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.