...or maybe not

Okay, I lied.

Due to the lengthy processes involved with putting a stamp on a piece of paper (????), it seems Miss H and I will be delayed further in our venture to Korea. Our FBI background checks still haven't been returned, and further research has told us that an additional FOUR WEEKS will be required to put an Apostille on said background check. In the meantime, the Federal Bureau of Investigation must send us our background checks via snail mail, and then we must send them to the Department of State, wait the requisite month and THEN send all our prepared documents to our recruiter in K-Land. In addition, we are still waiting for our diplomas to be notarized by our respective institutions, and to have Apostilles put on THEM by the Secretaries of State of North Dakota and Illinois.

Jeeeeeeeeeeeez.

The upshot of all this is that we won't make the deadline for the marvelous job we'd been hoping to snag, the one which begins on September 12. At this rate, we won't get over to SoKo until mid-October.

Rats.

There are definite fringe benefits to staying, Miss H has pointed out. More time to go camping, enjoy Disneyland, visit San Diego, and all the other farewell things we were planning to do. We can also have a cocktail party for my birthday and (potentially) Halloween.

But it still annoys me. The only upside is that my friends from England who are going back won't be there any sooner than I will. Their governments are giving them problems as well.

"That's what governments are for, get in a man's way."
                                                                                              — Malcolm Reynolds, Firefly

cocktail review no. 60 - Scorpion

One of the things I love about drinks is the wild abandon with which they're labeled. Monikers for beverages can be clear off the sliding scale of weirdness and obscurity, and dang near unpronounceable to boot. Tropical drinks are most guilty of this (although shots sometimes take a hand). Although most are semi-normal (Planter's Punch, Hawaiian Cocktail, Tidal Wave), some are downright bizarre (Zocolo, Zombie, the Green-Tailed Dragon of the Maroon Morning).

And then, of course, there's the Scorpion.

The name alone fascinated me, as it does with most drinks I'm compelled to sample. Scorpion. In a world of limp-wristed, foully-named drinks, this one word encapsulated pure-d badass to my ears.

I'd have included a picture of a real scorpion, just to prove my point (as I think scorpions are one of the most badass animals out there), but for one, that would probably have creeped some of you wimps out, and for another, this is a tropical drink I'm reviewing. Which means you'll probably drink it on, near, or within 500 miles of a beach. So here's a sea scorpion for you. Don't worry, they may have been ten feet long but they've been dead for millions of years. Feel free to dunk your toes in the water.

• 1½ ounces añejo rum
• ½ brandy
• 1½ orange juice
• 1 ounce lemon juice
• ½ orgeat syrup
• 1 cup crushed ice
• 1 orange slice
• 1 maraschino cherry

In a blender, combine the rum, brandy, orange juice, lemon juice, and orgeat syrup with the crushed ice. Blend well and pour into an old-fashioned glass. Garnish with the orange slice and the cherry.

Pretty straightforward, right? The only oddball ingredient is that one right there in the middle. "Orgeat syrup." I had to look long and hard for that one. I finally found some at Wine & More, Inc. in Rancho Cucamonga. Or rather, Dad found some. My folks were making a trip down there and I asked them to pick some up for me if they saw it. The clerks really couldn't understand poor Pop when he said "or-gee-at syrup." He finally made himself understood, though, and the clerks came back with a big plastic bottle of pink stuff. In the meantime, I was at home, on my computer, researching. Turns out it's pronounced "or-zhat" syrup. French, see? It's an infusion of citrus juices, almonds and rosewater. And MAN, is it sweet. I suppose it's the syrup you use when simple sugar won't suffice.

Anyway, the taste:

I can confidently say that the addition of brandy and orgeat syrup created a flavor above the norm and beyond the pale in the realm of tropical drinkage. There's a tendency for tropical cocktails to be over-fruity, with pineapple juice taking a dominant role over the booze. Thus you get a crush of fruity redolence, pineapple most primary, with sugar adding a sickly undertone. I've tried a lot of tropical drinks and I'd venture to suggest that this is the main problem I have with them. One gets bored after a while.

