I can dream, can't I?

It's just as well that I haven't been wailing and moaning about the "death of journalism" or the "lack of openings in my field."

My dad sent me an article the other day from U.S. News & World Report.

Written by experienced journalist and blogger Lynn O'Shaughnessy, the piece categorically states that journalism is not dead, and that the popular sentiment (which holds that journalism is going down the tubes, eclipsed by the Internet and whatnot) is just maudlin seepage originating from old-timers in the biz.

By networking, adjusting to new markets and media, and exploring every avenue now available to us (for there are so many more now than there used to be), we whippersnappers can ride high above the economic downturn and the supposedly-disastrous job market.

That was good news for me. I was feeling rather blue.

Sometimes I wish I hadn't been born in the 20th century.

I figure I'd have been better off living in the 17th, 18th or 19th centuries, when vast tracts of the world were still unexplored. When legends like El Dorado and Atlantis and Ultima Thule might just as easily have been true. When the maps were lumpy agglomerations of continents, oceans and half-dreamt islands. When the map-makers still drew sea monsters lunging out of unknown seas.

It doesn't seem like there's any romance in the world anymore. Every inch of land has been mapped and scanned into the satellites orbiting overhead. There are no more lost cities, no more uncharted islands, no more savage tribes, no more hidden valleys teeming with dinosaurs and cavemen. There's no underwater metropolis filled with fish-men at the bottom of the sea. There are no evil wizards to battle, mutants to destroy, dragons to slay, ogres to wrestle, flying horses to tame, zombies to flee, monsters to fear.

The days of adventure and mystery are long gone, they say. Indiana Jones and Saint George have polished off all the monsters and myths. Gone are the times when you could just board a flying boat for South America and trip your merry way through the jungle, linen suit, aviator shades, flask of brandy and all, dark-skinned porters toting your dancing shoes and swimming trunks. No more do Nazi agents stalk the globe, waiting to tangle the unsuspecting tourist in a web of espionage. Never again will Cthulhu rise from the watery ruins of R'lyeh and drive poor honest sailors crazy with fear. Edward Prendick has done his time on Dr. Moreau's island; he's back at home, out on the streets, suspicious and leery of his fellow human beings.

All the records have been broken; all the races have been run. Lindbergh, Balbo and Earhart have flown across the ocean; Barton and Beebe have gone to the bottom; Cottee has sailed around it without stopping. We've been to the darkest jungles, the harshest deserts, the highest mountains, the coldest tundra, the deepest oceans, even the heavens themselves. Attaining the impossible is no longer a job for Everyman. Pushing the boundaries is the office of scientists, engineers and millionaires now. The Wright Brothers built their airplane in their bike shop and flew it on a public beach; SpaceShipOne was developed as a joint venture between commercial interests, was piloted by a 70-year-old astronaut, flew from the fancifully-named Mojave Spaceport, and required licensing from the U.S. Department of Commercial Space Flight. (And it won the coveted $10 million X Prize.)

The good old days are gone, they tell me. In their place, I have to choke down reality, truth, practicality, rationality, pragmatism, tangibility, fact. I can just forget about roaming the world with my trusty plane and notebook, flying high and low and writing about it, living the dusty, muddy life of a pilot-cum-journalist.

To heck with that.

I can dream, can't I?

Most of you already know what I want to do with my life. For a good chunk of my finite existence, I expect to wake up in the morning in some far-flung place, climb into my battered airplane, deliver a shipment (or even a single package) to a deserving recipient, land in some other far-flung place, take out a notebook and pencil, and pen the day's adventures for posterity. Then I'll mix myself a drink and scribble a few more pages of my novel, and turn in for the night.

When you hear the phrase "a day in the life" what comes to mind? Coffee in the morning? Lazy afternoons with the newspaper and some crackers? The nine-to-five? Brushing the dog? Mowing the lawn? Taking the kids out for ice cream?

Probably, yeah. And there's nothing wrong with that. But I'm weird, remember? I seek adventure. Plus I'm a hopeless romantic. And I'm a little too obsessed with comic books.

So, when somebody asks me what MY idea of a "day in the life" would be, I immediately think of THIS:

(Just so you don't get confused, the guy in the red vest with the stretchy arms is me, your humble correspondent. The ugly dude in the fur coat and buckled shoes is the bad guy, trying to steal my cargo or assassinate my crew or block my novel from publication or whatever. Think of what a cool travel article this would make.)

I can dream, all right. Who says I can't? Who says I can't be a globe-trotting drink-mixing book-writing plane-flying travel journalist with his own airline (and novel series)?

If I'm lucky, maybe I'll have a big plane, capable of taking me to all sorts of amazing locales and exotic destinations. And if I'm really, really lucky, I'll have a crew of like-minded misfits with me.

And how happy we'll be, going wherever the trade winds take us, making deliveries, fighting pirates and thieves and raiders, singing in bars and saloons, lying on beaches, exploring the jungles and caves and valleys. And whenever I get a free moment I'll scribble, scribble, scribble. Travel articles, opinion pieces, blog entries, journals, whichever bits of mercurial effluence drop out of my brain.

But no, they tell me. That ship has sailed. Journalism is dead. Gonzo journalism is long dead. The time of the quick-witted, hard-drinking, hotshot cargo pilot is over. There's no way National Geographic's going to let you in. You'll be flying on a grueling schedule. There's a million wannabe travel writers out there, buddy, and you're competing with every single one of 'em. Travel and excitement? You'll never see anything but the inside of your airplane (and the stale white pages of delivery forms). You won't sleep. You'll hardly eat. The weather will be uniformly nasty. You'll work for peanuts. There's no money for travel budgets anymore. The most exciting thing you'll do is talk to air traffic control. You'll be lucky if you don't get kidnapped and crucified. Your existence will be soul-crushing, sedentary, stuffy. We're a bit short on romance around here, kid. You think you'll discover El Dorado while you're delivering 3200 Playstation controllers to Uruguay (and taking notes for your submission to Budget Travel)? Hah!

Oh, get stuffed. I've got a plan. And I'm taking the steps necessary to execute it. I don't care what gets in my way. Bad economy, hefty competition, ugly dudes in fur coats, whatever. I know where I'm going and I'm going to get there. I've got my bachelor's degree in journalism, don't I? And my bartender's safety certificate? And my private pilot's license? And my first novel written?

That's a start. 

I can dream, can't I?

Here's hoping your dreams come true. On December 25 and in 2011, both.

Merry Christmas, everybody, and a Happy New Year.

500 hours and a floatplane rating

There are definite fringe benefits to being friends with a Jedi.

Oh, wait, whoops. I was thinking of something else. (Ahem.) Excuse me. Let's start over.

There are definite fringe benefits to being friends with a pilot.

