lady at the front desk just what a genuine, helpful, diligent guy John was. My conscience wouldn't permit me to do anything else. He was really the cherry on top of the ice cream sundae (or slice of cheesecake) regarding that whole experience. Suitably satiated, we set off once again into Caesar's Palace. My benighted mind had now been opened to heretofore unsuspected horizons of cheesecake, and I was ready for anything. We stopped briefly at a large toy store so Alli could do some Christmas shopping. Her sister was an ardent fan of Uglydolls (you know, those stuffed toys that look like horrible little monsters), so Allison got her an Uglydolls all-purpose bag. I got me a tequila-flavored lollipop with a meal worm in it, and then we left. Now for a Swatch. We ducked back down the curved escalators, down through the three-story gallery filled with enormous plaster statues of half-naked women ("We're surrounded by boobs," I told Alli), and reentered the Swatch shop. Alli had previously narrowed her choices down to three finalists: white band with hippos; turquoise band made of interlocking ovoid stones; or plain brown. She elected to go with the turquoise band. It had to be taken in a little to suit her wrist. While we waited, I browsed a bit myself. I saw one particular Swatch that I liked: plain, no frills, a simple black band and a white analog face, with a small window for telling the date and day of the week. If I'd had $55 I wasn't using I would've probably dropped it right then and there. Suitably Swatched, we exited the shop and plotted our next move. Both of us figured we'd better mosey on over to the Venetian. It was two hours to show time. We could check out what shopping the Venetian had to offer and then walk for a few minutes and be ready when the theater doors opened. I was about ready for a drink, too. We'd been walking past bar after bar after bar, all of which looked exciting and fun and interesting to sit in (and fully stocked). Those mojitos we had at the Cheesecake Factory were good, but they'd worn off. I was getting thirsty, and no mere glass of water could mollify me. So we walked out of Caesar's Palace, turned left, and headed north up Las Vegas Boulevard until the Venetian peeked out from behind Harrah's. We went in, found the Blue Man Group theater, procured our tickets, and then just began to browse. As impressive as places like Caesar's Palace and the Bellagio had been on the inside, the Venetian gave them all a run for their money. They've got a canal inside the casino. A real, full-blown canal, about the same size as the ones in Venice actually are! And they've got men and women in straw hats and striped shirts—gondoliers—punting gondolas with happy couples up and down this canal, just like in Venice! And some of them even sing, too! "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore..." How awesome is that?? So we took to wandering. We peeked in a few stores, and a few art galleries showcasing caricatures of well-known actors and musicians, and also a fair bit of Snoopy-related artwork (Vegas, Vegas, Vegas). We walked under arches, past strange forms of Christmas decoration (a giant, serpent-like sculpture of evergreen branches tied up with red ribbons and Christmas lights, writhing over a cranberry pool by the waterfall). We strolled along the canal, peeking through windows, me drooling over every bar we passed. Noticing my stares, Alli suggested we stop in to Davidoff, a fine cigar shoppe right by the side of the canal. They had a walk-in humidor. I'd never seen one of those before. The glass walls were lined with expensive, fancy cigars of every stamp and vintage. The quality and prices were both outrageous. In the end, however, I folded. I got myself an Opus X, supposedly one of the most full-bodied and "peppery" cigars offered (according to the pretty attendant), for $31.50. Heh heh, I chuckled to myself as I shelled out the money, I can't wait to get home and wave this under John and Chris's noses. I haven't smoked that cigar yet, but I'll let you know when I do, and how green the boys turn. We stopped at a directory to see if we'd missed any interesting shops. As we looked, a bald, uniformed guard in white gloves walked up to us and asked if we needed help finding anything. On a whim, I asked, "Do you have any bookstores here?" The man thought for a moment, and then said, "The only bookstore we have would be Bauman's Rare Books. Head straight that way," he pointed down the hall the way we'd come, "past the escalators, make a right and a quick left. Bauman's will be on the right." He had me at "rare books." Alli noticed the sinister gleam that came into my eye as he said it. The guard began to tell us about a general store on another floor that sold magazines, but Alli cut him off. "I think we'll take the rare books," she said, looking at me with amusement. Bauman's Rare Books was a tiny shop set into the side of a