random travel destinations - Canada

At the urging of a fellow blogger, I've revived this serial sooner than expected. (The original second-release date was 2059.) I've picked a place that not many people have heard of, and even the ones who have find hard to pronounce...unless they're an Inuit or a Canadian. It's called Nunavut. That's how I heard about the place, by the way. Canadians. I got a free geography lesson just for mentioning the Northwest Territories within earshot of my Ottawa-born friend Jeff. We were sauntering down a back alley in Korea one day with our English friend Adam and our English-speaking friend, Charles. These four steadfast gourmands were on their way to try a little sannakji (live baby octopus, eaten while it's still wriggling). Somehow or other we got to talking about places we'd all like to visit someday, and I mentioned that the Northwest Territories sounded like an interesting sort of place. Jeff promptly informed me that, well, the Northwest Territories had been split up a few years back. I believe it had something to do with Inuit tribal claims to the area, which the Canadian government decided to honor. The western portion retained the same name, but the rest of it, including Baffin Island (pictured above), became Nunavut. It's officially its own place now. Got some representatives in Canadian Parliament, its own postal code, even its own official territorial bird (the rock ptarmigan, sweet!). The place still covers three time zones, even though it's half the size of the former Northwest Territories. It's pretty much a lot of coastline and Arctic islands. Looks pretty wild, doesn't it? And now it has the significant distinction of being the newest Canadian territory: double the reason for checking the place out.

psycho-emotional armor

Insecurity is one of those things everyone denies suffering from. Yet we all have to deal with it on some level. Every time one's beliefs are ridiculed, one's intelligence is defamed (after one makes a mistake, for example), or one receives a personal insult, even the most stalwart sense of self-esteem crumbles just a little. Well, mine does, anyway. Guess I must be a softy. Once, I was the most untouchable weirdo in my peer group. I didn't care one whit for what people said about me. I'd go sauntering through the playground in a camouflage jacket and a black top hat (styling myself "Mr. Different"), and all the insults and derisive hoots that were hurled at me just bounced right off. And then, for some reason, I began to care what people think. Thus began the downhill slide. Nowadays I don't deal very well with criticism, nor belittlement. Soon as somebody says, "That's stupid, Andy," or "How can you not like Family Guy? You must be a Communist, Andy!" my soul shrivels up a little, and I feel a mysterious need to backpedal and void my previous assertions. And in so doing, I want to backpedal again and reassert my previous assertions, because voiding them due to public opinion makes me feel like a spineless, obsequious, sniveling, slimy weed, bending whatever way the wind blows. I have resolved to go back to utterly not caring about what other people think of me: particularly, what I do and the things I like. As I mentioned earlier, I'm something of a weirdo, you see. Take In-N-Out, for example. In-N-Out is a fast-food burger chain native to California and the west coast. It's inordinately popular, particularly in Southern California. I've never liked the place much myself. The fries are too greasy, the decor is sterile white, and the burgers don't come up to the level of, say, Tom's, or even Carl's Junior. But the moment I say that I don't like In-N-Out, no matter how large the group of friends I'm with is, the vote is unanimous. Jaws drop, eyes bug out, horrified gasps resound. "What?!" "How can you say that, Andy?" "Have you even had In-N-Out?" "Are you a Communist?" "You're definitely un-American if you think that." Some of you might be wondering Hey, how come this weasel gets so insecure over an issue as trivial as this? So his friends all disagree with him about which burger chain is superior. Big whoop. That's no reason for him to feel he needs to change his opinion to fit in. Well, hold on a minute. You said it just now. It's not so much the issue at stake. It's the fact that all my friends disagree with me. All of them. That's bound to make any member of the group, particularly one whose acceptance is as iffy as mine, nervous. I was a social outcast my first year in high school, and was (and still am) so socially inept that I still wonder how I managed to garner any friends at all. My pals are incredibly valuable to me. I would have had a lonely, lonely time in high school if they hadn't seen fit to tolerate my weirdness. I'd like to keep running with this gang. So naturally, if it seems as if I'm about to alienate them (or even distance myself from them in any way, shape, or form, no matter how minor), I go on red alert. Pretty pathetic, right? It's not that I'm fundamentally weak-willed or mealy-mouthed. It's just that I've been out on the fringes for so long that I'm starting to get the idea that I might be off base after all. I've gotten so used to being the only person in the room who thinks a particular way that I'm beginning to believe I might be wrong. Now I realize that this is all just herd mentality. Just because no one sees eye-to-eye with me doesn't mean I'm the littlest man there. So no more. I'm done being a sniveling weasel. I'm through cringing inside whenever somebody criticizes something I like or believe in. I'm done thinking that my beliefs are inferior to anyone else's just because I happen to be the only person who holds them. I'm through caring what other people think. From now on, it's just going to be me and my mind, laughing together at private jokes, starting two-member fan clubs for the most arcane and obscure bits of pop culture available, grinning at each other whenever another person's eyes bug out. I'm going to be more like George Bernard Shaw: I'll say what I think, be right most of the time, abhor the general lack of intelligence in others, and focus on offending as many people as possible. Mr. Sulu! Activate the psycho-emotional armor! But I can't leave it there. I've dropped a few hints but have not unveiled the full enchilada. I'm going to give you a complete rundown of my most controversial beliefs, opinions, likes, and wants, so you can judge for yourself how weird they are, and have an appropriate baseline to appraise your own. This is also a defiant scream. Each item listed here has earned me a disbelieving look, a disapproving comment, or a jaw-drop at least once. This is what I believe, world, and nobody's going to make me doubt myself anymore for believing in it. And we commence!