You remember the three boss-pilots who founded the company I work for? Dawg, Spud, and Mr. Mooney?

I haven't flown with them in a while. Due to exorbitant travel costs, they don't come down here too much. They hired some local pilots to take care of the UAV chasing business. Those pilots are JM-1 and JM-2. Both of them have the initials "JM," you see. I'll just call them J-1 and J-2 for short.

Both are obviously commercial pilots. J-2 acquired his commercial ticket back in May. J-1 has had his for a few years now. J-1's been flying a little longer than J-2 has (a couple of years) and has thousands of hours in all types of airplanes. He also owns his own business (industrial fasteners). This means that, well, J-1 has a bit of money. He owns not one, but two personal aircraft: a Beechcraft Sierra and a Piper Lance II. The latter is a nice airplane. Looks a bit like this. T-tail. Turbocharged engine. More expensive avionics on the dashboard than most commercial airliners have. Does 170 knots in a cruise configuration (nearly 200 miles per hour). Seats six. Joe got some beautiful soft leather upholstery put in, too. He put good money into that machine, folks.

He's an exemplary human being, J-1 is. Very generous. Looks out for me a lot. Always ready to teach me something about flying. Pays for lunch every day, too. He was nominated the program director for this UAV chase contract, since he's such a proficient pilot/manager. Even before that, though, J-1 pitched for me nonstop, making sure I got home safe every day and got my wages at the end of every fortnight.

And on top of that, J-1 is easily one of the best pilots I've ever flown with, if not the best. Certainly Dawg, Spud and Mr. Mooney are excellent aviators, and could pull maneuvers in fighter jets that would leave your hair standing on end and your breakfast hovering below your tonsils. But they are military pilots. And they fly like military pilots. Dawg at least is less susceptible to this quirk, since he flew before he was in the military, but Spud and Mr. Mooney? They fly small planes like they're jet fighters. Spud is double trouble because he flew Boeing 737s for United after he got out of the Navy. He's a jet man through and through. Reciprocating engines are repulsive to him and he makes no secret of it. (We're bringing him around slowly, though.)

Not like I have any room to talk, of course. I'm a private pilot with barely 100 hours. I'm a ways off from my goal of a commercial pilot's license, 250 hours of pilot-in-command time (where I'm the first-and-foremost pilot, responsible for the flight), 500 hours total time, and a floatplane rating.

That's not my only goal, rest assured. My eventual goal is to have about 10 billion hours in airplanes, seaplanes, helicopters, ultralights, gliders, and airships, with ratings to match.

Five hundred hours and a floatplane rating is my next most urgent goal.

Why?

That's the minimum requirement to become a flight officer (copilot, basically) for Kenn Borek Air, Limited.

Who're they, you say?

Well, I'm glad you asked.

Kenn Borek Air is an international charter and maintenance company (based out of Calgary, Alberta, Canada) which offers global air support. They're an air service which offers maintenance and travel services anywhere in the world, from the Maldives to the Antarctic. You remember the Maldivian Air Taxi? KBAL owns that operation. They do stuff like that everywhere: scheduled air taxi routes, charter services, overhauls and maintenance, and aircraft leasing. They even haul supplies and personnel in support of the U.S. Antarctic Research Program, shuttling back and forth between New Zealand and McMurdo Sound. If that doesn't sound like a fun flying job, I don't know what does.

KBAL operates an impressive fleet of propeller aircraft, including the de Havilland DHC-6 Twin Otter, turbine-powered Douglas DC-3, and Beech 99, 100, and 200 King Air. These things fly on floats, wheels, skis, whatever.

Damn sexy for a propeller enthusiast like me, let me tell you. I'd kill to fly any of those birds. Twin Otters are among some of the most iconic bush planes in the aviation world, the DC-3 is a reliable and legendary classic, and the King Air a sexy power-pack.

I just need the qualifications. To captain for Kenn Borek I need 2500 hours flight-time; to be a flight officer I need 500 hours total time (with 250 hours as PIC) and a floatplane rating.

Now, up until last week, this goal seemed unattainable. It'd be at least another five years until I got anywhere close. Even now I doubt I'll get 400 more hours of flight-time in less than three years. My commercial license (requiring 250 hours total flight time) isn't too far out of reach. I'm giving myself a timetable of six months for it. Now that I'm a private pilot I'm logging more time while chasing Predators than I was when I was a student pilot, so I should have the 250 hours racked up in no time. I just need to save up enough cabbage to fund some of the special training I'll need, like maneuvers. J-1 has to show me how to do chandelles, figures-of-eight and so on. I also have to do some loooooong cross-country flights, one of them 300 nautical miles or more. There's five hours of night work, including 10 take-offs and 10 landings...ten hours of instrument training...ten hours of work in complex airplanes...

...and all that costs money. Money takes time to save up. But I'll get it. Six months ought to do it, if I'm frugal. Then I can legally fly for monetary recompense.

It was the floatplane thing that was really bothering me. I'll practically need one if I'm going to go to Alaska, there's so much water and so little paved runway. It made sense to get it before I left California.
But where? Where am I going to get a floatplane rating around here? I live in the desert, for Pete's sake. The nearest ocean is three hours away, down the hill in Los Angeles. There's a seaplane base on Catalina Island, but it's not a school as far as I know. The nearest seaplane schools I'd heard of were in Alaska and Florida.

So, one day, J-1 and I were flying along, circling lazily over Victorville, waiting for the Predator to take off. And I happened to mention to J that I was interested in a floatplane rating.

Well, lo and behold, he knew of a school. Lake Havasu, Arizona. A hop, skip and a jump away by air. And better yet, J offered to take me out there. And better yet, he offered to pay for it!

On loan, of course. Fortunately I didn't have to take him up on it. My folks are also offering to lend me the cash, to be paid back in installments over the next few months. Bless their hearts. I just dropped a sizable chunk of change into my credit card account (Bose headsets and trips to England aren't cheap). Otherwise I'd have the necessary $1250 already. But J-1 is going to take the course himself, you see. He wants a floatplane rating of his own. And since he's already a flight instructor (CFI, CFII and MEI), once he gets his floatplane rating, he'll be a floatplane instructor too!

So there you go. J-1 is going to arrange everything through Sheble Aviation. (That means, of course, that I'll be flying THIS airplane...how cool is that???)

I have the next two weeks off work (the California Air Guard is taking a break, and both Christmas and New Year's fall on weekend shifts this year, it seems...so I'm off at the café too). I'll have plenty of free days to get this done.  J-1 and I are going to fly over to Arizona early one morning, spend the day learning how to fly floatplanes (in the classroom and in the air), and then get our ratings.

And after that...well, I calculated my total flight-hours yesterday (with a calculator and a pencil). I have 131.6 so far.