long, low, carpeted hallway on the second level of the Venetian. I could immediately tell we were in for a treat. They had a first-edition copy of Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss in the bulletproof glass case out front. Mentally, I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. Books, books, BOOKS. They were all in excellent condition, if a little worn and old-looking, and their sheer antiquity (and price) boggled the imagination. I saw 26 rare editions of Edgar Rice Burroughs's original Tarzan stories; a note penned by Walt Whitman himself to his publisher; first-edition copies of everything from Cool Hand Luke to Watership Down; and even goodies like early printings of Charles Darwin's Origin of Species. All right there, right then! In the store! In Las Vegas! We couldn't browse enough. We walked up and down, staring up at the high wooden shelves, wondering at their miraculous contents. The proprietor (probably not Bauman himself, being young, sprightly, bearded, and bespectacled, but quite helpful and amiable) opened up whatever case we chose and let us look at whatever we wanted. He also exchanged book reviews with us; I'd name a title and he'd give me his two cents on it. It was great fun. I handled those books like they were glass. No, like they were nitroglycerin. I must be a hardcore bibliophile, because that store was like a treasure trove to me. How I would've loved to keep coming back, day after day, and peruse all of the volumes in the collection. Alas, we had no time. We thanked the proprietor and moved on. I caught a last titillating glimpse of a signed copy of Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms in the armored window, and then the store vanished from our sight. It was right about here that I figured I was long due for a whiskey sour. We settled on Samba Sushi, a low-lit and chic sushi bar a few yards down the hall, bellied up to the bar, laid down our burdens and sat down on the stools. There was a frizzy-haired man in a gray suit a few stools down from us, reading a newspaper, a champagne flute and a glass of ice water in front of him. By the looks of things, he'd been there a while. He ordered up another drink as we sat there (it looked like something creamy). Must've been a stock market crash or something... Anyway, to our own drinks. I knew what I wanted. The whiskey selection was rather bad, so I decided to have a Jameson sour. Bad idea. Here again I showed my true ignorance of the ways of John Barleycorn. You never make a whiskey sour with anything other than bourbon or Canadian whisky. Doesn't taste right. Has to be the right stuff, Jim Beam or Wild Turkey or Black Velvet or Crown Royal, maybe. Anyway, I dealt with that mishap as best I could while Allison had a look at the menu. She finally settled on Samba Juice, a house special, consisting of rum and a whole lot of fruit juices. I tasted it; it wasn't bad, if you like that sort of thing. She loved it, that's the important thing. We had a quiet drink as we whiled away the last few minutes before the show started. When we got to the theater the line had already formed, but fortunately it wasn't too long. (Good thing we were there on a weekday!) We got in line, and got in fairly quickly. I hadn't quite realized just how close we'd be to the stage. I'd intentionally chosen seats that were just outside the splash zone (the first six rows or so, where everybody was sure to get hit by some splatter or other). On the digital seating chart, however, it had looked as if there was a substantial gap between rows E and F. There wasn't. Row F was right behind row E, the last row in the danger zone. So you may imagine that Alli and I felt a little nervous as we took our seats directly behind folks who had already donned their protective clear plastic ponchos. Our fears proved to be unfounded. We didn't get splattered. I won't say much about the show, out of respect for the performers' livelihood, but I will say this: go see it. If you've never seen Blue Man Group, you need to. As so many others before me have raved, their performance is what all other live shows aspire to be. It was hilarious, visually stunning, interactive, fun, engaging, astounding and captivating all in one. It was a festival of sight and sound I can't even begin to describe properly, so I won't try. Needless to say, those were two hours of our lives well spent. We laughed, jumped, clapped, and gaped all through it. It was brilliant, to say the least. The show got out just about midnight. So, therefore, here ends my narrative for December 17th, 2009. I shall resume at this point in the next entry. I apologize that this was so long; it's just that we did a lot of stuff, and I'm naturally garrulous. You have my permission to read this in parts if you have to. If you do read it all in one go, kindly time yourself and report back to me how long it took you. If you do, you get a cookie.

