why I hate Singapore

Apart from the stinking heat and humidity, the enforced sterility of the streets, the craven pandering to foreign investors and tourists, the banal plague of trendy Western department stores and fast-food chains, the parsimonious pedagoguery of the government, and the ridiculous expense...

...there were three things about Singapore I truly despised. 

First, this was the name of one of the Chinese restaurants near the check-in counters at Changi Airport:

Second, Changi Airport itself. The first thing that struck me about the place (apart from the above sign) was the lack of a security checkpoint. I obtained my boarding passes, got an exit stamp in my passport, and boom: there I was in the concourse. I turned left and walked to my gate. It was about ten o'clock in the evening and there wasn't much activity in the duty-free shops or coffeehouses. Most folks were curled up in the darkened departure lounges, several of which had fully-reclining seats. Snores, grumbles, and muted conversation permeated the recirculated air, making me feel like I was creeping through a dormitory after lights-out. 

Then I noticed that there were glass walls enclosing each gate, which could only be accessed through thick double doors (also of glass), behind each of which was a miniature security checkpoint. 

Ah, I remember thinking. Now that is nifty. Instead of waiting in an endless queue with everyone else in the damn airport, you'll only be waiting in line with the people aboard your particular flight. 

Then I sat down and tried to access the Internet. 

Now, I know what you're going to say. What a spoiled, privileged little white brat, hung up on his First World problems. No Internet, boo-hoo-hoo. Man up and read a book or something, chickenshit. 

And you'd be justified in saying that. But I'll declare, here and now, that the cussed Internet provided a vital link between me and (a) my lonely fiancée and (b) my terrified parents. Okay, maybe not terrified. But definitely leery of some the places I'd be passing through. I'd agreed, like any good son, to keep in close contact with my folks during my 27-day jaunt through Southeast Asia, e-mailing them whenever I arrived at or departed a new bailiwick. Even Paul Theroux phones home on occasion. Sue me. 

I couldn't access the Internet at Changi Airport. 

Why? 

Because the password could only be found on placards hung upon the wall of the departure gate. On the other side of those locked glass doors. Which wouldn't open until 12:50 a.m., an hour before our departure time. You could have the codes texted to your phone, but I didn't have a phone. 

This was tyranny, plain and simple. In any American or Korean airport you could breeze through security two or three hours beforehand and then laze around the concourse, surfing the Web, drinking coffee, eating unhealthy snacks, and splattering your smelly body, your grubby coat, your crumpled hat, and your electronic gadgetry over an entire row of benches. 

Apparently they frown on that sort of thing in Singapore. 

My American sensibilities were offended on the deepest of levels. Up to that point I had patiently put up with the pettifogging Singaporeans and their absurd laws: the bans against spitting and chewing gum and graffiti and the ridiculous fines for littering and not flushing public toilets. But this was simply too much. The prejudice leveled against some saphead tourist who showed up to Changi Airport with an iPad and no cell phone three hours early for his flight, who just wanted to contact his loved ones and let them know that he wasn't sitting in some whorehouse in Johor Bahru, shooting heroin and contracting all sorts of blood-borne diseases, was outrageous.

When the security agents finally did open up those thick glass doors and started letting us through security, the final nail was driven into Singapore's coffin. I had a grooming kit in my backpack. It wasn't expensive or irreplaceable by any means, but it had been a treasured gift from my parents—a tacit acknowledgement that I was a man, and was capable of looking after myself on my own. In it was a pair of beard-trimming scissors. I had successfully passed through security at Gimpo Airport with those very same scissors. There was no reason whatsoever for the svelte, fruity-voiced Indian lady in the blue button-down shirt and black tie and slacks to pull me out of line. But she did. She ordered me to empty my bag. She confiscated several bottles of suntan lotion which were too large. That was fine by me; I'd plumb forgot they were in there. But then she ordered me to open the grooming kit. I unzipped the small black leather case an opened it like a book, holding it out for her to see. I was writhing with impatience. The entire contents of my pack were scattered across the cold, hard, unfeeling stainless steel of the exam table, and my fellow passengers were scooting impatiently past me to get into the lounge proper. I felt naked, like someone had pantsed me in public. I was anxious to sit down, jack in, and contact home. I was half-crazed with outrage. 

"You cannot take these aboard the plane," said the security agent, her sultry eyes sunk deeply into their sockets, caked with mascara and purple eye shadow beneath plucked eyebrows, snatching the beard-trimming scissors and waggling them under my nose. 

It was then, ladies and gentlemen, that the Vaunter did something he has never, ever done in his entire life. He questioned authority. 

"Why not?" I demanded. "They're mine. They belong to me. I brought them through other airports' security lines just fine." 

"Well, I'm sorry," she said, sounding as sincere as anyone else who has to say "sorry" eighty billion times a day in their line of work. "But I cannot allow you to bring these aboard." 

"Why?" I demanded. I again brought up the other airports which had so freely and eagerly allowed me to pass, beard-trimming scissors in hand. I battled her for five minutes over those beard-trimming scissors. She kept repeating the same dull old lines. No can do. Can't be allowed. Couldn't possibly. She at least had the decency not to claim that the tiny half-inch scissor blades could be used as weapons, perhaps in a desperate bid to take over the plane and crash it into the Marina Bay Sands Hotel. Finally, understanding that I was making no headway, and would probably have to take a different flight if I kept this malarkey up, I relented. 

"Well, all right then," I said, grudgingly, sounding exactly like my dad did when I was a kid and I did something idiotic in his presence that he was powerless to halt or avert. 

I began to give the Indian lady my address, so she could mail the scissors to me. She looked confused for a moment, and then she interrupted. 

"No, no, no," she said. "No mail. Confiscation." 

I stood there for a moment, blinking, not comprehending. From way deep down in my brain, there was the sound like a twig snapping in the woods on a dark, frozen, snowy night.

"What?" I asked. "You're confiscating them?"

"Yes," she said, moving away to deposit my things in a bin, but (wisely) not turning her back to me. 

"But they're my scissors."