368.4 to go.

Kenn Borek, here I come...

if we don't find the next whisky bar...

For our first day in Edinburgh, we started out simply: sandwiches at O'Brien's Sandwich Bar on Stafford Street. ("Hiya" the lady behind the counter said.) I passed over the tikka masala; I was saving up for a special Scottish treat. (More about that later.) Jeff, after his wont, dived right in. That boy's got a bottomless pit where a stomach ought to be. Jeff's kind of a unique character all around. He's thin as a rail, gangles like a scarecrow, eats like a boa constrictor, blinks like a lizard, and travels like an albatross. These two weeks in the U.K. were only the beginning for him. He would soon embark on a five-month sojourn across Europe and North Africa, taking in all the major European countries, Morocco, and Egypt. Where he got the budget for this (and the visas) I'll never know. He only just returned to Ottawa last week. Sounds like he had a ball, chucking tomatoes in Spain during the Tomatina, pitying the goats in Egypt during Eid al Adhha, drowning in a sea of orange in Amsterdam during the World Cup Final, and all sorts of crazy stuff. That's just the way he is. An inveterate traveler. He goes home to Canada, he works, he saves up enough to travel again, and then he travels, for months or even years at a time, living in the cheapest (yet safest) hostels he can find, timing it perfectly so he can catch all the major events and festivals going down in the countries he wanders into, just generally living it up.

I envy him.

After our erstwhile breakfast, we strolled back to the center—excuse me, the centre—of Edinburgh. Once again we were awed by the sheer beauty of the place. I was getting the same feeling I'd had in Newcastle, that small feeling that came with standing on the soil of a country with thousands of years of history rather than mere hundreds, looking at churches built before my homeland was even an idea, gazing upon statues of heroes whose deeds I'd never dreamed of.

We had one thing on our minds. It was sitting up on top of a cliff, brooding over the city like an ancient battle-scarred guardian. It was Edinburgh Castle.

To get there, however, we had to cut down and around the base of that cliff and come up the hill on the south side of the castle. At the base of the cliff, however, we saw something worth checking out: the graveyard at St. Cuthbert's Parish.

We had only just walked in when something truly trippy happened. We saw the Green Man. I kid you not. He came out of nowhere. One second Jeff and I were standing there, viewing the gravestones and the greenery and nodding appreciatively, and the next second an old white-haired man, bent double, dressed in the most incredible assortment of green and brown rags, came shuffling from behind a headstone and hobbled past us. He waddled away, torso parallel to the grassy sward, head bent up to look ahead of him, out into the street and away up the sidewalk.

Excuse me, I mean pavement.

I was too shocked even to snap a picture. As the old man vanished from sight, Jeff and I just stared at each other with a classic WTF expression. We half-believed that we'd seen a ghost. Either that or there was an entirely classier breed of homeless person in the U.K. as compared to what we were used to.

And so we continued on up the hill, around the mountain and up a steep stone staircase, which suddenly opened out unto...

Well, son of a gun! It was the Royal Mile!

The walk of kings! The main drag of old-town Edinburgh. This was the way the Scottish royalty once proceeded from the castle to Holyrood Abbey for official functions.

We hung a left and before we knew it, we were on the threshold of the castle itself.

It was wild in there, folks. The walkway twisted and turned up the cliffside. Guides in kilts were walking around, extolling the castle's nearly impregnable defenses. (Apparently the fortress was taken only once in its history, and only by deceit and trickery, not by force.) The battlements weren't worn down or ruined like other castles I'd seen in pictures, they were sharp and hard-lined and looked ready to be manned by hardened warriors. Cannons and other fearsome weapons poked their black snouts from gun ports. And everywhere, tourists of all nations strolled up and down the ramparts and cobblestones, looking much as Jeff and I felt: utterly gobsmacked.

There was a lot to be gobsmacked by. Take this beast, for instance. The Scots' BFG.

It's the Mons Meg, a massive cannon capable of firing a 400-pound cannonball a distance of two miles. Apparently Duke Philip of Burgundy ordered its construction about 1449, and then gave it to King James II of Scotland eight years later as a gift. The barrel diameter was 510 millimeters, people. To give you some idea of how big that is, here's a shot of a .50 caliber Browning round (right) and a 20 mm cannon round (left).

The 20 mm was a popular anti-aircraft cartridge during World War II (and is still in use today in the M61 Vulcan guns adorning the A-10 Warthog). A single round in the right place was enough to destroy an old piston fighter back in the day. The Mons Meg's ammunition was twenty-five times bigger than that, and although it obviously wasn't fired at the same muzzle velocity, you can imagine what kind of damage a 400-pound cannonball would do to a column of infantry or a siege engine.

You'd need a mighty thick helmet, let's put it that way.

The view of Edinburgh from the castle was fantastic. We could see the whole town, north, east and west, the Firth of Forth (the estuary of the River Forth) and across to Kirkaldy and Fife. Probably could've seen Dumfermline, too, if I'd stood on my tip-toes.

The Scottish Military Museum was housed on the highest level of the castle grounds. We'd arrived on a good day—a local fencing club had set up shop in the square just outside the entrance and were busy giving the crowd an exhibition in traditional Scottish combat. They covered everything: assorted weaponry, fighting style, battle strategy, even the tactical advantages of kilts (yes, there are tactical advantages to kilts). And ladies, you would have loved the head instructor's accent. He picked one of his best students and put on a show, demonstrating a typical fencing match with Scottish broadswords. The master narrated even as he struck and parried:


"Light cut to th' shoulder, nothin' too serious."


"Anoother light cut...he'll be havin' words wi' his tailor."

The match ended with an intense display of close-quarters combat. The swordsmen closed with each other, grappling as they attempted to throw their opponent or bring their blades back into play. After a few seconds of lurching, grunting and wrestling, the instructor emerged the victor, standing over his pupil, sword at his throat.


The inside of the museum was no less thrilling. I reckon the only country whose citizens have been involved in more armed conflict during their country's history is, perhaps, Israel. But they've only been around for 63 years. Scotland's soldiers have been fighting wars all over the world for centuries, from the Napoleonic Wars to such far-flung theaters as India, Egypt, and South Africa. And they've served in every conceivable capacity...as mercenaries, conscripts, rank-and-file, and even distinguished officers like Sir Archibald Campbell, Sir David Baird and Sir Ralph Abercromby. (And let's not forget my favorite Scottish warfighter, a fellow whom most Americans should be intimately familiar with, a rather feisty sailor named John Paul Jones.)


I particularly enjoyed the extensive displays of weaponry and armor within the museum. There was one nasty-looking sidearm called a "French nail"—essentially a knife with a set of brass knuckles in place of a hand guard.