concern

One of the perks of driving from Los Angeles to San Diego on the night of the 15th was that we got to sleep in the morning after. I awoke about 8:00 or so, having slept passably well on a soft bed in an unfamiliar room with airplanes flying over all night. Honestly, it reminded me of our old townhouse back in Alexandria, Virginia. We were practically within spitting distance of Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. Every three minutes or so, a jet plane would take off and climb into the sky with a dull, faint roar. They did that around the clock, every day of the week, morning, noon and night. I used to stretch out on my bed in my second-story room, facing west, watching these planes as they clambered into the black and starry night, lights winking merrily, their soft thunder muted by the glass windows, the distant rumble strangely comforting. Ten years later, in San Diego, these airplanes didn't wake me up. But they might have kept me from sleeping as deeply as I should have. To summarize, I didn't feel particularly rested on the morning of the sixteenth. The free continental breakfast at the HoJo closed down at nine, so Alli and I got ready and headed down there about 8:37 or so. We broke our fast on cold cereal, toast and almost-ripe fruit. We took the opportunity to pull out the map of San Diego we'd picked up at the front desk and study it. We'd chosen hotels wisely. We weren't but a few miles from SeaWorld. So, after we'd finished breakfast and checked out, we loaded up the Jeep, got on the road, made a few hectic right turns, stumped up for parking, and were walking through the park gates in the warm sunshine in less than a half-hour. I'd been to San Diego a few times before. I used to have a great uncle living down there. Uncle Joe, we called him, but his real name was Alvin. He had a two-story, bungalow-esque sort of place about 15 minutes' walk from Ocean Beach Pier. His wife, Dee, passed away some years before he did, leaving him alone in that big old house in the palm-coated hills. It was a bit sad. At least he never had to deal with any hard winters. No matter what time of year we visited him, the temperature was always a uniform 80 degrees. Sometimes it got up to 82, but that was a heat wave, Joe would say. Of course, Allison and I visited S.D. in mid-December. The temperature had plummeted to something like, I don't know, 75 degrees, with plenty of warm sunshine and a sweet, cool sea breeze. I claim to hate California, but I lovelovelove San Diego. It's one of only two places in my home state I'd actually consider living in for longer than two seconds. We paid up, ducked back to the car to deposit a few contraband items (the lady at the gate was checking bags most assiduously), and entered SeaWorld San Diego. Ahhhh, what a glorious day. See above. The place was every bit as nice as I'd remembered, if not more nicer. There were Christmas decorations strung up everywhere, as there had been at Universal Studios. The 400-foot Skytower had been hung with gigantic strands of lights and capped with a huge star, dolling it up like an enormous Christmas tree. Hymns and carols issued softly from the park's speakers, and that wonderful sea breeze kept blowing, mingling with the happy laughter of children and the sounds of rushing water. Maybe commercial entertainment ain't so bad after all. Allison and I wandered about in semi-logical fashion, doing and seeing just about everything the park had to offer. We visited the sea turtles, petted the dolphins, chuckled at the sea lions, made a fuss of the penguins, touched the sea stars, fondled the stingrays, winced at the eels, and ate all the barbecued meat and fries we could get our hands on. It was a good, good day. Shamu was in fine form, too. The last show we saw before leaving the park was the big ol' killer whale extravaganza at 2:30. It was everything I'd remembered: some jumps, some big splashes, a whole lot of oohs and aahs, and quite a few fish. Every time I go to a zoo or an aquarium, it's as if I'm seeing it for the first time. I never remember just how much is inside. We went to see the sea lion show (hence the chuckling), and whaddya know! It was abjectly different from the other one I saw before, with new gimmicks and new actors, human and pinniped alike. I'd completely forgotten about the freshwater aquarium, with its humongous bullfrogs and piranha swarms and see-through guppies. I got to pet the stingrays last time; this was the first time I'd ever petted a dolphin. THAT was COOL. They were friendly as all get-out, and swam right up to us, clicking and squeaking. They even seemed to enjoy a good pat on the head. Touching a dolphin was, somehow, even weirder than fondling a stingray. They were wet, of course, and extremely tough and rubbery, but not slimy as the rays had been. It was a fantastic experience. We happened to be standing near a zookeeper in a wetsuit, who was busy brushing