Not so with the scorpion. Just as giant scorpions have three ways to kill you (mouth-parts, pincers, and stinging tail), the Scorpion cocktail has three things going for it: the rum, the brandy, and the orgeat syrup. The pineapple juice, I'm glad to say, takes a backseat. The orgeat syrup provides all the sweetness necessary while accentuating the citrus goodness of the orange and lemon juices. The almond flavor provides a lovely counterpart to the smoky spice of the brandy, which gives you a midrange boost (enough to make this blogger rear back, look at his drink, and go "Mmmmm!"). Overlaying this is the rum, which is not subverted and subjugated as in other drinks; it hovers smokily above the rest of the components.

I would venture to suggest that this is the best tropical drink I've ever slugged back.

As always, I invite you to decide for yourself.

a slight setback

Well, rats.

In my recent post (#250) I mentioned that I had racked up enough hours requisite to become a commercial pilot.

I spoke too soon.

Caveats will be the death of me. I need two-hundred and fifty hours, yes, but fifty of those hours must be pilot-in-command time. (A PIC is the guy who is ultimately in charge of the airplane, safety, flight planning, and all that stuff. Solo time counts as this. Dual instruction does not.) I have over 250 hours of dual instruction, but only twelve hours' time as PIC.

Rats.

That means I have to acquire at least 38 more hours of PIC time (at about $100 per hour) before I'm even close to being able to become a commercial pilot.

As you may have heard, I'm going back to Korea pretty soon. There really isn't time (or money) enough to get my commercial ticket before I leave. So, as tragic as it is, I'll have to wait until I get back to finish. But I will, never fear. I still entertain vague hopes of becoming a licensed seaplane pilot and starting up an airline in the bowels of Alaska somewhere. Which I will most certainly blog about, of course.

But for now, flying's going on hold again.

I know, you're crushed.

travelin' plans

Man, it's been a while since I did any travel-related posts, hasn't it?

Well, no, not really. I just finished telling you about that trip to England I made last June. But it took me over a year to give you the skinny and, if I'd been on the ball, that ship would've sailed a long time ago.

But before the idioms get completely out of hand, let me tell you some news.

I'M GOING BACK TO KOREA.

It's true! Miss H and I, after some discussion, soul-searching and much mulling-over, have elected to try our luck on foreign shores rather than languish in poverty in the economical cesspool of our homeland. So we called up some recruiters and haggled and dickered. In the end, we came up with an apartment near Seoul and positions at a couple of hagwon. (Hagwon are private after-school academies where hopeful Korean parents send their overworked children for extra tutoring in subjects like English, math and music. I don't know how the little buggers do it. Some of the kids I taught in Geoje were up until midnight every night, doing homework from their regular school and three different hagwon. Their eyes were drooping, their expressions haggard. I felt for the little maggots even as I abetted the soul-crushing process which made them that way.)

The start date is September 12. So, as early as September, you guys, I could be (once again) broadcasting to you from the darkest depths of Eastern Asia.

I don't need to tell you how excited I am about this. It's finally coming to fruition. I've been longing to get out of this damn desert for over two years...ever since I got back from my first stint in K-Land, in fact. I feel like my life's finally getting back on track. I'll be off and wandering the world soon...and I'll have the most beautiful woman in the world by my side. That, ladies and gents, is the perfect combination.

Miss H and I have laid some plans for after Korea, too. We're hoping to get our Russian visas (let's hope the process isn't too heartbreaking) and take the Trans-Siberian Railway across Russia (Vladivostok to Moscow) and kick about in Europe for a few weeks. It'll take some serious arranging, but I'll have some advance warning this time. Think of the fun we'll have, and the writing fodder I'll accrue!

After that it'll be back to the States for a bit. I still need to acquire my commercial ticket (see the ensuing post for more info on that). After that...well, I'm not really sure. It'll depend on how much money we've got, where the jobs are, how the job market is, and how soon we can get our careers started. We might even wind up in Australia, me flying, Miss H taking beautiful pictures from her studio.

Whatever happens, never fear: you know me, folks. The Postman's got more travel ideas in store, and hopefully Miss H and I will have the guts and gumption (and green stuff) to do 'em all.

Stay tuned...

writing updates, 8/6/2011

I have sent a novella to Fantasy & Science Fiction!

Yes, you read that correctly. I wrote a novella. And actually got up the courage to send it to a publisher. I sent it off in early July.

...and got it back three weeks later, with a rejection slip enclosed.