"We cannot mail them to you. They are being confiscated."

"What's going to happen to them?" 

"I don't know." 

Both of us knew perfectly well. Incineration, probably. Garbage. Waste. Somehow I didn't see Singapore as being the kind of place that would have an Unclaimed Baggage Center. 

"Those are my property, miss," I huffed. I was riding high. The anger endorphins were pulsing through my brain and veins, lifting me higher than the plane I was about to board. I'd never, ever challenged a security agent at an airport, or an authority figure of any kind, really. It was intoxicating. I felt powerful. I felt manly. I felt assertive. And I felt truculent. The more adamant and insurmountable the wall of red tape and bureaucratic posturing erected before me was, the harder I wanted to push against it, headbutt it, knock it down, crumbling and tumbling. 

"Why?" I demanded, my voice calm and clear and cool like a freshwater spring, but with a welter of venomous alkali beneath it. "Why can't you mail them back to me? Why are you confiscating my property?" 

She raised her arms, spread her hands out wide in a full-body shrug. 

"It's Singapore!" she declared, with a faint smile, a pathetic attempt at mollification—or perhaps admission of guilt. It was the sheepish grin of a thief caught red-handed, a shy junior member of a gang of thugs being cross-examined in the dock. 

And in that moment, I saw the futility of my enterprise. The wall was too high and too thick. For the briefest instant I was able to step outside of myself, outside Changi Airport, outside Singapore, and see it as I had from the highest reaches of the Flyer the previous evening—the whole cockamamie place with its dumbass laws and its indentured populace. Poor buggers, I mused. I looked at the Indian woman, her arms outstretched and her shoulders hunched, looking like some stupid scarecrow inexpertly nailed up. 

I said, "Fine." I slapped my lobotomized grooming kit shut and zipped it up. I crammed the disemboweled guts of my pack back inside and lugged the thing off the heavy steel table. I didn't give the security agent another glance. In the time it had taken for us to have our little chinwag, practically every other passenger had gone through, and every seat in the lounge was now taken. I plonked myself on the floor, took out the iPad, checked in with everyone at home, and in twenty minutes it was boarding time. I sat and sulked during the entire four-hour flight to Hong Kong. 

And that, ladies and gents, is why I hate Singapore.

a brief glimpse of Nanning

There really isn't much to say about the remainder of my journey through China on July 13th. I managed—just barely—to make my connection in Kunming at around four o'clock. Even so had the flight not been delayed, I'd have missed it. As I sprinted through the airy, crowded, never-ending concourse I found myself wishing that I could've taken photos of this amazing airport and the mist-shrouded, awe-inspiring mountains surrounding it. 

The transfer at Nanning was annoying. I had to go through security for the fourth freakin' time. The airport was ancient, the roof leaky, the rafters rusty, the X-ray machines antique, the employees confused and overawed by the sudden influx of people, and the rain warm, heavy, and wet. It came bucketing down on us during our bus transfers to and from the terminal as though to give us a little preview of Indochina. 

Let's just say that I got in to Hanoi in the late afternoon after the last hour-long hop across the Vietnamese border. I peered hawkishly out of the porthole and saw a fair verdant country dotted with stands of banana trees, hummocky hills with tousled hair, and rice paddies the color of chai. It didn't look too different from Korea from the air, just wetter. 

What really astounded me were the clouds: heaps of low-lying cumulonimbus, heavily pregnant with rain and choking up the airways at 10,000 feet. Spires, pillars, minarets, enormous castles with crenelated keeps and battlements, men-o'-war with all sails flying, puffy white battleships with jagged conning towers, swirls of ice cream with Reddi-wip on top, thundering stampedes of gout-stricken buffalo and cancerous bull rhinos in full gallop. I saw all these shapes and more in the packed skies as we descended into Hanoi.

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... 

30 Days to a Better Man, Day 1: define your core values

A natural consequence of my life as an autodidact was the realization that, in addition to improving my mental capacity, I could stand to improve other aspects myself as well. Man does not eat of the Tree of Knowledge alone. There's a lot about me that could use some work. I'm in horrible shape, for one thing. And the term "emotional health" makes me, a red-blooded American man, think "Ewww, cooties." I could definitely use a shot of confidence, too. I've written hundreds of thousands of words and haven't gotten a single novelette published.

So! To that end, I hit upon the idea of doing Art of Manliness's Be a Better Man in 30 Days challenge. Why not? It can only help, right? Another year has gone by. It's January 1, 2014. I have once again realized how much of a lazy slob I can be, and how lacking in the most basic manly competencies I am. It's time to take matters in hand, and this challenge is just what the doctor ordered. I'm twiddling my thumbs at home for the entire month of January, and this will dovetail nicely with my writing-and-exercise regimen. The benefits are twofold: I'll be shouldering a new challenge (which has become a hobby of mine recently) and I'll take a delightful romp through the well-trod but classy Garden of Manliness. Classical manliness, none of this Billie Joe Armstrong skinny-jeans-and-eyeliner emo crap.

I understand, of course, that no Internet article can tell you how to be a man. But it can give you some handy tips on how to run your life, which if followed can improve the average man's mental, physical, financial and emotional well-being. If I take some of these lessons to heart, this challenge will make me more independent and confident in my doings, give me a more versatile skill set, impart clarity and certainty to my beliefs, and make my life just plain simpler.

This, then, is Day 1: Define Your Core Values.

I've been messing around on AoM for some time and they have a plethora of useful, timely, relevant, well-written and pithy articles. I agree with their judgment that manliness is a lost art, and much effort should be put into bringing it back. I've actually attempted a few of the items on this list already (and some of them I've already done), but not this one.

The main idea behind this challenge, as AoM states, is simple:

When I look at photos of men from my grandfather’s and even my dad’s generation, I can see a sense of purpose in the eyes of those men. Yet when I look at men today, I often don’t sense that kind of steely focus. Instead, I see dudes who are just sort of drifting along whichever way life pulls them. 

I’ve heard a lot of men my age complain of a sense of shiftlessness. They don’t have the drive, purpose, and ambition that our forebears had, and they feel adrift.