away at the edges of the enclosure. He noticed what fun we were having, and introduced us personally to the dolphins who swam up (Captain and Bugs). He was friendly and knew his stuff. He even helped us call them over. It was one of the most marvelous things I've ever experienced, that's for dang sure. Another reason that we chuckled at the sea lions was this: sea lions, in fact, possess similar gender discrepancies to humans. Let me explain. We walked over to the sea lion exhibit after the show. The sea lions were separated according to sex: males in one pen and females in another. (Are female sea lions called sea lionesses? They ought to be.) Picture this: the females are getting along swimmingly. They're sleeping in heaps, perfectly free and easy with each other. Swing your head a few degrees to the left and look into the males' enclosure. You will observe the largest boy sea lion launch himself from the water and unceremoniously slap the smallest sea lion off a rock with his flipper. The smallest sea lion falls into the drink and sullenly swims off in search of a less coveted rock to lie on. Yep. That's boys and girls for you, folks. Alli and I both enjoyed ourselves immensely, but there was a tiny worry tinging my peace of mind. Allison was pretty quiet. She seemed, in fact, a little distant. I was agonizing insecurely over this perceived coolness. I honestly couldn't tell if she was just tired from all the sleep we'd missed thus far, or whether she'd soured on me in the wake of yesterday's car accident. And it was killing me. I know, I know. 'Twas stupid of me to worry. She's a good friend, after all, and had told me that she didn't hold it against me. I should've just taken her word for it. But I guess I must be more fragile inside than I like to admit. I was convinced that her opinion of me had slipped a few notches, and I was, shall we say...concerned. Next up on our to-do list: Ocean Beach. Allison had expressed a keen desire to walk on a beach, seeing as it was -16 degrees and snowing at her house. I figured Ocean Beach, with its fine sand, tidal pools, copious piles of flotsam, and huge pier (the longest on the West Coast) would suit just fine. The trick was getting there. We had to get on I-8 again for a bit, and that proved to be problematic from SeaWorld Drive. For me, anyway. As has already been proven, I'm a boneheaded driver. Despite Alli's best navigational efforts, I missed the exit, and had to come back and take another run at it. We made it the second time around, and found ourselves on Sunset Cliffs Boulevard, searching for Niagara Avenue, which lead to (and, in fact, turned into) Ocean Beach Pier. We cruised through suburban San Diego in so doing. Alli commented that, "minus the palm trees," it looked rather like her aunt's neighborhood back home. We reached Niagara and hauled right. By some amazing quirk of fate, we found a parking space. Some guy in a pickup was just pulling out as we came back down Niagara after a fruitless first run up. We parked. I paused for a moment to make a call to my insurance company; I'd meant to do it earlier, but hadn't. They'd actually been attempting to call me. The woman I'd hit had apparently already contacted her insurance company, who had gotten in touch with mine, pronto. I managed to get a hold of a living body and set up a time to get everything hashed out. Alli, decorous as ever, stepped out of the car to preserve my precious ego. I was nonetheless red-faced as I climbed out of the car to join her on the sidewalk. At this point, any reminder of the screw-up I'd committed was bound to bring my desire to turn into a pile of sludge bubbling back again. I shook it off as best I could and the two of us moseyed up the gently sloping avenue to the pier. The Pacific Ocean blossomed before us, lit by the westering sun. Shame and concern were instantly swept away in that sacred glow. The clement sea air swirled gently about us like waves on the nearby sea, washing us free of travel grime, scrubbing out souls as it passed. The palm trees swayed in that magnificent breeze. The sky was an amalgam of purple and orange, feathered with the most delicate traces of cirrus clouds. Surfers in wetsuits wobbled on boards a few hundred yards offshore; the waves clamored merrily upon the sand; young men kicked soccer balls across the beach, while an electric guitar's tinny chords filtered out a boom box; hippies and freaks of every size and description wandered up and down the sidewalks, toting guitar cases or backpacks or dreadlocks or joints, gathering here and there in groups; joggers huffed steadily along the pier; and windburned fishermen looked to their lines, standing here and there by the rails. Everywhere were young couples strolling hand-in-hand. Sailboats scudded along the horizon. I haven't been treated to a scene that beautiful in a long time. Alli and I joined this menagerie of human life, walking slowly along the pier, past