After a reverent trip through the Scottish War Memorial (inscribed with the names of every Scot to fall in battle in World War I), Jeff and I were privileged to view the grand finale: the Honours of the Kingdom, the Scottish Crown Jewels. Hidden from the eyes of the world for a hundred years after the British government dissolved the Scottish Parliament in 1707, the Honours were rediscovered, dusted off, and set in a vault under a thick glass case for all the world to see. I though I'd been awestruck before, just viewing the castle, the Mons Meg, and the war museum, but this completely took the biscuit. I'd never seen a real crown before, nor a scepter so intricately crafted, nor a sword of such exquisite construction. The Crown of Scotland, manufactured in 1540, looked as fresh and new as the day it was first set on James V's head, crusted with precious gems and freshwater pearls. The Sceptre of Scotland looked like something that Gandalf the Grey wouldn't have felt like an idiot casting spells with, made of silver gilt, topped with polished rock and Scottish pearl, and inlaid with dolphins, Saint Andrew, the Virgin Mary and the baby Christ. The sword also looked like it could've sprung from the pages of some epic work of medieval fantasy, the silver handle bearing oak leaves and acorns and the blade etched with figures of Saints Peter and Paul. Both the sword and the scepter, I found out later, were papal gifts: Pope Alexander VI gave the scepter to King James IV in 1494, and Pope Julius II presented the sword to the same lucky king 13 years later.


Obviously no photographs were allowed, but believe me when I say that each article looked too pristine, too well-preserved, too shiny and new and luxurious to be real. I was amazed. The regalia had graced the persons of Scotland's highest and most revered monarchs, been handled by popes and courtiers and kings, and had been zealously concealed from the invading English armies for a century. The history, the tradition, the culture wrapped up in these sacred objects took one's breath away as thoroughly as their immaculate appearance.

Ogling treasures worth more than the federal deficit made me kind of hungry. Jeff was always hungry, so we elected to find some eats. We exited the castle and strolled down the Royal Mile. From every quarter the screech of bagpipes came drifting on the breeze. We went back to Princes Street, cut down Frederick, and ducked up Rose Street to Dirty Dick's, a likely-looking public house.

I was on a mission. There were three things that came to mind when I thought of Scotland: Scotch, bagpipes—and haggis.

From Reference.com:

Haggis is a traditional Scottish dish.There are many recipes, most of which have in common the following ingredients: sheep's "pluck" (heart, liver and lungs) minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock and traditionally boiled in the animal's stomach for approximately three hours.

Mmmmmmmmm...that sounds yummy.

Now, many of you in the audience (particularly the ladies) may wish to ask, "Why would anyone in their right mind want to eat sheep's pluck minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock and traditionally boiled in the animal's stomach for approximately three hours?"

To which I would reply, "Because it's there."

Or rather, more accurately, since this is a plate of food we're talking about and not a mountain, I'd say, "Because somebody decided long ago that this mystical amalgamation of bestial viscera was edible, and I intend to test that assertion."

You know me. I'll eat anything. Remember sannakji?

So anyway, I was in Scotland. The home of haggis. I'd heard and read a lot about this dish. And as dubious as most people sounded when they heard about it, I was determined to try it.

And so, with a glass of good cider to wash it down, I sampled my first-ever plate of haggis, neeps and tatties (haggis with potatoes and turnips in a whisky cream sauce). For pub-haggis, it wasn't half bad. The liver flavor came through the most, but the oatmeal and suet made for a unique and pleasantly firm texture. Honestly, I never would've been able to tell I was eating heart or lungs if I hadn't known in advance. It was a delicious dish, intensely satisfying and quite filling. And there was more to come after...

Come now, I'm a bartender. A self-proclaimed whisky-lover. A wannabe Scotch connoisseur. It's in my to-do list over on the right (I hope). Someday I want to be able to divine exactly where a Scotch was distilled and how old it is just by tasting it. You have to practice to get good, correct? And as has been previously mentioned, I was in Scotland. The home of Scotch whisky. I had to try some. And by "try some" I mean "drink as much as I could get my hands on."

Fortunately, Dirty Dick's was also a whisky bar. So I ordered me up a glass of Ardbeg, a 10-year-old Islay single malt. The smoky sweetness, combined with the hefty peatiness and a spicy finish, made for a delicious sip. It was in Dirty Dick's that I learned the proper way to sample Scotch as well: room temperature, with just a dash of water to bring out the flavor. I rolled the whisky around the bottom of my glass, feeling good and sophisticated and content and manly (and to be truthful, a little tipsy), and blessed whichever inventive soul had perfected the distilling process.

Afterward, as the glorious golden sun had only just begun to set over the magical city at the close of our first day, Jeff and I waddled out of Dirty Dick's. Well, he waddled, and I weaved. That Ardbeg was strong stuff, and I'd already supped some cider. We returned to the hostel, feeling shamefully pleased with ourselves.

I'd love to tell you some wild stories about our first night in Scotland (having set the stage nicely with the church hostel, the castle, the supergun, the crown jewels, the sheep's guts, and the booze). Unfortunately, I can't. None transpired. The first night consisted of me, prostrate in my creaky bunk, trying to ignore the snores of the other hostel-goers, blindsided by some 24-hour bug, and Jeff out in the nightly Scottish chill, taking the haunted walking tour of Edinburgh.

He brought back some cool pictures of city lights and faces on gravestones and John Stuart Mill's tomb. But I'm still glad I didn't talk myself into going with him. I was just glad to be able to stretch out and take things easy, even if the comforts of home were nowhere to be found. The sheets of my bunk bed were laced with allergens, worsening my already running nose and coughing fits. I had to keep getting up to refill my tiny water bottle. And as I mentioned before, there was no ceilings in the room. And some of our neighbors were snorers. I heard at least one person blowing chunks in their wastebasket, too. Even the late-evening sun streaming through the west window of the church did little to cheer me up. It was right in my eyes, in fact.

Needless to say, it wasn't a restful night.

Stay tuned for the next installment, though, when I meet our invisible Romanian roommate and climb to Arthur's Seat.

cocktail review no. 42 - Scofflaw

It's about dang time we got back into whiskey cocktails. It's cold and we've gotta keep warm somehow.

Before I begin, I'd like to give you a little lesson in etymology. Why? Because I'm an English minor. And I enjoy expanding my vocabulary. And I think everybody ought to enjoy expanding their vocabulary. And I have a blog, which means I can get my perverse, power-mad, diction-crazed jollies out and you all have to sit there and take it.

"Scofflaw" is an archaic and nearly extinct word denoting a person who routinely flouts the rules, especially where paying debts and answering summonses are concerned. Got a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Sounds like a word you'd find in one of those charming old British children's books with talking animals in it, like The Wind in the Willows or something.