• I hate vodka. Yes, I'm a mixologist. But still, I detest the stuff. Can't stand it. The only way I can stomach it is mixing it in cocktails, and even then, it's only good for its alcoholic content. Gee whiz, what's the point?
• Capital punishment is a good thing. Violent criminals don't need to be helped. They don't need to be rehabilitated. They need to be killed. Removed from the gene pool. Sent to hell. Whatever you want to call it.
• There is such a thing as "righteous war." When innocent people are suffering, when peace and injustice have gone to the dogs, when diplomatic relations have broken down, and economic sanctions have (finally) proven their impotence, it's the duty of the powerful, forthright, upstanding nations of the world (you know the ones I mean if you live there) to step in and take a military hand in matters. People say war is ugly, and that killing our fellow humans is the worst crime we've ever committed. I say, standing by and letting evil men take over and run things according to selfish whim is worse. I say, live and let die. And I also think rapists and child molesters ought to be castrated.
• I'm an atheist. I don't believe in God. And when I say "I don't believe in God" I don't mean that I believe He exists but don't worship Him. I mean that I don't believe He exists, period. Apparently those are two different things now. Jesus may very well have existed, but I have serious doubts about his parentage. I've examined the evidence for both camps, read science books, attended numerous churches and church services, and made up my mind that a universe based on random chaos and the complete lack of any divine guidance just makes more sense. It's more logical to me, more believable. I keep an open mind, however. Given compelling evidence I might start believing that God exists. Don't know if I'd worship Him even then, though. I do believe that we humans know less than 0.001% about the way the universe works, and that there are things undoubtedly going on out there that science can't explain. That thought thrills me.
• I have not seen American Pie, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Superbad, Beerfest, or any other such raunchy, tasteless, obscene comedy. And I don't intend to, either.
• I have not seen Mrs. Doubtfire, Dumb & Dumber, The Big Lebowski, and a lot of other films that everybody tells me are "essential." (Name another, I'll bet you I haven't seen it.) I suppose I will someday, though. Maybe. I have my own ideas about what constitutes "essential," thanks very much.
• I am reading Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. I've discussed this before. People now doubt my sexual orientation. Apparently this is a "girl's book." I don't care. If it's a good book, I'll read it. (Romance novels don't count, of course; but this isn't a romance novel.) I'll bet LW is a grand book, too. And you're all missing out on it because you're worried that if you even touch this book you'll have to run and wash the gay off you or something. I'll bet you don't wear any purple, either. Your loss.
• I just might put bourbon in my hip flask. Yes, yes, I know that's a cardinal sin. A real man would never keep anything but high-grade Scotch whisky or brandy in his hip flask. It could be worse, though. I haven't stuck any rum or vodka in there, and I don't intend to. I just thought bourbon might be a nice change. And I've got to do something progressive in my life. Maybe I'll start a new manly trend.
• I despise Family Guy. And furthermore, I don't see how any right-thinking person couldn't. It's crass, vulgar, stupid, disgusting, shoddy, obnoxious, and a blatant, shameless Simpsons knockoff. Suck on that, my former college roommates.
• Gifts should not be purchased cheaply. To me, the whole idea of shopping around for the best deal (on a gift, that is) is abhorrent. One should buy the gift from the first place one finds it, irrespective of how expensive it is. To go around pricing gifts seems very, very miserly to me. One might as well hand the person their present and say "Here, this is the cheapest one I could find." No. Gifts are not given in that spirit. Price is irrelevant. What matters is that you're giving them what they want. On the other hand, if it was me, I'd want people to save as much money as they could when buying me gifts. This rule applies only to yours truly.
• Jethro Tull is the best rock 'n' roll band of all time. 'Nuff said.
• Asparagus sucks. Yes, there are actually some people who disagree with me on this one.
• I'm pretty set in my ways, musically; rock 'n' roll, some progressive, some classical; but I enjoy the occasional bout of hip-hop. I'm not a hypocrite. There's a few tunes (by, say, Lil' John, or Ludacris, or Usher, or Sean Paul) that have a remarkable amount of nostalgic value for me, seeing as how I got down and dirty to their stuff at my high school dances. And you must admit, while most rap is atonal or just downright abrasive to the ear, it has a pretty good beat. It's just those buggers who drive around with their bass woofers turned all the way up (making the everybody else stuck in traffic think there's a mighty rhythmic earthquake going on) who give it a bad name. If you want a specific example, I've had "Stand Up" (by Ludacris) stuck in my head the last few days. That one makes me chuckle.
• Fox News IS fair and balanced. Nothing you can say will make me think otherwise. CNN can go pound sand.

That's all I can think of for now. So help me, I will never waver in my convictions again. Unless I hear some compelling evidence to the contrary, of course. So there.

boy, 5, dunks self in pond

XENIA, OH - An area boy nearly gave himself hypothermia following an accidental dip in a near-frozen pond in Shawnee Park. Andrew, 5, stated that he was running from his father during a friendly game of tag when, as he looked back over his shoulder, he suddenly found himself bobbing up and down in murky green water. Andrew's mother arrived on the scene to find her sopping son wrapped securely in his father's sweater, and Dad freezing his heinie off in the chilly autumn weather. I was originally going to steer clear of old personal anecdotes, partly because of my innate modesty, and partly because of my journalism training (all that stuff's "old news"). However, I have noticed these stories being employed to great effect elsewhere in the blogsphere. So I have amended my previous stance, as they say in Politicspeke, and am now going to start includin' 'em. I was born in Auburn, California. My folks moved around NoCal a bit before making the hop down to the Mojave Desert when I was 19 months old. That's where my brother Harlan was born. We moved east to Ohio shortly thereafter. One of the first places we lived in Ohio was this marvelous little town called Xenia. I wish I remembered more of it, but my memory does not serve me well. I basically remember only one thing from our time in Xenia, and that's the park. Magical sort of place, it was. Seemed to be all rolling hills, green fields, quiet streams, small ponds, stone bridges, and Canada geese. The geese were everywhere. They (literally) flocked to the place during their seasonal migrations. I can remember many lovely autumn afternoons spent watching these geese with my brother and my parents as we strolled through the park. One cold and sunny fall day in 1990, Dad took my brother and me to the park while Mom did the grocery shopping. She dropped us off and left us to our own devices. Soon enough, a game of tag broke out. Harlan and Dad and I were running all over the place, laughing, yelling, leaping about, and breathing the frigid air into our heaving lungs. This is what I remember. Dad had zeroed in on me, and I was doing my darnedest to outdistance him. At five years old, I didn't have much of a chance. I was looking back over my shoulder to determine how rapidly my lead was shrinking, when suddenly... I don't remember actually hitting the water. The last thing I remember is my foot coming down on empty air. The next memory I have is being submerged in one the park's numerous ponds, bobbing up and down on my back, staring at the concrete wall of the pond two feet beneath the surface. There was a metal pipe bolted to the wall; both were smeared with goose droppings. I don't remember being disgusted by this, even though I now knew why the ponds were always so green. I was in the water only a few seconds. Dad must've fished me out in a hurry. The next thing I remember is standing on a park bench as Dad wrapped his voluminous sweater around me. Again, I don't remember being cold. My memory is so poor that only the visual imagery remains. Dad, Harlan and I began to walk to the entrance to the park. Mom pulled up to see Dad, sweater-less and quite chilled, and her eldest son waddling along behind him, wrapped from chin to toes in a huge wool sweater. I must've looked like a tiny priest in a misshapen, oversize cassock. I don't remember anything after that. I didn't get hypothermia; Dad's sweater was huge (and pre-warmed) and thankfully there was no wind. My body temperature was likely already elevated by the spirited game of tag we'd been engaged upon, too. But Dad probably caught hell from Mom anyway, bless her. I know I took a lot of good-natured ragging from Dad and Harlan in the years that followed. Fancy being silly enough to accidentally run into a pond! I'm writing about this for a reason. While we're on the subject of false impressions, it might seem to some of you that I'm a competent person. I lived alone in Korea for a year, I'm learning to fly, I graduated college in 3.5 years (despite switching majors twice), and I've never fallen for any kind of scam or fraud. But nonetheless, these are the kinds of things that happen to me. Unintentionally dunking myself in ponds, I mean. On Saturday I misread the schedule and wound up at bartender's school on the wrong day for the wrong class. After an hour-and-a-half commute, too. I fired an arrow into the wall of my bedroom when I was thirteen, because, for some reason, I'd put it onto the string and was drawing the bow. In the house. Reminds me of a song.

In the days of my youth I was told what it means to be a man Now I've reached that age I've tried to do all those things the best I can No matter how I try I find my way to the same old jam — Led Zeppelin

cocktail review no. 20 - Rusty Nail

Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm breaking precedent. Two cocktail reviews in a row. Scandalous. But this is a special case. I happened to stumble across likely-looking drinks for two nights running. And this one's got a vaguely taboo subject, a reference to pop culture, and an evocative mental image all wrapped up in its name. So why not?

The recipe comes from my new bartending school's textbook, though I've seen it in The Bartender's Bible, too.

• 1½ ounces Scotch
• ½ ounces Drambuie

In an old-fashioned glass filled with ice cubes, combine the Scotch and Drambuie. Stir well.
I don't know if you know this, but Drambuie is a Scotch whisky liqueur. So, almost by default, this cocktail is a harmonious blend of flavors. The smokiness of the Scotch and the sweetness of the Drambuie compliment each other almost too perfectly. This is a fine before- or after-dinner drink: goes down smooth, tasty as all get-out, and given that it's a highball it's absurdly easy to make. If you're willing to stump up a little for Drambuie (and good blended Scotch wouldn't go amiss either; I'd suggest Cutty Sark or J&B), then you're in for a real treat. This one's definitely one of my Top 10 favorites.

cocktail review no. 19 - Old-Fashioned

Now, I understand that I haven't been showcasing drinks that are easy to make. I made the assumption that all you other mixologists out there are as affluent and well-supplied as I am (or at least as unwise about spending money). I dished out recipes with pricey, oddball ingredients, such as Grand Marnier, Cointreau and Drambuie. Even so, most of the cocktail recipes I've posted have been simple to actually mix. Combine, shake, pour. Nothing to it.