This is only the second time I've been rejected. Heck, it was even the same magazine. I might've known what was coming. An amateur can't expect his first five, ten, or 1500 works to be accepted at a veteran sci-fi mag which has played host to everybody from Stephen King to Daniel Keyes. King himself got a nail and hammered it into the wall above his bed and stuck his rejection slips there. He had a whole pile of them before he got accepted anywhere. Sylvia Plath submitted one story to The New Yorker thirty-six times before they finally accepted it. I can't logically expect anything different.

But still, it hurts.

I had high hopes for this story. It was 23,000 words of what appeared to be, at the time of submission, 100% Grade-A effluence. The plot (I thought) was superb, the setting grandiose and compelling, the premise timeless. The characters sparkled and sizzled. The twist at the end was dynamite. To the FACE.

Boy, was I wrong. The assistant editor at Fantasy & Science Fiction wrote back and said, basically, that the story "couldn't hold interest."

Ouch.

Well, I shrugged, I'll have to do better next time.

I was flying around at 10,000 feet yesterday, with the bright desert sun shining in the window and burning my face to a crisp, when suddenly two new ideas struck me full-force. One concerns a boiling planet 73 million miles from its super-hot sun, where the inhabitants scurry about like rats beneath the surface until an alien race from an ice planet shows up and begins siphoning all the heat off; and the other, "Refuge" concerns an extraterrestrial mendicant who just happens to show up in the backyard of a—

Now, now; any more and I'd be telling.

Succinctly, I have two new story ideas burning holes in my brain, and I'll start work on them forthwith. Whether they'll actually be published is up for debate, but I think I'm getting a little better with every piece of crap I churn out. Someday one of them is going to catch the eye of somebody sitting at a big desk. And you'll be the first to hear about it.

Or something like that.

I have one last momentous piece of scribbling shop-talk for you.

I have resumed work on the Novel.

Yes! That damn novel!

I was sitting around the airport one day, bored out of my skull, wondering when I was going to get over my fears and finally implement the edits and changes I'd been kicking around, when something inside me said "Screw it." I clicked on the link and the monster itself appeared on the screen of my brand-new Toshiba.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I highlighted a chunk of puerile drivel.

Licking dry lips, I moved my index finger to the top right corner of my keyboard, and punched the DELETE key.

The garbage vanished.

And just like that, the Novel got a little better. I added in a few paragraphs of new dialog and characterization, liking where it was going. The beginning is a lot less dry and preachy and a little more punchy now. It shows promise, much more promise than before. My inklings were correct about what needed to be done to improve the storyline.

I shan't stop here. I'll keep on editing, slowly, carefully, so the night-terrors don't overtake me again. And soon the monster will hopefully come out looking better than it did in the beginning.

That is all...

Wish me luck.

cocktail review no. 59 - Hop on Pop

I've been on a rum kick lately. There's just no getting around how perfect a spirit it is. It's tasty, smooth, mellow, and easy, with just the right hint of sweetness that'll complement any fun, summery drink.

And this cocktail, no matter how odd the moniker, is nothing else but a fun, summery drink.

• 1¾ ounces light rum
• 1¾ ounces apricot brandy
• ¼ ounce lime juice

In a shaker half-filled with ice cubes, combine all the ingredients. Shake well and strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

Whatever you do, don't sip. You can't really embrace this libation if you merely dab at it like a bird. You've got to take a big gulp and swish it around your mouth before you can judge properly.

Unique, isn't it?

The light rum provides a smooth but powerful alcoholic sweetness that is overlaid by the burnished fruity bouquet of the apricot brandy. The lime juice adds a sour kick that offsets the overwhelming sweetness and lends a bit of pucker to an already powerful combo. Best served in a chilled glass, for the coolness of temperature underscores the sugariness. The drink has a fruity flavor, no doubt, but there's a load of booze in it, and that helps assuage the nagging feeling that you're sipping a chick drink. Guys, it's strong enough to warrant your interest. Girls, it's sweet enough to try again, and again, and again.

And afterward, you might wanna hop on Pop...

gonzo journalists have more fun

I'd hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me.
                                                                                           — Hunter S. Thompson

I never told you why I became a journalist, did I?

I started out in zoology. I don't know why. I never really had a clear idea of what zoologists do. I'd heard they were involved with animals, and I wanted to be involved with animals. I loved animals as a kid. You can thank Walt Disney for that. Bambi was probably where it began. I can still remember, to this day, where I was and what I was doing when I heard that Bambi's mother had been shot.