"It seems Toad has wrecked another motorcar," Mole said sadly, shaking his head, "and the magistrate increased his sentence after he gave the policemen some rather bad cheek."
"That dratted Toady!" Rat exclaimed. "He wouldn't have half the troubles he does if he wasn't such a scofflaw."

Anyway, I'm afraid I have no clue about why the term "scofflaw" was applied to this cocktail. I didn't even get the recipe out of The Bartender's Bible (for once). It seems Mum was poking around the Net and came across a list of rare and antiquated cocktails: the scofflaw, the monkey gland, and the aviation cocktail being some of the most prominent. She printed it out and showed it to me, and expressed her interest in sampling them. I would have whipped one up for her right then and there, but each of the drinks required an oddball ingredient. Aviation cocktails must have maraschino liqueur (the rarity of this beverage almost spelled doom for the drink); monkey glands take Pernod or Bénédictine (in some versions, it's absinthe); and a proper scofflaw needs a dash of orange bitters. An orange bitters differs from ordinary bitters in that, yes, as the name suggests, it's been infused with orange flavoring (usually the peels of Seville oranges).

It's extremely rare stuff, orange bitters. It was hard to find in the U.S. for quite some time. It's not something you can just walk into a liquor store and pick up, usually. But I got my chance on December 11, when Mom, Dad and I went down to Ontario Airport to pick up my brother H, back from college for Christmas. His flight was delayed, so we stopped off at BevMo. For the uninitiated, BevMo is similar to Sam's Club or Costco...only it sells booze, booze, and nothing but booze. Their wine selection would put the Count of Monte Cristo to shame. They have enough craft beers to choke a horse. And their spirit repertoire is second to none, and at pretty decent prices, too. Dad picked up a few bottles of his favorite gin (Broker's), as well as some 12-year-old Glenlivet; and I spotted a bottle of Cutty Sark for an unbelievably low $16.99 (speaking of Scotland). But the golden horn came when I perused the mixer section. There it was, a bottle of orange bitters, bottled by Gary Regan (the author of The Bartender's Bible) no less. Six dollars and forty-nine cents. I'd made some pretty decent tips that weekend at the café, so I jumped on it.

And last night, I went ahead and mixed up a scofflaw.

This concludes the etymology lesson.

• 1¼ ounces rye whiskey
• ¾ ounce dry vermouth
• ½ ounce lemon juice
• ½ ounce grenadine
• 1 dash orange bitters
• 1 lemon twist

In a cocktail shaker half-filled with ice cubes, combine the whiskey, vermouth, lemon juice, grenadine, and bitters. Shake and strain into a cocktail glass. Squeeze the lemon twist over the drink.

I didn't have rye whiskey, but I've been told that stuff ain't much different than other grain whiskies. So I just substituted some Black Velvet instead. And I'll tell you, for having a long list of disparate ingredients, this drink came out very well. Not even the dreaded whiskey-bitters combination (which usually produces cough syrup) could mar the flavor. This drink tastes almost like cherry lemonade, people. The juices and syrups are up top, providing an inviting nose and a less-than-subtle bouquet. The tang and bite of the bitters and whiskey (respectively) supplement this first impression, and yet also provide a dynamic counterpoint, creating a suitably hard-bitten undertone to please those who prefer a robust libation. In a nutshell, this is a pleasant cocktail with a unique flavor...and a bit of a kick. I'd recommend it to anyone, young or old, male or female, Kramer or Newman.

rocks, sand and stars

FOREWORD
What you must understand about Southern California is that, basically, it's a city. The entire region is an unending sea of buildings, commercial and residential neighborhoods which themselves compose independent towns. Some of them are packed so closely together that it's impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. (It IS possible to tell where Redlands ends and Hemet begins, for reasons which Karl Marx could rattle off half-drunk; but that's beside the point.)

It's a macrocosm, really. SoCal is put together much like a town in itself. Each city is a different neighborhood, each neighborhood with its own—ahem—unique character. Over on the east side you've got the low-rent district, full of hicks and wife-beaters and layabouts and canned-beer drinkers, living in vans and campers down by the river; the west side is the plush, breezy, hoidy-toidy coastal resort with miles of beaches, bungalows, and palm trees; the south side is the middle-class, (relatively) peaceful and (somewhat) clean area where the parents and grandparents live; the north side's hilly and scrubby and jam-packed with administrative buildings and the cookie-cutter houses, whence the morning commuters come; and in the smoggy, filthy, eccentric center of town reside the sin and vice and glam and sophistry and commercialism of California's recycled-paper heart.

I live on the east side, which is composed mostly of the Mojave and Colorado Deserts, the Colorado River, the San Andreas Fault, a few dozen small- to medium-size cities and hundreds of dead-end, ramshackle towns: 29 Palms, Barstow, Hinkley, Boron, Amboy, and Needles. Some of those cities are nice places with green golf courses and big stucco mansions and expensive restaurants, like Palm Springs. But for the most part the Mojave is Podunk, devoid of moisture. There's a few national parks, some military bases, a couple of mountain ranges and a big salty lake thrown in for good measure.

Just west-southwest of this desert is the Los Angeles Basin, which is composed mostly of Los Angeles (blargh) and all of its innumerable suburbs and outlying districts. That literally IS one big city. You can walk from Burbank to Irvine to Fontana to Long Beach without touching the ground. Just hop from rooftop to rooftop. You may need a vaulting pole to cross the interstate highways; you may need a ladder to get over the skyscrapers; the palm trees would be handy for moving from one Malibu estate to the next; and Mount Lee might require an extra-large jump (what with those big white letters and all). But you get the picture.

Southern California is a massive metropolis, a single titanic municipal entity, possessing a great many postal codes, enough freaky religions to put Jim Jones off his Kool-Aid, more palm trees than ought to be countenanced by a sane god, and about 20 million people—most of whom spend their time either sitting in traffic or being crabby. Or both.

For someone who hates cities (like me), it's a deplorable situation.

Subjectivity aside, there are a LOT of buildings down here.

AND a lot of lights.

That makes it kind of tough to stargaze.

You can stand anywhere in Southern California at night and it's guaranteed you'll have to deal with some kind of light pollution: either from the beehive of Los Angeles to the southwest, or Laughlin and Las Vegas to the northwest.

Nonetheless, Miss H and I saw a hellacious load of stars on the night of October 11. We were in Joshua Tree National Park, which explains why.

