30 Days to a Better Man, Day 14: write a letter to your father

Father and Son II by Ismo Hölttö. Silver gelatin print, 1966. 

The directions say write, not send. Sending is optional. As it happens, though, I already (and inadvertently) did both those things.

Late on the evening of Day 4, realizing that Day 5's task would be to "cultivate your gratitude," I decided to get a bit of early practice in. Cheating? No. This was more personal. It was something I'd had half a mind to do for ages, but had never done, and this was a perfect excuse to do it, and get the ball rolling on wholesale gratitude-cultivation in the process.

I wrote a lengthy e-mail to my parents.

Within it, in separate paragraphs, I thanked my mother and father for all they'd done for me in childhood and beyond. Each of them has taught me so much in their own inimitable way, shared their knowledge and experience with me, made sacrifices for me, and just generally done their darnedest to make my life as easy and comfortable and interesting as possible. So I took the time to thank them properly for it. Separately. Individually. Respectively.

Cheating? No. Their paragraphs were as long as a single-page letter would have been. The only difference was that it was electronic instead of written by hand on wood pulp. But it's the thought that counts, right?

I spent all day in Itaewon and Yangcheon-gu, picking up brewing supplies and bottling an American pale ale. I was especially grateful to ol' Dad today, as the book he sent me for Christmas — How to Brew by John J. Palmer — came in dang handy. It should prove useful for the porter the boys and I are brewing next week — the last beer we'll craft before I jet off to Hokkaido in early February.

But that's a story for another day. Not Day 15, though. That's tomorrow. 

30 Days to a Better Man, Day 3: find a mentor

Easy day today! I think I've already found one. This is a recent thing, so don't accuse me of dredging up some mentor from the dim and distant past. He's a fellow I work with at Sejong University. Let's call him Mr. G. 

It's convenient that I elected him my mentor, because I disapprove of the list of steps that AoM put on their website. A mentor is not something you ask for. You don't obtain a mentor via verbal contract. It just happens. You start a relationship with someone older and more experienced than you: a coworker, or a neighbor, or a grizzled veteran at the corner bar, and bam. There you go. You're being mentored. Nobody has to come out and ask "Hey, will you be my mentor?" That kind of thing only happens in martial arts movies. 

Before I go into Mr. G's qualifications, let's see if I can think of all the mentors I've had in my life (besides the obvious, of course: my parents).

I didn't really have a mentor in the Boy Scouts, I'm afraid. That was one of the reasons I quit. It was like a big frat party all the time, with just as much hazing, peer pressure and ostracism.

I can't really think of any professors or older students in high school or college who mentored me, either. Most of my teachers (even the ones I liked) were just too darn liberal for me. And most of the students were either immature or not worth listening to, or both.

I've had several shooting instructors and athletic coaches throughout my life who came close to mentoring me, but never made the cut because I didn't know them well enough or see them often enough.

Fortunately for me, the world of aviation is the perfect place to find a mentor. And that's probably where I picked up my first one: Joe, or J-1 as he's been called on this blog. If you follow the link I posted, you'll see his qualifications laid out, chapter and verse. He looked out for me when I worked as a drone-chaser. He made me a better flier. He paid for lunches, pitched for me when my job or wages were in peril, and protected me from dangers both literal and figurative.

Mr. G is a different sort of mentor. I'm still a young man, but I'm an older young man. I'll be 28 this year. I don't need the same kind of mentoring I did when I was a kid. I've been around the block a bit. I'm not the scared, shy, inexperienced saphead I once was. Confidence and skill are not what I crave as a mentee. I crave maturity. Grace. Serenity. Wisdom. The restoration of my faith in my fellow man.

That's exactly what Mr. G is good for. He and I eat lunch together every Tuesday and Thursday. He is a serene and gentle fellow, a man of peace and wisdom. Speaking with him is immensely calming. I always feel like my day is brighter after having a discussion with him. I don't share everything with him, but if there's some work- or lifestyle-related problem on my mind, I'll get his opinion. He never fails to put me at ease. Why, you ask? Because he's not negative. He's a positive influence. He doesn't apologize for people, nor justify the unjust; he merely has good reasons why I shouldn't let the hard knocks get me down. He's never insistent with his advice or belligerent with his counsel. He offers the simple truth. He puts a refreshing, upbeat perspective on things which I, in my blue funk, hadn't considered before.