This one is a little more complicated.

• 3 dashes bitters
• 1 teaspoon water
• 1 sugar cube
• 3 ounces blended whiskey
• 1 orange slice
• 1 maraschino cherry

In an old-fashioned glass, muddle the bitters and water into the sugar cube with the back of a teaspoon. Almost fill the glass with ice cubes and add the whiskey. Garnish with the orange slice and the cherry, and serve with a swizzle stick.

What is "muddling," you ask? Excellent question. It consists of crushing or grinding the ingredient in question. Ordinarily, you'd use a small, bat-shaped piece of wood, rather like a pestle (and called a "muddler"), to do this.

I don't have a muddler, but fortunately, this drink doesn't require one. I also didn't have sugar cubes, so I used a teaspoon of sugar. I came, I saw, I muddled. Combining the water, bitters and sugar, I proceeded to mash the sugar into the resultant fluid for all I was worth. Then I added the ice, whiskey, and garnishes. (I forgot the swizzle sticks, however.) As for whiskey, I had a little Seagram's 7 left; and that seemed to work pretty well.

This was not the first time I'd concocted an old-fashioned, but it came out much, much better this time. (Last time I actually did have sugar cubes, but I didn't understand the concept of "muddling" too well.) In contrast to the myriad cocktails out there nowadays that taste exactly alike (do you have ANY idea how many variations there are on the whiskey, lemon juice, and sugar theme?), this drink is truly unique. It has a sophisticated, mellow flavor that's redolent of grain, but doesn't burn or sting or overpower. The bitters and sugar smooth the whiskey out, make the drink pleasantly bittersweet (no surprise there), and are themselves reined in by the hint of orange. And then there's the cherry for dessert. This is a grand, grand drink, undeniably one of the royal family of cocktails.

As an interesting side note, I first heard of the old-fashioned when I watched that hilarious epic, It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. Jim Backus's character, Mr. Fitzgerald, gets drunk on old-fashioneds while flying Mickey Rooney and Buddy Hackett to Santa Rosita. He is subsequently knocked out, and Mickey and Buddy have to land the plane somehow.

"Quit clowning around, will you, and make us some drinks! Just press the button back there marked booze!"

"It's a major award"

Yes, I stole that line from A Christmas Story, when Ralphie's father is out in the snowy street, forcing his poor, embarrassed wife to readjust the kinky nylon-stocking lamp in the window, much to the interest of everybody in Cleveland Street. Swede Larson comes along and asks, "What is that?" "It's a major award," the father replies, in a would-be casual sort of voice. "Hell, I wouldn't a' knowed that," Swede says in turn. "It looks like a lamp!"

Well, then, I announce to you (in a would-be casual sort of voice), that I have been nominated for and accepted my first blogging award. It's the Superior Scribbler Award, and I was nominated by one very talented blogger and multifaceted writer, Carrie, from [carrotspeak.]. She holds the dubious distinction of being, simultaneously, a resident of Kentucky, an Army fiancée, and a self-proclaimed Twitard (a fan of the Twilight series by Stephanie Meyer). She's also a kind, insightful, generous, giving soul, and that comes out in her sweet, humorous, poignantly on-target scribblings. This award comes with some caveats, however. You must...

• Thank whomever nominated you for it...
• Post, paste, or patch the award's image onto your own blog...
• Tell your readers seven things they don't yet know about you...
• Pass it along to seven more bloggers...
• And notify them personally when you have done so.

Well, I've done number one and number two. Here goes number three.

1. Unlike a deplorably large portion of the male population, I do not prefer blondes. I actually like brunettes and redheads 99% of the time. A notable exception would be...[sigh]...Maria Sharapova. Six feet and two inches of buttery blonde Russian goodness.
2. I have broken two bones in my short life: my right wrist (following an ill-fated swing on a forest vine during a Boy Scout trip) and my tailbone (long story). Neither compared to the pain of compressing a disc in my back.
3. All of the text messages I send are grammatically correct. Occasionally I'll stoop to using emoticons, but there's none of this "C U LATR" or "I H8 U" or "LOL" or "LOLZ" or "ROTFLMAO" nonsense.
4. I have lived in six states: Virginia, Ohio, Tennessee, Wyoming, North Dakota, and California.
5. On a related note, I have lived in California for most of my life (eight nonconsecutive years) and have never been to Disneyland. Apparently that's some sort of crime against humanity. You should see the way my fellow Californians' eyeballs bug out when they hear.
6. I'm something of a clotheshorse. I have a thing for outerwear in particular. Coats, jackets, vests...all of it. One can never have too many coats; weather comes in all shapes and sizes, y'know. My favorite is the Old West-style duster I picked up from Sportsman's Guide. It's a long brown canvas coat that goes down to mid-calf, with two big camel pockets on the sides and a slit up the back (for riding a horse). I like to wear it on windy days, when it blows out behind me in a dramatic fashion.
7. My favorite pizza joint is Papa John's. Pizza Hut just can't cut the mustard anymore. And don't get me started on Domino's...

Okay, enough about me, let's hear it for the nominees for the Superior Scribbler Award!

1. The Pollinatrix and her wonderful blog, The Whole Blooming World.
2. Smithy, from the fascinating, forthright, globetrotting blog smithyblogs.
3. JennyMac, author of the eminently juicy and inherently satirical Let's have a cocktail....
4. Entrepreneur Chick, source of the brassy, witty, no-holds-barred blog of the same name.
5. Mary Witzl of ResidentAlien, a delightful look into the entertaining, exotic (and sometimes frustrating) life of a chronic expatriate and her family.
6. gimme a minute, the anonymous master of all things bleak and ironic at Stranded on Gaia.
7. My friend Caleb, the prelate-to-be, getting started early with Thorns.

Whew! Okay, that's done. I know I'm new to this blogging business and I'm nominating people here who are much better at it than I am (which means the award probably doesn't mean very much coming from little ol' me) but still, I think these guys deserve some recognition in the blogsphere for the entertaining and illuminating things that they're scribbling. Hence the award. I also know that this award positively reeks of a chain letter, whose ilk I abhor with every fiber of my being. But despite the nature of the award, it was given to me sincerely, and so as not to defame or defile that sincerity, I intend to stick to the rules of the thing and pass it on as requested. So there.