And this isn’t some sort of cranky old man observation about “kids these days.” Several books and articles by sociologists back up these observations.

There are numerous factors why men are just sort of drifting by today. Changes in the economy and societal shifts in regards to gender are definitely two major factors. But, let’s be honest. There’s not much a man, let alone a man stuck in neutral, can do about these things. So, today we’re going to focus on something that we all have the power to control: our core values.

I used to be a drifter. I was indecisive, dissolute, hedonistic, and lazy. I was just sort of coasting along all through my early twenties. I wanted to travel, I wanted to write, I wanted to fly, but I didn't have the drive to accomplish these things, or even a clear idea of how or when I would do it.

Today, I've learned better. I'm still indecisive, dissolute, hedonistic, and lazy, but now I actually care enough to do something about it.

I followed the directions outlined in the article and I came up with some ideas for core values, scribbling them down in one of the trusty notebooks scattered about my apartment. I'm putting them up here because I need to have accountability. I would like you, dear readers, to call me on anything I've put down which is weak or vague or unworthy. Censor me, if you will. Cherish the opportunity, for it shan't come again.

Without further ado, reproduced here for your consideration, are my core values: 

     1. CONFIDENCE. The lack of this has plagued me my whole life. It's kept me from leaping at opportunities that I would have cherished: submitting short stories and travel articles for publication, dancing with pretty girls, shouldering new responsibilities at work, acting in school plays, volunteering at magic shows and carnivals, and taking helicopter rides, to name a few. (That is correct: at the age of six I chickened out on riding in a helicopter. Me, the future pilot.) Confidence is hard work, but it's infinitely rewarding. I learned that when I got my pilot's license. When I first started flying, I was deathly afraid of screwing up and crashing. Overcoming that fear and becoming a more proficient flier made me more confident man. I'll never forget that feeling of triumph. Nowadays, even if I'm not sure I can do something, I give it a shot anyway. When I'm afraid of something, I have to challenge it. I have the confidence to pursue my goals, voice my opinions, and stand against the liars and fools. 

     2. HUMOR. An odd one, perhaps, but this has been a core value of mine ever since I was a kid. It's how I got through high school. Making people laugh was the only way I knew to get noticed, to be remembered, to be somebody. Subsequently I discovered just how genuinely good it felt to make people laugh or just crack a smile. Humor puts people at ease, smooths over conflicts, breaks the ice, and brightens a dark day. It's been my constant companion, even if I don't do it right all the time. 

     3. INTEGRITY. This is where I'm the most deficient. I am the most dissolute bugger ever. For the past five years I've promised myself that this year, I'll get in shape. Every year I continue to sit around on my duff and eat horrendous food. My natural inclination toward hedonism and Epicureanism have undermined my attempts to be healthy and get in shape. It's not just the physical arena that needs improvement, though. I often promise people (or myself) that I'll be more assiduous in my habits or more careful about my words, and then I'll turn around and commit the same old sins. I can be ill-tempered, impatient, selfish, hypocritical, immoderate, lazy, excoriating, insulting or just downright cruel at times. No more. A true man, in my opinion, does what he says he's going to do. And he only says he's going to do it once: he doesn't keep making the same promises over and over. Less talk, more action — consistent action. That shall be a clearly-defined value of mine from hereon out. There's nothing more satisfying than saying something and meaning it — and then living by it.

   

     4. GROWTH. Perhaps the most general of my values. There's a lot that falls under the label of "growth." It encapsulates all of the above values, for starters. I want to become more confident, more humorous and more consistent. Beyond that, though, I want to be smarter. I want to learn about the stuff I don't know about, fill in the gaps in my brain, continue by never-ending quest for knowledge. More importantly, I want to be wiser. At 27, I've experienced a few of life's lessons and learned them well; some of them I'm only just coming to know. Others surely await in the dim and unknown future. I want to be the kind of man that laughs at hardship and strives harder in adversity. I must learn to be kind to the unkind, forgiving to the unworthy, and temperate in all things. I want to be stronger (mentally and physically), funnier, kinder, and more discreet. I want to sharpen my skills, hone my mind, sculpt my personality, reflect upon life itself. I believe in being true to myself, my home, my relatives, my friends, my loved ones and my upbringing — to have that integrity I mentioned above. But I believe in the journey also. I hope I never stop learning to write, to fly, to be a human being.  

 

     5. LEGACY. Values are not goals. They are not something you strive for, nor boxes to be filled in, nor items to be scratched off a list. They are values: adamantine beliefs which I hold and cleave to. And I believe, firmly, that I have a job to do here. There's some karma that controls my destiny. I have a purpose to fulfill (and fulfilling it will be very fulfilling). That purpose, dear reader, is not my personal contentment. I used to believe it was, but I've come to know better. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said (emphasis mine), "The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well." There you are: my job is not to be happy, but to be a useful man, not a waste of space. I hold Emerson's words in my mind every day. The purpose of my life is to live well and make a difference. What difference? Will I reinvent the wheel? Cure cancer? Bring world peace? Champion a new age? Well, no. Probably not. I don't want to, either. I'll leave that to the dreamers and the eggheads. I'm just a humble geek and inveterate hack writer. All I want to do is write a bunch of books that make people laugh, cry, smile, scratch their heads, and wonder about the true nature of humanity and the Universe we live in. That's all. If some post-human race from the year 10,000,000 A.D. finds one of my sci-fi novels in a time capsule, translates the barbaric chicken scratch on its wood-pulp pages, and is somewhat amused by the comradeship and high adventure within...then my time on Earth wasn't wasted. 

That's it. Five core values. They have been defined for your reading pleasure. AoM says you're not supposed to have more than five, and I concur. Five's a goodly amount. Any more and you start to forget what you stand for, and making correct choices becomes more difficult. It wasn't hard to think of these. I've been mulling them over for quite some time. Perhaps I've known them all along, and had to put words to them to understand them completely. I'm glad I did.