It's no surprise that Mr. G is good at this sort of thing. Before he was a professor, he was a pastor. He's a very devout man, a loving father and devoted husband. He moved his family from their homeland to Korea due to rampant crime and economic hardship. That takes a fair bit of courage and determination, that. Mr. G is a hard worker, striving daily to support his family and keep them comfortable. I have had the privilege of observing Mr. G in both fair weather and foul, and at all times he has remained true to his faith, steadfast in his determination, and dedicated to the safety and happiness of his loved ones. Moreover he treats his students with respect and fatherly attention, making sure they each get a fair shake. He's willing to go to great lengths to ensure that they get the best education possible, and has done so on several occasions.

That alone would make Mr. G an admirable fellow and worthy of approbation. But it's that serenity of his, his reluctance to condemn or harangue his fellow man, his tact and his humility which really won me over. A good man makes you think, "Neat-o. He's a cool dude." A great man makes you think, "Wow, I want to be like him." That's Mr. G for you. His patience and composure are inspiring. I can be a pretty temperamental guy, and the gallantry and graciousness of my elders is something to which I aspire. So Mr. G, I believe, is the perfect mentor for me.

I had the privilege of spending part of Christmas Day at Mr. G's pad. He had graciously invited Miss H and me to Christmas dinner with his extended family, so I was able to see his bright, well-kept home and meet all his lovely relatives (including his young daughter, who just recovered from a nasty bout of appendicitis). We spent a wonderful time there, chatting and drinking wine and nibbling on his wife's delicious trifle. I was ever so glad to have had the chance to spend a little time outside the hustle and bustle of work with Mr. G and his clan and share a cup of good cheer and some friendly banter. And I'm looking forward to this next year of working (and commiserating) alongside the good fellow.

Keep an eye out for Day 4... 

from me to all the world

Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

--- W.H. Auden

...and a Happy New Year. 

Busan blowout

The Wonder Girls, one of Korea's most popular K-Pop groups (temporarily disbanded thanks to Sunye's marriage). 

Time for another Christmas party in Geoje (near enough to Busan for me to capitalize on the alliterative opportunity)!

Miss H and I are catching the 8:10 KTX from Seoul Station this morning. Once in Busan, we'll ride the subway out to Hadan, grab the old Geoje bus, cross the bridge, get another bus to Okpo, and then finally wind up where we need to be: J&J's apartment, full of mulled beverages and warm spirits. Free accommodations, too. J&J always pull out the stops for everybody and they treat us right.

That gingery IPA the fellas and I brewed last weekend will be ready to bottle when I return. I've faithfully taken hydrometer readings every day and the specific gravity has settled right around 1.016-1.017. A bit high perhaps (most beers settle between 1.005 and 1.015, I'm told), but palatable. It tastes gingery and hoppy, too, so I'm content. 

There are a few things I want to talk to you about when I get back. First off, I think I've finally solved my V.D.Q.—in a way that might surprise you. I've essentially decided to go nowhere at all this winter. There are money issues involved, yes, but other factors as well. Let's talk 'em over.

As for reading, I'm still working my way through Tolstoy's Anna Karenina (at an iceberg's pace), and The Great Shark Hunt by Hunter S. Thompson (I may have to go ahead and read the other three volumes of The Gonzo Papers, though they be decades out of date). I will likely start in on Paul Theroux's Ghost Train to the Eastern Star, which I mentioned previously, when I return from South Gyeongsang Province.

That's if I finish the million or so make-up quizzes I must give some of my students, finish writing and printing my final exams, and (simply put) survive the rest of this semester. I also have to send a package off home with all the goodies from Korea and China. And a Christmas card for my grandparents. Yes, I'm doing Christmas cards this year. Seems like the thing to do. No excuse not to with them being just 400 won at my campus store (and in English).