This concludes our ceremonies for the evening. Please move to the lounge for drinks and light refreshments. Tomorrow: bingo.

riding the beam

There are several ways you can navigate while flying an airplane. The first and simplest is called pilotage. That's how things used to be done in the olden days. Pilots made their way by picking out familiar landmarks on the ground, visually. That was one method I used when I flew my first cross-country to General Fox Airport in Lancaster. I took off and turned west; spotted Southern California Logistics Airport in Victorville, ten miles away; flew over that; espied the dry lake at El Mirage a few miles farther on; overflew that; descried the water tank on the hillside a few miles beyond that; and once I'd passed it, General Fox was in sight. The second way, and the most modern, is by GPS. "GPS," as even the most technologically dumbfounded of you should know, stands for "Global Positioning System." They're basically devices which gather data from orbiting satellites and use it to triangulate your position on the Earth's surface. The nice thing about the aviation GPS system is that the manufacturers have thoughtfully included all relevant data on the virtual map that you might need to know: airspace boundaries, obstacles, prohibited areas, whatever. Moreover, navigation is absurdly simple with a GPS. You can enter an airport or a waypoint and a purple line will appear on the screen, going straight from your airplane to that destination. You need merely follow that purple line and you'll get there. Fast going out of style, but far more reliable than pilotage (and essential for instrument work), is the VOR. "VOR" stands for "VHF Omnidirectional Range." VORs take the form of white, pointy buildings. Harold says they look like upside-down ice cream cones. They are located at airports and out in the middle of nowhere, and emit a constant signal in the VHF range. Special antennae on the tail of an airplane pick up this signal, and an indicator in the cockpit tells the pilot where the signal's coming from. (If you're equipped with DME, or distance-measuring equipment, your indicator also computes the straight-line distance to the VOR station). VORs shoot these signals in all directions, through all 360 degrees of the compass. That means, if you're within range of the signal (generally 50 miles or less, depending on how high you are) you can tune your instruments to that particular VOR's frequency. Then you can do whatever the heck you want with it: verify your distance away from it, use it to triangulate your exact position, or even navigate by it. The latter is known as "riding the beam." Thursday, Harold and I took off from Apple Valley Airport with the express idea of getting a little VOR navigation practice in. We were in luck. There are VORs scattered throughout the lower 48 states, but this being Southern California, there are VORs all over the friggin' place. There was one at Southern California Logistics Airport in Victorville, ten miles west; another one at Palmdale, about 50 miles west or so; and a third at Barstow-Daggett, about 26 miles or so northeast. So, we flew up to 6,000 feet MSL (about four thousand feet off the ground, the highest I've ever flown) and began fiddling with dials and knobs. This is the instrument that we used, the VOR indicator: This isn't quite what the VOR indicator in the cockpit of our 1974 Cessna looks like, but it'll do. It's got all the basic elements. The rotating course card (A) is set up with compass points: north, south, east, west, and everything in between. In terms of VOR navigation, these are called radials. North (360 degrees) is a radial; south (180°) is a radial, as is west (270°), east (090°), and all the other points. You rotate the course card with (B) the omni-bearing selector. The to-from indicator (C) indicates whether the radial you're on (as indicated by the little arrow at the top of the indicator) is the heading TO the VOR installation, or FROM the VOR installation. And of course, the all-important course deviation indicator (D), or CDI, tells you whether you're actually on course or not. If you are, the needle is centered. If you're not, it swerves to the left or right. Each one of those little dots in the middle of the VOR indicator means a course deviation or two degrees. If you're following a radial directly to the VOR station (flying the same path as the signal), and the CDI is two dots to the left of center, that means you're four degrees off course and should bear left. If you're feeling confused by this, don't be alarmed. You're in the same boat with 100% of the human race. NOBODY understands VOR navigation when they first hear about it. VORs are depicted on aerial charts like this: The Avenal VORTAC ("TAC" being short for "TACAN" a military-grade navigation system sometimes paired with a VOR) is right in the middle of that big circle with all the compass points on it. Its frequency is 117.1 (says so in that little rectangular box near the center). Let's say you're within range of the VORTAC and want to make use of it. First, you tune your navigation equipment to 117.1. Also tune your communications equipment in, and listen for the identification code. You do this to make sure that the VOR is working and transmitting properly, and that you're actually tuning into the right one. Once you've verified the VOR's identity, then you can rotate your rotating course card using the OBS knob until your CDI homes in on the signal and centers itself. Once it's done that, take a close look at your VOR indicator. If it says "TO" and the number up at the top is 345 degrees (as indicated in the picture above) then, if you were to turn to a heading of 345°, then you'd be heading straight toward the VOR. You are picking up the station's outgoing 165° radial. (You see, 345 minus 180 is 165. You have to keep a heading of 345° to go to the station; and the signal from the station is following a heading of 165° to go in the opposite direction, to reach you.) I'm going to stop explaining here because I have a feeling that you're as confused as an ostrich in a diamond mine. I will merely add that VOR indicators tell you what direction a VOR signal is coming from—not what heading you're on. Therefore, you want to be very careful not to confuse the heading TO the VOR with the heading AWAY from it, or else you'll try to correct your course and inadvertently get further off it (known as "reverse sensing"). Quick recap:

• WHAT - VOR, or VHF omnidirectional range, a station that emits a constant VHF signal to all points of the compass.
• WHERE - All over the continental United States.
• WHY - They are handy, if slightly outdated, navigational tools.
• WHO - Pilots use them when they get tired of GPS systems or can't see the ground.
• HOW - Find out the frequency of a particular VOR you want to use. Tune your navigation equipment in the cockpit to that frequency. Twiddle the knob until the needle on the indicator centers itself. Then read the heading on the course card at the top of the indicator window. If the to-from indicator says "TO," then you would follow that heading to get to the VOR. If the indicator says "FROM" then you are going the same direction as the outbound VHF signal; the heading back to the VOR is the reciprocal of that heading (the heading number minus 180 degrees).
• REMEMBER - The VOR indicator (when the needle is centered) does not tell you what course you're on. It tells you which direction the beam from the VOR station is coming from/going to.

Needless to say, it took a while for me to get all this down. The concept is still a mite fuzzy in my mind. I've likely made a few glaring mistakes in explaining it. If I have, I crave your indulgence. I'm still learning, after all. Anyway, Harold and I wandered about the sky, picking up various VOR signals, intercepting them in mid-air, and following them for short distances. We even rode on a "Victor airway," a sort of highway in the sky formed by VOR signals between airports. It ran from Palmdale to Palm Springs, about a hundred miles away. Harold and I detected the signal, moved the airplane onto an intercept course, and then N42126 smoothly merged onto the airway as though on an invisible on-ramp. Cool. To me, this is one of the neatest things about flying. The military may have its radar and high-tech wizardry, but general aviation pilots have VORs. Sure, they're antediluvian. Yeah, they make you think in order to use them properly. But to me, those are both pluses. I like old stuff, as you probably know by now. (Vintage warplanes and Hanna-Barbera cartoons spring to mind.) I don't like fancy electronics. I hate camera phones and Blackberries, iPhones and intuitive user interfaces. I like it when a device doesn't do all the work for you. I like it when the thinking is ultimately left up to the operator. The VHF omnidirectional range is just such a device. It'll give you information, but deciphering and using that information is your job. If you mess up, it's your own fault. The human race has forgotten that. GA pilots haven't. As a boy, I loved visiting museums where they had old airplane control panels set up for me to fiddle with. Pulling levers, pushing buttons, flipping switches...I couldn't get enough. I'd pretend I was warming the old bird up for launch, activating each system one by one, rattling off imaginary jargon to my invisible copilot. Using VOR equipment brings out that kid in me once again. Today, during a solo practice session, I switched on the nav equipment, punched a few buttons, then started twiddling the OBS knob until I homed in on the Barstow-Daggett VOR. I centered the needle, then turned until I was following a heading of 40 degrees, paralleling the station's outgoing 220° radial. I was riding the beam.

cocktail review no. 18 - Tower Topper

Right, folks! I think it's time I got down to business and started reviewing season-themed cocktails for you. We're a bit late in the year for fruity drinks like the zombie and bebidas frescas like the martini. I gave you a Halloween sort of deal with the Dark and Spooky; now let's move on to Thanksgiving and Christmas. Actually, I have a marvelous libation in mind for Yuletide, but I'll get to that later. And so! In the midst of this season of harvesting, cooking, baking, eating, imbibing, and everything else having to do with saliva, I give you a cocktail you'll be thankful for. It's best sipped in a house smelling of pumpkin spice or apple butter, possibly even turkey grease. It's called the "tower topper."