CHAPTER ONE - JOSHUA TREE NATIONAL PARK
Not too many people know about this hidden gem of the desert. Not even the people who live here. It's not like it's some big secret. Joshua Tree lies just south of the small town of the same name (itself east of Yucca Valley and west of 29 Palms) and north of Indio and Palm Springs. It covers over 1,200 square miles (nearly 790,000 acres, or 320,000 hectares, if you prefer that sort of measurement). Contained within that expanse is some of the prettiest desert country you could ever hope to find in Southern California. As-yet unsettled by fat, beer-soaked hicks and their rusty cars, that is. It's got some epic scenery, too. The park is coated with massive piles of Cretaceous granite (quartz monzonite to be exact, rough stuff), eroded into oblong boulders and jumbled in the most wanton manner imaginable. Most of these piles are so unique in appearance and so gigantic in stature that they've garnered themselves unique nicknames, like the Hall of Horrors and the Giant's Marbles.

A female friend of mine once referred to these piles as "God's Legos," which just about says it all, I reckon.

We'd been meaning to take a camping trip for a while, Miss H and I. Then, one week, I unexpectedly wound up with two days off in a row. So naturally I seized the carp and arranged things with my lady forthwith.

My father, fortuitously, is an avid outdoorsman. We have enough camping supplies in our garage to put an Arab caravan out of business: tents, folding chairs, tarps, pots, pans, cups, tin plates, lanterns, matches, lighters, med-kits, water bottles, ropes, stakes, poles, walking sticks, knives, hatches, multitools, candles, sleeping bags, air mattresses, camp pillows, cots, cooking stoves, gas canisters, the works. Each component would drive a psychometrist out of his mind. There's so much pain, exhaustion, exhilaration, sweat, torture, exertion and triumph wrapped up in these inanimate bits of equipment. Each has a story to tell. A mountain climbed, a rocky trail conquered, a valley explored, a tent pitched in a hidden glen, a hot meal cooked and devoured lustily. Aching calves. Bursting lungs. Throbbing hearts. Backs soaked in brine. A cool breeze welcomed with religious fervor. Sunlight on the leaves. Blinding snow. Birdsong in the distance. A half-glimpse of some forest creature. The chuckling of a stream. The savory chill of mud and water on red-hot feet. Compass needles and maps. Trails and trees. Rocks and roots. Sun and stars. Earth and sky and everything in between.

From this trove (and its memories) I selected the gear I figured we'd need for two people and one night in the Mojave Desert in autumn. We had a tent, a couple chairs, some sleeping bags, an air mattress, a battery-powered lantern, the camp stove, some silverware and dishes and cups, a tarp for a ground-cloth, and a medical kit. I loaded my travel vest with whatever else might come in handy: my Bowie knife, my survival card (more about that later), my three-in-one sporknife (exactly what it sounds like), a deck of cards, a flask of brandy, a good novel, and various other accoutrements. And by "accoutrements," you know I'm talking about more booze. I packed my traveling cocktail set with 500 milliliters of vodka and a similar amount of sweet 'n' sour, just in case we felt the need for some libations in the evening.

We loaded all this into my faithful Jeep on the morning of the eleventh, picked up some grocery items in Lucerne Valley, and headed for Joshua Tree.

CHAPTER TWO - INTO THE DESERT
The hour-long drive was just as scenic as I remember. Once you crest the hill just east of Yucca Valley and begin the quick descent down the torturous 247, and the town opens up beneath you, rock piles and cactus spines and red tile roofs, with the stark and blasphemous granite mountains rising up behind...

A quick left on the 62 and a right on Park Drive had us at the gates of Joshua Tree inside 20 minutes. All civilization faded away, except for the two-lane blacktop we drove on. All had suddenly changed to desert at its most elemental: sand, rocks, mountains, and the titular Joshua trees, arms clutching at the empty sky like an agonal prophet.

The immaculate clarity of the place dazzles the eye and the imagination: all is reduced to lines and colors, the green spikes of the Joshua and the agave standing out against the beige-brown of the sand and shrubs and the blue-hot ocean of sky overhead. Heat waves trick the eye, mirages dance on open ground, and the merciless sun limns all with a harsh white glare. It's been said before by better men, but one can truly believe, standing in the midst of this unyielding and eldritch environment, that one is standing on the untamed surface of an alien planet.

...which does not and should not detract from the charm of the place. Not one little bit. Joshua Tree is beautiful. The park is a feast for the eyes, far more enchanting than many bits of more extreme deserts like the Kalahari or the Gobi. There's more in it, for one thing. The Mojave and Colorado Deserts boast a more rich and diverse biosphere than many wetter ecosystems. On any given day you can see coyotes, roadrunners, rattlesnakes, scorpions...and that doesn't even compare to what comes out at night.

We spent a happy afternoon touring the park. Up to Keys View, to look down upon the Coachella Valley from 5,000 feet up; Indio, Palm Springs, and a myriad-phalanx of date palm farms laid out beneath us. To the west was Mount San Jacinto, the loftiest of the Three Saints, a massive blue-green beast of a landform, stretching to 8,319 feet. At its feet, winding away toward L.A., lay the deceptive San Andreas Fault, ready to blow any second. To the southwest, the grayish-blue void of the Salton Sea was clearly visible; and beyond that, just at the edge of perception, sat Signal Mountain on the Mexican border, ninety-three miles away. Even Coachella's ever-present smog (and that of Los Angeles, drifting in from the west) couldn't prevent us from seeing these miracles.

Good thing I brought my binoculars, though.

We got some unusually clear pictures up there. There was some kid in a white shirt and a baseball cap with a $3,000 camera hanging around his neck, sitting on the stone partition and looking bored out of his mind. I walked toward him to ask him to take our picture. Before I'd even opened my mouth, he was standing up and reaching out his hand for my trusty red Canon.

He took good pictures.

It was a bit warm to hike to Barker Dam, but we settled for strolling through the Wonderland of Rocks.

We got to the campground at about 4 o'clock and pitched camp.

CHAPTER THREE - HOW TO OPERATE A CAN OPENER
I had picked Jumbo Rocks for a campsite because I was vaguely familiar with it. I'd picnicked there before. I seemed to recall that it was a locale straight from Tolkien or Verne, an epic sort of place with titanic boulders sprawled everywhere, bushes and trees and stretches of sand elbowing in where they could.

My recollection was right on target.

Miss H and I snatched a registration form from the box and drove around looking for the most photogenic campsite (farthest from anyone else). Fortunately, even on Columbus Day weekend, the park was deserted. Miss H and I found our site with relative ease. We filled out the form, raced back to the entrance to get registered, and then came back and set up camp.

Now this, ladies and gentlemen, is what a functioning campsite looks like.

Night fell swiftly. Miss H and I climbed up on the rock to view the sunset. Then we broke out the camp stove and the chili and began to cook dinner.

Now, let me first explain something to you about can openers. They come in three main varieties. The first is the electric can opener. Craven, rump-fed poltroons employ these in their Malibu condominiums to obtain the Fancy Feast necessary to prevent their fat-bastard Persians from pissing on the carpet.

The second type is the rotary or hand-actuated can opener, in which the operator "clips" the blade and its rotating gear to the can, holds the apparatus steady with one hand and turns a knob with the other. The blade proceeds around the edge of the can's lid, neatly severing it from the can proper.

The third type is the manual or hand-operated can opener, which is basically a metal flange with a wicked hook carved into the bottom edge.

There's a trick to operating this latter type.

You have to go around the edge of the can with the blade instead of going straight for the middle.

Guess which stratagem I attempted first?

One mutilated can-lid later, Miss H hit upon the brilliant idea of going around.

Things worked much better after that, and we were soon spooning hot chili into our gullets by the white light of a battery-powered lantern.

After that it was time for some s'mores. I, in my infinite wisdom, had remembered every single solitary piece of camping equipment that we'd need, but had neglected to (a) buy bread to go with the lunch-meat we'd purchased, and (b) had overlooked what method we'd use to toast our s'mores. Propane flames don't really impart a desirable flavor to the marshmallows, you see. Natural flames are preferable. If a little bit of the smoke gets into the graham crackers, well, so much the better.

We didn't have natural flames (we'd brought a camp stove instead of firewood, for the sake of portability).

So we settled for eating 'em cold.

Yeah, okay, I know. We're blasphemers. Apostates. Communists. But hey, a cold s'more is still a s'more, same as cold pizza is still pizza and a bad cigar is still a cigar.

CHAPTER FOUR - ON THE DOORSTEP OF THE STARS
And then came the night's grand finale: we made ourselves comfortable at the cement picnic table, turned off all the lights, craned our heads back, and looked at the stars.

And looked and looked and looked and looked.

There were millions of 'em.

The night-black sky was speckled with tiny flecks of brilliant diamond-white, like granules of sugar scattered in a coal scuttle, spotlights streaming through bullet holes in a black wall.

It was the most beautiful sight we'd seen in an eternity. We were far removed from the lights of any town (even Los Angeles was a mere greenish line to the southwest). Constellations which had previously been muted and tired and old now lit up the heavens with renewed energy. The Big Dipper lay suspended in the northwest, glittering as I'd never seen it before, like a rock star playing in his hometown. Hundreds upon hundreds of tiny new stars, too dim to be seen from my backyard, were glowing and gleaming out of the firmament. It was an immensely cheering sight. It did my heart good to think that there were still places in the continental U.S. where you could see starry skies like this (in Kansas, apparently, you can see nebulae...nebulae, for Pete's sake!). It was like the star-spangled opening sequence of Star Wars: a sky literally swimming in stars, every single square inch taken up with twinkling lights.

We gazed for as long as we could. There was far too much to take it all in at once. Plus our necks were getting sore. So we turned in about ten-ish and hit the sack.

I can remember getting up once in the middle of the night for a bathroom break. I was debating whether or not to take the flashlight. I did wind up taking it, just to avoid tripping on (or bumping into) any of the massive boulders that composed our campsite. But I turned it off when I got to my (ahem) lavatory. I looked up at the sky and breathed a deep sigh of contentment.

Then I looked around and realized that I could see by starlight. I had never been able to do that before, not in all the places I'd been or lived. I'd read about people doing it in books (books written in the nineteenth century or early twentieth), but had hardly been able to credit it. Now I could see that it was possible. There was no moon. Nothing but the endless blue-black vault above me, spangled with celestial bodies, the largest and best planetarium in the universe. Everything was dim about me, but I could see. See in the dark. How long had it been since a human being, raised in civilization, had stood in the dark of the world and tried to see his way without a contrivance like flashlight or fire?

We woke the next day about 8:00 a.m., when it was already getting too hot to sleep. We packed up, did one last check around to make sure we'd left nothing behind, paid our camping fee, and left the park by the scenic route. We had breakfast at Denny's in 29 Palms, had a leisurely drive home, and spent the rest of the day vegetating. Not much was said. We were still remembering the stars.

the off-season (or, that's the way uh-huh uh-huh I like it)

Time for a football update! Ladies, shield your eyes.

First I'd like to point out that this is a LIVE blog post. I'm sitting here typing in front of the TV. San Diego is playing Denver. It's half time. Score is 21-7, Chargers' favor.

Now, I'd like to start off by giving you San Diego's current season standings. They're 5-5. For the uninitiated, that means that SD has lost five games and won five games so far, meaning their win-loss ratio is 50%.

By ordinary standards, that would be abysmal.

By the 2010 National Football League's standards, that's actually about average.

This is a weird season, folks. It's all topsy-turvy. Teams which have customarily been terrible have been kicking big-name teams' butts. Teams which previously were best in the nation have been...well, for lack of a better term, gargling balls. (Dallas anyone?)

Yeah, let's take Dallas. They're 3-7. Three wins, seven losses. Two of those wins were garnered just in the last couple of weeks. For the first months of the season the Cowboys racked up an impressive string of losses. Not that I took pleasure in any of it, of course (yeah, right, I was doing handsprings in the living room), but it was still a surprise. Dallas is unofficially known as "America's team." They are/were THE big name in football, one of the most recognizable teams, and their record was nothing short of stellar. Oh, sure, they've had off-seasons before. But this takes the cake.

Or look at the Vikings. Minnesota's usually done pretty well. They've never won a Super Bowl, but they've been to several. (Like Buffalo, only, you know, not as embarrassing.) But this season they're in the same boat as Dallas, 3-7, undergoing a pathetic collapse. In my humble opinion, Brett Favre should've called it good when he retired (for the first time) in 2008. He should've gone out on a high note. He should've ridden his legendary career with the Green Bay Packers into comfortable old age. He shouldn't have tried to relive his glory days. He shouldn't have vacillated. He shouldn't have signed with the Jets, and then the Vikings. He should've just quit when he was ahead. But no. He stayed in. And now he's showing his age. Sunday's disgraceful 31-3 defeat against Green Bay (oh, the irony) has sealed coach Brad Childress's fate, and almost certainly Favre's as well. It's almost painful to watch.

On the other hand...

Baltimore has been kicking ass this season, defeating such doughty opponents as Miami, New York (the Giants and the Jets), and Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh, for crying out loud! What's the world coming to? The Ravens are ordinarily a B-team at best, but John Harbaugh has set them against comers, despite some minor dust-ups in their offensive line. We'll see how they do in the coming weeks, when they face Tampa Bay, Houston and Pittsburgh (again).

Speaking of kicking ass...

I just wanted to let you know that, as of now (four minutes into the third quarter, 7:35 p.m. Western Daylight Savings Time), the score is 28-7, San Diego's favor. YES!!! Eat that, Denver!

This is what I like to see. San Diego playing like they mean it. It's not a shutout, but we're not choking or dropping the ball or turning over incessantly, either. I like the way the Chargers are playing tonight. The defensive line has been on the ball (literally), we've made a sack or two, and we had a respectable turnover in the first half. On the offensive side of things, Darren Sproles is working his usual magic, the running backs are finding all the holes, the receivers are actually catching the ball, and Phillip Rivers's passes are (as usual) dead-on.

This is one of the NFL's biggest mysteries, in fact. Rivers has the most passing yards of any QB in the league, with nearly 3,000. (Denver's Kyle Orton is right behind him.) Rivers's career passer rating is 96.9, number one of all time. Nobody can figure out how San Diego can possibly be losing games when Rivers is throwing so many deep passes on-target...least of all me.

Indeed, the only black spot on tonight's ledger is the fact that San Diego is, as has previously been mentioned, 5-5.

If we win tonight, we'll be tied for second in the division (with Oakland, BOOOOOOO). If we lose...we're in last place.

'Course, it doesn't look like we'll be losing. I don't know what Denver's problem is, but they're dropping balls and running head-on into our defensive line. That makes me happy, of course, but this is something nobody expected to see from the Broncos, who have traditionally done well. It's a balmy 58 degrees at Qualcomm Stadium right now, so it's not like Denver can blame the weather.

There's six games left: Indianapolis, Oakland (BOOOOOOO), Kansas City, San Francisco, Cincinnati, and Denver again. Let's see how we do. All we have to do is come out top in the division (AFC West). To do that, we've got to beat Denver tonight (signs point to yes) and Kansas City in Week 14. It's a home game, so I'm fairly confident. We (ahem) lost to the Chiefs both in the preseason and in Week 1, but...let's not talk about that right now.

I can dream of a Super Bowl, can't I?

P.S. It's the fourth quarter now and Rivers just threw a beautiful touchdown pass to Jacob Hester. Score's now 35-7. Marvelous, folks. That's the way (uh-huh uh-huh) I like it.

random travel destinations - the Maldives

Doesn't get much more random than that, does it?

The Maldives, otherwise known as the Maldive Islands or the Republic of Maldives, lies about 430 miles southwest of the island of Sri Lanka, in the Laccadive Sea. The Maldives themselves are, according to good ol' Wikipedia, a double chain of twenty-six atolls running north-to-south over an area of about 90,000 square kilometers. There are over twelve hundred separate islands or islets, of which only about 200 are inhabited.

There's a lively debate on where the name "Maldives" came from. Some say that it's the anglicized form of the Dutch name Maldivische Eilanden, which itself may have originated in Sanskrit. Others insist that the name comes from a passage in an ancient Sri Lankan text, the Mahawamsa, which refers to an obscure island called Mahalidiva, "The Island of Women." The Arabs used to call the place Mahal Dibiyat, the word mahal meaning "palace."

It holds the unsurprising distinction of being the lowest country in the world, hovering at an average of four feet eleven inches above sea level. The highest point on the entire island chain is 7'7" above the water. Let's hope the tsunamis around there never get higher than six feet or so, eh?

Okay, enough with the bloody factoids. Let's get to the rat-killer.

You wanna know why I've featured the Maldives so prevalently on this blog (after such a long absence from these random travel destinations)? Why I want to go there so desperately, when I'm rather leery about the area (those Somali pirates operate not too far west of there, y'know)?

Three reasons.

First, the sunsets.

Second, they've got themselves an underwater grub joint. You can dine 16 feet under at the Ithaa Undersea Restaurant, at the Conrad Hotel and Resort on Rangali Island.

Tell me that ain't cool. Go on, just try.

Finally, and this one's the kicker...

Maldivian Air Taxi is the country's biggest air carrier, and one of the most prolific seaplane operators in the world. Close to 500 flights a week during tourist season. I hear their pilots wear Hawaiian shirts and fly barefoot.

And if they hired me, my office would look like this:

Turquoise water, white sand, tropical sunsets, plentiful seafood, and a de Havilland Twin Otter to fly: what could be finer?

For a writer-cum-pilot with itchy feet (like yours truly), that's darn close to heaven.

Ahhhh....

cocktail review no. 41 - Pumpkin Bomb

It's holidaydrinktime again, folks!

Now, just so you're aware, I am not suggesting that you go out and get yourself trashed for the holidays. Save that kind of thing for office parties and raves and Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve.

No, this is just a nice little drink you can sip as you snack on Halloween candy, or while you're stuffing the turkey.

It's called the Pumpkin Bomb.

Lay off the Spider-man references before I king you, jerkface.

Here's the recipe:

• honey or agave syrup
• 2 teaspoons granulated sugar
• 1 teaspoon cinnamon
• 1 ounce Goldschläger
• 15 ounces pumpkin ale
• ½ ounce chopped, toasted pumpkin seeds

Dip the rim of a pint glass in honey or agave syrup. Combine the cinnamon and sugar and coat the rim of the glass with the mixture. Pour the Goldschläger into the glass and top off with the pumpkin ale. Sprinkle pumpkin seeds and another pinch of cinnamon sugar on the head of the beer.

Now, I didn't have chopped or toasted pumpkin seeds—I carved two pumpkins for my Halloween party (a jack-o-lantern and a punchbowl), but didn't have time to save the seeds. The rest of this stuff I had lying around, though. So I slapped it together this evening just for a lark.

And let me tell you, folks, this drink is smooth, sweet, spicy, and reminds you of all the fun things that you've always loved about the fall season: the cool air, the short days, the fuzzy sweaters, the changing colors, the sound of dead leaves, the carving of pumpkins, the baking of pies, the consumption of copious amounts of turkey...the whole shebang. Up top, we have the spiciness of the cinnamon and the sweetness of the sugar on the rim of the glass; the head of the beer provides a foamy and hop-laden overtone before the plunge is made into the drink proper; then we have pumpkin-beer and cinnamon schnapps warring for primacy on top of your tongue. This sequential approach to taste and the absolute synergy of flavor forge a powerful combination. And as you might expect, the nose is positively ravishing. This libation smells almost exactly like pumpkin pie...pumpkin pie beer. What could be finer?

(Yes, a prerequisite for appreciating this cocktail is, of course, appreciating beer. You have to like beer to like this drink. Otherwise you're SOL. So, if you like beer, try this drink. Have fun with it. Expand your alcoholic horizons. Sip a bit of autumn incarnate. If you don't like beer, start, dammit. You're missing out.)

Lesson over. For my American readers, I hope you had a Happy Halloween, and I wish you a gut-busting Thanksgiving. For my overseas readers, stay tuned for my Christmas cocktails, you poor benighted souls. And have a happy Remembrance Day (and Remembrance Sunday).