So there you have it, readers! The things I stand for. Are they satisfactory to you? Suitably explained and outlined? If so, then the ball is in your court. Don't accept any more of my pathetic excuses. If I say I can't do something, or make a poor choice, call me on it. Use my own values against me. Delineating them is only half the battle; living up to them is the other. I'm going to try to do that for the rest of this month...and beyond. Tune in tomorrow for Day 2.

Oh, and Happy New Year.

Beijing and back

We're back! And there's so much to do: clean the cat's litter box (and spray some air freshener), write e-mails to family members (I didn't have access to Facebook, Gmail or Blogger while in Beijing) and just generally dust the apartment off. We have a visit to Techno Mart in mind as well, and then Parmesan chicken salad for dinner. But there's still time for some bloggin'.

As promised, here's the first of many posts about our three-day sojourn in China:

Beijing's location within greater China. From Wikimedia Commons.

Aah, China. Nothing could have prepared me for it: neither the good nor the bad. It was my first time setting foot on mainland Asia—or at least a part of Asia that wasn't the tip of a peninsula cut off from the rest of the continent by the world's most heavily fortified land border. During the first 24 hours, I ate duck, scorpion and bullfrog. I rode a toboggan away from the Great Wall, a set foot in a communist country, and I discovered the glory of flying in business class.

That's right: our trip got off to a good start. Miss H and I got unexpectedly bumped up on our Air China flight across the Yellow Sea. Due to an overbooking or something, our tickets were upgraded to business class.

And you wanna know the poetical part? Miss H and I have never flown together before. Not commercially, anyway. I've taken her for rides in a Cessna 172, but this was our first flight on a big ol' jetliner. And we got bumped up to business class. On a flight to Beijing. Ain't that something?

I'd heard about business class from some of my more well-off students, and I'd caught tantalizing glimpses as I boarded commercial flights in the past. But I'd never actually stumped up for it. I don't think I can ever go back. We had all the fixin's: the latest newspapers, hot towels, free-flowing beverages, reclining seats, entertainment galore, and (best of all) plenty of legroom.

I passed the hour-and-40-minute flight like any sophisticated world traveler would: with his feet up and a good book in his hands. And a Star Wars T-shirt on.

After getting off the plane, Miss H, Miss J and I waltzed into the impressive international terminal of Peking International Airport.

We plowed through immigration (thanks to the visas we paid ₩215,000 apiece for), and found ourselves at a taxi stop. We were snapped up by a tallish man with close-cropped hair, a lined face and big rough hands, in a short-sleeved button-down shirt and slacks. He brought us to his minivan, a greasy, grimy thing (like most of the cars in Beijing) and gestured us into it. We impressed upon him that we were heading for the Novotel Xin Qiao, which we somehow managed to pronounce correctly. The rate card said 650 yuan ($108) for the trip, but our driver insisted on 700 ($116). We were neophytes at the haggling game and desperate to boot, so we said yes. The driver jumped in and off we went.

I kept my nose glued to the window for most of the ride. My brain was buzzing. For years I've compared and contrasted Japan, China, and South Korea, both mentally and in writing. Now was my chance. I could finally appraise Beijing as it stacked up against Seoul and Tokyo, and divine the character of capital-dwelling Chinese.

My first impressions weren't good. Beijing was as smoggy as I'd heard. The sunset was an apocalyptic crimson, and vanished rapidly into the grayish void which extended 15 degrees above the horizon. The buildings were blocky and featureless, monuments to Stalinism, and they didn't give the city a welcoming air. The few people I saw on the streets looked rushed, harried, and miserable.

Matters improved when we lugged our baggage out of the hazy, stale air and into the bright, cool lobby of the Novotel Xin Qiao. Our room was spacious and comfortable, with all the amenities. The hotel itself was laden with restaurants, a convenience store, a bar, a bakery, and a spa. Best yet, we were centrally located, only a few blocks from most of the stuff worth seeing.

With that in mind, we dumped off our stuff in our rooms, took a thirty-minute rest, and then headed out into the cool, moist darkness of northeast China for the first item on our to-do list: DONGHUAMEN NIGHT MARKET. Tune in tomorrow for that one. I eat scorpions.

the Sumida River cruise

I just wanted you schmucks to know that, in true Postman style, I completed every single goddamn item on my Day-One-of-Tokyo to-do list...and then some. Let's start from the beginning.

I arrived in Tokyo in the late afternoon of July 30. I was delayed about 15 minutes getting off that big Boeing 777, 'cause there was some other plane at the gate having maintenance issues. Or talking to its mother and having an existential crisis and not wanting to fly again until it knew who it really was, an MD80 or a CRJ-700. One of the two. So. I got through immigration and customs without any trouble (but for the fact that the immigration guy stole my customs form and I had to fill out a second one). Then it was out into the steamy Tokyo air.

...yeah, right. Not really. It was down into the bowels of the steamy Narita train station. Narita, as it happens, is about as far from central Tokyo (48 miles) as Incheon Airport is from Seoul (43 miles). As such, you need to take a special train to get to and from there, and you have three or four choices. I thought 30 American dollars for the red-colored JR Narita Express was a bit much. So I took the blue Skyliner to Ueno (northeast Tokyo) for just over two thousand yen, or $20. I lugged everything down to the platform, loaded up, and enjoyed a cushy, air-conditioned, 39-minute ride through Chiba Prefecture and into town. But then I had to switch to the Tokyo Metro at Ueno, and ride seven or so stops to Kyobashi Station. This was the worst part of the trip. I was still in the pants and coat I had worn upon leaving Los Angeles, and everything was stuck fast to me by the time I lugged my 50-pound suitcase up the tiny station stairwell to street level. Man, it was hot and muggy. I began to have serious concerns about the remainder of the trip. I don't do humidity. Thankfully my capsule hotel was right around the corner.

Wait, what? You never heard of a capsule hotel?

Didn't think so. Here's what it looks like:

I'll explain the bottle of whisky later. Be patient.