• 1½ ounces Canadian whisky
• ½ ounces Grand Marnier
• ½ ounces light cream

In a shaker half-filled with ice cubes, combine all the ingredients. Shake well and strain into a cocktail glass. I won't lie. The first time I ran across this recipe in The Bartender's Bible, my nose involuntarily wrinkled up. Yerk, I thought. Who's going to want to try that? Fortunately, a complete lack of Grand Marnier made the issue a moot point. I've been on a whiskey kick lately, as I think I've mentioned. So when I paged through the Bible last evening and encountered this drink once more (with a half-full bottle of Grand Marnier in the drinks cabinet), I was given pause. ...for about two seconds. I mixed it up (using milk instead of cream, which we didn't have) and sampled it. You'll have to decide for yourself what this drink tastes like. The flavor is highly subjective, and could potentially be the topic of much debate. I was, however, forcibly reminded of cooking as I imbibed. To me, this stuff tastes like a kitchen full of people cooking Thanksgiving dinner. The tower topper has a holiday feel to it, probably lent by the softness of the milk (cream), the spice of the liqueur, and the warmth of the whisky. Try it, it's good. Have one handy when you're basting the turkey. And make it a double, it'll last longer.

and now, here are a few of my friends

These are some good buddies I've been bumming around with here in the desert: John You already know a little about him from what I've told you before. He's six-foot-four, thin as a rail, eats like a wolf, works at Best Buy, loves Scotch and cigars, and has girl problems out the wazoo. I could go into detail, but that would both violate his privacy and give you the impression that I don't like him, which would be patently untrue. He's done a few things that I really don't approve of, like refusing to go to Australia with me on the grounds of remaining devoted to his girlfriend (not to mention converting to Catholicism). Nevertheless, I consider John my best friend. He's funny, smart, brutally honest, violently profane, endlessly hospitable, and delightedly human. If I was Winston Churchill, I'd still be very fond of him. He has none of the virtues I dislike and all of the vices I admire. Chris Though two years younger than the rest of us, Chris, son of Apple Valley's former mayor and very politically-minded himself, is anything but a baby. He lost his cherry before the rest of us did, that's almost certain. He, too, likes Scotch and cigars, has gotten his pilot's license (which he never ceases to wave under my nose), works at Del Taco, is almost flat broke, drives a red Ford Mustang (and drives it like a maniac), has a most ribald sense of humor, was in the Army for a few months before a leg injury forced him to bow out, digs guns and weaponry, is a dyed-in-the-wool Republican (and a newly-minted atheist), and is about as modest as a rabid chimpanzee. Despite this (in many cases, because of it), I love the guy. He's awful fun to be around, and is always up for doing something, anything. Basel That's pronounced just like the English name, Basil. Basel is also skeletally tall and thin, has an aquiline nose, Arabian features (he's of Syrian descent), is Catholic, loves rap (especially Eminem), really knows how to fill out a hoodie, is bilingual, works in his father's liquor store, is an excellent bowler (compared to the rest of us), has about a million cousins, eats salad unashamedly, and is currently having sort of an early-life crisis. He quit school because he hated it, and is now in the process of figuring out what he wants to do instead. He's also a fun guy, genuine, and generally available for a party or a get-together. Last night, the four of us went out on the town to celebrate John's upcoming 23rd birthday. Chris and I met up at Albertson's beforehand and purchased our good buddy an early birthday present: a bottle of Jameson's Special Reserve, aged 12 years. Then we rendezvoused with John at Oasis Lanes and bowled a couple games. Basel beat us all out the first game, being the only one to break 100 (he got 105). He got 105 the second game, too...only Chris and John had warmed up by then and scored even higher. I got worse from Game 1 to Game 2. I scored 78 in the first game and 66 in the second. Then we adjourned to Buffalo Wild Wings over on Bear Valley Road, sat down at the bar, and had some drinks. We started out with a quartet of White Russians...we'd been quoting The Big Lebowski while we were bowling the second game. Then we moved into Leinenkugel's (B-Dubs is the only place in the whole town that has Leinie's on tap), and shots of Jack Daniels Single Barrel and Maker's Mark, and finished up with a Colorado Bulldog each (White Russians with Coke). In the meantime, we talked, jibed, japed, took over the jukebox with the Moody Blues and the Band and Joe Walsh and Warren Zevon, and quoted every funny TV show or Internet gag we knew. The bartender (his name was Adam, but we called him Gary; it's a Big Lebowski thing) must've thought we were a pretty sad lot. I can't explain why my bowling got worse over the course of the evening, even without the aid of liquor. Of course, I did have a lot on my mind right then. Seems like every time I get together with the old high school gang I can't help but wonder. I marvel at how much they haven't changed. They're still the same people, admittedly older, their faces more angular, the baby fat all gone, a tiny bit of real life in its place. Their voices are deeper, and they're a tad taller and broader. But their minds remain the same. They still laugh at the same jokes, frown at the same misfortunes, shrug at the same problems. All that's changed are their catchphrases. They're not going the same places they were when they were younger. That's changed, too. When we graduated from high school in 2004 (Chris in '06), our ambitions were a lot different than they are now. We were shooting for the stars. Basel was attending the University of California in San Diego. Chris went to Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in Arizona. John went to California State University in Stanislaus, and was originally trying for a chemical engineering degree. I went off to North Dakota State for zoology. None of that's the same now. I'm not really sure what happened. Maybe life intervened. Basel quit school. Chris spent $20,000 in one year at Embry-Riddle just to get his pilot's license, then joined the Army, hurt himself, and came back here, broke. John couldn't stand being stuck at CSU Stanislaus (in the middle of a dusty, one-horse town called Turlock), switched his major to English, went through some ugly break-ups, came down here to the local community college to knock off some general education requirements for cheap, and now has serious girl problems. And I, finding that I didn't get along with advanced chemistry, switched my major to journalism, graduated in three and a half years, job-searched for six months without luck, went to Korea out of desperation, came back, got fired from the local newspaper, and am now living with my parents and can't find a job. I wonder about three things when I get together with the old crowd: where our lives wound up going, how different our situation is from our original destination, and where things are going to go from here. I have no idea about the latter. None of us has been through any real trauma. We haven't even had difficult lives relative to how hard it's going for the rest of the world. We've got loving homes to go back to at the end of the day. Most of us have steady employment. We're not sad or depressed. It's more like we're disappointed. You know how it is. When you're young and bold, you reckon everything's going to be wine and roses for you no matter what happens. Then you actually start down the road and find out that, like Tolkien said, adventures aren't all pony rides in the May sunshine. Sometimes—often—there's frustration, and anger, and disappointment, and bitterness, and humiliation, and awkwardness, suffering, shame, misery, impatience, and stupidity. That's that little thing called life, I reckon.