the fishermen and joggers, past the restaurant, out onto the very end of the pier. There we stood, and took in the ocean and all it had to say. Seagulls and pelicans soared over the waters, and that sky kept getting more beautiful by the minute. There was hardly any need to speak. We stood there for a time, drinking it all in, wandering back and forth, snapping pictures and making comments. I remembered just how much I loved coming to this pier, even though poor old Uncle Joe had passed on. I had to admit, though, it was a million times better coming here with someone than just by myself, even if that someone had witnessed me backing into someone and then almost doing a runner. The light was dying as we walked back down the pier, down the steps, and onto the beach...but not before we'd encountered this fellow. He was nakedly interested in some of the fishermen's dividends. He was flapping from one side of the pier to the other, rail to rail, and darting furtive glances all about him, like an old man heading for the cookie jar. Our prior visit to SeaWorld had gotten us both in the mood for a little beachcombing. So we strolled across the sand, past moldering piles of kelp, to the tide pools. We hopped among them, rather like the macaroni penguins we'd seen earlier, and peered into every puddle. We didn't turn up much. We found one large, mysterious, pulsating mass half-hidden inside a conch shell, and a tiny hermit crab. We didn't mind. It was something just being down there, twilight beginning to gather, the waves resounding with the incoming tide, sailboats wending their way out upon the open sea, the sky deepening its hues with the oncoming night, and the music from that boom box drifting idly across the beach. If there's such a thing as heaven, I hope it's similar to what I've described above: serene and beautiful, with a few boom boxes thrown in. We finally packed it in, walked slowly back up the stairs, down Niagara Avenue, and back to Roger. After a brief stop for fuel, we were back on Sunset Cliffs Boulevard, looking for I-8. We found it easily...or rather, its terminus. That's right, I actually got to get on Interstate 8 right where it actually begins, just a few hundred yards from Ocean Beach, San Diego. How cool is that? I mean, people travel on interstate highways all the time, don't they? But how many of them actually get to the end? We weren't on the 8 for long. It began to get choked up, so Allison suggested we dodge north on CA-163 instead of waiting. That sounded like a good suggestion to me, so we did. Unfortunately, when we actually merged onto the 15, I missed the carpool lane. So I had to sit there in traffic for an extra 20 minutes before things finally thinned out and we got back up to speed again. (For those of you who may be unfamiliar with carpool lanes...they're these really neat highway lanes open to any vehicle with two or more passengers. They're meant to thin out traffic during rush hour, and encourage carpooling. Since I had Allison with me, I could legally use the carpool lane...only, for some reason, I kept forgetting to, which meant that I spent a LOT more time stuck in bloody traffic jams than I should have. Oh well.) Darkness fell completely by the time we made it to Corona, where we'd promised to meet Allison's cousin, TJ, for dinner. By an amazing coincidence, Allison has a cousin who works with Young Americans (a song and dance troupe) and works in Corona. (But he lives in Long Beach. Ugh, I wouldn't fancy that commute. He said he had to get up at 3:30 a.m. to make it to work by 5:30. Eee-yuck.) So she called him, and, after a lengthy discussion of our plans, finally managed to make a date with him. We had a little difficulty locating the right exit, particularly in the dark, but after a few missed approaches and wrong turns, we were sitting in the Corona T.G.I. Friday's and ready for some wholesale meeting-up. Presently, TJ and his Canadian girlfriend, Tara, came in. We rose to meet them, and spent the next two hours chatting and scintillating. We even called up Alli and TJ's aunt, Toots, who was having a birthday, and sang to her over the phone. It was one of the most interesting times I've had with a couple of complete strangers. TJ picked up the tab, too. Great guy. Must be, if he's related to Alli. And so, wearied from our two-day odyssey in La-La Land, Alli and I said our goodbyes, climbed back inside Roger once again, and headed for the open road. Traffic by this time was light. We reached home base in good stead, before the parents had retired to bed, and sacked out forthwith. My concerns about what Alli thought of me were far from fading completely. But, as I lay on my cot in the solacing dark of the family room, I thought they'd faded at least a little. That was good. I'd need all my concentration to survive what would come next...an all-nighter in the world capital of sin, vice, and dreams brought to life... ...Las Vegas, Nevada.

disappointment

Amazingly, I didn't realize that I was being a bad host until after I rousted Allison out of bed at 7:00 a.m. We were to head for Los Angeles that morning, December 15. I can tell I'm going to have a hard time writing this. Already my mind is wandering. The Gods Themselves is gleaming at me from my nightstand (curse you, Isaac Asimov), my flashcards from bartender's school are tantalizing me from one corner of the bedspread, and the wind is howling outside my window. Plus there's something embarrassing that happens in this story that I have to tell you about, and I don't wanna. But here goes anyway: Yes, I'm a bad host. The one thing I hadn't counted on when planning Alli's visit was how early we'd have to get up every morning to actually make it to the marvelous places we intended to see. Why'd we have to get up so early? I'm glad you asked. It gives me a chance to complain. I live only 60 miles or so from Los Angeles. That's it. That's maybe an hour's drive. Less, seeing as the speed limit's 70 miles per hour on the freeways. There's just one little thing that prevents me (and everybody else) from reaching Los Angeles in an hour. It begins with a "T." Traffic. That's it. Traffic is the thing. There are about 90,000 people living in the Apple Valley, Victorville and Hesperia areas alone. Odds are, any given day, that some of them are going to want to go "down the hill" (south on Interstate 15 through the Cajon Pass). And of course, once you get down the hill, you are in the L.A. Basin, which, as of last year, has nearly twenty million people in it. More than half of them are in Los Angeles alone. And all of them want to go somewhere. Usually right when I want to go somewhere. Dammit. So, in order to get anywhere in Los Angeles on time, you must tack an extra half-hour to an hour (or more) onto your travel time. We had no set time for our arrival at Universal Studios (thank God) but we hit the road about 8:00 nonetheless. Things weren't quite as bad as I'd feared, but still pretty clogged. It was the middle of the week after all. There were only 700,000 people on the roads instead of the usual 20 million. Long story short, we made it. Alli was a champ yet again. I had appointed her my navigator, and she never missed a turn. She also kept me abreast of the route at least two turns in advance, which I appreciated immensely. We pulled up to Universal Studios, parked (our lot was adorned with many blown-up images of Woody Woodpecker), and walked into the outdoor shopping center. Unsurprisingly, there weren't too many people about at 10:00 in the morning. The Hard Rock Café was the quietest I've ever seen it, even with the blaring guitar music. None of the shops caught our eye, festooned as they were with amazing paint jobs, life-size cutouts of King Kong, neon lights, and other assorted foofaraw. So (after a brief stop back at Roger for my camera), we adjourned to the park proper. Down the sidewalk, turn right at the big spinning steel globe and the mist machines, stand in line for 30 minutes while the Eastern European tourists try to haggle about ticket prices, and then go in through the blue gates. (That's how you get into Universal Studios.) The first thing that confronted us as we entered was a large bronze statue of a director, a script girl, and a cameraman, who were busy filming everybody who came in. The director was crouched down in a most ridiculous position, his index fingers making twin L's as he framed the shot. We started meandering through the ever-thickening crowd. If we'd thought that the shopping center outside had been glitzy, we got a real wake-up call inside. The place was off the hook. The most astounding collection of shops, boutiques and souvenir stores lined the crooked alleyways, leaning this way and that, and covered in the most outrageous assortment of protrusions and add-ons. The effect was intensified by the Christmas decorations which had been laid over the structures. Various movie cars were parked here and there, including the Bluesmobile from The Blues Brothers. You know I couldn't have resisted getting a picture in front of that. After satisfying our curiosity on the streets, we headed for the rides. The first one we took was, logically, the grand Universal Studios tour. That was a piece of wonderfulness. We drove through movie set after movie set, past movie car after movie car, through sensation after cinema-caliber sensation. I won't spoil it, of course, but I will say that we had a close encounter with Norman Bates, from Psycho; rode out a massive earthquake in a subway station; barely dodged a flash flood and some vicious dinosaurs; and even sneaked along Wisteria Lane while they were filming Desperate Housewives (quiet, please!). There weren't too many shows we were interested in. I did notice, however, that they were going to have a 30-minute "stunt show" at the Waterworld stage. I'll be the first to admit that Waterworld (that apocalyptic Kevin Costner movie) is a piece of crap. But it's a fun piece of crap, sort of. So we said, "What the hey!" We didn't regret it, either. There were explosions, and people falling dozens of feet into water, and fireballs, and shootouts, and hand-to-hand, and some of the most judicious use of zip-lines that I've ever seen. Those explosions and fireballs were the real kicker: loud, flashy, and so big that you could feel the wave of heat 50 feet away in the stands. There was even one point where they hurled a complete replica of a seaplane over the wall and into the water, where it skidded across the arena, in flames, and fetched up against the fence, practically in the faces of the people in the front row. That was...neat. The stuntmen (and stuntwomen) were really well-trained. Nobody missed a fall or failed to take a punch realistically enough. Jet-skis figured highly in this show, and some of the stuff they did with them was absolutely incredible. It was hard to believe they were doing it all live, right in front of you. I'm talking jumps, and dives underneath the water, and dodging explosions, and all that cool stuff. It was a good show. Better than the movie, I'll warrant. Better stunts packed into less time. Plus the leading lady was cuter. Eventually, we satisfied our curiosity with the upper lot, and descended to the lower lot via the Starway. This was an extremely long escalator, covered by a glass tile awning. The lower lot is where all the rides are. Including Jurassic Park. Oh heck yeah. We went straight for the dinosaurs. I was giddy with glee. Of all the theme rides in the park, including The Mummy, I was the most anxious to ride this one. I mean, come on! Dinosaurs, for Pete's sake! Dinosaurs! It was everything I'd hoped it'd be. I got into the car, and we started off down the jungle river. It was hard to believe I wasn't in the movie (or rather, the book...the literary version of Jurassic Park, which is a million times better than the movie, actually has a river segment that presages the Universal Studios version). The sun was shining through the trees and ferns and fronds overhead, forming golden beams that fell onto the swiftly flowing water below...the effect was cinematic as well as beautiful. I won't spoil the ride, but man, is it ever a gut-wrencher. Allison and I clambered out of the car thrilled, our shoulders soaking wet, our hearts thudding, unable to keep the grins from our faces. We had survived. We had to take pictures to commemorate the event. That was about it. Neither of us were much interested in the other rides, and we'd seen the rest of the park. So we wandered lazily out (stopping for a few minutes to get surveyed), and got back on the highway for the Walk of Fame. We had a nice stroll down Hollywood Boulevard together, even despite the grunge, and the whiskery black blues musician singing at us, and the kinky lingerie shops every hundred yards. We ate lunch at Combo's New York Pizzeria, where the slices were about this size... ...then got back into the car and began heading in the direction of the La Brea Tar Pits. Or, we attempted to. We soon discovered that I was going the wrong way. We need to pull a U-turn, head back down Hollywood to Vine Street, and hang a louie. But where to pull a U-turn? Hollywood Boulevard doesn't generally allow U-turns in turn lanes, and there aren't too many streets leading off, just narrow alleys. Unwisely, I picked one of these alleys to turn around in. This one had a couple of decently tall buildings on either side, one of which was a youth rehabilitation center with several cars parked outside. The other looked like some official building of some sort, with a few men dressed in business casual on the stoop. I pulled into some van parking, began to reverse, and— BAM. The Jeep jerked. There was a sickening sound, a sound I knew all too well: blunt metal meeting blunt metal, hard. I'd backed into somebody. I lost my head. I twisted around in a desultory attempt to see if I'd caused any damage to the other car, and, seeing none, pulled forward and out. As I was driving past the other building, one of the semi-formally-dressed men raised a hand and yelled "HEY! You hit that woman!" My head was still in the clouds. I was scarcely aware of what I was doing. "Bad?" was the only thing that came out of my mouth. "You'd better see," the man said, not aggressively, but not passively either. He pointed back at the other car. My head began to clear. It began to feel like the inside of a dry, dusty Egyptian tomb, in fact. So did my gut. I reversed, made sure I was as out of the way as possible, got out, and took a look at the