Capsule hotels come in many shapes and sizes. Some of them are like mortuaries, with people climbing in headfirst and sleeping with their feet toward the hallway in tiny caskets arranged like honeycomb. Not me. My hotel, the First Inn Kyobashi (¥3000 per night), was sort of like enclosed bunk beds. It was very convenient. There were lockers for guests' luggage, a shared Japanese-style bathroom on the first floor, shower stalls and sinks in the basement, restrooms on every floor, and just to prevent anything weird from happening at nights, the floors were segregated by sex. The evens were female floors and the odds were male. In each capsule was a lamp, a radio, a coin-op television, an alarm clock, blankets, a pillow, and a pair of pajamas. Towels and washcloths were also provided for free. After I turned out the lights, I spent a very peaceful six hours clutching the handle of my unsecured suitcase and wondering if I was going to have to shank a sneak-thief in the middle of the night.

The only downside to a capsule hotel, to my mind, is that you can hear everything your fellow sleepers are doing. I heard people rolling over. Thankfully there were no snorers around (except for me). I must have driven my capsule-mates crazy at 6:30 a.m. when I woke up, banged open my locker, unzipped and repacked my suitcases, stumbled downstairs for a shower, and dragged everything out of there. (Sorry guys.)

I stowed my excess baggage in the coin lockers at Kyobashi Station and used the free Wi-Fi. Japanese stations are convenient, but more run-down and dingy than Seoul's. After I'd checked in with everybody important, I set off for my first goal: the Sumida River cruise. I rode the Ginza (orange) line all the way up to Asakusa, on the northeastern edge of the city center. A short walk around the corner brought me to the waterbus station.

What's a waterbus?

If you took a double-decker bus and flattened it out so it looked more like a flounder than a vehicle and gave it a hull and screws and a rudder, then you'd wind up with something that wasn't completely like a waterbus, but which people who saw these monstrosities gadding up and down the river would find disturbingly familiar. There's a reason behind these halibut-shaped contraptions, too: the twelve bridges on the lower Sumida River are close to the water. Like, really close. Some of 'em are as low as 15 feet. Nothing a canoe or a rowboat couldn't handle, but a waterbus? I felt like ducking as we went under.

Here's some of the pics I took while out on the cruise:

 

I apologize for the poor image composition, but I'm a budding photographer, not a greenhouse full of chrysanthemums (the national flower of Japan). Most of these images (and most of the ones I took in Japan, actually) were just me fooling around with different angles, settings, and lens adjustments. I haven't even opened the manual for my new Canon Rebel T3i yet...

Now, you'll notice that in the last two pictures, a whole lot of greenery starts to come into the picture. That's the HAMARIKYU ONSHI-TEIEN, the former Imperial falconry ground, now a public park and garden abutting Tokyo Bay, where the waterbus dumped me off. But that's a story for another day. As in, tomorrow.

Stay tuned... 

a tale of three cities

I have returned from Japan.

I concluded the lovely month of July at home with my family, packed up, said my goodbyes, and hopped on a jet plane for Tokyo on July 31, there to spend eight days touring the country. As of August 8, I'm back in Seoul, wallowing in the heat and humidity and cat hair, reunited with Miss H and loving it. (And the best part is, my vacation's only half over.)

But I need to tell you about the jaunt through Japan, don't I? This is a travel blog, after all. So here goes. First, a few short words to set the scene:

I planned the whole affair out in advance, which is unusual for me. Usually I just go and pants it. When I went to the British Isles in 2010, I had only the vaguest idea of what I'd be doing and seeing, and where I'd be staying. I knew I wanted to hit Newcastle, Edinburgh and Dublin, but that was as specific as it got. My train tickets, flight tickets and hostels were all booked after I got there. It was somewhat slapdash, but it worked out.

Knowing, as I did, that I had only a limited amount of time to see Japan, and not wanting to spend a fortune there, I did some advance planning this time around. I chose to focus my vacation on three cities. Tokyo was an obvious choice, and Kyoto was acknowledged by many to be a must-see; but the third one was a curve ball. I picked Kumamoto. I won't go into details here about why I chose it; I'll let you know that when I get to those specific days. For now, I'm simply going to give you my route and the timing.

This was the plan, and a damn good one: July 31 through August 3, I'd be in Tokyo. Miss H and Miss J (from Bucheon) would meet me there late on the 31st and stay until the 2nd. Then they'd go home and I'd be on my own again for two days. August 4-5, I'd be in Kyoto, and August 6-7 I'd be in Kumamoto.

I've provided a map for your consideration. You can clearly see all three cities on this map (Kumamoto is down on Kyushu, the southernmost of the three big Home Islands):

Now, one of the things on my バケット list ("バケット" is Japanese for "bucket") was to ride the Shinkansen. Literally, that word means "new trunk line." It's synonymous with "Japanese bullet train." What better way to see the country (and get from Point A to Points B and C quickly) than by high-speed rail? With that in mind, I booked a seven-day Japan Rail Pass for $283 before I left the U.S. (Due to some regulation or other, you can't get the pass in Japan; you have to buy it and have it shipped to you outside the country.) This was a costly purchase, yes, but it was worth it. With the route I had imagined, I'd be making three separate rail journeys: Tokyo to Kyoto on August 4; Kyoto to Kumamoto on August 6; and Kumamoto to Fukuoka on August 8. A seven-day pass seemed like a wise decision, and it was, as I'd discover later.

Why was I taking the train to Fukuoka? Well, that's because the international ferry port was there. And not just any ferry port, either: Fukuoka is the jumping-off point for the high-speed ferries, the Boeing 929 Jetfoils. This, I determined, would be my conveyance from Kyushu back to Korea. I didn't want to fly (too expensive), so a ship was the only avenue left to me. Moreover I'd never traveled on an international ferry before, nor a hydrofoil. It seemed too good to pass up for the old baketto list.

I had a lot of difficulties threading my way through the Japanese webpages and phone numbers, but I finally managed to make a reservation with the Miraejet company. That turned out to be unnecessary...but you'll find that out later.