SF/SFO

Flying's going well, if you're still interested. Today Harold and I practiced SF/SFO, or what everybody else calls Short Field and Soft Field Operations. This is just what it sounds like: landing and taking off on a short runway or a patch of soft ground. See, as shocking as it sounds, you will not always be landing on a nice, long, paved runway. Sometimes you may be landing on a short dirt strip. Or a grass field. Or a sandy beach. (Bush pilots have to deal with these conditions all the time, so I'd better get good at it.) There's a certain special trick to pulling off these sorts of unusual landings and takeoffs. Normally, on a paved runway, all you have to do is let down some flaps, and— I've been told I should really itemize things if I want to explain flying more clearly. So here goes a very basic explanation of what you need to do to land on a PAVED runway:

• reduce throttle
• lower flaps incrementally
• use pitch to control speed, and throttle to control altitude
• flare about ten feet from the ground
• touch down smoothly, apply brakes

To clarify, flaps are those big flat things that stick out from the trailing edges of the wings, which are lowered right before the airplane lands. They're different from the ailerons, the control surfaces which dictate the airplane's rate of roll. The flaps act like air brakes. They slow you down as you come in to land. They also increase the surface area of the wing, enabling a plane to stay aloft even at very slow speeds—just the ticket for a slow descent onto a runway. Generally, you lower them in increments: a little bit when you're on the downwind leg of the landing pattern; a little bit more when you turn your base leg; a little bit more when you turn to make your final approach. "Flaring" is what you do just a second before landing. It's something that airplanes borrowed from birds. You see it on National Geographic TV commercials all the time: some big lolloping bird comes in for a landing, and right before it hits the water or ground or tree branch or whatever, it sort of turns its body up on end and tilts its wings back to slow itself down. Flaring in an airplane is the same kettle of fish. Just a few feet above the runway, you pull back on the controls to tilt the nose of the plane up. This slows you down even more, just enough to land. That's why you want to make sure not to do it too high, like I do, because you'll bounce down onto the tarmac very hard. Now, with short field operations, you do the same thing, except you have to be a lot more precise. If your field is only a few hundred feet long, you don't have much room for error, so you have to pretty much touch down RIGHT at the VERY END of the runway to ensure that you have plenty of room to roll to a stop. To practice this, Harold told me to pick a point on our nice big paved runway at Apple Valley Airport. Once I did, he told me to land there, or within 200 feet of it. (Two hundred feet may sound like a lot, but in terms of airplanes coming to a halt, it really isn't; our runway is about 6,000 feet long, and ours is a small airport.) Once I'd done that, he said, I was to immediately put the flaps up and apply the brakes, to stop as soon as practically possible. And guess what, sports fans? I got it on my first try. Nailed it. Touched down right where I'd wanted to, snapped the flaps back up, jammed on the brakes (not too hard), and came right to a dead stop. Bingo. ...which meant that we now got to practice a short field takeoff. This would be just like a regular takeoff, except instead of mundanely powering up and rolling down the runway, I would keep the brakes on while I poured on full throttle, suddenly release them, and go. And that's exactly how it happened. I stood on those brakes for all I was worth as the little plane roared and bellowed and shook, straining forward like an attack dog on a chain. Then, at Harold's command, I let go the brakes. I was promptly knocked back into my seat as we jumped down the runway and leaped into the air. Yeah, I reckon we'd have made it A-OK if the field had been short. Soft field landings are a good deal trickier. To land, you have to keep a little power on until the last second, then touch down only on the back wheels. See, the landing gear on a Cessna 172 is set up like a tricycle. You have the two rear (or "main") wheels, and the nose wheel. During a soft field landing, you want to touch down ONLY on those two main wheels. This is because, when you touch down in a Cessna 172, you're still going rather fast by human standards: about 50 miles per hour or so. If you do a three-point landing and the nose wheel gets bogged down in the sand or wet grass or gravel or whatever, you run the risk of flipping the plane over. So the solution is to do a wheelie. Yes, I'm serious. You touch down only on the back wheels, holding the control yoke back (but not too far back; you don't want to bang the tail on the ground). You hold the plane in that configuration for as long as you can. In a few seconds, the plane will slow down enough on its own (and lose enough lift from under those upturned wings) that the nose wheel will gently... ...come... ...down... ...by itself. Bang, you're on the ground, right-side up. Soft field takeoffs are even trickier. Remember how I said that flaps are normally used for landings? Well, you actually use flaps for soft field takeoffs, too. Just a little, though. What you do is lower the flaps about ten degrees, start your takeoff roll, then raise the nose as soon as you can. (Same reason as before: you don't want to get that dang nose wheel stuck or bogged down when you're going that fast.) So you're doing a wheelie down the runway. At 60 miles per hour, the plane will start to lift off, but you don't want to climb yet. You want to keep the plane low, just over the runway. When the plane reaches 80 miles per hour (the best speed for climbing), THEN you can start climbing. If you start climbing before the plane reaches 80, you'll leave ground effect and the plane could settle back down onto the ground. ("Ground effect" is what happens when you fly an airplane really close to Mother Earth, like right after takeoff. The plane isn't actually flying, per se, even though it's off the ground: the air getting pushed down by the wings is bouncing off the ground and hitting the plane again, pushing it up. Only when the plane reaches a certain speed is the necessary pressure differential created between the top and the bottom of the wings; that is what actually keeps the plane in the air without ground effect.) If you're on a paved runway, lifting off at 60 and climbing out is no problem. If you lose ground effect (which usually doesn't happen) then you'll just bounce back down onto the nice hard runway. However, on a soft field...well, we've already discussed this. This is why you use flaps (for the extra lift) and hug the ground until your airspeed is 80 (so you know you can stay up). In case my lengthy explanation hasn't made it clear, soft field takeoffs are flippin' hard. You have to really hold that yoke back to keep the nose wheel off the ground. (Good thing I've been doing all those lateral pull-downs on the weight machine, eh?) Then, after you take off, instead of keeping the nose pointed at the sky (like you do with every other type of takeoff), you actually sort of level out, pitching the plane back down again, riding ground effect until you reach 80, then climb. It's very, very counterintuitive. Needless to say, Harold had to help me with it the first couple of times until I could get a feel for it. My job was made harder (ironically) by how smooth the air was today. There was no wind at all. We didn't have a headwind to land into and slow us down (and make it easier to do wheelies). But I did my best. I was grinning inside as we pulled up to the gate, shut down, and climbed out. I had just gotten a little taste of what I could expect out of a bush piloting career. Moreover, those kind of landings are just plain cool. They demand all of your attention and a great deal of manual dexterity (not to mention some biceps). And come on, I mean, wheelies? In an airplane?! Hot diggity!