other car (coincidentally, another white Jeep Cherokee). What I saw made my stomach plummet through the asphalt. There was a misshapen dent the size of a ham in the other Jeep, right where the driver's side door met the front panel. My mortification compounded a hundredfold. It was bad enough that I'd backed into somebody. It was worse that Allison had witnessed it (let alone been in the car when it happened). Worst of all, however, was the fact that I'd almost run for it. The self-recrimination began immediately. I was a cheating, sneaking coward. And now Allison knew it. I wished that all of hell's fire and heaven's fury would come whirling out of the ether and smite me dead. Outwardly, I remained calm. Not even I know how. I waited while the neatly-dressed man sent one of his friends inside the rehabilitation center to fetch the owner of the other Jeep. (He knew her personally, and knew this was her car.) While we waited, the man told me, "I'm just trying to help you, man. We've got cameras all around here." He made a circular motion with his index finger. I looked up. There were indeed traffic cameras pocking the alleyway. It was a fortunate thing the man had stopped me, I realized later. If he hadn't, and I'd driven away, I would've been a whole heap of trouble. Presently, the woman came outside. She was short, middle-aged and blond. She was not angry, but she did express regret that I'd punched in her new panel. (She said that she'd just gotten it redone.) I did not admit fault, as I'd been instructed to avoid doing, but instead made my apologies and willingly supplied the woman with insurance information. I dutifully copied hers down also. Her insurance card was expired, and she got a bit miffed when I asked for further proof of financial responsibility ("You hit me"). But in the end, we completed the transaction. She went back inside, and I folded up my insurance cards and got back into my own (completely undamaged) car. I pulled back onto Hollywood Boulevard wanting nothing more than to melt permanently away into sludge. I couldn't even bear to look at Allison. Throughout the whole thing, she'd sat calmly in the passenger seat of my Jeep, passing me paper and pens like a helpful angel, even cracking a few jokes about the whole thing. She was marvelous. But I still felt awful. I felt bad that I'd subjected her to being involved in such a hassle, and worse that she'd witnessed my attempted escape. And then, as I was thinking these things, Allison placed a hand on my shoulder and said, bracingly, "How ya doin'?" I told you she was wonderful, didn't I? The accident had taken up some of our time, enough that the La Brea Tar Pits were too close to closing to visit. More's the pity. We went to LACMA instead. You know, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. After a few missed approaches and go-arounds, we made inside the parking lot, and took the elevator up to street level. The ticket seller told us that, if we waited 15 more minutes (until 5:00) we could "pay whatever we wanted" for admission—that is, make a donation. To kill the time, we toured the museum's current outdoor exhibit, "Urban Light": It's just what it looks like: a bunch of iron streetlamps stuck close together and set alight. Doesn't seem to qualify as "art" to me, but it was beautiful, and I guess that's enough. The ironic thing is that Allison and I had had a rather spirited debate on what should and should not qualify as "art" that morning as we ate breakfast at IHOP. As soon as we came in sight of this particular exhibit, Allison turned to me and said "There, does that qualify as art?" And I said, "Maybe if they turned 'em on." And then, mere seconds after turning away from the ticket booth, the lights came on. I turned to Allison and said, "That's better." There remains little to tell. We toured the museum, discovering some of Picasso's little-known sculpture, and admiring Luis Meléndez's vivid and massive collection of still-life paintings. Finally, we piled back into the car, fought our way out of Los Angeles on I-5, drove to San Diego, spent a few fruitless minutes searching for our hotel (which didn't seem to exist anymore), gave up, found a Howard Johnson, got a couple of rooms, and went to sleep. I lay on my bed in my pajamas, watching Robin Williams opine profanely about politicians, mulling over the disappointments of the day. Both Allison and I were disappointed that there had been so little to do at Universal Studios. I was disappointed that we hadn't seen the La Brea Tar Pits. As for my disappointment in myself for what I'd done that day...well, that was nowhere near subsiding. Allison, too, was likely disappointed in my driving skills...to say nothing of my irresponsible cowardice. I could only hope to to give her less cause the next day.