So there you go. From my old bedroom in my parents' house in the California desert, thanks to Google, Hotels.com, and Korea's English tourism website, I was able to book my entire Japan trip: the plane to Narita Airport, the capsule hotel in Tokyo, my standard hotels in Kyoto and Kumamoto, my bullet train pass and my Jetfoil ferry ticket. Too regimented a plan? Some might say so, but this was good for me: it meant I would have a schedule to keep and a goal to shoot for, and I wouldn't get waylaid in some city or other and spend all my hard-earned cash. And it would induce me to get off my duff and go out and see stuff despite the inevitable heat and humidity. So there you go: this plan was as much incentive as insurance.

Everything was set. Tokyo to Kyoto to Kumamoto by way of the bullet train, and then home on the international ferry. Eight days. The capital and the entire western half of Japan. A pilgrimage.

And...there was something else I intended to do in Japan. Something that could only take place once Miss H and our friend Miss J from Bucheon had met me in Tokyo. But you'll find out about that in due time.

It all began on July 31. And this is how it all fell out...

(Hey kids! Check back on Saturday for the first installment of the Vaunter's stay in Tokyo: THE SUMIDA RIVER CRUISE. He brought photos!)

cocktail review no. 69 - French 75

You thought I was going to do something dirty for this review, didn't you?

Admit it, you perverts, the only reason you even clicked over here is because of the number in the title, am I wrong? (I'm sure the word "French" doesn't hurt either.)

Well, my apologies. If you crept in here hoping to see a couple of French chicks doing something kinky, you're out of luck. This is the dirtiest you're going to get: the French 75 cocktail.

It's a classic one...or perhaps I should say a vintage one. You remember that coffee table book Vintage Cocktails I keep raving about? The one Miss H and I picked up at the Anthropologie in Victoria Gardens nearly two years ago?

The French 75 is one of that book's most prominent constituents. That is to say, it's got an entire two pages devoted to it (as do all the other drinks in the book)—a gorgeous color spread and a recipe written in crayon. There's some debate about whether the primary ingredient should be gin or cognac, but I'm sure you could use either one and still make a damn fine beverage.

I've heard that the drink was created in 1915 at the New York Bar in Paris by a fellow named Harry MacElhone. Rumor has it that ol' Harry (who would later come to own the New York Bar) created the drink specifically for returning WWI fighter pilots. It was so powerful, Harry said, that it felt like being on the receiving end of a French 75-millimeter howitzer. 

On that note, here's the recipe (as found in Vintage Cocktails): 

• 1.5 ounces V.S.O.P. cognac
• 1 ounce simple syrup
• 3/4 ounce lemon juice
• champagne

Shake the cognac, simple syrup and lemon juice together and strain into a flute. Fill the flute the rest of the way with champagne.

Just so you know, "V.S.O.P." stands for something. "V" is "very"; "S" is "special"; and "O.P." means "order of the prince." At least that's what this bartender has heard. A cognac may be "O.P." or "V.S." or just plain "S," but if it's "V.S.O.P.", then it's special stuff. Fit for a king (or a mighty good drink)!

And the French 75 is mighty good, I must say. I've had more powerful cocktails, but boy, this thing must have been a killer in 1915. I didn't think brandy and champagne would mix well, but they do.

Even so, brandy does go harmoniously with sugar and lemon juice. (Without the champagne, the French 75 is basically a Between the Sheets cocktail.) The addition of something sweet, tart, and fizzy like champagne does wonders for this libation's flavor and texture. We're given something to offset the sourness of the citrus and the dark spice of the brandy, and a lovely textural counterpoint in the carbonation. We've already seen that brandy mixes well with fizzy things (I think I reviewed a brandy and soda at one point, didn't I?). The French 75 bears that impression out. Even though this drink has four ingredients and therefore violates Dad's Golden Rule, it's still worth your while. So drink up!Wait, what's that?

You came here for something sultry, and by God you're not leaving without it?

Oh, all right. Here:

Now shut up and drink, you lecher.

off to Japan!

You know, a measly month doesn't seem like adequate recompense for 18 long months overseas. I mean, Korea ain't the gulag. Far from it. (It's the lime, turkey, bourbon and Mexican food gulag, but that's it.) But I forgot how easy and comfortable it is to live in one's own country, and how much I missed my folks. Now I'm staring down another 18 months in the LTBMF gulag before I can get back to it all.

That being said...I accomplished a lot this month.

Reunion with my extended family at a lake resort in Iowa? Check.

Eating the hell out of my favorite foods, including fleisch salad sandwiches (my favorite food in the whole Universe)? Check.

Reminding my mum and dad what I look like? Check.

Visiting my old haunts, like Victoria Gardens and Barnes & Noble and Total Wine & More (where I picked up a nice bottle of Hendrick's gin, lovely stuff)? Check.

Driving a convertible under a gorgeous California sunset while wearing a Hawaiian shirt and listening to Led Zeppelin on the radio? Check.

Shooting every gun I own? Check. (Dad and I are going trapshooting tomorrow, so we'll get the shotgun knocked off the list. Leave no gun unfired, that's my motto.)

Flying? Well, no. I'm out of currency. But I did stop by the dinky little Apple Valley Airport and see how everybody was doing. Not much has changed. The same old planes are parked out on the flight line, the same grey heads are chatting in the flight school, and so forth. Somebody's 18-year-old son is a flight instructor now. Jeez.

The only things I haven't done, in fact, would be eating at my favorite burger joint (that's also happening tomorrow) and finding my novel notes. I located my Bowie knife, my binoculars and my violin, but I'll be danged if I can find my piles of notes. I must have hid them so well that even I can't find 'em. Oh well. The outlines and prewriting are easy to forsake—as Stephen King would say, they probably aren't worth a tin shit anyway—but there were some lyrical snippets of dialogue in there, plus a few meritorious vignettes. I guess I'll just have to wing it until I come back to the States for good and unpack all those boxes.