So I said, "I'll be a zoologist, and work with animals." I signed up for the zoology program at North Dakota State University in the fall of 2004. I looked around. There were six incoming freshmen in the zoology program at North Dakota State University in the fall of 2004. The department was in the basement of the biological science building. The head doctor had a black-and-white photograph taped to his office door, depicting a bunch of people with their heads stuck down holes in the middle of a grassy plain. The caption read "PRAIRIE DOG WATCHING."

Those were my first clues. I should've realized that I didn't have the slightest idea what I was in for.

Two semesters into the program, I was floundering. I'd scraped through math, wiggled under statistics, survived biology lab and was blowing holes in my English classes. But chemistry was kicking my arse—a C the first semester, and what was shaping up to be a D+ the next.

I was having my doubts about zoology. The magic had been steadily going out of it. I was coming to realize how limited my options were: I could either teach, or become a veterinarian. One would require several extra years of school, and the other would require a cast-iron constitution. And, probably, my firstborn child. Neither of these avenues was appealing.

The final straw came during my preliminary scan of the course catalog in the spring of 2008. I saw that I would be moving up from basic chemistry into organic chemistry in the ensuing fall. I had heard nothing but evil stories about O-chem from everyone I had spoken to. Unwilling to rely on hearsay alone, however, I peeked at a textbook in the university library. The figures made me nauseous and the diagrams made me dizzy. I knew then and there that advanced science wasn't in the cards. I was right-brained. I didn't stand a bacterium's chance in a paramecium dish of coming out alive.

So I said, "F@#& it, I'll be a journalist."

I switched my major to mass communication, figuring I could go anywhere with it: magazines, radio, television, whatever. As luck would have  it, two semesters later (at the beginning of my junior year) North Dakota State opened five new majors in the communication curriculum. One of these was Journalism, Broadcasting and Mass Communication Technology, and I jumped at it. Eighteen months later (and a grand total of 3.5 years in college) I graduated with a Bachelor of Science.

My reasoning was simple. If I wasn't willing to study animals, I could at least write about them—and any other subject that took my fancy. Geology, botany, meteorology, astronomy, politics, geography, travel...

Hey! I could be a travel journalist!

So I did it. I got my degree. And I traveled. And I wrote. And I'm still doing both to this day. I've published three articles so far—one in a free e-zine and two to paying publications. That's right, I've actually made money on what I write. This is such a racket! 

I have many more junkets (and subsequent scribbling) planned. I'm making plans to be off to Korea again sometime next month. After that I think I'll take the long way home: the Trans-Siberian Railway through Russia. Miss H and I will kick about in Europe for a few weeks and then return. And that's not the end: I still intend to work in Japan and live in Australia, not to mention fly (for money) in Africa. All of that is prime writing fodder. And it will be written up, don't you believe it.

For that reason, I call myself a gonzo journalist. Gonzo journalists do what they write about. I may not be in the same league as Hunter S. Thompson, but I'm giving it a go. I may not have the same attachment to drugs and alcohol and mayhem that he did, but I've found myself a niche and I'm exploiting it. I wrote an article about living in South Korea. And I lived in South Korea in order to write it. Gonzo. See?

I didn't want to live in some stuffy classroom and stare at slack-jawed students all day. Nor did I want to exist in the fluorescent world of labs and exam rooms and anal-retentive pet parents, either. So I thought I'd pick a career that (a) I could do, and (b) was fun. And I think I've done that, even if the field is as competitive as they come. And for kicks, I can write novels and short stories and crap like that on the side, and get all of my narcissistic jollies out in one fell swoop.

There are worse career plans, right?

Miss H and I took a trip to Las Vegas in July. I wasn't thinking about writing an article about it, because scads of articles have been written about experiencing Vegas from every conceivable angle, and that stuff's old hat. But if I had gone there intending to write about it—even just a journal entry—I'd have struck solid gold. Miss H and I were unexpectedly upgraded from the basic Pyramid Room in the Luxor Hotel to the TOWER LUXURY SUITE. Four rooms. Wet bar. Living room. Spacious bathroom. Bathtub with jets. Floor-to-ceiling windows. One-thousand and eighty square feet. For a whole glorious weekend.

And I learned how to play craps and roulette, and got some inside tips on the science of blackjack.

I really do have too much fun. Someone ought to intervene.