recommended reading

Well, I figured it's about time to do this again, even if not much has changed since last we spoke. I'm still working my way through Yagyū Munenori's Book of Family Traditions on the Art of War, which is bound up in the same volume as The Book of Five Rings, remember? And when I say that I'm still working my way through it, I mean that it's sitting on my nightstand with a bookmark stuck in it, humming idly to itself. I've been doing other things, you see. Like flying. And editing. And...uh...well, flying and editing. And chores! Dad and I are in the midst of painting the garage. Half of it is now properly white instead of the sickening, jaundiced bone-white it used to be. Dad and I also painted the shed a while back. First I painted it by myself. A few years ago, we'd painted it a slightly pink, mostly orange color, but in those few years, the blasphemous desert sun bleached and cracked that paint into oblivion. So, at my parents' behest, I went out and repainted it last month. (I'm much too good a son to refuse a request like that, particularly since I'm living under their roof and snarfing all their food.) First I primed it, then painted it a darkish orangey-brown, but the desiccated wood was so thirsty that it sucked up two coats of paint, and I had to wait to be resupplied by my folks during one of their errand-runs into town. In the interim I painted a big frowny-face on the unpainted east side of the shed, where it would be visible from the road. (Our neighbors got a kick out of it.) That darkish orangey-brown color didn't sit too well with Mom, so she selected a new color, and Dad and I went out and repainted it again a couple of weeks ago (I just finished trimming it in white a week back). The color that Mom picked was called Sundance. What's Sundance, you ask? Good question. This is one of those things that irritates the hemorrhaging f___ out of me. The bloody paint companies all have to come up with these so-called "edgy, creative" names for paint hues now, don't they? So instead of "blue," "yellow," "green," and "brown," we get a bazillion different shades of each, all with names like "Saratoga Sand," "Paris Perfume," "River Road," "Sundance," "Firewood," "Gaucho," "Darby Creek," "Sphinx," "White Oak," "Saddlebury," "Ottertail," "Mushroom Taupe," "Nutmeg Frost," "Antique Lace," and "Horny Schoolgirl." Okay, yeah, I made that last one up. Wishful thinking. But still, all the rest of them are actual names of paint hues, taken from paint chips my mother has lying around. Does anybody out there have any clue about what color these monikers might represent without actually looking at the chips themselves? You might be able to figure out that Saratoga Sand is a soft sort of light yellow, and that Paris Perfume is slightly pink (mostly orange). You might even know that taupe is generally grayish. But what the hell is Mushroom Taupe?! Would that be different from Thunderhead Taupe, or Elephant Taupe, or Abortion Debate Taupe? Enough about paint, this is making me sick. Especially since I'm not finished painting the garage. Thank God the label on the paint can reads simply "WHITE." Anyway, the point is this: I've not progressed any farther in The Book of Family Traditions on the Art of War. Took me a while to get that out, didn't it? I have, however, kicked in with a few other volumes. Let's start with Little Women. You would not believe how many queer looks and interrogatives I've been receiving from those to whom I've announced I am reading this book. (Boy, THAT was an awkward sentence. I think I'll leave it there just so people can trip over it.) They seem to think that my masculinity is in doubt, and merely touching this book has made me into some kind of metrosexual. Soon as I get those two title words out, I can see the "ohmigod COOTIES" look in people's eyes. I'm not sure what to make of this, really. Last I heard, Louisa May Alcott's Little Women was a classic piece of literature: an uplifting, heartwarming glance into the lives of the four daughters of a U.S. Army chaplain during the Civil War. I've heard that the book is funny, cute, intelligent, wise, and has a plethora of profound insight to offer. Okay, yeah, sure, the protagonists are all girls. So what? If it's a good book, I'll read it. I'll read anything I think I can learn from or get something out of. Just because I'm a man and I'm reading what was once called a "girl's book" doesn't mean my sexual orientation should be questioned. Jeez, if I'd read Nancy Drew instead of The Hardy Boys when I was a kid, would you have played the cooties card? Huh? Would you? I thought not. Moving on... I'm only a couple chapters in, but so far Little Women is proving to be everything I've heard, and how. I'll keep you posted. Next up: a book that's been on my parents' shelves for time immemorial, but I've never picked up and taken a serious look at until now. It's called Black Elk Speaks, by John G. Neihardt. First published in 1932, it is a personal account of the life of Black Elk, a great chief of the Oglala Sioux tribe, a second cousin of Crazy Horse, and a veteran of the Indian Wars (including the Battle of the Little Bighorn). Again, I'm only a couple of chapters in. The first two chapters are, respectively, Black Elk's opening invocation to the Great Spirit (which eerily resembles an ancient Greek poet's invocation to the Muses before the commencement of a magnum opus), and his childhood. Black Elk lived through and saw some heavy stuff. He was only a boy when the Fetterman Fight occurred, when Captain William J. Fetterman and nearly 100 soldiers were killed (I hesitate to say "massacred") by a much larger force of Indians near Fort Phil Kearney in the Dakota territory in 1866. This is as far as I've read, but later, as I understand it, Black Elk receives a monumental vision from the Great Spirit and is told that he will deliver his people from oppression to prosperity. In this way he becomes a great chief, a spiritual leader, an Indian Messiah, if you will. Along the way he fights in the Indian Wars, journeys to England, and does a whole bunch of other amazing stuff. And in the end...well, we'll get there when we get there. In the meantime, I'm utterly fascinated. Black Elk, like most Native Americans, has a direct and earthy way of speaking that is almost intoxicating. Spirituality and practicality are so tightly interwoven it's difficult to tell one from the other. Black Elk accepts that what he sees isn't all there is to the story, but he keeps his feet planted on the ground. Inherently sensible, that's how his speech (translated by Black Elk's son, Ben, and recorded and transcribed by Neihardt) strikes me. Already I'm charmed by Black Elk's description of his childhood: roaming the plains, making friends, and playing awesome games that would never, ever be allowed on a school playground. For instance, he describes one pastime that the older boys pursued:

And the big boys played the game called Throwing-Them-Off-Their-Horses, which is a battle all but the killing; and sometimes they got hurt. The horsebacks from the different bands would line up and charge upon each other, yelling; and when the ponies came together on the run, they would rear and flounder and scream in a big dust, and the riders would seize each other, wrestling until one side had lost all its men, for those who fell upon the ground were counted dead. When I was older, I, too, often played this game. We were always naked when we played it, just as warriors are when they go into battle if it is not too cold, because they are swifter without clothes. Once I fell off on my back right in the middle of a bed of prickly pears, and it took my mother a long while to pick all the stickers out of me.

Man, except for the nakedness, the prickly pears, and imminent threat of horrible death, Throwing-Them-Off-Their-Horses sounds pretty cool. Soon, Black Elk's speech turns to graver matters: the coming of the Wasichus, for instance. ("Wasichu" is the Sioux word for "white men"; however, to the Indians' credit, no reference is made to skin color within the actual definition of the word itself.) Black Elk talks of soldiers coming and building "towns of logs" (forts), and driving roads through his tribe's hunting grounds. I can only imagine what's to come, and I can't wait. As I've mentioned before, Black Elk is a hell of a narrator. I have no illusions that some of it will be tragic; and it'll be hard to read about the slaughter of U.S. Army soldiers, no matter what the cause; but reading about the Indian Wars from the other side's perspective is going to be enlightening and maturing, I just know it. That's about it for the moment. All bets are off as when I'll actually finish this stuff, seeing as how I'm so [cough] busy and all. But once I do, you can bet you'll be the first to know. Postman out.

Pirate Radio

You know, I never intended to be a movie critic. But every once in a while there comes a movie that I just have to opine about. If I wind up illuminating anyone else's existence in the process, then it's all worth it. Hell, it'd be worth it even if I didn't illuminate anyone else's existence, just because I get to vent about stuff I like. I want to talk to you about a little movie called Pirate Radio, also known as The Boat That Rocked. Now this is a good film. The year is 1966. England has outlawed rock 'n' roll on the radio. So, a motley band of selfless wackos (played to the hilt by such priceless talents as Nick Frost, Bill Nighy, and Philip Seymour Hoffman as "The Count") rig up a ship with broadcasting equipment, sail into international waters off the coast of Great Britain, and start pounding out rock 'n' roll classics to half the British population on pirate radio. The movie follows a pompous prig of a government minister (Kenneth Branagh) as he attempts to shut Radio Rock down, and the many hilarious doings and happenings aboard the ship itself. These antics include:

• Sexation Saturday: there ain't any women on the boat except for the lesbian cook, so every second Saturday a literal boatload of women comes aboard from the mainland for a little dalliance with the crew.
• Chicken: when a veteran DJ named Gavin comes aboard and challenges the Count's supremacy, a duel ensues. The Count challenges Gavin to a good old-fashioned American game of chicken. The challenge? Be the one to climb the highest up one of the ship's radio masts. Watching a not-exactly-svelte Hoffman perform this feat is one of the film's many funny moments.
• Cherry popping: the film's straight-man protagonist, Carl, sent onto the boat by his mother after getting expelled from school, is discovered to be a virgin. The well-meaning sinners among the crew conspire to remedy his predicament, resulting in some entertaining bedroom shenanigans.

Needless to say, any movie concerned with rock 'n' roll is going to have a great soundtrack. But this movie has a superb collection of the best of 1960s rock 'n' roll: the Who, the Kinks, the Rolling Stones, the Turtles, the Beach Boys, the Troggs, the Hollies, Cream, Otis Redding, the Moody Blues, the Isley Brothers, Smokey Robinson, Jimi Hendrix, even Ennio Morricone's theme from Sergio Leone's For a Few Dollars More. The film is the best I've seen in a long while. The casting is excellent; the boat is populated with a host of unique, lovable and hilarious characters. The plot, though inchoate, is nonetheless engaging. After two hours of bedroom farces, crude jokes, high-wire stunts and classic rock (all from a pack of long-haired, hard-drinking chain smokers dressed in full 60s attire), I still wanted more. The music, as I've mentioned before, will blow your mind. But the film has its heartwarming moments, too. When the government finally manages to outlaw pirate radio entirely, there's a really powerful scene in the mess when everyone volunteers to soldier on regardless. The Count, in the final scenes of the film, makes a simply heroic speech about the undying spirit of rock 'n' roll and its place in the hearts and minds of the people. Though the enterprise was short-lived, one felt that Radio Rock earned no less glory than the defenders of Troy or the minutemen on Lexington Green. Because what the movie, pirate radio, and rock 'n' roll are all truly about, is...freedom. If you love rock and the rebel/underdog archetype, you'll love Pirate Radio. I hate to sound like a movie trailer there, but I mean it. Watch it and see if you can keep from smiling (or even getting up and dancing in the aisles). I dare you...chicken.

waiting for Ivan (no explanation needed)

Evening. She and I are sitting in the leather seats, staring out through the windscreen, waiting for Ivan to finish making the rounds. The sky is like a Renaissance painting: pale blue sky and fluffy clouds, tinted orange and pink and purple by the softly setting sun. The windows are cracked to let in a little of the sweet cool breeze. "Do you really know what all of these do?" she says, indicating the control panel with a sweep of her hand. "Yep," I say, in a howdy ma'am sort of voice. "Every single one of them." "All of them?" "Well, except for that little red one, there. I've got absolutely no clue what that one does." "Really?" "Nah. That's the eject button. One little push and you'll get a free a flying lesson, sans airplane." I'm being silly and I know it. But perhaps that's for the best. If the two us are going to have any future together, she needs to understand how goofy I am at my core. I believe in honesty in a relationship. "Hey," I say, feeling like I ought to be thorough, "did you see the one in Reader's Digest a while back about the new ice cream parlor slash beauty salon they opened?" "No, I didn't see that." "They decided to call it 'Custard's Lash Stand.' " Ouch. That was probably overdoing it. Silence falls again. I'm cringing inside. This is the first conversation we've had that I haven't blown. Please, whoever's in charge, let me get it all right this time. I want us to work out. Flowers, wedding bells, little chubby kids, evening walks, and all that jazz. The door of the hangar bangs open. We watch as Ivan heaves his ponderous, vodka-nourished bulk around the perimeter. He's as lithe as a sleepy cat. I look at her. She's sitting on her hands. One shoe rests on top of the other on the floor of the plane. Her wool hat is cocked at a rebellious angle on her wavy, shoulder-length hair, and her oceanic eyes reflect the glory of the sunset. She's leaning forward a little, her lips half-pursed reflectively. Her expression is unreadable. What is she thinking? Hmmm, this joker is kind of interesting or I wish I was a million miles from here right now? Time to do something manly. I reach into my coat pocket and bring out my prized denim-coated hip flask. I unscrew the top as noisily as possible, so she won't have any doubt. Before I imbibe, I pause, give her a pointed look, and hold out the flask, its contents swishing audibly. "Want a swig?" "What is it?" she asks, giving the flask a dubious look. "Bourbon." "Sure," she says, almost cheerfully. She takes the flask and knocks back a gulp. My heart begins to pound. HOLY CRAP. She took a drink. She likes bourbon. Man, this girl is incredible. And underneath that lies another, inarticulate thought, which breaks through the subconscious wall for just an instant: I want her. She hands the flask back. I take it, have a sip (my hands shaking a little), and both of us resume gazing at the western sky above the hangar. "Why'd you start doing this?" Her question catches me off-guard. "What, drinking bourbon?" "No, flying. For a living." "Well..." I ponder for a moment. I've been asked this question many a time, and have given the explanation even more frequently. But I'm suddenly stumped. How do you tell someone special something that's so important? How do you bare your soul in front of somebody you're secretly afraid to lose? What might happen if you do? What will she think? I have to be careful. I don't want to lie, I want to be honest. I don't want to brag, I want to be modest. I don't want to talk her ear off; I should give it to her plain and simple. "I guess I just wanted to have fun," I say. "I never wanted to work behind a desk, I knew that much. I figured I'd love flying, and I thought if I could get paid to do it, then..." She looks at me, her expression still unreadable. The right side of her face is lit with a pale glow by the dying light. She's waiting for me to finish. "I guess that's the only way I know to make a living. Doing what I love. Beats the alternative." Her gaze lingers on me a moment longer, during which my heartbeat kicks up another notch. Did I say the wrong thing? What did she think? Am I being appraised? Better hedge my bets. "It's certainly worked out so far," I add. "I mean, here I am, sitting in my favorite airplane, watching one of the most beautiful sunsets I've ever seen, with a very, very beautiful girl here by my side..." "...waiting for a fat, alcoholic Russian to climb in so we can give him a lift back to town," she adds, with that mischievous tick of her eyebrows I've come to love so much. With a comically grumpy expression, I cock a finger at the little red button. She smiles, then I smile. There's no explanation needed.

cocktail review no. 17 - Whiskey and Soda

Somebody's screwed the pooch somewhere. Nobody ever took the time to inform me about Black Velvet. In case they committed the same atrocity against you, dear reader, I shall relate to you what it inexplicably took me 23 years of my life to find out. Black Velvet is a blended Canadian whisky, aged three years, supposedly made from Rocky Mountain water and the finest grains. Whether that's true or not is up for grabs. I have to say, though, this stuff is the perfect blend of inexpensiveness and taste. It's reasonably priced and reasonably yummy. First, the ingredient list. Hmmm, now what do you reckon is swimming around in a whiskey and soda, anyway?

• 1½ ounces whiskey
• 3-4 ounces club soda

Or, if you're the adventurous type, you can make it a double (as my father habitually does) with three whole ounces of whiskey. If you're a weenie, you can have a "tall" whiskey and soda. Those are served in collins glasses, I believe, and contain the same amount of liquor but a greater percentage of club soda...just in case you can't abide the taste of whiskey, you pantywaist. Oh, and one more thing: I know this is another exceedingly simple highball, just like the vodka and tonic, but hey. If I'm going to go out on a limb with drinks like the Gates of Hell and Roger Swims a Mile, I might as well bring things back down to earth with a few classics once in a while. But the point I'm trying to make here is that a whiskey and soda is GOOD with Black Velvet. I don't know exactly what to attribute this to. This whisky's got some flavor to it, sure, but it had almost a sweetish sort of finish to back up an insane amount of smoothness. (I had a shot of it later just to be sure.) I know club soda's flavorless, but it's possible that the fizz might have tickled my taste buds in some odd manner. I can't account for the slight sweetness any way else. But irrespective of that insignificant aberration, this was (and is, in general) a DANG... ...GOOD... ...DRINK. Assay it sometime if you don't believe me. P.S. If you're wondering why I've been jumping back and forth between spellings ("whiskey" vs. "whisky"), I'll elaborate for you. Due to some influential vagaries of quality and competitive marketing, Irish and American whiskey is spelled with an "e" and Scotch, Canadian and Japanese whisky is spelled without one. This is because, back in the day, the reputation of Scotch whisky was (if you can believe it) very poor. There were some low-grade stills in use, and the Scotch turned out was more than a little inferior. So Irish and American distilleries added the "e" to their products' labels to distinguish their higher caliber. So, hence, when I'm referring to Black Velvet or other Canadian whisky, I'm omitting the "e." When I'm referring to whiskey in general, I'm using the "e." (Personally, I think the word "whiskey" looks a lot better with an "e.") Are we clear? Now excuse me, I have to comb back through all my cocktail reviews and make sure I've been spelling everything right.