Well, this is it. We're down to the wire. I leave on Monday. I'll lose a day traveling west (go jump in a lake, Phileas Fogg) and arrive in Tokyo on the 30th. I'll kick around town on the 31st—the Sumida River cruise, the Imperial Gardens—until Miss H and Miss J get in from Seoul in the afternoon. Then it's DISNEYLAND on the first of August. After H & J go home on the 2nd, I'll journey down through central and southern Japan in the shinkansen (bullet train), taking in Mount Fuji and Lake Biwa. I'll tour Kyoto for two days, petting monkeys and drooling over gold-plated buildings, then hop the train again for Kumamoto on the isle of Kyushu, spending the next 48 hours meditating in Reigando Cave and finding out who's buried in Miyamoto Musashi's tomb. Then it's to Fukuoka and the high-speed ferry to Busan, South Korea.

One of the other cool things about Kumamoto is that it's where Eiichiro Oda lives. He's the guy who writes and illustrates One Piece, my favorite manga/anime. It rather heavily influenced my magnum opus...

After that? For the month of August (school doesn't start up again until September), I was planning on finishing Novel #3, e-publishing Novel #2, and polishing Novel #1. Not to mention learning functional Korean. I really ought to be able to have a decent conversation by now instead of fumbling along like some chuckle-headed tourist.

There's also a humor site I'm writing regularly for now: Rabble Rouse the World. Check it out if you have the time. Ribald jests and laugh-tastic memes abound upon that literary pirate ship. Come aboard, mateys. Arrrrrrr.

I also intend to spend some of August finding all those charming Korean nooks and crannies that I haven't explored yet: Gangwon-do, for example, where the mountains and lakes and rocky beaches are. I just acquired a Canon EOS Rebel T3i, and after a bit of fiddling I'm sure I'll be a master photographer with it. So there ought to be gorgeous pictures of Japan, Korea, and environs pouring into this here blog come mid-August.

Stay tuned. You're in the front-row seat. You can't leave just when it's getting good!

2012...as it relates to 2013

Here's what I did this year. I...

• returned to Korea
• grew a beard
• learned how to play pinochle
• started playing cards with the fellas on Thursday nights
• rode the mugunghwa (the Korean diesel train)
• successfully completed my first NaNoWriMo
• explored five new cities
• sent socks to the D.P.R.K. via weather balloon
• familiarized myself with the Seoul subway system
• ate Jordanian food
• smoked a real Cuban cigar
• got interviewed by Reuters
• took a night cruise on the Han River
• went to the Seoul Zoo
• survived a typhoon (or two)
• climbed a 2,426-foot mountain
• took an interest in jazz
• filled up my liquor cabinet
• spent three hours at the National Museum of Seoul (and that was just the first floor)
• went bike-riding in the snow
• (finally) located the best hamburger in Seoul

And here's what I'm hoping to accomplish next year:

• become proficient in Korean
• pay off my credit card debts
• get some fiction published, including that NaNoWriMo novel
• lose the gut; improve flexibility and core strength
• ride the saemaeul (the second-fastest class of train in K-Land)
• foment good daily habits, such as stretching, exercising, yoga, writing, reading, and intellectual improvement
• change my Facebook cover photo only once a month
• acquaint myself with basic physics
• read 30 books
• bathe in both the Yellow Sea and the Sea of Japan
• visit the Busan Aquarium
• go to a jimjilbang (a Korean bathhouse)
• ride every line on the Seoul Metro
• look into Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Earl Hines, King Oliver, Sidney Bechet, Fats Waller, Count Basie, Miles Davis, and Thelonius Monk, and thereby augment my jazz collection
• find the best taco in Seoul

There's an item on this list that I haven't mentioned, because it seems apropos to discuss it in greater detail.

I'm going to make this blog more professional.

In 2009, when my English friend (known only as "A") told me to start a blog and use it as a repository for my travel writing endeavors, I didn't quite take his advice to heart. He intended for me to create a sort of electronic portfolio, a reference guide for prospective employers. That was and still is a sound idea. For almost four years now I've been using this blog as a creative outlet, but not as a vehicle to further my writing career.

That changes in 2013. I'm going to specialize. Instead of splattering myself all over the place and writing about booze, flying, literature, writing, and travel, I'll just do travel instead. Maybe the occasional cocktail review, we'll see. I'm mulling over the idea of starting up a secondary and perhaps even a tertiary blog to cover my aviation and literary pursuits, but those are still in the planning stages. Henceforth, however, "the Sententious Vaunter" shall cover travel, and travel only. You may want to sign off now if you ain't interested.

Also, in lieu of the new year and the overhauls intended for this blog, I've set up a new profile picture, one that's actually of me and not my favorite fictional character. So here I am, in all my glory: my favorite lumpy hat, my new and extra-fluffy scarf, my old military-style winter coat, and in my favorite chair. Blog heaven.

A very Happy New Year to you. Stay safe, enjoy your favorite tipple, and ring in 2013 with class.

SF reading wish-list

You know the story. No matter how many books you devour in a year, it seems like you wind up with a to-read list that's twice as long. For every book you read, two or three more rise up to take its place. This literary Lernaean Hydra has been plaguing me lately. I don't know what's going on. Maybe it's because I've gotten back into reading for pleasure now that I'm in Korea and working the afternoon shift.  Or it could be that I've decided to take a more proactive approach to my craft. Perhaps I just spend too much time on TV Tropes.

Whatever the reason, I'm going to share with you some of the titles on my reading list. Some of 'em are classics, as usual; and some of them are little-known series which deserve more love. If you're interested in seeing what's out there in the world of SF, both old and new, give the following litany your perusal.

Foundation by Isaac Asimov

Once again demonstrating his genius for creating credible and deeply speculative SF (with historical context), Asimov created the Foundation series, which went on to critical acclaim. The main character, Hari Seldon, is the creator of an esoteric school of mathematics called psychohistory, which draws upon the law of mass action to effectively predict the future on a large scale. Using his research, Seldon foresees the imminent collapse of the Galactic Empire, Seldon creates the "Foundation"—a hidden enclave at the end of the galaxy where all humanity's accumulated knowledge is stored. The series documents Seldon's struggle to establish the Foundation and the attempts by the remnants of humanity to reestablish the Empire according to "the Seldon Plan."

