a hodgepodge of cool stuff

I think the secret to happiness is being happy. It's just that simple. To be contented inside, you need to actually be contented. One of the ways to do that is to surround yourself, as much as possible, with things that make you happy. I'm not talking about being a materialist and buying yourself a bunch of plasma TVs and expensive tequila. I'm talking about appreciating the little stuff. When the little things make you happy, you'll never be unhappy for long. And you'll live a longer life because you'll enjoy more of what's in it. Now, not to brag or anything, but I'm one of the people who does that. I appreciate the small stuff, I mean. I mean, take Friday, for example. Got up in the morning and had a beautiful flight to Barstow-Daggett. Got informed by my instructor after landing back in Apple Valley that I'd be soloing the next time out. Went home and had my favorite sandwich ever for lunch. Got invited to a party that evening and had a marvelous time. Came back and listened to my new favorite Led Zeppelin song. (Just when I think those guys couldn't possibly get any better, I go and find another tune of theirs that I've never heard before that breaks all previous records for awesomeness.) On Halloween I got up and went shooting, played 36 holes of mini-golf with a couple of good friends, then went to my best buddy's house, sat around the fire, sipped some 14-year-old Clynelish, and got to try smoking a pipe for the first time. Now, some people might frown on this kind of lifestyle. Some people might not see anything exceptional in it. But I see happiness, the simple happiness that comes from taking time to enjoy the little things, to be with friends, to have some clean fun, to surround yourself with what you like, making your life a hodgepodge of cool stuff. The scrapbook of your life should be full of images that, viewed side-by-side, make you (not anyone else) pause and think, "Yeah, cool." I look back over the past few days and see pipe tobacco, Scotch, mini-golf, philosophical talk, bad jokes, friends, Led Zeppelin, costume parties, delicious sandwiches, flying, and good news. Have I got a good life or what?

blown out

Baseball games get rained out. Cricket games can get rained on, but that just means all the players get to stop for tea. But what happens when the wind leaps up and prohibits you from doing something? Does that mean you were blown out? (Here I go with my bad puns again, sorry.) Tuesday morning I got up at 6:30 (translation: I woke up at 6:30, punched buttons on my wristwatch until the tinny alarm stopped ringing, and rolled over). I was frothing with anticipation for my flight lesson. We were going to fly to another airport. I've never done that before. I've never ventured farther than 10 miles from any airport I've taken off from. This was going to be quite the adventure, with charts, and navaids, and flight computers, and maybe even some airspace clearance if we decided to get really wild. I couldn't wait. Unfortunately, the wind had other ideas. The Santa Ana winds had packed up and shipped out for the year, so naturally I thought we were done with big blows. That was dumb. I looked out the window Tuesday morning and noticed that, paradoxically, a strange thick fog seemed to be coinciding with ferocious gusts of wind out of the southeast. The entire town of Apple Valley was obscured. North of Lucerne Valley, the mountains were hidden by odd, low cloud cover. I began to wonder if I'd be flying today. The fog was dust. Low atmospheric pressure had developed overnight, and a vast wodge of air was busily moving itself into the space the previous vast wodge of air had vacated. This happens on a near-daily basis out in the Mojave Desert, but winds this high were rare. They were clipping along at 35-40 miles an hour, gusting to 60. I remembered Harold (my flight instructor) saying something to me about how he usually didn't fly if the winds were going faster than 30 knots, or nautical miles, per hour. But nevertheless, I assembled my gear, got into the Jeep, and drove down to the airport. I began to suspect that I wouldn't be flying that day when I pulled up to the intersection of Dale Evans Parkway and Corwin Road and was unable to see Bell Mountain for the dust. Bell Mountain sits, like, I don't know, 300 yards away from that intersection. Visibility was a little low. Sure enough, when Harold pulled into the tiny airport parking lot and climbed out of the truck cab clutching his camouflage baseball cap (which, I noticed, had the Wyoming state logo on it, a cowboy on the back of a bucking bronco), my suspicions were confirmed. The first words out of Harold's mouth were "Yeah, I don't think we're flying today." The evidence was on his side. Visibility had only worsened. I could barely see runway 18, barely a hundred yards east—even though, by this time, the sun had risen above the dust clouds and was shining with subdued but definite force. Not to be denied, Harold and I went inside anyway and did some ground school while the wind howled outside. This was good, because I've pretty much forgotten what most of those myriad little lines, dots, symbols, letters, numbers and stuff on aeronautical charts mean. (I had done a little review session the previous night, but I was tired, and a little light-headed from the cigar I'd smoked earlier.) Harold and I pulled out a sectional chart of the area and reviewed for a while. Bit by bit, I got my groove back. I remembered that isogonic lines represent the amount of correction for the curvature of the Earth which you have to subtract from your true magnetic heading, for example. Around here there's about 13 degrees and 30 minutes of correction for any course you fly. We went over the different classes of airspace, too. There are six of them: A, B, C, D, E, and G. I don't have to worry about Class A airspace right now, and neither do most general aviation pilots. It only exists above 18,000 feet, where the big boys like 747s and corporate jets fly. All flying up there is done by instruments (because you're too far above the ground to navigate using landmarks). Class B stands for "busy"—that's the airspace that typically surrounds massive airports like LAX, McCarran, O'Hare, and all of those other nightmarishly congested places. It's shaped like an upside-down wedding cake hovering over the runways, extending 30 miles in all directions. Perhaps the bottom (or in this case, top) layer will have a ceiling of 9000 feet above ground level, and a floor of 8000; the next layer in will have a ceiling of 9000 feet and a floor of 5000; the next layer down will have a ceiling of 9000 and a floor of 2000; and so on. Class B airspace is strict. You need a radio, a working transponder, and clearance to even enter it. Even then, if you're not landing, you'll need to stick to a tight corridor when passing through it. Stray outside of that corridor, and incurring the wrath of the air traffic controllers will be the least of your worries. You might get run over by a jumbo jet. Class C is a bit better. This is also controlled airspace (meaning that everything you do is monitored by air traffic controllers on radar, and you need clearance to taxi, land, and take off), but it's far less anal retentive stringent than Class B. You still need radios and transponders, but needn't clear the runway so fast, nor be on the lookout for massive airliners that might mow you down in mid-air. Traffic isn't nearly as heavy; regional airlines may operate out of Class C airspace, but usually not major carriers. Class C airspace is shaped like an old-fashioned keyhole: it's circular, but there's a rectangle of territory extending beyond the circle (usually in the same direction as the major runway) for instrument approaches. Class D airspace is just like Class C, but minus the radar. There's no radar service. Airports under Class D airspace might have control towers, but then again, they might not. If they do, pilots follow standard procedure, establishing and maintaining two-way radio contact with air traffic control when entering or conducting operations within that airspace. However...control towers might not be open 24/7. If they aren't, then suddenly the airspace isn't Class D anymore. It changes to Class E or Class G, or some combination thereof. Class D airports are good ones to learn to fly at: usually quite calm, out-of-the-way, and not congested or clogged or busy. Cheyenne Regional Airport in Wyoming (where I began learning to fly) sits in its own personal bubble of Class D airspace, extending from the surface up to 2600 feet above ground level. When the radar is in operation, however, a swathe of Class C airspace extends an additional five miles beyond the airport. Class E airspace is pretty much everything in between airports. It's still technically controlled, but you don't need to get clearance from towers or controllers or anything to fly in it. Be that as it may, if you're going to fly anything but visual flight rules (VFR) in Class E, then you need to file a flight plan, be certified to fly on instruments, and get clearance from air traffic control. Class G airspace is (yippee!) uncontrolled. You don't need clearance to fly in it, and you don't have to ask anybody for permission to do whatever you want to do in there. Class G extends from the floor of Class E airspace, usually about 700 feet above ground level (AGL) to the ground. (That can change depending on time of day or night, and the weather.) As long as you're not doing something reckless (like buzzing people's sheep or getting tangled in power lines) or annoying (like mowing people's lawns with your propellers or jolting them out of their beds with engine noise) you can pretty much do what you like. Harold and I also had a look at some of the airports in the area and determined, just from the little numbers and symbols printed near them, which ones offered fuel and services, had beacons, maintained runway lighting...even what size they were and what radio frequency to contact them on. We also talked about a few things I'd never even heard about before, like "tire tracks"—the lumpy zigzag lines that denote higher-than-usual floors of Class E airspace, for example. There are quite a few military airbases around here, so we discussed restricted areas and MOAs (military operations areas). Restricted areas can be flown through, but not often: you have to get special permission from the airbase in question, and you need a darn good reason to do so successfully. It's also unwise to be flying around in restricted areas because that's where the military tests all of their goodies: fighters, bombs, missiles and so forth. It's kind of like taking a stroll through a gun range. There's a cruise missile corridor just south of here that goes from Vandenberg all the way into Twentynine Palms, or something. You couldn't pay me to fly through there. Well, you could, but it'd cost you. You can fly through MOAs without asking permission, but you have to keep your eyes peeled for military aircraft if you do. The perpetual dust/wind storm continued unabated for the rest of the day. I couldn't figure out why the dust was such a strange color (gray instead of brown) until I heard on the news that the wind had picked up all of the leftover ash from the Station Fire and was blowing it all over creation. What lousy timing! And I was so looking forward to flying somewhere new...[impassioned sob]...but I had a proactive day regardless. After ground school concluded, I came back home, grabbed a USB drive, ran into town and got my novel manuscript printed up at Mojave Copy & Printing. (I like them. The printing was quick and inexpensive; the woman in charge let me run down to the bank to get cash without making me stump up collateral; and, after I expressed concerns, this same lady frankly assured me that neither she nor anyone else would try to steal my story or keep any record or copy of the printing.Yes, I was worried.) I ran a few other errands and then came back home and got to editing as the wind whistled and the dust blew outside my window. Later on that evening, Mom started a fire in the old wood stove. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. So what if I got blown out? It's warm in here and there's work to be done...

whatever happened to Pizza Goldfish?

For a guy who's always tried to hold himself to the highest standards of behavioral rectitude, never allowing himself become dependent upon any substance or practice that might inhibit his higher brain function...I have a lot of secret, stupid addictions.

Take Bleach, for example. I swore to myself that I'd never become a fan of it. Heck, I swore to myself that I'd never become a fan of anime at all. That was for those creepy social misfits in high school who couldn't get enough of Japanese culture, and were always going to Comic-Con, and all that kind of escapist weirdness. Not me—I'm doing just fine in my favorite corner of the library with my dogeared copy of Watership Down, thank you very much.

But then it happened. I was channel-flipping one becalmed afternoon back in college, bored out of my skull, and I ran across Cartoon Network. They were broadcasting an episode of One Piece (which I've mentioned elsewhere), dubbed into English. It struck me as inextricably weird at the time. Huh? What kind of show is this? A 17-year-old boy with a body made of rubber on a quest to become king of the pirates? What's going on? Is this a joke? But the idea—like so many ideas habitually do—grew on me. Hey, I eventually came to think. That sounds pretty cool, actually. Kind of like 'X-Men' meets 'Pirates of the Caribbean.'

So I started watching the anime. I found a site (many of them, actually) where you can peruse anime shows for free, dubbed or subbed. And in the dimly-lit sanctum of my parents' basement in Wyoming, I started down the dark path. And I haven't looked back since. To date, I have watched all 423 aired episodes of the show (and counting) and own 21 of the 22 translated graphic novels currently published. And it's been a blast, let me tell you.

It was inevitable that I should broaden my horizons. Soon I started turning to other anime shows. Not all of them, mind you, but quite a few...The Last Exile, Trigun, Rurouni Kenshin, Samurai 7...whatever sparked my interest. And that led me to Bleach.

Now, ordinarily I'm not too deep into magic, the supernatural, the afterlife, spiritualism, or anything goofy like that. But as I've said before, if the concept of a book/movie/comic strikes me favorably, I'll often overlook the quality of the content (or lack thereof). Fortunately, though Bleach is often slow, repetitive, or overly complex, the idea of the thing (and the lovable cast of characters) are enough for me. I won't go into a hefty description here, because this post is not about anime and I don't want to sound like some kind of fan boy. More than I already have, anyway. But let me just say that I have become addicted to Bleach. Since HughesNet's bloody stupid bandwidth limit prohibits me from watching any video longer than 30 seconds until after 11:00 p.m. at night, I have lately been staying up until ridiculous hours getting my anime jollies out. Yes, I know, I'm a loser. But I make it a point of honor to do at least one useful thing during the day prior to this surreptitious late-night anime-viewing, like studying my pilot's textbooks, or learning Korean, or submitting another article, or editing ten more pages of my novel, or brushing the dog, or taking a long walk. That way I can justify my addiction to my entirely-too-anal conscience.

Next most prominent on my list of stupid addictions are pizza-flavored Goldfish. You know, the little goldfish-shaped snacks made by Pepperidge Farm. I love the darn little things. I could eat a whole bag of them at one sitting. In a world of deplorably bland munchies, the pizza flavoring in Pepperidge Farm Goldfish is right on the money. It's like crack to me. It tickles the pleasure centers in my brain just right.

Goldfish have been my favorite snack since time began. My mother always used to put a little Ziploc bag of Goldfish in with my lunch when I went off to school (those few days I actually attended public school). And she always kept a bag or two of them in the pantry for afternoon snacks. Nothing cheered me up more when I was a kid than the sight of a full plate of fish-shaped pizza goodness (or one of my mother's ham-and-Swiss sandwiches). And now, of course, they seem to have taken that flavor off the market. (I'm not even sure if they have the Flavor-Blasted Xplosive Pizza Goldfish anymore.) Just as the most welcome guests always leave first, the best snacks are always phased out before the others. Why couldn't they have ditched Parmesan-flavor Goldfish, eh? Who the hell buys those? Or what about the pretzel flavor? They could've deep-sixed those, easy. No self-respecting snacker wants to eat bite-sized morsels of pretzel. They'd rather buy one hot from the bakery and sink their teeth into it, obviously. But no. One of those fumb ducks in the marketing division decided that the fourth-quarter sales of Pizza Goldfish weren't up to snuff, and signed a kill order. Blast his pasty hide.

On a related note, I've lately gotten back into Cheez-Its. And when I say "gotten back into" I mean I've taken a running jump into an eight-foot heap of them. I bought a couple of boxes for a cocktail party, remembering vaguely that I liked them at one point. With the first bite, I remembered that no, I didn't like them; I would marry them if they walked upright and had boobs.

Third, and likely the most esoteric of the lot, are World War II-vintage warplanes. If Pizza Goldfish are my drug of choice, then pictures and paintings of warbirds are my porn. I have had a long, sordid love affair with the fighter, bomber, cargo, and reconnaissance aircraft of the Second World War since my freshman year in high school. I don't know exactly how it started. I used to be into model-building, and maybe that was when I gradually began to notice the subtle beauty and inherent coolness of these machines. Maybe my mother bought me a book about aircraft, with a few strategically-placed images of fighters and bombers inside, and that planted the seed. But however it happened, it happened, and how. Soon I was in possession of Enzo Angelucci's Encyclopedia of Military Aircraft, 1914-Present ("present" meaning 1986), and was poring through it every chance I got, memorizing the armament, effective range, engine type, service date, and crew number of every airplane in sight. Even now I can remember the manufacturer, numerical designation, and nationality of pretty much any World War II plane you'd care to name.

Come on, try me, I dare you. Post a picture link or something in the comment box and I'll see if I can identify its subject.

This love of airplanes hasn't faded...in fact, I'd say it's what started me off in my pursuit of aviation in the first place. I was always one of those kids that had his face glued to the windows of the airport terminal (and subsequently, the airplane) when my family and I flew anywhere. (My mother recently informed me that, even as a baby, I had never, ever cried on board an airplane, not even once. This sent a chill down my spine.) Later on I got into warbirds, and then gradually I began to notice the beauty in contemporary aircraft, which I had previously scorned. (Even today I'm not too keen on jets, preferring the old-fashioned attraction of propeller-driven airplanes.)

Now, at airshows and air museums, or even just standing out on the flight line during a preflight check, I can barely restrain myself from running from plane to plane and devouring them with my eyes, inside and out, like a kid in a candy store. And here I am learning to be a pilot! I'd say this might be one addiction which proved to be healthy in the long run. But I feel sorry for my future wife. She's probably going to feel put out when I meet her at the airport and she gets off the plane wearing the most beautiful, flowing, radiant dress that was ever created, and I, drooling slightly, have eyes only for the airplane she's getting out of. And you know how most women are said to "lose" their husbands once football season rolls around in fall? Well, my wife's going to lose me a little earlier.

My fourth stupid addiction is science fiction, but whether science fiction is actually stupid or not depends on who you talk to. My dad says "Yes, it's dumb." My mother says, "No, it's not dumb," but that's only because she likes to see young William Shatner with his shirt off. So I won't mention science fiction here. Oh, wait...I just did. Whoops.

Number 5 is beyond contestation. I am addicted, mind, body and soul, to bad puns. I am constantly on the lookout for any turn of phrase which I can pervert into a punny one-liner. Often what I come up with is quite awful. I became infamous for this in high school. Teach was talking about decorum, and he asked us what it was. I raised my hand and said "Isn't that what you do to apples before you eat 'em? You decorum?"

In college, I worked briefly with the campus ITS (Information Technology Services) department as a technical writer. At one staff meeting, during a lecture on safety, the topic of asbestos came up. The department head asked if there were any questions.
"Nope," I chimed in. "We'll watch out for that asbestos we can."

But I don't care how awful 95% of my puns are, because the remaining 5% are pure-D humdingers. None immediately come to mind, however, so we'll move on. Needless to say, as a fan of silly puns, I am a devoted follower of the jokes section in Reader's Digest. Not to mention the Marx Brothers...

Number six: cool breezes. Enough said. There's just no beating the feel of a cool, crisp breeze running through your hair and brushing you gently on the face. It's like the caress of a caring mother rewarding you for a job well done. I can't get enough. Speaking of natural phenomena I can't get enough of, I also like sunny days, fog, stargazing, snow, and the occasional cloudburst.

Jeez, I'm kind of rattling on here, aren't I? Can you believe I started this entry with only Bleach in mind? The rest of it just sort of came to me as I went along (of course, I did write this over the course of several days). I have more than this, many, many more, but they are all in the same vein as those I've listed above.

I suppose everybody has a few secret, unhealthy, or embarrassing likes; I just happen to have more than my share. And I like it that way.

To conclude, I'd like to tell you a little story. There was once a man who went to the dentist. It was the height of the holiday season, and the dentist noticed that the man's teeth were in bad shape. He told the man, "It doesn't look good in there. I'm going to have to put a plate in your mouth. Just what have you been eating, anyway?" The man thought for a moment and then said, "Well, my wife always puts a lot of Hollandaise sauce on whatever she cooks this time of year." The dentist nodded knowingly and said, "I see. Well, then I'll have to put a chrome plate in." The man asked, "Why a chrome plate?"
"Because," the dentist said, "there's no plate like chrome for the Hollandaise."

That's the sort of pun I like.

cocktail review no. 15 - Vodka and Tonic

Now, I realize this is a pretty pedestrian drink by contemporary standards. It's just a classic highball: a liquor, a mixer, and possibly a garnish, stirred together in a glass with ice and served up fast. But I'm trying to use up the enormous bottles of tonic water and club soda I purchased for the Halloween party, and this was a simple way to do it.

Plus, inexplicably, I'd had a curious hankering for vodka all day. It hit me first when my father and I were in the middle of painting the west wall of the garage. Maybe the paint fumes went to my head or something. Maybe it's because my friends loaded me down with Smirnoff, Grey Goose and Stolichnaya a few cocktail parties back. But all of the sudden, I said aloud, "You know, I think I'd like a vodka cocktail tonight." Anyway, here goes:

• 2 ounces vodka
• 5 ounces tonic 
• lemon twist

Combine the vodka and the tonic in a highball glass half-filled with ice cubes. Garnish with the lemon twist.

There are as many other vodka-to-tonic ratios as there are stars in the heavens, but this one most closely approximates my drink's proportions. I think this drink bears mentioning because it's refreshing and easy to make. The tonic just barely covers up the vodka, while the vodka takes some of the edge off the quinine. The lemon twist adds a nice tart overtone to the whole thing. This drink is also pretty healthy—the vodka is the most caloric item in it. The tonic water and the lemon twist are nothing at all. And it is refreshing, with an ice-cold, tart, pleasantly bitter sort of flavor. Good for a quickie.

flying after 17 months

Observe the following, please: Spot any similarities between the two? Both of them have wheels, yes, I know that already. Both are mostly aluminum. And both are operated mostly by feel. Yes, that's right. Despite my fears, my angst, my worries, my endless hours of mental hand-wringing, I remembered how to fly a plane after being out of the cockpit for nearly a year and a half. They told me it was just like riding a bike, but I didn't believe 'em. I was worried, you see. I'd be going off to Korea for a year without flying so much as a kite. My old flight instructor, Mike, assured me that I had nothing to worry about. He told me I'd pick it right back up again. He said he'd taken years off in the middle of getting his pilot's license, and when he'd come back to it again he'd remembered everything. Even though Mike had approximately 3,000 times more flying experience than I did, I still doubted him. Nonetheless I signed the papers and took off to the Orient for 377 days. Then, on Monday morning, I drove down to Apple Valley Airport (AVA) to the offices of Apple Valley Aviation (uh, AVA part two). I'd gotten my medical certificate, I'd touched bases with the flight school, and now I was coming in to find an instructor and set up a lesson. I hadn't flown in 17 months, and it was high time to get back in the air and start moving toward my airborne dreams once again. There were three people in the office when I walked through the glass doors: the receptionist and a couple of guys sitting in the waiting-chairs and talking. I addressed the receptionist lady and told her the reason for my visit. I reported that I'd obtained about 12 flight-hours thus far in a Cessna 172 and would like to resume. She said, "Well, Harold does the 172 training, and he's sitting right over there." She pointed to her left, to one of the men sitting in the chairs and laughing, a short fellow in a short-sleeved, plaid button-down. He had a kindly face, a salt-and-pepper mustache, and a baseball cap. He stood up, and extended his hand. "How are you doing?" he asked. "I'm Harold. I do private pilot and multi-engine training." And there you had it. I signed up for a lesson the very next day with Harold and N42126, Apple Valley Aviation's trusty old 1974 Cessna 172M. I could've flown right then and there if I'd wanted, but I backed off. I claimed that I had some stuff to do in town that day and that I'd forgotten my flight gear (none of which would've been much of an impediment, but I was nervous about flying again and wanted time to mentally prepare). Tuesday morning I rose bright and early, collected my Dave Collins headset, my Jeppesen logbook, and some sunglasses, and drove down to the airport. I was a bit keyed up. Flying made me a little stiff. There was so much to remember, so much to be doing every second in the air, so much that could go wrong. So much that I could do wrong. I had no doubts about safety (Harold had several thousand hours of flying and instructing under his belt) but still, learning anything new and complex and screw-uppable gets me apprehensive. Mainly it's a trust issue. I don't trust myself to do big and scary things like fly airplanes. Well, that's how it used to be. Not so the moment I got into the cockpit with Harold (who also reassured me that I'd pick flying right back up again). After an extraordinarily quick and easy preflight check, we clambered into the narrow cockpit of the Cessna, fired her up and began to taxi. I immediately noticed a difference in Harold's training compared with Mike's. Mike was a good man, certainly. He was a competent instructor. But I realized then, as I was sitting in the cabin with Harold, that I'd never been comfortable around Mike. He was businesslike, straightforward, not inclined to joke or relax. He wasn't strict or harsh, but he wasn't outgoing. Harold was great. As we taxied to the run-up area of runway 18, he made little jokes and friendly conversation, a big grin hanging under his mustache. I was immediately calmed. My nervousness evaporated. Hey, I thought, I can do this. It's just flying a plane. This Harold guy's alright! That feeling only increased once the wheels lifted off the blacktop and we were airborne. Stars seemed to be aligning. It was going better than I'd dared to hope, far better. Not only was I remembering the feel of the Cessna 172, and not only was Harold a friendly and relaxing instructor, but it was a beautiful day outside, the golden sun was splashing off the jagged peaks of the Granite Mountains to the east, and moreover, N42126 was a dream to fly. It was an older model, a 1974, much different from the 2001 I'd been flying in Wyoming, N5158J. I could feel the difference. N42126 just seemed friendlier than 58 Juliet. It was easier to handle, more forgiving to fly, and it stayed at the correct altitude and airspeed with hardly any guidance from yours truly. That plane seemed to know that I was a beginner, and did its best to help me out. I began to feel supremely good about flying again. The lesson just got better from there. We flew out over the Mojave River (dry as a bone) and practiced some basic maneuvers: just, as Harold said, "to get me back in the seat again." We did S-turns, and turns about a point, and some square pattern-flying. Then we headed back in, and though I bounced on the landing, I felt exhilarated. Harold was encouraging and open, but not controlling or dictator-like. He didn't keep his hands on the controls, nor constantly pepper me with advice or admonishments. He just sat back and let me do my own thing, keeping a trained but casual eye on the instruments and my performance. I can't express to you just what that meant to me. Harold's teaching style told (and still tells) me that he trusts me. He has confidence in me. He wants to see what I can do, and he won't step in unless he absolutely has to. He never criticizes or admonishes, just offers advice and tips in his amiable voice, often cracking a joke to boot. He is the antithesis of harsh, demanding. Under such a teaching style, I remembered how to fly a plane. Movements which I hadn't practiced or even visualized in over a year returned to the fore with inconceivable alacrity. It was just like a riding a bike. More than that, and far more priceless, I began to actually feel comfortable flying a plane. I began to feel that it wasn't as big a deal as I'd made out (nothing ever is, but I always forget). For the first time since I'd taken that introductory ride back in spring of 2008, flying began to be more fun than scary. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is truly what aviation's all about. That's what Harold said, too. Both lessons since then have fitted the same mold. On Thursday, we practiced landings. We did 13 touch-and-gos (where you come in like you're going to land, touch down, then accelerate and take off again), and one full-stop landing. Or perhaps I should say that I did 13 touch-and-gos. Unlike Mike, who was inclined to help me out on landings and only let me do one or two by myself, Harold only helped me out on the first one or two, then sat back and let me do it. I kept coming in too slow (60 miles per hour instead of the Cessna 172's regulation 65), and I always flared a little high (and bounced her down hard as a result), but apart from that, Harold said I was doing fine. We did landings again this morning, and my first two, Harold said, were "perfect." (I didn't think they were so bad myself; I really greased her in.) Then we practiced emergency procedures; how to land without any power from the engine, and so on. And it was all a kick in the pants, not a jolt to the heart. What a difference moving 900 miles and flying out of a new airport in a new plane with a new instructor has made. After landing, Harold declared that, with a little more practice, I was almost ready to solo. That was both a confidence-booster and a shot of adrenaline—the good kind. With Harold, it looks like it's always going to be the good kind. On Tuesday, the day of our next lesson, Harold says we'll be flying to a different airport and practicing landings there. I've never flown to a different airport before. There was a time when the thought would've scared the life out of me. Now, I can't wait.

this blog stinks lately

You know, if it's one thing I have a problem with, it's holding things in. I bite my tongue. I don't speak up when I should. I do this in conversation and in the literary arena. I'll often nix a story idea when everyone else says it's Pulitzer-worthy, just because I don't think it would come out right. It's a disease. Here I am, trying to make my way in a hostile world that does nothing but throw barriers in front of me, and what do I do? Throw barriers in front of myself, that's what. I've got to quit it. So, in recognition of that fact, I am hereby going to blog about something that's been on my mind the past couple of days. This blog stinks lately. No, really. You know that miserable little piece I did about my Halloween-themed cocktail party? That was originally going to be an epic, long-winded, wittier-than-Oscar-Wilde essay on the joys of Halloween-themed cocktail parties. And what did it turn out to be? A blurb. You know why? I couldn't be bothered. I went ahead and started writing it, stopped, loafed around the house for a couple of days eating leftover party snacks, and decided it wasn't worth my time. Eh, not much to say. People came. We drank. We sang. We made merry. We listened to some of my Bill Cosby stand-up albums. We broke up. Game, set, match. Nothing to report. Show's over, folks. I'd already written an epic, long-winded, wittier-than-a-hot-poke-in-the-eye essay on the joys of regular ol' run-of-the-mill cocktail parties anyway. Why get into a rut? So I typed up a brief and let it lie. Thankfully, some people were courteous enough to give me their feedback regardless. Or what about that thing I scribbled about Sour Apple Pucker? Did that have a compelling premise? Was there a reason for its existence other than my need to crow about employing apple schnapps for the very first time ever? Was there anything enlightening or worthwhile for the readers in it anywhere? Heck no. It just exists, without even a pretty picture hung on it to obscure its infinitesimal worth. Yeah, and those paragraphs that are currently in the works about me taking up flying again after 17 months on the ground? Rediscovering the thrill of flight and beginning to relearn the skills of a pilot in the clear skies and calm morning air over the Mojave Desert? Come on. That kind of stuff is puerile. Jejune, too. As if yards of similar drivel were never written by scores of moon-eyed, imbecilic, neophyte aviators before me! I'll finish it, though, much good may it do me. Don't try to deny it, people. I'm not having self-esteem issues, here. I'm not being insecure or fishing for compliments. Whether you agree or disagree, my mind is made up. I've gotten into a rut. This thing has stagnated on me. I need to go rob a bank or something so I'll have something really interesting to write about. Perhaps I need to get into another street fight or save a damsel in distress. Anything. Anything just so long as I get something vivifying to write about again...and actually write about it.

the Halloween cocktail party

I had a deplorable amount of difficulty coming up with a name for this post. Even now, I'm not entirely satisfied with the result. "Halloween cocktail party" implies that all we drank were Halloween-themed cocktails, which most certainly wasn't true. I could've called it a "costume cocktail party" but that (a) leaves All Hallow's Eve right out of the picture and (b) weakly implies that we only drank costume-themed cocktails, whatever the hell those are. So in the end, I elected to stick the words "Halloween" and "cocktail" into the title somewhere and let the grammar go whistle. Now that we've got the stew sorted from the dumplings, let's get to the meat of the matter. Last Friday I hosted a Halloween cocktail party at my parents' house in Apple Valley, California, in celebration of the upcoming holiday and in recognition of the fact that all of us need to get blind drunk more often. 'Twas a good party. About ten people came, there was nonalcoholic punch (limeade), plenty of cocktails, oodles of snacks (Costco pizza, a fruit bowl, Cheez-Its, Chex mix, Halloween candy, some creative costumes (a few too many girls came dressed as "sexy" somethings; sexy referees, or sexy gun molls, or sexy firefighters...but oh, heck, it's a party), and lots of fellowship and good cheer. I hauled out some Halloween-y drinks, we played games like Taboo and Apples to Apples, there was music on the stereo and Pirates of the Caribbean playing silently on the TV, and it was fun. We all got a little tipsy (except for the designated drivers, of course) and broke up about 1:00 a.m. Now if somebody would only invite me to a party...

a samurai looks at swordsmanship

Let's talk about The Book of Five Rings, renowned 17th-century swordsman Miyamoto Musashi's thoroughgoing text on swordsmanship.

First off, I finished it. It was only five scrolls, for crying out loud. Musashi groups his discussion into four separate topics: an overview of the science of his own brand of martial arts, the Earth Scroll; an in-depth discussion of the techniques in his school, the Water Scroll; essays and views on combat and battle, the Fire Scroll; and a brief look at the techniques of other schools, the Wind Scroll. There is also a fifth and final scroll, the Emptiness Scroll, where he wraps everything up. Each scroll is broken up into further sections, each headed by mysterious or bluntly bellicose subtitles.
It was an unusual but enlightening read. As you might expect, I particularly enjoyed the Fire Scroll, dealing with combat. In that scroll, there were subheadings like "Moving Shadows," where Musashi delineates how to guess an opponent's intent from the way he holds his sword at rest; "Knocking the Heart Out," in which Musashi emphasizes the importance of defeating an enemy by taking away his will to fight at a critical moment; "Stomping a Sword," wherein Musashi metaphorically states that it is vital to "get the jump on" your opponent in everything; "Being Like a Rock Wall," where Musashi discusses in two sentences the concept of becoming "immovable and untouchable"; and "Becoming New," in which Musashi suggests that, if your current state and tactics are proving ineffectual in combat, you should "become new," change tactics, change your mood, and begin anew. It was some seriously cool stuff.

Musashi's discussion of other schools in the Wind Scroll was reasonable, but it did get a little wearing after a time. Musashi had some problems with some other schools' principles and he unloaded them all here.

The Earth Scroll was just an overview, but it laid out Musashi's code and stategies in an intriguing manner.

The Water Scroll was about as interesting as the Fire Scroll, for here Musashi discussed things like stance, and technique, and strikes, and sword blows, all unique to his science. From it, I gained perhaps the most telling insight into Musashi's views on martial arts. It's difficult for me to express just what a revelation it was to read this book. I said it was unusual, because I've never read any works by Eastern writers before. The Japanese devotion to honor and adherence to Shinto beliefs manifested themselves strongly. And Musashi is an extremely direct and succinct writer. The book is only 86 pages long, and Musashi never spends more than a page discoursing on a particular topic. He simply conveys his message, speaking of death and killing in a uniquely matter-of-fact way.

At the end of every discussion, he closes with an exhortation to his readers, reminding them to study hard and meditate on what he has written. It's always a variation on the same theme:

"This must be considered carefully."

"This should be worked out thoroughly."

"This should be given careful consideration."

"This should be examined thoroughly."

"This calls for careful examination."

I couldn't help but be reminded of my old college professors who were nice enough to give all the inattentive sap-heads in their classes (like yours truly) hints about what would be on the next exam.

"If it's in bold print, it's more than likely going to be on the exam!"

"I'd be writing this down if I were you; this sounds like an exam question right here!"

"This calls for careful examination, people!"

In the end, I finished the book with an ineffable sense of awe. It really shouldn't have been that remarkable. All I'd done was read a longish treatise on swordsmanship by a scabrous samurai who'd been dead for hundreds of years. But somehow, when I shut the book, I was overwhelmed by a sense of temporal displacement. I felt as though I'd just sat through a lecture by a stern, middle-aged, armored, sword-wielding, veteran samurai, who'd stared me down like I was a knee-knocking enlisted man on a training camp parade ground, and he was my commanding officer. I felt as though I'd received, through those intervening centuries, a motivational speech on how not only to excel at martial arts, but to better myself as a person. Musashi's writings, paradoxically steeped in spiritualism and logic, intended as they were not only for men-at-arms but all martial arts practitioners everywhere, had been just that powerful.

I felt more alive after reading that book. I felt like going out and running for five miles, doing a thousand push-ups, then picking up a wooden sword and laying about some straw dummies. I felt like striving, as Musashi had urged me, to intrinsically and subconsciously master the Two-Skies style of swordsmanship.

The story doesn't end there, though. There's a second book included with Musashi's in the edition of The Book of Five Rings which I purchased. It's Yagyū Munenori's Book of Family Traditions on the Art of War. Kind of a mouthful, ain't it?

Munenori was a contemporary of Musashi's, though I don't know if the two ever met. Munenori's life was more rooted in government and politics. He became an instructor of swordsmanship to the shoguns after the Tokugawa Shogunate was established, and he later became the head of the secret service too, or something. All the same, he was also a fearsome warrior and also wrote on the subject of swordsmanship and military philosophy. His book is organized into three sections, reflecting Munenori's three views of swordsmanship: "The Killing Sword," "The Life-Giving Sword," and "No Sword."

I have some problems with Munenori that I don't have with Musashi. First of all, his record is more spotty. Musashi, by all accounts, was never defeated in the more than 60 duels he fought; no such statistics exist for Munenori. Furthermore, ol' Yagyū strikes me as being less than proletarian; he was appointed to his positions by virtue of his shogun father's prestige, and never went wandering about Japan as Miyamoto did, fighting sword duels and honing his science. I got the impression he was less experienced and more bureaucratic. Last, and most vexing of all, Munenori's writing style is not as direct, and quite a bit more airy and abstract in nature.

Take a look at these two examples and see what you think. The first is an excerpt from Musashi's writings in the Water Scroll:

Stabbing the Heart. Stabbing the heart is used when fighting in a place where there is no room for slashing, either overhead or to the sides, so you stab your opponent. To make your opponent's sword miss you, the idea is to turn the ridge of your sword directly toward your opponent, drawing it back so that the tip of the sword does not go off-kilter, and thrusting it into the opponent's chest. The move is especially for use when you are tired out, or when your sword will not cut. It is imperative to be able to discern expertly.

Now try a little Munenori. This is from "The Killing Sword" (I haven't gotten any further than that yet):

Mood and Will. The mind with a specific inward attitude and intensive concentration of thought is called will. Will being within, what emanates outwardly is called mood. To give an illustration, the will is like the master of the house, while the mood is like a servant. The will is within, employing the mood. If the mood rushes out too much, you will stumble. You should have your will restrain your mood, so that it does not hurry. In the context of martial arts, lowering the center of gravity can be called will. Facing off to kill or be killed can be called the mood. Lower your center of gravity securely, and do not let your mood become hurried or aggressive. It is essential to control your mood by means of your will, calming down so that your will is not drawn by your mood.

See what I mean? Musashi's style leaves me thinking Boy, wouldn't want to meet him up a dark alley. Munenori's style leaves me thinking Uh, what?

While I believe that I understand what Munenori is talking about—willing yourself to remain calm in battle, so that you don't get careless and make a mistake—he discusses things in an abstract and even flaky manner that irritates me, especially after experiencing Musashi's directness.

Perhaps I'm prejudiced in favor of Miyamoto Musashi. The man was just wicked cool. Spine-tingling images form in your head when you read about some of the moves and techniques in The Book of Five Rings. Musashi was a master of the two-sword style, fighting with both a regular-length katana and a shorter wakizashi. I borrowed this fighting style for one of the protagonists in my novel, the one reincarnated from Musashi himself.

I wasn't lying before: legend has it that Musashi remained undefeated to the end of his days. Sure, some witnesses claimed he cheated on occasion, either attacking when his opponents weren't ready or using a longer weapon than theirs...but the fact remains that, at the end of the day, Musashi was left standing. That's no small feat for that day and age. Yagyū Munenori just doesn't have that same kind of hero appeal that rogues like Musashi, Wild Bill Hickok, and other larger-than-life historical figures do. All the same, I am enjoying both Musashi's and Munenori's writings. Like I said, I've never read anything by any Oriental writers before, and doing so for the first time has been a cultural thrill ride. It's fascinating to speculate on the events of these men's lives that shaped their beliefs about war and military science so strongly...and also to wonder at the wisdom contained within their writings that reverberates with contemporary Westerners like me even to this day.

Pucker up and imbibe

I was given two large bottles of DeKuyper Sour Apple Pucker for my birthday. Just to clarify, Sour Apple Pucker is a particular brand of apple schnapps. Now, I've never so much as polished my sunglasses with apple schnapps. I've never tried any kind of schnapps at all, in fact. I don't go in fer all them newfangled, city-bred liqueurs: Sambuca (ugh, licorice), Galliano, Midori, or worst of all, Jägermeister. The latter tastes like pepperoni-flavored mouthwash. So, as you may guess, I had nary a clue about what I was going to do with these liters of schnapps I suddenly had. I was stumped. Then, in the blackest depths of midnight, I did some illicit Googling over at my best friend John's house. Here are some of the gems we discovered:

• All Puckered Out: a shot Sour Apple Pucker schnapps, a can of ginger ale, and a lime wedge
• Green Meanie: a shot of Pucker and a can of lemon-lime soda
• Mother Pucker: a fifth of DeKuyper Sour Apple Pucker schnapps and a bottle of 7-Up
• Apple Crunch: Apple Pucker, Captain Morgan's Parrot Bay Coconut Rum, cranberry juice, pineapple Juice, Sprite, triple sec
• Appletini: Apple Pucker, vodka
• Dirty Whore's Bathwater: Apple Pucker, lemonade mix, Smirnoff Premium Vodka
• Frog Stomper: Apple Pucker, tequila
• Hot Apple Cider: apple cider, Apple Pucker, and Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum

You know, except for the Apple Crunch, none of these sound ugly. I actually served Green Meanies at my Halloween party on the sixteenth, and they seemed to go down well. I didn't try one myself; I was so busy hosting that I hardly had time to drink, which perhaps was fortunate. (All I had was a tequila cooler, a shot of Scotch whisky, a shot of Jose Cuervo, and some beer.) So, I guess I'll have to add these Pucker drinks to the already tome-length list of cocktails I want to try. But I could use your help, too. If anybody out there has tried apple schnapps before and has a recommendation for me, kindly set it down here. If there are other kinds of schnapps out there that you think I'd like to try or mix, please let me know. If there's a Pucker-related cocktail in the above list that you think I ought to try first, by all means drop me a line and I'll review it for you. Otherwise...good day, and thanks for tuning in.

a zucchini by any other name

My English friend Adam and I used to have the most outrageous arguments over terminology—you know, typical Anglo-American clashes over the names of animals, foods and sports. The debates began shortly after we met.

Of course we had to get the big one out of the way first: "football" vs. "soccer." When I or any other American hears football, it's safe to assume that we think of first downs, and end zones, and touchdowns, and passes, and field goals, and running backs and quarterbacks and tight ends and wide receivers. When we hear soccer, we think of dribbling, and passing, and goal kicks, and the offside rule, and handballs, and throw-ins, and midfielders and defenders and goalies and forwards (or strikers or whatever).

Americans sometimes fail to realize that the United States is the only country in the world (except for maybe Armenia) that refers to "soccer" as "soccer." Almost everybody else in the English-speaking world—and the Spanish-speaking world, for that matter—refers to "soccer" as "football." What we know as "football," they know as "gridiron."

I fought Adam valiantly on this point, but was eventually forced to concede. "Football" is the correct term for "soccer." England did invent soccer—heh heh, I mean football—after all. The word soccer is actually abbreviated slang for "association football," which is what soccer—I mean football—was originally named. I lost that first pivotal battle. But there are some English-isms that I refuse to give ground on, which Adam and I have debated and still debate hotly.

By "debate hotly," I essentially mean that we get drunk and rag on each other. Any opportunity we can take to sneakily "correct" one another's diction—even though we both know that there's nothing wrong with the terms we're using, and it's what we were respectively raised with—we seize, with much immature giggling.

Take zucchini, for example.

Did you know that English folk—and, apparently, South Africans and New Zealanders—have a different word for zucchini than we North Americans do? Well, they do. They call it "courgette." From the French, you know. Odd, isn't it? It's hard to step back, think objectively, and realize that there is another name for zucchini than "zucchini." I lived the first 22 years of my life without hearing any other word for zucchini than "zucchini." It never occurred to me that other people in the world would have another name for zucchini than "zucchini." I like the word "zucchini." It seemed to pair very well with the thing itself—a tasteless, crunchy, cigar-shaped vegetable used for bludgeoning younger siblings. And now, suddenly, here was hard evidence that there was, indeed, another word for zucchini than "zucchini." And it wasn't a zucchini-ish word at all. I had to rearrange my worldview to encompass this new idea of contested zucchini primacy.

Of course, I didn't learn this right away. It took a while for me to find out. And in the meantime, things were mighty peculiar. You may well imagine the confusion that occurred when the three of us (Adam, his fiancée Elaine, and I) would meet up at the corner grocery store in Korea.

"Alreet mate?"

"Hey guys! What's up?"

"Oh, not much. Just stopping by to get some courgette."

"Ah! Okay. I'm just here to get some zucchini myself. See you 'round!"

And then we'd bump into each other again in the same corner of the produce section and wonder what we were doing there. It took us about a month or so to realize that we were all talking about the same vegetable. Even then, the revelation strained credulity.

"What do you call it?" they asked me, incredulously. They asked me that question.

"Zucchini, of course! What the heck do you guys call it?" I replied, in similar tones.

"Courgette...?" Elaine said, with a bemused smile on her face.

"What?!"

I found out later (under similar circumstances) that English people have a different name for eggplant, too. They call it aubergine (OH-buh-zheen). Oh, for crying out loud.

And then there was the extreme confusion surrounding tic-tac-toe and "naughts and crosses," as Adam and Elaine called it. Turns out there is none. It's the same game. "Naught" (pronounced almost like "note" in Adam and Elaine's North-of-England accent) is another word for nothing, nada, zilch, zero. Crosses are just X's turned sideways. Hence, naughts and crosses: X's and O's (well, okay, technically O's and X's). I have to admit, naughts and crosses is a better name for the game than tic-tac-toe. Better by far.

But all the game-related conversations that we had up until the point of revelation were mystifying in the extreme. I couldn't figure out what the heck they were talking about. The feeling, I'm sure, was mutual. Jeff, a mutual Canadian friend of ours, often sides with me in these battles. Canada's heart may lie with England, but it can't escape its North American bailiwick. Jeff also refuses to think of zucchini in any other terms than "zucchini." He's also stymied by the oddity of "aubergine." He actually knows the rules for baseball and basketball, thank God.

But sometimes Jeff turns on me. He took Adam and Elaine's side in the "zee" versus "zed" debacle, leaving me outvoted by a three-quarters majority. I'm sorry; I refuse to budge on that one, either.

It's worth adding here that Jeff and I get into the most stupendous debates about the superiority of the metric system to the standard (American) system, too. It's fortunate that Adam and Elaine are Geordies (the slang term for folks from the Tyne River region of Northeastern England, on the coast of the North Sea in Northumbria—the ones who stayed loyal to King George even when Scotland was rebelling and invading). Geordies are commonsense, salt-of-the-earth people. They don't cotton to the high-flown verbal fancies of Southerners. Be it otherwise, Adam and I would probably be arguing about whether trucks are actually lorries, the difference between raincoats and Macintoshes, or, heaven forbid, the similarities between baseball and rounders.

I'm not outnumbered, but I'm outgunned. England's been around a lot longer than the States, and lent the States its language, which renders most of my etymological arguments null and void. I have to push the practicality of the American word in question, which can be a subjectively slippery business. Jeff and I are united in the belief that "zucchini" is a better word than "courgette" because, mainly, it's easier to say. (Same thing with eggplant...I mean, aubergine? Really?)

All facetiousness aside, I truly enjoy Geordie lingo. There are some words and phrases that are not only refreshingly direct, but downright charming, particularly given the cultural attitude they reveal. It also behooves me to mention that hearing these phrases delivered in a Geordie accent, reputed to be the coolest English accent of all time, is a real kick. Peruse these Geordie favorites, if you will:

• me head's battered - what you say when you're confused or unsure about something.
• proper lush - really good
• Bobby Dazzler - really, really good...awesome, in fact
• a good craic - a splendid party, get-together, festival, etc.; sounds like "a good crack"
• Alreet mate? - hello
• Alreet bonny lad? - hello (first meeting)

I have placed Newcastle-upon-Tyne (and its environs, including Elaine's home village) highest upon my list of places to see in England. I love Adam and Elaine to death (they're very nice and lovely people, full of fun and friendliness). The thought that there may be a whole town of people like that somewhere is intoxicating. (Plus, I'd just like to see the place. I've never been there; that's good enough for me.) I only hope Adam can teach my bumbling brain enough Geordie beforehand so I can impress the locals when I get there. But just what the heck is a "stoat," anyway?

cocktail review no. 14 - Dark and Spooky

Now, normally I'm not the kind of man who goes poking through recipe databases and plumbing the bowels of Martha Stewart's Web site for inspiration. Nuh uh, not me. No sir. But my mom is. That's how I wound up with this recipe. And I'm awfully glad she went to the trouble to hunt it up for me, because it was a hit at my Halloween party last night (more about that later). So, without further ado, here it is, courtesy of Claire Robinson for Food Network Magazine (and my mom):

• 2 ounces dark rum
• 2 ounces ginger beer or ginger ale
• juice from 1 lime
• 1 lime wedge
• 1 black gummy spider
• black decorating sugar

Spread out the black sugar on a small plate. Rub the lime wedge around the rim of a rocks glass and dip the glass into the sugar. Then fill the glass with ice. Combine the rum and lime juice in a cocktail shaker filled with ice. Shake well, and strain into the glass. Top with the ginger ale and add the gummy spider. And what have you got when you're finished doing this? If you've done it right, you should have an orange-colored drink with a black crust of sugar on the rim of the glass and a black spider hovering at the bottom. I didn't quite obtain that nifty result. The only gummy spiders I found (at Wal-Mart) were small, and multicolored. But the rest of it came off without a hitch, and the guests at the party who sampled the drink (yours truly included), thought it a tastefully sour, mellow sort of cocktail.

bulletized quickies...I mean, quick bulletins

• I am now 20 pages into the first edit of my recently completed novel. I made the description of the opening setting more detailed, such as giving the name of the bar where my two protagonists like to hang out after work. (Shelly's Back Room, Washington, D.C. It's a nifty little cigar parlor.)
• My new California driver's license came in the mail. Or rather, my old California driver's license came in the mail. I have the same number, the same shaky signature, even the same terrible photograph, taken when I was 16 years old, right after I got a buzz-cut. It expires in one year, too. Instead of making me a completely new license, California merely dredged up my old one from the archives instead. Gosh darn those mother-fudging son-of-a-witch dastards. Anyway, this finally closes the book on my frustrating quest to get my car registered in Southern California.
• I'm going to discontinue that column I have going on here, random travel destinations. It's silly. I think, if I am going to do it, I'll wait until I've actually been to these places before I decide to showcase them on my blog. Stay tuned for a grand reinstatement in 50 years.
• As I write this, I am sucking on a blueberry-flavored lollipop...which has a dead scorpion in the center of it. I've just managed to get his little stinger uncovered.
• I'm going to watch The Matrix Reloaded tonight.
• I went into town at 11:00 today for my FAA flight physical. The Federal Aviation Administration demands that anybody who is, or is training to be, a pilot must hold a medical certificate issued by an approved physician. To get this medical certificate, a pilot must submit to a medical examination on a regular basis. I went in to get my Class 3 (lowest) medical certificate today with a Dr. Krider, the doctor that my soon-to-be flight school Apple Valley Aviation endorses. The nurse weighed me (I'm 20 pounds lighter than I was the last time I got a medical examination), tested my eyes, took my pulse and blood pressure, and had me pee in a cup. Then Dr. Krider came in, listened to my breathing, prodded my chest and torso, had me (ahem) turn my head and cough, and then pronounced me fit to fly. I was issued my medical certificate and went on my merry way. But get this: my colorblindness has mysteriously disappeared. The last Class 3 certificate I was issued had to have restrictions put on it (no night flying and no navigating by colored light signals) because I had failed the color test. They had me stare at those dang bits of paper with bunches of colored dots on them and asked me to tell them what numbers I saw. And of course I said, "I don't see any numbers," because I couldn't, dammit. This time, though, I buckled down, squinted, cocked my head to the side, reached out with extrasensory force, and passed the test. This time, I saw not only the 12 but also the 15, the 4, the 7...not all of the little buggers, but enough to pass the test. Now my certificate has no restrictions on it, which means I'm free to complete any and all training for a private pilot's license, including night flying. Yippee! Let's get to it! Bring on the Cessna 172 and let's saddle up! Aviation-related blog posts are finally on their way!
• The National Geographic Channel can do no wrong as far as I'm concerned. They've got two shows currently running that are the proverbial bee's knees: Mega Beasts and Prehistoric Predators. Both are overflowing with gorgeous computer-generated images of ferocious monsters and fabulous creatures that seem to leap right off the screen at you, plus little-known facts that even I, a lifelong paleobiology lover, never suspected. Did you know Hyaenodon had incredibly long nasal tubes so it could still breathe even when it had a mouthful of meat?

blogshot

My personal motto is "I'll try anything twice." That's because I rarely enjoy something the first time I do, try, eat, or experience it. I was utterly terrified when, at the age of 15, my dad told me to get into the driver's seat of the car. Now I jump at the chance to go into town, just for an excuse to rip up and down the dirt roads in my new Jeep. I only like one or two songs when I first buy an album; after a week or so of listening, I gradually come to love the rest. I only appreciate new cocktails the second or third time I try them. It's the same with many foods, too (except for asparagus—that I do and always will hate). Even so I was startled to discover, here on this cool, cloudy October afternoon in the Mojave Desert, that something similar has happened to me with blogging. There was a time when I wouldn't even have considered keeping a blog, and would've scorned the suggestion. Blogs, from what I'd heard of them (I didn't have the open-mindedness to actually seek any out and read them), were merely wasted Web pages where pretentious know-nothings spouted off about their feelings and political opinions. (Gee...that sounds familiar, actually, he said with a guilty grin.) Any bug-wit high school student could start up a blog and opine about whatever mattered to him or her, which, as I believed, would be uninteresting, self-centered, fatuous, poorly-written tripe. Boy, was I ever barking up the wrong tree. Then I started coming around. With arrogance resembling a god complex, I mused thus: "Hmmm, well, if a pack of louts can do it, why can't an intelligent, sophisticated, literate man like myself give it a try and show them all up?" So I started a video blog to cover my Korean sojourn. That didn't last long. I'm sure there are more streamlined ways to do it than I did, and much better equipment and Web sites and editing programs, too, but vlogging was a pain. I used a $20 USB video camera, Windows Movie Maker, and YouTube. That will likely tell you everything you need to know about just how difficult, time-consuming and vexing the process was. Needless to say, I didn't do it often. When I did, I always had so much to speak about that (because of YouTube's asinine 10-minute video length limit) my vlogs turned into "serials" consisting of five or six videos. Filming, editing and uploading a serial vlog could and did routinely turn into an all-day nightmare. So I quit on the business. Then, a few months later, I was discussing my literary career goals with my Geordie coworkers Adam and Elaine. Adam suggested something that struck me as odd at the time. "You should start a blog, man," he said. This would, he argued, give any prospective editors or employers something to review in regards to my writing skill. It might also be fun. I'll admit that I was first inclined to laugh. Me, a blogger? I'd sooner blind myself with a hot needle. Blogging, to me, represented everything about the Internet (and society in general) that I detested. The uninformed and downright stupid should not be given free rein to voice their useless thoughts. Blogging's deplorable lack of grammar and spelling, the laziness in style (or complete lack thereof), and the disastrous miscarriage of proper word usage were all anathema to me. I could, of course, avoid such things myself, but by even consenting to blog, I'd be stepping into a world where such things were permitted, even overlooked. I'd sully my literary endeavors in so doing. By becoming a blogger, I was convinced, I'd soil myself. But Adam's suggestion stayed in my mind. I didn't know it at the time, but my omnipotent urge to write was ready to boil over. I was making slow, piecemeal progress with the novel, and my journalistic pursuits were limited to two articles I'd submitted to free e-zines. My creative juices had nowhere to flow. Moreover, I'd always known that I loved to opine. In the end, that selfish need won out. So I decided to start a blog. And now, seven months later, I have gone from dubious to joyous, guilt-ridden to content, blogshy to blogshot. I have happily found that, thus far, none of my superstitions about blogging or bloggers have rung true. I have discovered political opinions being voiced aplenty, but backed by conscious thought instead of ignorance. None of the bloggers I have talked to, and none of the few blogs I have read in any detail, have exhibited any kind of stupidity or silliness—quite the opposite, in fact. I have found little of the bad grammar and deplorable spelling which I had so feared. The blogsphere, for the most part, seems to be a veritable latter-day Roman forum, where ideas, concepts, instincts, beliefs, and philosophies are exchanged in a healthy, accessible environment. (It probably isn't; but I'm feeling effusive at the moment.) In the beginning it was lonely—I had no followers, and (I believed) no audience. I got no feedback on my posts. I couldn't be sure whether what I wrote was reaching anyone, or I was just whistling Dixie. But now I have people who read my own blog regularly (I'm blushing as I write this) and who leave some of the most helpful and interesting comments behind. What began as a solo foray has now truly transformed into the best thing possible—a community experience. But something else has happened, too—something I never, ever would have believed, even after I began blogging back in March. I have come to honestly enjoy reading other people's blogs. At the outset, I was (and on some level, probably still am) a selfish blogger: Nah, I don't care about anybody else's scribblings. I just want people to read my stuff, and be correctly awed by it. That was my philosophy, sad to say. But little by little, the magic seeped in. I started clicking around, sometimes in Blogs of Note, more often on the people who left me comments. Gradually, I found a few works that struck me as perusal-worthy. I began to read them, slowly and fitfully, then more thoroughly, then more routinely. I just consciously noticed today, for the first time ever, that my eyes always dart down to the Reading List at the bottom of my homepage whenever I log in. I'm actually, intentionally, checking for other people's latest posts. And when they come up, I gleefully click on them and go to read them, satisfied that these authors, whose styles I have come to know and adore, have got something else new and wonderful in store for me. Take smithyblogs, for example. It's run by an Englishman I happen to know personally from my Korea days. A native of the Manchester area, he's got the lot—a sanguine drawl and a fanatical devotion to Manchester United. He's a really entertaining guy to be around. His bone-dry wit is omnipresent, both in conversation and his blog posts. His incisive observations about work, play, food, travel and people are always dead-on and good for a chuckle. The Whole Blooming World, nourished by the Pollinatrix in the American Southwest, contains beautiful, intelligent insights and poetic verbal imagery. She covers everything from the stately gourd bees that pollinate pumpkins to reflections on the lives of Catholic saints, with never a dull moment in between. Much has already been written about Ramblings of the Bearded One, but I will reiterate that his blog ("he" being a married-with-children gent living in Scotland and working in photography and visual media) is a winning blend of humor, fatherhood, family, love, photography, dreams, ups, downs, life, and...ramblings. I'm not saying this to suck up to these people (sorry, Smithy). When I like something, I get effusive—even florid. I'm saying this because, heh heh, I, heh heh, have been corrupted, heh heh, by the intoxicating atmosphere of the blogsphere, heh heh, and I want you...TO THINK ABOUT IT. (Picture Peter Lorre rubbing his hands and chuckling evilly as he says this.) Maybe, if you were skeptical before, this will give you the impetus to start up a blog of your own. It's really quite something in here. As e.e. cummings said, "Listen; there's a hell of a good universe next door: let's go."

the Pretentious Vaunter

Over the course of the last few years, I've gradually come to suspect something unpleasant about myself that I can't wholly dismiss. I'm a great deal less intelligent than I like to think. Want an example? I recently got into a grammar-quiz competition with a college friend. The rules are simple. She sends me, either by e-mail or text message, a word picked at random from a dictionary. If I know the word, I send back the definition. If I don't, I take my best guess. The original purpose of the game, as stated by my friend, is twofold: she gets to be dazzled by my reputedly impressive vocabulary, and she also learns the meaning of a few words herself. The score currently stands at 1-3. I knew the meaning of one word ("descry") while the definitions of the remaining three words ("foofaraw," "titivate," and "convivial") abjectly defeated me. As such, this pastime has served a second purpose, likewise twofold: it has simultaneously shown me that I (a) don't have nearly as many words in my vocabulary as I have loudly and proudly proclaimed in the past; and (b) that, while I understand the connotation of many uncommon English words, I am increasingly unable to articulate their literal denotation. There once was a time, back during my homeschooling days, when I could rattle off word definitions like I'd swallowed Merriam and Webster. Now, either because my reading and writing habits have gone into a decline in recent years, or because I have allowed myself to become mentally lazy, or because I drink too much—those days are gone. I forget words I used to know (and cherish) and find it difficult to properly and eloquently verbalize the meanings of others. In short, I'm a pretender. A fake. A phony. A fraud. A charlatan. I claim to be a wordsmith, a grammarian knowledgeable of bizarre and unusual diction, and yet I'm not. Heck, I only vaguely know the meaning of most of the words I routinely use in conversation or print; I certainly don't understand many of their roots, proper usage, or (as previously mentioned) even their literal definition. I have forgotten most of what I learned in ground school in the spring of 2008, and with my flight physical (and therefore, my first flying lesson in over 16 months) drawing nearer, I am frantically paging back through all of my pilot's textbooks to try and rebuild the dike. Most of what I read I remember, but had wholly forgotten in the meantime. Another, more painful example is my recent dismissal from the newspaper I worked at. I simply wasn't intelligent enough to get my mind in gear, learn lessons the first time, quit making stupid and obvious blunders, and write the way I was supposed to write. This is neither the first example of such bumbling idiocy which I have exhibited, nor will it be the last. This worries me deeply. If my vaunted literary prowess—hell, my mental prowess in general—is crumbling now, what kind of state will it be in when I'm forty? Fifty? Eighty? I don't want to wind up one of those cranky, senile old buggers who harangues everything in sight, can't remember the names of his grandchildren and is a burden to his friends and family. I'd sooner be shot dead, or ground up into fish food. Even more terrifying is the prospect of Alzheimer's disease, the only form of dementia I truly fear, which will rob me of my precious memories and my formerly reputable vocabulary. That is, I'm sad to admit, the main reason I'm going to such trouble to write in this blog and keep up a daily journal, so when the Alzheimer's hits, I can thumb or click back through the pages and remember all the cool stuff I've seen and done. Call it a fatuous superstition. I may not even remember that I kept a journal when I have Alzheimer's, for all I know. But just in case... The suspicion that I am gradually turning stupid—or have always been stupid—has been gnawing at me for some time, and is beginning to prey upon my mind and heart. To someone who values intelligence higher than almost anything else in this world or the rest, this new mental trend is anathema—agonizing torment. I've built my reputation and my life on learning, on knowing things nobody else does, on having a tremendous vocabulary, on retaining vital information that will serve me later. And now, it seems, a plug has been pulled somewhere in my brain, and all that which I have mentally striven for is leaking slowly away...or worse, might never have been there in the first place. I am ashamed at my lack of cerebral rectitude, and deathly afraid that my friends and family might find out just what a jumped-up, pretentious nobody I really am—as has already begun to happen with this grammar-quiz game between my friend and me. I almost wrote "between me and my friend." I'm doing it again.