And to leave you with a piece of good news...Insadong is still there. They haven't demolished it yet. Here's hoping they don't. 

thundersnow and other tales

from Wikimedia Commons

You deserve a full update, and you'll get it, but it's just past 7:30 a.m. and I'm still soaking wet from my shower and I have to be out the door by 8:00 or the subways become too crowded to deal with and I'll be late for class. So here you go, bullet time once again:

• We got the third snow of the year yesterday, a heavy, wet, sopping sort of snow that fell awkwardly out of the sky and went splat on the ground. The weird thing was that it rained first and then started snowing—accompanied by thunder. "Thundersnow" I thought to myself as I put on my old boots and traipsed out into that soggy mess to get my computer fixed. 
• Yes, that's the second thing: my computer. The hard drive went belly up last Sunday night. I was just clicking around, minding my own business, adding a few thousand more words to my 35,000-word NaNoWriMo project, when BAM—shutdown. Blue Screen of Death. Fatal error. Crash dump. Restart. Lockup. Force shutdown. No bootable disk. Sigh. I took it to the only Toshiba service center I could find on Google Maps, located in the Gangnam Finance Center building near Yeoksam Station. Once again I felt the unique and exquisitely painful sense of guilt I always get when I'm soliciting some service in Korea without being able to speak Korean. In pidgin (and heartbreakingly apologetic) English, the man behind the counter told me that my hard drive was bad, that he would salvage as much data as he could, replace my hard drive with a new one (albeit a Korean one with an English language pack) and put Humpty-Dumpty all back together again...for 121,000 won. I didn't mind. I was willing to pay any price, as a lot of my notes and pictures—and Novel #4—are completely unsaved and non-backed-up. I guess I got away cheap. I might have lost everything.
• HAPPY THANKSGIVING! Miss H and I are doing our usual thing: throwing a bunch of Thanksgiving-y ingredients into the Crock Pot and turning 'er on. We'll spend the evening nibbling on a delicious amalgam of Thanksgiving dinner, listening to music, sipping Russian champagne and plugging away at our newest jigsaw puzzle. 
• Good Lord, how did finals come so quickly? I was just coasting along, riding my way through a leisurely November with the students, doing various writing projects, quizzes, and fun activities. Now, suddenly, there's barely two weeks left until finals. Five class-days left, and one of them will be taken up by a standardized writing assessment and the other will need to be set aside for review. YIPE!!
• The day after Thanksgiving, the boys (Messrs. JA and BP) are coming over to brew up some more beer. This is the first time we've ever done it at my apartment. I have all the equipment freshly bought and laid by, and am rather excited now that this SNAFU with my computer has been resolved. I'm just going to be running around like a chicken with my head cut off on Friday afternoon after class, picking up my coat from the tailor's (frayed cuffs repaired), my laptop from Gangnam, and a few last-minute supplies from the E-Mart in Cheonho, across the river.
• On Saturday, Miss B, our army doctor friend stationed up in Dongducheon, is coming down for a visit. Oh, and that's also the day that Miss H and I are heading over to Incheon to have our other Thanksgiving dinner at the Fog City Diner. I hope we can fit Miss B in there somewhere. It's hard for her to get weekend passes. 
• And then the weekend after all this, Miss H and I are heading down south to Busan on the KTX (for the first time since spring) to see the gang and have an early Christmas party. Eek.
• And I still haven't resolved my V.D.Q., either. No reservations made yet and no concrete decisions in the offing. Argh!

How'd this happen? Everything was going so calmly for a while, and then BOOM. Chaos! Help! SOS! Mayday! Make it stop! I wanna get off!

the Facebook parabola

We've just reached the peak of it.

I reckon I know when I'll be coming back into the fold: December 18.

I'm sitting here, sucking on a glass of Black Velvet (which I totally forgot I had until I did that post about how I see the world). There's a super-duper thunderstorm going on outside. It's only about 44 degrees and the rain is just pounding. This stuff must have started out as snow. Either way, it's bad news for all the homeless folks in Seoul right now. I hope they got to cover, especially the legless and armless ones. 'Tain't a fit night out for man nor beast.

With the idyllic evening in full swing, I figured, hell: why not give you guys a progress report?

I picked the above date for a couple of reasons which seemed pertinent at the time. Number One, it'll be the two-month mark. Exactly. Dead-on. Sixty days (more or less) without Facebook. Seems like a sound number. More than enough to break a habit, right? I can already tell the difference. There's a big change. I feel like my Internet use is healthier, I spend less time staring at screens, and I do more cool stuff outside the apartment now. I hardly miss my little blue friend anymore. My right hand has quit moving of its own volition. The only symptom that remains is that incessant urge to put my latest pithy platitude or ribald observation up in your news feeds. I might not resist that temptation, though. Folks I know on Facebook seem to enjoy them platitudes. I've actually gone so far as to make a list of witty Facebook statuses to put up retroactively when I get back on in a month.

Hmm...maybe I'm not as cured as I thought.

The second reason is that NaNoWriMo will be well over by mid-December. I want to make sure I finish that up (and have some time to keep going afterward).

Third: the fall semester will be done with. Final exams will be completed. I'll be in the midst of grading them, sure, but the daily madness of regular class will be past.

Fourth: I kind of need to be back on Facebook before I finish grading and go off to Australia and Hokkaido. Then I can put up all my lovely photos and make you saps jealous. There are some people I'm planning to rendezvous with while out on the road, too, and Facebook would greatly facilitate that process. I hate to admit it, but my little blue friend is good for something.

So there you go. Get set for my triumphant return, Facebook. I'm comin'. I hope to see you all at the reunion party.

a dearth of eggnog

Dear Readers,

     I'd just like to point out (with no little pride) that not a single drop of eggnog touched my lips during the entire calendrical year of 2010.

     Honestly. The carton just sat there in the fridge. I promised myself, "Yeah, sure, tonight I'll grab that sucker out of there, add a nip of brandy, sprinkle some nutmeg on top, and have at it." But nothing materialized. Always I'd pass the nog over for something else, like a whiskey sour or a Bloody Mary or even a margarita, for Pete's sake. (Is this any time for a margarita? I mean, I know I'm in Southern California, and the nearest snow is halfway up the mountains in the distance, but hey, margaritas in winter? Ain't that some kind of alcoholic faux pas? A deplorable lack of sympathy for the poor saps up in Minneapolis huddling by their fires, trying to keep warm on Irish coffee and hot buttered rum?)    

     All the long days of the holiday season I let that carton of eggnog lie. I didn't touch it after a hard day's night of Christmas shopping; I forgot all about it for those three hours I spent actually writing during the month of December; I left it right where it was on Christmas Morning, Christmas Day and Christmas Night. Entire football games passed with the eggnog unmolested. I saw San Diego lose their place in the playoffs for the first time in five seasons without a sip of eggnog to soothe my heartbreak. I passed the stuff up on many happy evenings with Miss H, assembling that 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle (a nice painting of Nantucket with five identical hillsides and a huge rock pile and a lighthouse that could be the beach if you turn it on its side and eighteen square miles of goddamn ocean).

     When did I finally polish off that eggnog?

     Why, tonight.

     January 1.

     2011.

     After Yule. After Christmas. After New Year's Eve.

     Have I committed some kind of cardinal sin?


Your Sententious Correspondent,


Postman

old Christmas trees never die...

...they just get planted, watered, and grown into windbreaks. That's what happens to 'em around here, anyway. I dug this hole. Well, finished it. Dad just loosened up the soil on top, then I did the rest with a post-holer. I actually got a bit overenthusiastic—the hole was too deep, even after we added some sterilized steer manure to the bottom. But here's the finished product! This one's for you, Polly.

champagne and cinnamon rolls

Like a swarm of lemurs fired from a cannon, it hit me suddenly. I haven't told you about Christmas Day or New Year's Eve. Before I get into what's happened so far in 2010, I suppose I had better wrap up 2009 properly. That is if you're interested. Christmas Day was pure-D marvy. The whole family-togetherness thing was splendid in and of itself. I haven't experienced it in two years, you see. Last year I was in South Korea, and though my expatriate posse and I managed to have a pretty good time over there (gathering in A & E's apartment, drinking Buck's Fizz, opening presents and eating fried chicken and beef stew), there's no place like home. More to the point, I got EVERYTHING I wanted. I got a T-shirt with an F4U Corsair emblazoned on it; a leather cigar case, complete with cutter and butane lighter, spotted in the Russell's for Men catalog; an iPod (I got that a little earlier than Christmas Day, though); and a kneeboard. Yes, I've sold my soul. I swore I'd never get an iPod. Compact discs and a Walkman would do me just fine, I said. I can still fit 'em into my pockets when I'm out walking. I can't run with them, and it's a bitch and a half to change CDs in the middle of a six-mile walk in the Mojave Desert, but hey, you can't beat an original. No MP3 players for me, thanks. Ha ha, yeah. Those arguments withstood the test of time. About twelve seconds, roughly. And just to clarify, a kneeboard is not something you kneel on and then get hauled rapidly across the water with. You know me better than that. It's aviation-related. A kneeboard is a portable clipboard that you can strap to your leg for those long cross-country flights. Unless you're in an Airbus or a C-17, you don't really have the benefit of a desk when you're in the cockpit. So kneeboards were invented to provide a flat space for you to jot down important information and figures while in flight. Mine is a premium model, a tri-fold kneeboard (meaning it unfolds in thirds, with lots of groovy pockets and suchlike). I also got a customizable license plate holder, with a bunch of letters and numbers to create your own personal message to whoever's tailgating you (oh, you can bet I'm going to have fun with that); a Hershey's Kiss the size of a doll's head; some monogrammed hankies; a travel game set; a knife for my portable cocktail mixing kit; a new leather belt; an extra X-box controller (I also swore to give up video games in favor of comic books, darn it!); and some other good stuff. Good, I got the loot-litany off my chest. Now we can resume the narrative. For breakfast, Dad made his pumpkin pancakes. These are a relatively new dish in our family, entering Dad's repertoire after he had a delicious batch at IHOP just before Halloween. He downloaded the recipe off the Internet and has been making them for every special occasion this season. They're dynamite, let me assure you. Suitably fueled, Harlan, Dad and I piled into my Jeep and headed across the valley, into the shadow of the Granite Mountains, to fulfill a promise made four years ago: summit the buggers. We'd attempted to climb these huge, rocky hills on New Year's Day a few years ago, and failed due to bad weather. Now we were back to try it again on this beautiful Christmas Day, with weather in the low sixties, sunny, and breezy. Our aim was Feldspar Peak, the Granites' highest point at [NOTE TO SELF: look this number up before you hit that "publish" button]. Well, we made it. It was a perilous journey, full of rocks, loose gravel, treacherous slopes, spiky plants and a surfeit of huffing and puffing. But we climbed a few key ridges and then had a fairly simple push to the summit. We stood up there, the now-cold wind caressing us gently, our water bags considerably lightened, sweat drying on our foreheads, surveying all there was to see. We also phoned Mom to see if she could see us. Feldspar Peak is directly across the valley from our house, and Mom, in theory, should've been able to spot us. Harlan manned the phone, Dad got out his signal mirror and I waved my arms for all I was worth. No dice. Mom's binoculars just weren't powerful enough. We were about six miles away, as the crow flies. She would've been better off with an astronomical telescope. She did spot the flash of Dad's mirror, though, if not the three figures behind it. At least that question has been answered. Then we climbed down (giving our protesting quads another vicious beating), limped to the Jeep, went home, ate a delectable turkey dinner, and didn't move much for the next three days. New Year's Eve was weird. I mean, it's never exactly been normal in my family. When my brother and I were little we'd all sort of cuddle up together on the couch and watch Lawrence Welk (not Dick Clark's Rockin' Eve) until the Big Moment. Mom and Dad would battle to keep us both awake, and stay awake themselves. As we got older, and it became less of a struggle to stay up, we'd have a dominoes tourney until the Big Moment came, when my brother and I would toast with sparkling apple cider and eat finger food while the folks sat, comatose, in the living room in front of the TV. We sort of did that this New Year's Eve. We had finger food, and sparkling cider (which no one but Harlan drank), and a little bit of TV. But for the most part we just played Phase 10 (a kiddie variant of progressive rummy), listened to music, and drank champagne. Well, okay, not real champagne, seeing as how it's not from the Champagne region of France and all, but sparkling wine nonetheless. Oh, and we made cinnamon rolls. That was what was so weird about the night. We never bake anything on New Year's Eve. The whole point is just to be massively lazy and let the old year slither out on its belly like it probably wants to after a hard 365-day shift. The most intricate thing we make on New Year's Eve is the drinks. I busted all the 1.75-liter jugs out of the liquor cabinet and asked the folks to name their poison. And they did. I wound up making Long Island iced teas for Dad and myself, which we sipped as we mixed, rolled, cut, wound, and baked. The remainder of the night is a bit fuzzy, but nothing anywhere near comparing to that embarrassing thing that happened last month. Don't ask. We made the cinnamon rolls because we would be taking off at an ungodly hour the next morning for Benson, Arizona, to visit my great uncle and aunt, Bob and Barb. The cinnamon rolls would be our hi-how-are-you gift. For that same reason, Mom and Dad didn't stay up until midnight, for the first time in 20 years. They hit the sack about eleven, and as a result of this confusion, I actually missed the Big Moment. I looked at my watch as I was getting into bed, just in time to see it turn from 12:00 to 12:01. "Happy New Year," I said to the sparkling lights of the town in the valley below, outside my window.

happiness

It took me a moment after I woke up to remember that there was a guest under my roof. Even though I was lying on a tightly strung cot in the front room of our house, inches from the Christmas tree, I still didn't recall the matter right away. When I did, oh boy, I couldn't get up and get ready fast enough. I sprang up, put on the clothes I'd set out earlier, threw my pillow aside, rolled up my sleeping bag, folded up the cot...and then wandered into the kitchen and just sort of milled around, waiting for Allison to awake. I wanted to be ready to make her whatever she wanted the moment she asked for it. I pride myself on being a good host, y'know. Honest, that's all it was. Yep. Allison obviously prides herself on being a good guest, because she didn't keep me waiting long. She came into the kitchen, fully dressed, refreshed and looking like a million bucks. (How do girls DO that???) After I'd run through the menu, she requested toasted bagels with cream cheese and strawberry jam. So I whipped us up a batch. I'd never tried strawberry jam and cream cheese on a bagel simultaneously. Wow, that was a learning experience. It was far from unpleasant—I found the combination intriguing, in fact—but nonetheless indescribably weird. Normally I'm all for maximizing one's pleasure. Cream cheese stands well enough on its own, and so does strawberry jam. It seems only natural to mix the two in order to make a bagel taste twice as good. But it had never occurred to me that way before. It almost seemed like a little too much of a good thing, like strapping a shotgun onto an M-16, or getting a complimentary swimsuit model with every Lamborghini you buy. It's almost too much. Seems as though you would want to focus on one or the other. I never thought jam and cream cheese would mix so harmoniously. We tarried only long enough to pack a picnic lunch (Allison helped me make some PBJs) and pack up the car before we headed off into the bright, cool morning for Joshua Tree National Park. What is Joshua Tree National Park, you ask? This: Beautiful, ain't it? All the more beautiful in the cool of desert winter. It's just as beautiful in triple-digit heat, but not as fun to go see, if you know what I mean. So, after an hour and a half's drive through the scenic Mojave Desert, past Lucerne Valley, Yucca Valley, and into Joshua Tree (almost to 29 Palms), we entered the park. Allison stumped up for the $15 entrance fee, bless her heart. We spent a delightful morning just touring the place. Under the slantwise glow of the winter sun, in the near-chill of the Southern California winter air, it was a sublime sight. We drove to Keys Vista and took a good look out over the Coachella Valley, Palm Springs, Mount San Jacinto, and the Salton Sea. 'Fraid I don't have any images of that epic vista to share with you, though. Allison got better photos than I did. Her Kodak is actually set up to take panoramic pictures, which came out wickedly, awesomely, monstrously cool and downright breathtaking. (Besides, if I put a picture of the view up here on Blogger, you wouldn't have to go and see actually visit the park and see it for yourselves, now would you?) Then we began a slow dogleg back through the park to find somewhere to have lunch. We passed by Saddle Rock... ...and the Hall of Horrors, which was so distinctly named that I couldn't resist having a look-see. The look-see inevitably turned into a look-climb. I'm particularly glad Allison took that last photograph. I look just like Indiana Jones, don't I? I strained my left gluteus maximus rather badly climbing down, but apart from that, there were no mishaps. We elected to stop by the Jumbo Rocks for lunch on our way out of the park. Both of us noticed that our time together was rapidly developing a theme: "big." On the way home from Vegas, we'd stopped by Whiskey Pete's Resort & Casino in Primm, Nevada. The only eatery that had been open was the Mega Café. Now we would be eating at the Jumbo Rocks. Two big things in as many days. So we both agreed to try and keep the big theme going if we had a chance. We found a nice spot amid the rocks, out of the wind, and relatively free of dive-bombing crows, and ate our sandwiches, talking of this and that. Things couldn't have been going better, in my opinion. The weather was beautiful, I hadn't committed any massive mistakes (navigation-related or otherwise), and I had a lovely woman and an old friend sitting next to me, in the midst of one of the most gorgeous bits of Mother Earth to be found. Life was pure-D wonderful. And so we finished lunch, got back inside Roger, and headed out. Oh yes, Roger! How could I forget? Allison helped me name my Jeep. Now, normally I don't name cars. Most guys don't. Statistically speaking, women are more likely to name cars than men. Just another notch in my metrosexual belt, I guess. I don't mind. My '96 Ford Taurus was named "Chester" and I never saw any reason to change that. Now that I had acquired a '95 Jeep Cherokee, my naming skills had vanished in a puff of exhaust. Not that I was consciously trying to name the Jeep, mind you. But whenever the idea of naming it popped into my head, my subconscious couldn't help but start simmering away, mulling over possible monikers. I was stuck in that respect. All of the names that had popped into my head were nouns. Moreover, they were the names of other SUVs, already taken: Ranger, Rover, Explorer, and so on. That simply wouldn't do. So, imagine my surprise when, lo and behold, Allison turns to me moments after we pull onto the I-15 going away from Las Vegas and says: "So, have you thought up a name for your car yet?" I allowed I hadn't. She said, "That's okay. Leave it to me. I'm pretty good at naming things." She wasn't kidding, either. Her previous car was named "Sophie." So, as we pulled away from the Jumbo Rocks that bright fall morning in Joshua Tree, and the Jeep was grumbling and growling up a hill, it seemed as though a word of encouragement was in order. But I couldn't just say, "Come on, Jeep!" I needed a name. So I turned to Allison and said, "Any luck coming up with a name for this thing?" "Oh yeah!" she cried, remembering. "Hmmm..." She thought for just a second or two. "Roger," she pronounced. I liked it. Never met a Roger I hadn't liked. "Jolly Roger" was the collective name bloodthirsty pirates once bestowed on their sinister black flags. "Gold Roger" was the name of an infamous buccaneer in my favorite Japanese comic book, One Piece. "Roger" is the name of Pongo's owner in Disney's 101 Dalmatians. I also mistakenly believed that Roger was the first name (?) of John C. Frémont, the famed U.S. explorer and politician. Circumstances seemed to favor that name. So I said heck yes, and the rest came easily. "Come on, Roger!" I encouraged. Roger grumbled and growled a little more, then hoisted us to the top of the hill. Christen accomplished. We drove down, down, down, and came out through the northeast park exit, in 29 Palms. We drove back through Joshua Tree on the CA-62, got back on the 247 and headed home. The original plan had been to go out on the town with the family that night. But Allison and I were both so tired from getting up early and driving all day that we just decided to stay in. Once again, Alli proved what a good guest and honorable friend she was. She offered to cook dinner, and suggested I invite some of my friends over for her to meet. So I called up John and Chris. Mom and Dad excused themselves for the evening, heading down to Las Brisas (a groovy Mexican restaurant on the outskirts of town). Harlan, Chris, John, Alli and I had a pretty darn good dinner party. Alli made enchilasagna, enchiladas made lasagna-style (without rolling the tortillas). It was A-B-S-O-L-U-T-E-L-Y G-O-R-G-E-O-U-S. With a capital "A" and "G." And a capital "B," "S," "O," "L"...well, you get the picture. Man, Alli's a good cook. The enchilasagna was a layer cake of flour tortillas, ground beef, onions, four different kinds of cheese, and both green AND red sauce. It was so delicious that it disappeared. Between the five of us, we killed it. Couldn't resist. Everybody had thirds. We were hooked on the stuff. There followed about an hour's worth of some of the raunchiest conversation I have ever been involved in, courtesy of John and Chris. Both of 'em are dirty-minded enough on their own, but when they get together, oh mother do they get blue. They'd have made Tiger Woods's porn star mistress blush, I reckon. (Even so, not even the two of them together could equal Wade, the head teacher at my bartender's school in Riverside...funny how we always start out talking about alcoholic beverages and wind up talking about perverted homosexual practices.) Alli was a champ. Despite being a good Lutheran girl from straight-laced North Dakota, she never once got offended. On the contrary, she was laughing and giggling and giving it back. I was impressed. Not that I expected any less of her, but damn, that girl just keeps impressing me right and left. She sure is something. Finally the party broke up. John and Chris went home, I cleaned up the kitchen, and then Harlan and Alli and I had a few rousing games of Bananagrams. For those unlucky people in the audience who don't know what this game is, boy have you been missing out. Imagine a crossword puzzle without the board. You get a bunch of lettered tiles, like you would in Scrabble, only you have to race to put together words with them (without having any left over) before your opponents do. You have a big pile in the middle and as soon as you get finished making all of your words, you yell "PEEL" and everybody has to take another tile and then keep making words. It's a challenge, but a zealously fun challenge for would-be wordsmiths like yours truly. We played for a good long while, and then went to bed: Alli in her room and I on my cot. My head whirred with what I'd seen and done that day. And I knew it was just going to get better. For tomorrow, we would brave smog and crowds and highways and danger in our determined quest for... ...UNIVERSAL STUDIOS, HOLLYWOOD! Stay tuned.

cocktail review no. 22 - Hot Buttered Rum

I do believe I promised you a hot drink. This is the first hot drink I've ever made, and (as always) I made some mistakes while making it. But on this dark, cold, windy, rainy December night in the desert, it still tasted grand regardless. (It helps that I also have access to a dozen Christmas albums, a loving family, and a wood stove. Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is civilization.)

• 1 teaspoon brown sugar
• 4 ounces boiling water
• 2 ounces dark rum
• 1 whole clove
• 1 teaspoon unsalted butter
• ¼ teaspoon grated nutmeg

In an Irish coffee glass, combine the brown sugar and boiling water. Stir until the sugar is dissolved. Add the rum and the clove. Float the butter and sprinkle nutmeg on top. I know rum is from the Caribbean, but I have to say, after tasting this drink, that I believe the concept of hot buttered rum was the driving force behind rum's invention. Hot buttered rum is amazingly good, and seems to capture the flavor of wintertime and the holidays better than anything else I've had (so far). I've never had Irish coffee, so I'd better reserve judgment until I do. I did everything right up until the "float the butter" part. I cut off a teaspoon's worth of butter from the stick, dropped it into the steaming water...and realized that I had no clue where Mom keeps the nutmeg. There followed five minutes of rooting around in the spice cabinet. During this intermission, the butter melted. Undaunted, I took the elusive nutmeg and sprinkled some liberally onto the liquid's surface, then took a sip. The four hours of Southern California traffic I'd endured (and the pile of rain, fog and wind on top of it) melted away instantly. This is one of those drinks that's impossible to describe articulately. Unless "ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" is a word. The rum provides a tasty baseline for the clove, nutmeg and brown sugar to rest on and give off their spicy aromas and flavors. And the temperature of the thing is not to be underestimated. If you've just come in out of the cold after a hard day (as I have)...this is the drink for you. Sip it slowly, it packs a wallop. A good, homey, Christmasy sort of wallop.