I picked up a few books in the series for a few thousand won from an outgoing English teacher. I figured I'd give it a read...even though Asimov's I, Robot is still sitting unread in a box back in my closet in California!

Airborn by Kenneth Oppel

Matt Cruse is a 15-year-old cabin boy working on the airship Aurora. One day the Aurora encounters a drifting zeppelin with a mysterious old man mumbling about "beautiful creatures," who dies shortly thereafter. A year later, the Aurora is brought down on a tropical island by air pirates, where Matt and the wealthy Kate de Vries discover the truth of the old man's maundering.

This is another series I heard about by clicking around on TV Tropes. I know absolutely nothing about these books, except that Adam Young likes them. I've always been a fan of aviation in general. But something about those tales of weird aircraft and zeppelins and air pirates (particularly in the context of steam punk and alternate history) sets my imagination on fire. The Airborn series has an added twist: strange creatures and scientific discovery. What could be more awesome?

Mortal Engines by Philip Reeve


It's a grim dystopian future. The Earth's crust has been ravaged by a horrific war. Human cities are no longer sedentary, but are mounted upon gigantic treads which roll about the cracked, blasted surface of Planet Earth. More horrific yet, these "Traction Cities" devour each other with huge mechanical jaws to gain precious resources. It's a dog-eat-dog world, and the outlook is pretty bleak. Throw in Earth's ancient technology, a few long-lost superweapons and a load of characters and you have a pretty decent story, if a rather dark one.

I know next to nothing about this series, but can't wait to get into it. Cities rolling about on giant caterpillar treads is something that's fascinated me ever since I saw the film John Carter (based on Edgar Rice Burroughs's Barsoom series). The Mortal Engines series has garnered quite a lot of (positive) critical attention, so at the very least it won't be a boring read, right? 

Midnight at the Well of Souls by Jack L. Chalker

This series edges farther toward fantasy than I'm usually comfortable with. The concept is convoluted, so bear with me. In the first book, we've got your typical space freighter, the Stehekin, captained by one Nathan Brazil. There's a bunch of other people on board, too. They get a distress signal from a planet called Dalgonia, where there's an archaeological team doing some research on the long-dead Markovian race which once lived there. The Markovians were known for building planet-sized computers with which they attempted to fathom the secrets of the universe. Upon arriving, they discovered one of the archaeologists, Elkinos Skander, has murdered the others and disappeared. Tracking him to one of Dalgonia's poles, the crew of the Stehekin are sucked into the Well World, which is divided into "hexes," each hex being subject to different rules, laws, and inhabited by a different race. But here's the catch: entry into one of the hexes means that the person entering is transformed into the race native to that hex. One by one the crew members change into exotic alien forms; in these new bodies they must solve the mystery of the Well World, find out how to stop Skander and turn themselves back into humans. And Nathan Brazil discovers something extraordinary about himself, too.

Weird, right? So weird I feel like I have to read it. I just want to see how the team gets transformed, and what they all morph into. Call it morbid fascination. Chalker himself was quite taken with bodily transformations as well; the rest of the Well World series and quite a few of his other works deal with it. 

In the Balance (Worldwar, Book One) by Harry Turtledove

In a nutshell...

Smack dab in the middle of World War II, Earth is invaded by the Race, a horde of spacefaring reptilian warriors bent on galactic domination. Both the Allies and the Axis unite in the face of mutual destruction and rise up against the invaders.

I used to hate historical fiction. Then I cautiously read the first book of the Destroyermen series (see below), and I thought, "Hey, this isn't that bad." (Heck, I might even go see Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter this weekend.) I'm something of a World War II buff, so combine that with an alien invasion (in which the human race not only holds its own, but actually fights back successfully in unexpected ways), and you've got a recipe for a fangasm.

Crusade (Destroyermen, Book Two) by Taylor Anderson

Into the Storm, the first book in the Destroyermen series, details the origin of Anderson's world and characters. The U.S.S. Walker, an aging World War I-era rustbucket of a destroyer under the command of Captain Matthew Reddy, is on the run from the Japanese battlecruiser Amagi. Pressed into service in the desperate first days of World War II, Walker and a half-dozen other worn-out vessels were tasked with defending the Navy's main base in the Philippines. Overrun by a massive assault, Walker and its sister ship Mahan are now fleeing the pursuing Japanese fleet.

That's when a mysterious storm appears out of nowhere, sucks up Mahan and Walker, and dumps them out...well, somewhere else.

The geographical features are the same. The coastlines look just as they should, and all the islands and reefs are in place. But Captain Reddy and his crew are startled to see dinosaurs roaming about on shore, and monstrous fish and other creatures swimming in the ocean. Traces of human civilization are nowhere to be found. Reddy's amazement deepens when the Walker runs straight into a battle between two completely inhuman races: the Lemurians, lemur-like humanoids who live on giant floating cities, and the Grik, savage reptiles with insatiable bloodlust. It seems humans never evolved in this world. Reddy's intervention in the otherworldly battle makes the Walker allies of the Lemurians and enemies of the Grik...and things only escalate from there.

In Crusade, the second book of the series, Reddy and his crew learn that Walker and Mahan were not the only ships to fall through the storm and into the new world: the Japanese battlecruiser Amagi made it through as well, and now it's in the clawed hands of the vengeful Grik...

Come on, do I need to explain this one? A parallel Earth? Inhuman races vying for supremacy? A savage world full of strange monsters and ancient beasts? Bamboo technology mixing it up with World War II capital ships? Freakin' humanoid dinosaurs versus freakin' humanoid lemurs? BARs and Springfield rifles? This is just too cool. Taylor Anderson is no William Faulkner, but he writes well enough to illustrate his world and populate it with vivid imagery. I got all the books in the series (so far) at What the Book? in Itaewon last month, and I'm going to start working on them as soon as I finish my Jules Verne kick (The Mysterious Island and Around the World in Eighty Days).

In addition to these sci-fi titles, I've got The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger and Brave New World by Aldous Huxley waiting in the wings.

Oh! The joy of reading!

Listening to: