cocktail review no. 70 - Madras

It's hot outside and I have a crap-ton of vodka, so from here on out you'll get an earful about vodka highballs that keep you cool. Capische?

This is a classic drink, and apparently quite popular at the moment. I was one of the simple ones included in the curriculum at National Bartenders, the bartendin' school I attended in Riverside, California. I still vividly remember when our teacher, Joe, taught it to us. (You could tell Joe was raised on the street, 'cause he said "whoop cream" instead of "whipped cream" and "coney-ack" instead of "cognac." I loved him for it.) Joe grabbed the vodka, poured a shot into a rocks glass filled with ice cubes, and then grabbed a bottle of orange juice in one hand and cranberry in the other and filled the glass the rest of the way up. It didn't take him more than five seconds, I swear. We were impressed. He looked so cool doing it.

I pretty much just gave you the recipe, but there's a protocol we have to follow, dang it. So here you go.

• 1½ ounces vodka
• 2 ounces cranberry juice
• 2 ounces orange juice

Pour all of the ingredients into a highball glass almost filled with ice cubes. Stir well.

Now, as with most highballs, there's all sorts of variations. Some call for increased proportions of cranberry juice; some call for more orange juice. Some say to add the vodka and cranberry juice together and then pour the orange juice over the top after stirring. As I mentioned in my review of the Presbyterian, that's the great thing about highballs: they can be customized. It's up to you. I gave you the base recipe here, the one that's in The Bartender's Bible, my most trusted resource. You can play around with it as much as you like. In any event, this will be a smooth, tasty, tangy, cooling-off sort of drink for you. I'm not going to describe the flavor 'cause you already know that vodka takes on the flavors of whatever it's mixed with (I've said that millions of times). And if you're 21 or older and don't know what orange or cranberry juice tastes like, I pity you.

One more thing: I know where the name of this drink came from. The city of Chennai is the capital of the Indian state of Tamil Nadu, on the Bay of Bengal in southern India...but that wasn't always its name. It used to be called "Madras." This picture down here is one of its beaches.

Now drink up! 건배!

sweet vindication!

vindicate [vin-di-keyt]

verb (used with object), vin·di·cat·ed, vin·di·cat·ing.

1. to clear, as from an accusation, imputation, suspicion, or the like: to vindicate someone's honor.
2. to afford justification for; justify: Subsequent events vindicated his policy.
3. to uphold or justify by argument or evidence: to vindicate a claim.
4. to assert, maintain, or defend (a right, cause, etc.) against opposition.

Vindicate. I've always liked that word. The moment I first saw it (in a Calvin & Hobbes cartoon; Bill Watterson does wonders for the vocabulary), I added it to my lexicon. Over the years I've tried to use it as much as possible. Vindicate. It's got a nice ring to it. It sounds exactly like what it means. There's nothing more satisfying than shouting the two words in the title of this blog post whenever the justness of your cause and the righteousness of your position has been confirmed. Sweet vindication!

And believe me, I've been vindicated.

For years I labored in hopeless drudgery, praying that one day I'd get to where I wanted to be. Maybe I'd have to put up with some unpleasantness on the way. I'd feel like I was in limbo sometimes. But one day, I told myself, things would be different. And now they are.

Nearly eighteen months ago, in February of 2012, I left the California desert and boarded a plane for South Korea (for the second time). The circumstances of my going were dire indeed. I had lived in my parents' house for the last two-and-a-half years, and no matter the state of the economy or the kindness and warmth with which my folks took me in, I was at my wits' end. My ego was crushed. My soul was in shambles. I felt rather emasculated. I hadn't been able to find a decent job, and even though I'd gotten my private pilot's license and put myself through bartender's school, I was still without prospects. It was the same situation as mid-2008, when I'd first gone to Korea. I'd been living for six fruitless, jobless months in my parents' basement in Wyoming. It was a nightmare.

And here I am, now, in July of 2013, ready to depart once more for Korea. This is the final week. My parents have been their usual lovely selves, and have seen to my every need (material and emotional). On the 29th I shall board a jet plane at...um...either LAX or Ontario (that's Ontario, California, just so you know) and fly to Tokyo, there to spend eight days touring the central and southern regions of the country by bullet train, and then a high-speed ferry to Busan. (I'll talk more about this trip later.)

Things are different now, don't you see? I'm not leaving out of desperation. I'm not sick at heart. Hopelessness and despair and jealousy no longer hold me in thrall. I've forgotten what despair feels like, in fact. It's just as well I didn't put too many maudlin posts up on this here blog, 'cause they'd ring hollow and puerile to me (and you) now.

On the contrary, my return is triumphant. Everything seems to be looking up. I'm not going back just to work, I'm going to have fun. I have an awesome job waiting for me, plus my special girl and our troublemakin' cat. Thanks to my stateside sojourn, I have a new Lensatic compass, an attaché case, a wine-bottle opener, new clothes, and adjusted vertebrae. (I dug into my closet and found my duster coat, my binoculars, and my army-surplus goggles, too.) Plus, I have another month of vacation left. After this jaunt through Japan, I'm spending the rest of my time kicking around Seoul and the northern provinces, checking out all the stuff I haven't had time to see yet. I'm also packaging my second novel (the one about the General Sherman incident) for publication before the end of the year, and finally sitting down and learning Korean. Things are going to be great. Heck, they already are.

And in the coming 18 months, I have all sorts of trips planned. That's right: I'm finally getting to travel like I've always wanted...and like I've always promised you, dear readers. For the Chuseok holiday this year (in September, I believe), Miss H and our friend J from Bucheon will venture into China; in January 2014 there's a road-trip across Australia, plus a beach holiday with Miss H in Malaysia; in the summer of 2014 there will be some kind of jaunt along the Pan-American Highway, possibly on a motorcycle; and in the winter of 2015, for my final hurrah and last departure from South Korea, there will be a grand trip from Beijing to Moscow aboard the Trans-Mongolian/Trans-Siberian Railways.

You'll get to hear about all this on the blog. Of course.

After that will come my glorious return to the U.S. of A, wherein will resume my flying career (also blogged about) and a rewarding foray into radio journalism and punditry. And the novels (the big ones, the sci-fi series I'm always rattling about) will get published somewhere in there, too.

See the difference? I have prospects now. I'm not just going to Korea to keep my head above water and pay off my loans. (Those are almost all gone, by the way.) All my waiting and hard work, years of it, are finally paying off. I can now settle back and enjoy myself some. At last there's the promise of a wondrous future and fulfilling life ahead. It was always there—it never really went away—but it was mighty invisible for a time.

Water under the bridge. I no longer feel like I'm pedaling toward my goals on a rusty unicycle with a bent rim and a flat tire. Now I've got me one of these:

And, though the road be hard and long, Miss H and I shall persevere.

Let the games begin.

cocktail review no. 53 - Zombie

Apologies, apologies! I know I've missed a couple Thursdays. I'll explain later. My reading list has taken over my life, and I find myself once again searching for direction in an aimless world...but I digress. On with the review.

The Zombie happens to be one of my favorite cocktails, mainly because it has a weird name which it actually lives up to. This drink literally makes you feel like a zombie the morning after: headache, dry mouth, sluggish movements, bleary eyes, the works. Plus you want to rip anything that moves or makes noise into itty bitty shreds. This libation is better than anything crashing satellites or corrupt corporations could dish up.

Now, I actually have two different recipes for this. One is from the Bartender's Bible...

•  1 ounce light rum
• 1 ounce añejo rum
• 1 ounce dark rum
• ½ ounces apricot brandy
• 2 ounces orange juice
• 1 ounce pineapple juice
• 1 ounce lime juice
• 1 teaspoon superfine sugar
• 1 cup crushed ice
• 1 teaspoons 151-proof rum
• 1 orange slice
• 1 maraschino cherry
• 1 mint sprig

In a blender, combine the light rum, añejo rum, dark rum, apricot brandy, orange juice, pineapple juice, lime juice, and sugar with the crushed ice. Blend well at high speed. Pour into a collins glass. Float the 151-proof rum on top. Garnish with the orange slice, cherry, and mint sprig.

(Whew, that's quite some litany, ain't it?)

And this is the recipe I was taught in class, at National Bartenders in Riverside, California.

• 1 ounce Bacardi dark rum
• 1 ounce Bacardi light rum
• ½ ounce crème de almond
• ½ ounce triple sec
• 4 ounces sweet-and-sour mix
• 4 ounces orange juice
• ½ ounce Bacardi 151

In a hurricane glass half-filled with ice cubes, combine the dark rum, light rum, crème de almond, and triple sec. Pour equal measures of sweet-and-sour and orange juice until the glass is almost full. Float the 151-proof rum on top.

Now that's better. Simpler. Easy to remember. And you don't have the oddball ingredients which normally plague tropical drinks (what the molly hell is "orgeat syrup"?). There's pretty much crème de almond and that's it. I didn't have any on hand, so I substituted amaretto, which at least is almond-flavored, though made from apricot stones.

Now, as you may have noticed, there is a feckin' truckload of rum in this drink. Hence the title: this thing is bad for the head, the liver, and most of the rest of the body. Forget them Long Island iced teas. It doesn't matter how slowly you sip, the rum lights a fire in your belly, the 151 goes right to your head...and your braiiiinnnnnnnsssssss...

Okay, I'll lay off the undead references.

The major advantage the zombie has over its competitors is that it possesses distinct flavors. You can actually detect the rum. The taste is typical for a tropical drink, but not overwhelmingly fruity, like a Mai Tai or Chi Chi. Zombies have a predominant rummy undertow that sinks its teeth into you and won't let go. From the first bite to the last (so to speak), the rum courses through your veins, seeping into your tissues, rotting your flesh and impairing your motor functions.

Oh, right, sorry. I have to give up the zombie shop talk. Don't want to cause a mass panic...

Somehow, the combined effect of triple sec, sweet 'n' sour, orange juice and crème de almond produces a sweet, well-rounded, pleasant, generic sort of fruit flavor which mixes tremendously well with rum. Some might say that the National Bartenders recipe isn't as sophisticated as the Bible's, but superiority is largely a matter of taste in the cocktail world. There comes a time when you're mixing so many ingredients together that they just blend together into one unrecognizable blob. (See Dad's Rule of 3.) I dare you to mix the Bible's version and tell me you can taste the lime juice.

"What of it?" you may protest. "You're not supposed to taste it. The juices are intended to merge into a synergistic amalgam and be enjoyed thusly."

First of all, give yourself a swift kick in the ass. Nobody says "thusly" anymore.

Second, let me ask you this: if the juices are supposed to blend together, why do you need so many? Wouldn't you get along just as well without the lime juice as you would with it? Is the tiny, sour, citrusy kick the lime juice transmits really detectable amid all those pineapple and orange titans?

The school recipe might actually be the better of the two because it has fewer ingredients. It's a lot quicker to make, too, let me tell you.

Just by adding almond liqueur, sweet-and-sour, triple sec and orange juice, you can create a citrus-dominant, slightly nutty nectar which will marvelously complement the sweetness of the rum. It'll take all of your cares away. And probably make you stagger around and moan a bit, too.

Sometimes it is fun to spend thirty minutes hand-crafting a deliciously complicated cocktail. But that's a story for another day. For now, drink your zombie and don't stumble on your way out the door.

cocktail review no. 46 - Sazerac

Now here's an interesting one.

Miss H and I were wandering around Victoria Gardens the other day. (It's this marvelous outdoor shopping mall down in Rancho Cucamonga.) Over on the southwest side we noticed a shop we hadn't seen before, called Anthropologie. We wandered in. Lots of scuffed wood, dry grass, pottery, and other nature-inspired décor; we assumed it was one of those places whose clothing line was designed to make everyone believe the wearer to be a famous explorer on safari in East Africa or Australia, but instead reveal on closer inspection that he or she is in fact dressed in designer labels for an afternoon out.

Nonetheless we felt the place worth checking out. Full-length linen dresses in blue or beige, trimmed in beads...straw sun hats, pre-weathered...a wicker deck chair, couch-size, with silhouetted antelopes growing out the back...blue china plates with a stylized octopus...

Ah. Here we go. This is more like it.

I found a book propped on a nicked coffee table called Vintage Cocktails.

I opened it up and found the table of contents. There were a few dozen familiar names, listed side-by-side with libations I'd never heard of in any bar, club or mixology handbook: things like "Pimm's Cup," "French 75," "Mary Pickford," and "Agave Gingerita."

Author Brian Van Flandern and photographer Laziz Hamani have, apparently, created a rough-and-ready go-to guide for all the classic highballs and mixers that ever got wildly popular or well-known at some point in American history. There was a picture in the front of the book depicting Clark Gable, Jimmy Stewart and some other heavy hitters standing at the bar, knocking back a few examples. Some concoction among these might have been the preferred tipple of Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra.

I was intrigued, let me tell you.
So I started leafing through it. Laziz Hamani should be put up in bronze, along with whoever mixed the drinks he shot (so to speak). Each full-page photo was jaw-dropping and mouth-watering; each cocktail looked good enough to dive into. The recipe (on the opposite page from the accompanying photo) was uniquely laid out too. Rather than a dull typeset font or a trite quotation or a humdrum backstory, the ingredient list and step-by-step preparation were laid out with a minimum of fuss, in giant letters, apparently written with the nearest box of crayons.

Many of them I was familiar with, due to prior interest in the pantheon of time-honored cocktails: the Bloody Mary, Cape Codder, Brandy Crusta, Between the Sheets, Moscow Mule...

And then I saw it.

Sazerac.

Now, I'd seen that name many a time in The Bartender's Bible. It was hidden up near the front of the book, at the tail end of the chapter on bourbon. Odd name. As you may have guessed, it's French. The Sazerac was first mixed around 1850 at the Merchant's Exchange bar in New Orleans, mostly likely by owner Aaron Bird, using a brand of cognac (also called Sazerac) imported by the Exchange's previous owner, Sewell T. Taylor. The original recipe called for one and a half ounces of Sazerac cognac, a quarter-ounce of Herbsaint, one cube of sugar, three dashes of bitters and a lemon peel. (Legend has it that a local druggist down the block, Antoine Amedie Peychaud, mixed up the bitters; on occasion Peychaud himself is credited with the invention of the Sazerac.) Later, due to an epidemic that devastated France's grapes, rye whiskey was substituted for cognac. In one old-fashioned glass, ice was packed; in a second glass the sugar and bitters were muddled, and the whiskey was added. The ice was then discarded from the first glass and the Herbsaint was poured in and swirled to coat the interior; then the excess was discarded. The rye/sugar/bitters mixture was then added to the coated glass (along with ice, if desired) and garnished with the lemon peel.

It's a tricky drink to compile, as you can tell. (Herbsaint?) In The Bartender's Bible,  orange peel, Ricard (anise-flavored liqueur) and Peychaud's bitters are listed among the ingredients. Vintage Cocktails, however, had it differently. Peychaud's bitters was still a factor, but absinthe could be used rather than Picard or Herbsaint. In fact, certain research suggests that the Sazerac was originally made with absinthe; Herbsaint was substituted when absinthe was outlawed in the United States some years ago.

Absinthe, eh?

I just happened to have a bottle of Czech-made absinthe sitting in my liquor cabinet at home.

This was getting more and more interesting all the time. A whiskey cocktail with absinthe, bitters, sugar, and an orange-peel garnish! I could only imagine what it tasted like. I had to admit to myself that I'd begun the long slide into jaded indifference in the realm of cocktail-drinking. I've mixed so many and sampled so much that many libations are beginning to taste the same to me. There's a great deal of variation on a select theme in the world of hooch. These days it's hard to come by a drink that tastes nothing like anything you've ever had before.

Well, this was it. Here, then, culled from the best bits of The Bartender's Bible and Vintage Cocktails, is the Sazerac I've thrown together.

• 1 teaspoon absinthe
• ½ teaspoon superfine sugar
• 1 teaspoon water
• 2 dashes Peychaud's bitters
• 2 ounces bourbon
• 1 orange peel

Pour the absinthe into an old-fashioned glass and swirl to coat the insides of the glass. Discard any excess. Add the sugar, water, and bitters, and muddle with the back of a teaspoon. Fill the glass halfway with ice and add the whiskey. Garnish with the orange peel.

That there may be no speculation, I used regular ol' Angostura bitters; Mata Hari Bohemian Absinthe; Old Crow bourbon (my favorite); and some simple syrup I'd prepared beforehand. It made the muddling rather pointless but I did it anyway. I'd still recommend Peychaud's bitters above all else; it has a lighter, fruitier element to it, more suitable for our purposes.

Oh, and one other thing: I didn't discard the "excess."

Heh heh. Life's too short to skimp on stuff like that. I figured since there'd be a whopping four ounces of bourbon in, I'd better keep what absinthe I had and liven things up a little, right?

I knew I was going to wind up with something different, but the reality of it took me by surprise. Having nearly despaired of the cough-syrup redolence of the bourbon/bitters combo, I was pleasantly surprised at the way it meshed with the rest of the conspiring flavors in this beverage. While the sugar keeps the mixture from being too bitter (for after all, Old Crow and Angostura form a powerful team), the bourbon still has its full sway, providing the nose and the bouquet and (partially) the finishing sting.

The aftertaste is what this drink's all about. I'm glad I left the absinthe in. The anise flavor comes on strong just after the bourbon passes over the taste buds, allying itself with the sugar to lend a sweet licorice undertone to the Sazerac. You mightn't think licorice would mix well with bourbon, but it does. To whatever extent the absinthe is not disguised by the bourbon overture, it melds seamlessly with the whiskey and then adds its own kick at the end. The sugar and bitters create a delicate balance and the orange peel rounds the experience off with a citrus interlude that complements the anise rather well. All in all, it's a smooth and flavorful cocktail with a sumptuous bouquet and a sweet-spicy kick at the end. 

Try it, and raise a glass to Jimmy Stewart or Dino. And buy Vintage Cocktails. Right now. Go do it. You won't regret it. It's as much art as a recipe book.

a double-edged sword

We were given, in bartender's school, a very clear list of directives regarding customer service, proper conduct at work.

Don't give out free drinks.

Keep cigarettes and lighters on hand for the customers.

Serve the ladies first. It's polite.

Greet the men first. Then they won't feel like you're trying to steal their woman.

The most emphatic of these directives, one of the few that appeared on the written final, was this:

Don't talk about religion, politics, or social issues.

The School of Hooch is neither the first nor last place to discourage that sort of discussion. Politics is one thing you should never talk about in a barbershop, either. Not unless you enjoy looking like a shorn sheep, or losing a couple of ears. It's generally discouraged during awards ceremonies and speeches, too. Or it used to be, anyway.

Why? What's the reason for this? Why is politics—a broad term with many meanings, but generally describing the legislation and policy-making needed to govern a people efficiently, authoritatively and with a modicum of public satisfaction—such a taboo topic? How could something so important, so integral to our daily lives be forbidden in polite conversation? I'll tell you why. It's possibly the most subjective concept that ever existed on the face of the planet. Knocks the Duracell vs. Energizer debate into a cocked hat. Everybody's got their own idea about how a government ought to be. All of us think we know how politicians should think, work, and act. Everyone has their own views on taxes, power structures, checks and balances, and hot-button issues. It's because the political process is so important to our daily lives that it's a taboo topic. Take a firm stance on one issue and it's odds-on there'll be somebody in the room who flat-out disagrees with you, and will demonize you for it, too. Everyone's got an axiom to grind. People have taken to avoiding the subject of politics merely to avoid spending the rest of the evening shouting at one another.

This is one of the reasons I decided, early on, that this would not be a political blog. I have very, very specific political views. They are so esoteric that an above-average number of people would become inflamed if I flaunted them publicly. I am so outspoken that I would hotly defend against any attack, and consequently this blog would descend into an endless, self-perpetuating, vitriolic debate. That kind of thing gets old after a while.

I have a friend of sorts. His name is Bart. (Not really, but that's pretty close.) While I would call myself a conservative (with a few liberal tendencies), Bart is über, über liberal. He is constantly posting things on Facebook which I find objectionable: news articles from the Huffington Post, lambasting Arizona's recent immigration law; statistics from various pollsters confirming how much better a job President Obama is doing as compared to his predecessor; and news articles lauding the sweeping health care reform Obama signed into law not too long ago.

I never fail to take him up on these. And so, inevitably, we turn a simple link into a foot-long discussion thread, arguing back and forth about policy, and ideology, and procedure, and proper administration of government, and whatnot. We point out the flaws in each other's arguments, throw statistics at each other (well, he does; I'm well aware how easy it is to lie with statistics, so I tend to avoid them), and just generally have at it.

It's getting tiresome. He has his views, I have my views, and each of us is convinced the other is dead wrong. Our discussions, I'm sure, leave both of us feeling drained, exhausted, angry, perturbed, and somewhat hostile toward each other. (Sounds kind of like Congress, doesn't it?)

These dogfights of ours have brought something to my attention. Were it not for politics—if, perchance, Bart and I were totally ignorant of the political process, government, policy-making, agendas, public action, democracy, even Washington, D.C. itself—we'd probably get along just fine. We'd be chewing the fat about the weather, the last movie we saw, San Diego's shot at the Super Bowl next year, and humdrum stuff like that. Same goes for a lot of my liberal friends. We hang out, we talk, we drink, we debate, we do stuff together, all that jazz.

But in the back of our minds, there's a tiny, insidious seed of hostility. It's the hostility we feel toward one another for holding the views that we do. The contempt. The anger. The offense. We can pose and posture and equivocate all we like, it makes no difference. We can say "you're entitled to your opinion," and "you're perfectly free to hold the views you do," and all that conciliatory garbage. But the fact remains that we're on opposite sides of the fence. And secretly we hate each other for it. Politics can ruin friendships, drive lovers apart, spoil parties, destroy reputations, deadlock governments, even (in the case of radicals and extremists) kill thousands upon thousands of people. At its very core, it is a double-edged sword. It allows us to govern populations, administer aid to millions, protect the general interest, secure the future of nations and peoples. And yet, if we let it, politics can blind us to the simplest wonders of life: friendship, companionship, love, perspective, hope and truth.

This bothers me. Some of you readers out there, I know, have a much different outlook on life than I do. Your views on religion, politics, and social issues are probably as disparate from mine as night and day. And if you knew what I think, what I believe about the political process (and those hot-button issues)...well, you'd probably hate me for it. The only reason you tolerate my existence now is because I haven't told you what I think. We're strangers, you and I. We've never met in person. We're not as important to one another as lifelong friends would be, or even casual acquaintances who met on the street. Ours is the most fragile, ethereal, nebulous relationship in the world. Its dynamic consists solely of voluntary intellectual exchange. I read what you write and you read what I write. And I write insubstantial things. I prattle on about harmless, irrelevant issues which nobody can take a serious stance on. And, I'm told, I do it rather well, with an eloquent flair and a thoughtful touch. Were I to tell you what I think about, say, abortion, or illegal immigration, or health care, or war-fighting, or guns, or international relations... ...well, you'd probably hit that little "X" button in the top right corner of your Internet browser. After clicking the "un-follow" button, of course. Just because we disagree. Politics is a hell of a thing, isn't it?

Well, now that we've got the depressing stuff out of the way, I'll say good night. Some Like It Hot is on and I'm going to go watch it with the folks. There's a bourbon sour with my name on it, too. They ran the Kentucky Derby today, or so I'm told. Have to raise a glass to Entrepreneur Chick's beloved puppy-dog Emerson too. And all the Russians who undoubtedly spent the day parading through Red Square with their missiles and tanks. Cheers.

School of Hooch (last call)

I'm done with bartender's school.

That's right, folks. I have successfully mixed, poured, shaken, stirred, blended, and garnished my way through the School of Hooch. Passed the final practical exam today. Phase I of my Tripartite Plan for Total World Domination is complete.

It was relatively simple. I drove down to Riverside this morning, studied up on a few drinks I was uncertain about (the kir royale, champagne cocktail and blow job foremost among them). Then Tanya gave me the test, and I passed it. Perfectly. Not a single mistake.

I didn't call out the cherry garnish for the Mai Tai, but that was because Tanya had already ordered the next drink, and she didn't dock me for it.

This was my third try, but what the heck? I'm finished, and that's what matters, right?

Then I got me some training on the POS system, using the school's computer in the corner of the room. I familiarized myself with the intricacies of charging people money for their poison, and then suddenly I was done. Tanya printed me out my certificate of completion, and I left the school with my head spinning and my heart singing.

Next Monday, I'll be going in at 9:30 with my résumé in hand to see about getting placed with a job at a bar somewhere. Needless to say, I sang along with Van Halen's "Everybody Wants Some" especially loudly on the way back up the I-15 this evening. There remains but to finish getting my pilot's license, and get my novel published. Then I'll have accomplished almost everything I wanted to do in my lower twenties. ...well, except for obtaining my commercial pilot's license, that is. And going to Antarctica. And singing in a barbershop quartet. And getting laid in the back of a Camaro.
But I'll get around to those eventually.

a polite awakening

Before I do anything, I would like to direct you to the Page Turners Book Club, run by fellow blogger and amazing writer Carrie, from [carrotspeak.] The book review for the day is one of MINE! Ta-DA!

I'm immensely flattered and honored by this (thanks, Carrie), and I would suggest you go check out the above links, pronto.

As in, right now. Before you read any further.

Hey, did you hear what I said?

I said, "Go over there and read that stuff right now," dang it!

I'm waiting...

You'd better drag your sorry carcass over there in the next five seconds, buster, or I'll come vaulting through that fiber-optic cable and give you a swift kick.

Okay, okay, fine. I'll finish what I was going to say here, if it'll mollify you.

I caught a glimpse of my future today, and it wasn't pretty.

With a little help from my folks, I realized that I have dropped an enormous chunk of my hard-earned pay—money I don't have—to go to England. I really, really don't have the money to go anywhere right now. Now is not the time. This trip has broken me, people, and I'm not even over there yet. I don't even have enough money for iTunes downloads anymore. This is a deplorable state of affairs. Poverty is the pits, as Scrooge McDuck once truthfully proclaimed. There's so many things I need right now. A new pair of work boots, for starters. My old ones have no tread left. A pair of noise-reducing headphones, for another—the Mooney is such a loud plane that my ears are ringing after every flight, even through my regular run-of-the-mill Dave Clark. Oh, and did I mention that it's taken me six months to finish a two-week bartender's course? And that I have only three or four hours left to fulfill the requirements for a private pilot's license? And that I should really hurry the hell up and finish?

Thanks to Ma an Pa, it suddenly occurred to me tonight just what a foolish thing I've done. Frivolous. Unwise, too. I haven't got my priorities straight. This is my future we're talking about here. So far I've been fooling around and mooning about. I should've been finished with my bar-tending stuff months ago. By rights I should be finished with my private pilot's license already, even with the $135 price tag which flight lessons carry. I should be studying on my off-hours. I should really be pushing myself harder. I should be working toward a goal, advancing my career, securing my future, building a nest egg. And instead, I'm blowing my measly savings on a two-week trip to the United Kingdom. How did I get myself into this mess?

I'll tell you. I didn't get a job for eight months after arriving home from Korea. As my parents told me, "any money is better than no money." Common sense, right? But no. Somehow I still thought things would be different. Different from the six godawful months I spent in my parents' basement in Wyoming after graduating from college, desperately trying (and failing) to find a job in my field. Somehow, I thought, things will shape up this time. I didn't expect to be staying in my parents' house this long. I figured I'd be long gone by December.

So when I arrived home from Korea in July 2009, I thought, "I'd better try to get the highest-paying job possible, so I can save up the maximum amount of money in the shortest amount of time." The proper window for that frame of mind was probably, oh, two seconds. After that, I should've said, "Yeah, I'm not having any luck with this. I should just get any job and be thankful for the money I'm earning." Did I do that? Nope. I continued wasting time, and losing money.

Then I got a job at the local newspaper. Then I got fired. And I thought to myself, "The heck with it. I'm going to focus all my energies on getting my pilot's license instead of working." Brilliant idea, right? Instead of working, I could spend all my time flying, and breeze through the remainder of my training. For some reason, I didn't realize that I was bankrupting myself until after the fact. One day I looked up and discovered that I had used up all my money, couldn't progress any farther in my flight training, couldn't progress anywhere, and still didn't have a job. This is besides inching through my bartender's course so slowly that my future customers have probably all died of thirst.

My luck kicked in again when I landed my current job, chasing drones. It's not a pay upgrade by any means, but it's better than nothing. A lot better: I'm building flight time, which almost makes up for the fact that I'm not taking lessons anymore. No sooner had I begun to rebuild the financial dike when I went and shot everything to hell by booking my flight to England.

And here I am: living paycheck to paycheck, going without things I desperately need (let alone all the stuff I'd like), not progressing anywhere with my alcohol- or aviation-related ambitions, stuck in an agonizing vocational limbo. Here I sit, wondering how it took me so long to see the hole I'd dug, and how long I'd have continued living this way until I finally crashed and burned. If I wasn't living with my parents (insert weak laugh here) I'd have certainly starved to death by now. I need a couple hours to think about all this and come to a decision. Do I cancel my trip to England? Hit the books and bulldoze my way to a pilot's license? Finally save up enough money to move out of my folks' house? Or do I stick with it, go to England, undergo a few more uncomfortable months of pauperism, rebuild the dike once more, and then begin laying the foundations of my aviation career? What should I delay? My future, or part of the hell-raising I wanted to do in my twenties?

It's a terrible choice. No matter which way I turn, I get the feeling that I've wasted precious time. If I don't go to England, I'll regret it forever. I'll never forgive myself for visiting fewer than three continents before age 24. I'll forever feel the reproach of the travel articles I could've written. The beer I could've swilled. The parties I could've rocked. The immaturity I could've indulged in. On the flip side, if I do go—and obtaining my private pilot's license takes that much longer (I'll have been at it for two and a half years come July)—

Well, then I'll really feel like my life is passing me by.

And that, my friends, is my greatest fear. Of all the horror and darkness and death in the world, what I dread most is not having lived. It's awful for anyone to be stuck in limbo. It's a literal hell for me. My parents brought up a good point this evening. I'm good at doing the prep work. I get myself to the starting line. As far as groundwork and foundations are concerned, I'm a freakin' Greek architect. But once I'm at the starting line, there I sit. I can never seem to start. I never go anywhere. I perpetually languish. All I do is "rev my engines."

And now here I am, in my darkened room, staring out at the lights of the city twinkling far below. I'm faced with the hardest choice I've ever encountered Turn my back on a carefree adolescence...? ...or abandon my dreams?

Some choice. I have a plan, though. I'll pass my final practical test on Saturday down in Riverside; get a job within a fortnight; use the ferocious amount of tips I'll (luckily) be making to fund my flight training; finish flight school; and still have my regular salary to pay for the England jaunt. Wish me luck.

coulda, shoulda, woulda

I wouldn't last long in the military. You know why? Because I'm stupid, that's why. Most recruits in the armed forces have this thing called routine. There are certain tasks they're expected to accomplish each day. To help them accomplish them, they have a drill sergeant. But perhaps more importantly, they have another really neat thing called work ethic. (It might also be construed as fear of the drill sergeant's can of whoop-ass, but let's stick with the perfect world, shall we?) They have to want to get their assigned tasks done. They have to want to be at boot camp. They have to want to sculpt perfect hospital corners whenever they make their beds, finish their morning run in good time, score high during marksmanship trials and so forth. By adhering to that work ethic and by steadily completing their routine every day for weeks, recruits get an idea of what's expected of them, what they're supposed to be doing, and how things are supposed to go. They know what to do, how to do it, when to do it, and what the benefits are to doing it (not being appointed a permanent latrine orderly, for example). Me? Not a chance. I just sort of caper along through life, visions of dancing daisies in my head, whistling a happy tune until I run smack into a brick wall or fall down a manhole. Very, very rarely will I actually stop in my tracks, straighten up, scratch my head and yell, "Hey! I should be doing THIS!" That happened to me this morning. It was eleven o'clock. I had woken up at 9:30, rolled out of bed, eaten a heaping bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats, dragged a brush through my hair, and had been reading other people's blogs all morning in my pajamas. After a while, I finally got off my duff and into the shower. As I was bending down to pick up the bath rug and hang it over the edge of the tub, I suddenly thought, "HEY! Instead of loafing around the house all day, blogging, studying bartending flashcards, lackadaisically searching for a job, reading The Epic of Gilgamesh or playing video games, I could be starting in on my second novel!" (Well, something like that, anyway.) Immediately following, an enormous rush of childish glee ran through my body. It was as if Christmas was suddenly the day after tomorrow, or I'd suddenly won an all-expenses-paid trip to Las Vegas, effective immediately. It was the old, intoxicating feeling of anticipation and excitement. It was the writing fever. And it was back. It had fallen by the wayside in the wake of my first novel, replaced by the revision blues. I don't know about you, but I've never really liked editing and revising and proofing. Anyone who's ever spotted a typo in my blog posts will realize that. Typos are anathema to me. I'm a good speller. I'm something of a wordsmith, in fact. But I do make mistakes. And what's worse, I can't always be bothered to find them and fix them. I'm working on that, but it's a hard slog. But never mind about that. The point is that there's always something more I could be doing. And very rarely do I realize it. I get complacent too easily. I fall into a rut, stagnate, and just sort of stew for a while. Often it takes some calamity to make me notice how much I've slacked off. I mean, come on. I love writing. I'm drunk on this story I'm creating. Writers understand how much of a trip, a joy, a high, a tremendous kick in the pants writing is. It's like a drug, an illicit love affair (as Laura said). I can't understand why I would hesitate to dive back in. I'm not daunted by the task. I actually have a much clearer idea of the plot of this second book than I did for the first. Even now, as I contemplate the prospect of writing the next chapter in the series, my pulse quickens and my eyes gleam. I just got complacent. Lazy. Indolent. Mush-brained. The only thing I have on the docket for today is studying, studying. I have one final time-trial to pass at bartender's school, sours and blended drinks. (While we're on the subject of dithering, I could've been finished with bartender's school a lot sooner, too.) The newly-completed flashcards are sitting right here next to me on the bedspread. I have merely to roll over, pick them up, and begin the long process of memorizing 40 drinks before tomorrow. But in the meantime, I sat here for an hour and a half in my PJs, wasting precious time on the Internet. Yesterday I made those flashcards, sent an e-mail to my potential employer, and took an introspective walk. That's all I did. I've been dreaming and scheming about this novel series for years, and it was only the act of stooping to pick up a bath rug that made me realize that I'm spinning my wheels. Sometimes I really wish I could reach inside my head and punch my brain. A lot of writers can fall into this trap. Writing is fun, but it's hard work, too. Like an exercise routine, it can sometimes be difficult to start—even to remember to start. Maybe you're busy with other things: children, work, studies, hobbies, friends, obligations. You harangue, you chivvy, you exhort, but you just can't seem to get started. Perhaps you rationalize, and tell yourself that you'll get started first thing tomorrow morning. But tomorrow morning rolls around, and the idea stays in your head and your fingers off the keys. Maybe you throw up straw men, working on lesser projects while the Big Idea simmers on the back burner. That works for a while, but something's gotta give eventually. The best suggestion I've heard for combating the Great First Hurdle of Starting was given me by Stephen King. In his excellent autobiography-slash-writing guide, On Writing, King suggests that you get yourself a routine. Pick an hour in the morning or the evening. Make sure it's the same hour every day: six o'clock, or 7:47, or 11:09, whatever. You must be consistent. Sit down at your computer (or typewriter, if you're the old-fashioned sort) and write. Even if you don't feel like it. Even if your brain tells you that you'll never accomplish anything by forcing yourself to write. Even if the video games and millennia-old epics are calling to you. Just get on with it. Soon, King says, you'll notice that the words are coming easier. That the initial difficulty is slacking off, inspiration is welling up, and you're suddenly in the Writing Zone. It may take five minutes, or it may take five or so sessions. But soon, you'll notice that it becomes easier and easier to get on a roll. The writer's block will start crumbling faster. If you keep up your routine religiously, writing for an hour (or two) every day, same time, same place...good things will start to roll off that keyboard. It may seem counterintuitive, but it works. I myself was highly skeptical when I first read about the method. With my nose in the air and my voice laden with hauteur, I scoffed, "Poppycock! A routine would defile the creative process. Writing on a schedule is like trying to paint a masterpiece every month, or carve sculpture from nine to five. One must wait for the creative juices to flow, and then write." It didn't take me long to realize that if I sat around waiting for the creative juices to flow, I'd be in my 90s before I finished my second book. So I gave King's method a shot. And I noticed that soon, I was checking my watch and thinking excitedly, "Oooh, my writing hour is coming up." In no time at all, the creative juices were flowing, even before I sat down at the computer every night. I know this, and yet I haven't started doing it yet this year. I've set myself some goals for 2010, a battle plan (as delineated by Jon Paul). There remains but to buckle down and do it. Like those damnable New Year's resolutions, I can't seem to muster the diligence nor the intelligence to actually set myself a routine. Maybe I need a drill sergeant.

Help me, R. Lee Ermey. You're my only hope.

tales from the wine cellar

For your information, that's supposed to be a takeoff on Tales from the Crypt.

Why? Because this is a horror story. We are going to discuss a topic of deepest fear, staggering infamy, and gruesome depravity. Abominations of nature, travesties against humanity.

In other words, yucky drinks.

Hanging around bartender's school, one tends to hear about libations which seem, after the ingredient lists are reviewed, somewhat questionable. These drinks often don't seem as if they were born of any rational or sane mind.

They seem, frankly, just plain disgust-o.

Anyone ever heard of a "red-eye"?

It's half beer, half tomato juice, and one raw egg.

Eeee-YUCK.

Wade, the head of the bartender's school I attend, was talking about red-eyes with another student last Saturday, and I overheard. He claimed that the person he'd heard about it from (apparently a heavy drinker) endorsed the red-eye as an end-all hangover cure.

To me it sounds more like an end-all, period.

Back in Korea I knew this one South African fellow named Jay. He knew all about drinking. He belonged to the "quick sticks" school of Friday night boozery. He believed that a proper pregame should include downing a fifth of soju before hitting the first bar. Soju—the Korean firewater, resembling sweet vodka—is not strong stuff. It's just about 40 proof. But to down a whole bottle of it before the night's binge commences...well, that's a whole different kettle of fish. Nonetheless, I gave it a try. I downed a bottle and went out on the town. Don't remember much after that.

Anyway, all the island's expatriates were down at Jazz Bar one night, standing around, shooting the breeze, throwing darts, chatting with the bartenders, and just generally unwinding after another hard week. I was halfway through a B & B and feeling pretty mellow. Over my right shoulder I could hear Jay talking to Adam.
"You ever heard of a Mexican asshole?" Jay asked, in his languorous way.
"No," Adam answered. "What's in that?"
"It's half tequila and half Tabasco."
"F—in' hell, mate," Adam said, with a record-setting grimace on his face.

That drink has impinged itself upon my consciousness. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the sheer, unadulterated, loathsome horror of it. Drinks, as I understand it, are meant to be taken for enjoyment. For pleasure. For fun. Shooting something like a Mexican asshole seems both fatuous and masochistic. I resent the mere thought.

Masochism aside, some of the shots that we've learned about in school—which are apparently popular—sound nasty.

Ever heard of a Scooby Snack?

It's revolting. Midori (melon liqueur), crème de bananes, Malibu (coconut rum), and pineapple juice. And cream. Shaken, then shot.

Enough said.

BLARGH.

It's a given that, anywhere you go in the world of hooch, you'll run across something disgusting. Even the vaunted Bartender's Bible conceals a few stinkers within its pages.

Don't believe me? Try a jillionaire. It's bourbon, triple sec, grenadine, and an egg white.

Yes, an egg white.

The rest of those ingredients would be nasty enough by themselves (whoever thought it was a good idea to mix bourbon and grenadine, for Pete's sake?!?).

But add an egg white, and this thing turns into an all-out suckfest.

No drink with an egg white in it has ever turned out well, in my experience (except for the Tom and Jerry, where they are whipped into soft peaks.) Egg whites normally make a drink foamy, slimy and somewhat sticky on the draw. Combine that with the rotten combo of bourbon whiskey, orange liqueur, and cherry syrup, and...

Oh, I can just see your cute little faces puckering up as I type this!

I've been on my quest to find the Perfect Drink for about three years now, and I've mixed, sampled and tested a lot of drinks. My success rate is probably something like five percent. For every five or six goodish drinks that I find, I have to choke down 95 stinkers. Learn from my mistakes. Through excruciating trial-and-error, I've compiled a list of drink no-nos to avoid at all costs, in my humble opinion. Peruse them at your leisure:

• egg whites. I just explained this. Makes the drink slimy and sticky and yucky. 
• combining SoCo and bitters. These do not mix, trust me. You know what Southern Comfort and bitters taste like when they're in the same drink together? Cough syrup.
• Jägermeister. Don't drink ANYTHING that has this in it. And certainly don't drink it straight. Don't even touch the bottle. Try to avoid looking at it for too long if you can help it. This stuff is mandrill-puke. It's awful. Trying to capitalize on the success of schnapps, the Germans thought they'd follow the Britons' lead and distill a bunch of plants and herbs together. But they didn't wind up with gin. They wound up with Italian-sausage-flavored mouthwash. 
• more than two fruit juices. Tropical drinks are all well and good, but I'm one of those drinkers who likes to taste the liquor he's ingesting. A lot of drinks cover the booze up with a cornucopia of fruit juices: pineapple, cranberry, grapefruit, orange, grape, or even prune. If it's got more than triple the ratio of fruit juice to liquor, pass it up. Unless we're talking tropical drinks; those are supposed to be like that. 
• grenadine. Watch this stuff. I like it, certainly. It's cherry-flavored syrup, made from pomegranates. It's completely nonalcoholic, and can be used to make cherry Coke or Shirley Temples. But it's not Supreme God of All Mixers. A lot of cocktails I've run across seem to have grenadine in them only for good measure, almost as an oversight. And sometimes (as we've seen with the jillionaire), grenadine just doesn't belong where it's put. Don't drink pink drinks. If your drink comes out pink, and you didn't expect it to, blame the grenadine. I don't think grenadine should go into any drink containing whiskey, brandy, dark rum, or any other dark liquors. Doesn't work as well as you'd think. 
• sweet plus savory. Make sure to match your mixers with your liquors and not cross them. Don't use, say, dry vermouth in a rum drink, or you'll have a distasteful clash of sweet and un-sweet. Gin and vodka are liquors which, to some degree, take on the flavors of whatever you mix them with, so you're okay using whatever kind of vermouth or fruit-flavored liqueur with them. But tequila and rum (especially dark or aged rum) have a distinctive, sweetish essence, and should be mixed with care. A rum martini might look good on paper, but think twice before you try one.

If you want something simpler, here's a rule of thumb my father likes to promulgate. He says:

"If a drink's got more than three ingredients, it's not worth your time."

Pop figures, quite rightly, that a surfeit of ingredients muddles the drink. It's the jack-of-all-trades-master-of-none principle. A drink with a bazillion components makes for a miasma of flavors which only obscure one other, or get in each others' way. Moreover they disguise the booze. Drinks should be kept simple and straightforward, Dad reckons. (In case you haven't guessed, he's a martini drinker. An extra-dry double martini drinker.)

That being said, there are some notable exceptions to the three-ingredient rule. Mint juleps, old-fashioneds, and all your tropical drinks (like zombies) are okay.

So now I'd like to give the floor to you, dear reader, and invite you to divulge the most disgusting drink you've ever had. (Those of you who aren't old enough to drink, feel free to stick your two cents in about drinks you may have heard from friends or relatives.) What grossed you out? What was in it? Where'd you have it? What possessed you to try it? What, in your opinion, makes a bad drink?

The decision is ultimately yours. Don't forget that. But please stay away from the Scooby Snacks.

cram it

A saphead I am, and a saphead I shall remain. I actually thought, as I walked to the car one frigid December night in North Dakota in 2007, having successfully skidded my way through three and a half years of college, that I was done with studying forever. I wish the Knight-Who-Hits-People-With-A-Chicken from Monty Python's Flying Circus had come clanking across the parking lot and hit me with a chicken right then. Boy, was I barking up the wrong tree. Why did I ever think I was finished with studying? I mean, I knew I was going to try and get a pilot's license and all. And I knew as soon as I stepped into the ground school classroom back in February of '08 that I was in for a trial. Private pilots have to know Bernoulli's theorem, basic principles of electrical circuits, meteorology, the Federal Aviation Requirements (dozens of them), airspace and safety rules...I could go on and on. We also have to know what the word "camber" means, what the angle of incidence is, what to do if your engine dies or you lose your electronic instruments, how far you have to stay below clouds in VFR conditions in Class B airspace, and hundreds more factoids of that ilk. I've been trying to review all this for the past two weeks (in anticipation of taking my pilot's exams and checkride before February's out). But let me tell you, trying to cram when you haven't so much as peeked at the material for nigh on two years is...something of a challenge. But it gets even worse. On top of this, I'm trying to simultaneously get through bartender's school. It's a lot easier, sure—just memorizing drink recipes and various mixing tricks—but therein lies the problem. My memory, never the best, is being frayed thin by it all. At any given time I might have the ingredients of a gin and tonic or a Freddy Fudpucker bouncing around in my head, ricocheting off Bernoulli's theorem and principles of aerodynamics and stall recovery. (I'm also still trying to edit my novel, but I'm beginning to view that more and more as a leisure activity.) It's maddening. I don't know how I'm going to get through it all. This is worse than anything I ever faced at college. There, I could just roll out of bed, eat a bowl of Cheerios, glance over my notes, skim the textbook, slope off to class, sit for the exam, go play campus golf with the fellas, and execrate my bad-but-passing grade later. I can't do that now. If I don't pass bartender's school I'll have no income. If I flunk my pilot's exams I'll be delayed in my pursuit of happiness—and be out of $500. And if things are this bad now, what are they going to be like later? I'm not going to stop at just your ordinary average everyday garden-variety pilot's license, you realize. I'm shooting for a commercial pilot's license. That takes time and money. How much time and money? Well, I'm glad you asked. I'll list the requirements for a commercial pilot's license right here and now. This is what I'm going to have to go through in order to achieve my pie-in-the-sky dream of having an international air service. FAR 61.129 [Aeronautical Experience] [Excerpt] For an airplane multi engine rating:

If you are applying for a commercial pilot certificate with an airplane category and multi engine class rating, you must log at least 250 hours of flight time as a pilot (of which 50 hours, or in accordance with FAA Part 142, a maximum of 100 hours may have been accomplished in an approved flight simulator or approved flight training device that represents a multi engine airplane) that consists of at least:

1. 100 hours in powered aircraft, of which 50 hours must be in airplanes.
2. 100 hours of pilot in command flight time, which includes at least 50 hours in airplanes, and 50 hours in cross-country flight in airplanes.
3. 20 hours of training on the areas of operation as listed for this rating, that includes at least 10 hours of instrument training of which at least 5 hours must be in a multi engine airplane, 10 hours of training in a multi engine airplane that has a retractable landing gear, flaps, and controllable pitch propellers, or is turbine-powered, one cross-country flight of at least 2 hours in a multi engine airplane in day VFR conditions, consisting of a total straight-line distance of more than 100 nautical miles from the original point of departure, one cross-country flight of at least 2 hours in a multi engine airplane in night VFR conditions, consisting of a total straight-line distance of more than 100 nautical miles from the original point of departure.
4. 10 hours of flight time performing the duties of a pilot in command in a multi engine airplane with an authorized instructor on the areas of operation as listed for this rating, which includes at least one cross-country flight of not less than 300 nautical miles total distance and as specified, and 5 hours in night VFR conditions with 10 takeoffs and 10 landings (with each landing involving a flight in the traffic pattern) at an airport with an operating control tower.

Permitted credit for use of advanced flight training equipment:

Except when fewer hours are approved by the Administrator (FAA), an applicant for a commercial pilot certificate with an airplane, helicopter, or a powered-lift rating who has satisfactorily completed an approved commercial pilot course conducted by a training center certificated under FAA Part 142 of this chapter need only have a total of 190 hours for an airplane or powered-lift rating and total of 150 hours for a helicopter rating to meet the aeronautical experience requirements of this section. FAR 61.129 really freaks me out. In order to get a commercial pilot's license for a multi-engine rating, I need 250 hours of flight-time. To put that in some perspective, you only need 40 hours to get a private pilot's license. A mere 40 hours. And those 40 hours still depleted the savings I'd socked away in Korea, several thousand dollars. Who knows what this is going to cost, or how much time it'll take, or how hard the final exam is going to be? I've made a vow to be done with both bartender's school and my private pilot's license by the end of this month. I'm taking my last review lesson with Harold on Wednesday the 17th, and I'm going to knock off the last two time-trials at bartender's school in the next two Mondays, and take the final on Saturday the 27th. [Gulp] Wish me luck. Goodness knows if my poor abused brain will be able to take the punishment, and retain all the information necessary to pass a written, oral, and practical flight exam, plus a comprehensive six-minute time-trial covering roughly 100 drinks. Let's hope Dad's luck kicks in again.

Long John Silver

Resolved, that this faux hiatus I was supposedly taking be summarily abandoned in light of recent events. I am returning to the blogsphere. I've decided to discontinue the tattered remains of this hiatus. I know, you're thrilled. So am I; it's good to be back (legitimately). First on the docket is a progress report. I went down to Riverside on Friday and passed the time trial for Lesson #6, coffee and wine drinks. That's four tests down, three to go. I have martinis, shots, and blended drinks left. Shots are supposedly the hardest, since there are so many ingredients. I think I'll do that one after martinis, which are also kind of tricky. Blended drinks should be fairly simple, so I'll save it for last. After that, I'll just have the über-mega-massive final exam left (a time trial with drinks from all the lessons) and some further training, and then I can start using the job placement services and find a bartender's job somewhere. Fancy that! I'll be working nights, serving up drinks, listening to people's problems, getting hit on by cougars, making loads of money in tips, and saving up dough for my summer trip to England. There's nothing new to report on the flying front. I haven't scheduled a test date yet. I'm still studying (or rather, trying to find time to study) for my exams. I'm really, really worried about this. There's a huge amount to remember, most of which I've forgotten and will have to mash back into my brain on short notice. I'm also rapidly running out of money for the $500 examiner's fee. My folks have promised to stump up, but I hate to mooch off them so badly... On the good news front, my folks and I took a trip down to Rancho Cucamonga today to hit up a rather killer retailer that I never knew about (but can't imagine why): BevMo! It's like Costco or Sam's Club, but for booze. You walk in and there's nothing but bottles. Bottles, bottles everywhere, and every drop to drink. I was intoxicated (heh heh) by the very sight. I went straight to the rum section and behold! I found my favorite: Mount Gay, from Barbados. When I think of the word "rum" I think of Mount Gay; that's how good it is. And who'd a thunk it? They had my favorite bourbon too, Old Crow. Mom is so glad to have me home that I don't even need to wheedle anymore. She saw me looking at the Old Crow and offered to buy it right off the bat. She's such a dear. We got the Old Crow, some Johnnie Walker's Black Label (for Dad), a couple bottles of Broker's London Dry Gin (my parents are fiends for that stuff, and I can see why; it's damn good), a six-pack of Anchor Brewery's Liberty Ale, and some Irish coffee glasses (again for me). Why did the world not inform me about BevMo!? Oh...and speaking of good news... There's one thing I simply must report to you. I was going to try to hold it in until I had something more concrete, but I can't stand it any longer. I have to tell you. You, my friends, were not the only people who read the tentative summary I wrote for my novel. Somebody else did. Somebody who happens to be a New York Times bestselling author and co-founder of a small publishing company in the American South. Yes indeed. She read it, and thought my novel premise sounded good. So she sent me a personal e-mail and asked if I'd like to send her a synopsis and the first few chapters. She said she'd give me a free critique. If she liked the manuscript, she said her small press might even publish it, if that was all right with me. Can you imagine how that made me feel? Me, so feverishly dreaming of publication? I was naturally suspicious, of course. I come from a family that locks up the cars even if they're parked in the driveway, and believes every friendly e-mail from a complete stranger is a scam. I took steps to make sure that the woman who e-mailed me was indeed the author and publisher she said she was. I assured myself that she was on the level; then, trusting to luck and hope and good fortune, I sent off the synopsis and the excerpt to her. I am now anxiously awaiting her reply. To say that I am excited by all this would be the understatement of the geological epoch. I'll keep you posted. Hang on a minute! We've done the bad news and the good news. But what about the weird news? Not long after I first opened a Site Meter account, I began to notice something odd. I had a slow, steady trickle of visitors, but one visitor kept coming back, multiple times a day, day in and day out. Stranger still, that person's browser was located in Leasburg, Missouri. This according to Site Meter, at least. I couldn't figure it out. Who did I know in Leasburg, Missouri? Who wanted to read my blog that badly? I figured, based on the number of times they came to visit, that they must be an acquaintance of mine. But I didn't know who it could be, not for the life of me. Then I finally figured it out. It was me. I didn't know about setting Site Meter to ignore visits from my own browser. So there I was, editing posts and previewing them on my blog, with Site Meter recording every click and page view. Oopsy-daisy! Why does Site Meter record my firmly California-based visits as originating from Missouri? Tough to tell. My computer's been behaving weirdly ever since I came back from the Orient. It still thinks I'm in Korea, for one thing. My Google, Blogger, and Facebook homepages are all in Korean. I have to log in before they switch back to English. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch for my computer to think it was in Leasburg rather than Apple Valley. Or perhaps it isn't my computer. Perhaps it's my Internet provider. It senses my foreign computer, shrugs its ethnocentric cyber-shoulders and interjects its own home base onto my browser. Bugger... One more thing. If you want to know why I named this post "Long John Silver," you can go whistle. I just felt like it.

castles in the air

I'm always fascinated by the Pollinatrix's discussion of synchronicity: the interlacing of strange serendipitous coincidences. Whether or not they were caused by some higher power, they always seem to carry some sort of deeper meaning, applicable to one's existence. (Read what she wrote about the color orange, it's brilliant.) What does my existence consist of right now? Castles in the air. There are some castles way off in the sunlit clouds which I'm trying to lease, but I'm still down here on the ground, building a ladder to reach them. Some days it feels like Jacob's ladder. No matter how long I work or how high I climb, I never seem to get anywhere. I'm in the vertical doldrums. And yet...inspiration is everywhere. If I needed a reason to keep up the fight, synchronicity might come to the rescue. Each way I turn I'm reminded in some way of my struggle to attain the clouds. I'm in the middle of reading Louisa May Alcott's Little Women. Chapter 13 is named "Castles in the Air." In it, the girls and Laurie divulge their dreams to each other. Laurie would like to live in Germany and be a musician; Meg wants a lovely house with lots of luxurious accoutrements, and would rather live a charitable life as a well-loved woman (with, perhaps, a man); Jo needs a stable full of Arabian horses, a library full of books, and a magic inkstand; Beth simply wishes to stay at home and be of help to her father and mother; and Amy desires to be an artist, go to Rome, and paint fine pictures. It's a touching chapter, a delight to read. The girls and Laurie have each built a castle in the air and now plan to pursue it with every breath. As most of you know, I'm somewhat into Japanese comics, or manga. My favorite is called One Piece. It's a pirate-themed comic book wherein a 17-year-old boy, Monkey D. Luffy, sets out to sea to become the Pirate King. One of my favorite story arcs in this marvelous comic is when Luffy and his crew discover the existence of the sky island, Skypiea. It's an amazing voyage. Thought to exist only in legend, Skypiea is proven real when Luffy and his crew ride a monstrous ocean current up into the clouds and find the mystical land for themselves. But it's not a heavenly paradise. The sky islands are lorded over by a rather nasty villain, Enel, who has the powers of thunder and lightning. Luffy and his mates win the day through a series of hair-raising battles and close calls, all in the clouds and the islands floating on them. This is fascinating stuff, and partly what inspired me to try to write my own comic in the first place. But perhaps most tellingly of all, there's a quote by Henry David Thoreau. I put it on my Facebook page a while back, but neglected it. It's my favorite Thoreau quote, which is rather telling; that man was nothing if not quotable.

"Do not worry if you have built your castles in the air. They are where they should be. Now put the foundations under them."

How does this relate to me? Well, I'll tell you. Laurie, Beth, Jo, Meg and Amy remind me that you have to start out big or you'll never go anywhere. You have to have grandiose schemes and great ambitions. You must shoot high, right from the very beginning. And you have to be prepared to do what it takes to get there. Otherwise you'll forever remain a nowhere man. Like Stephen King says, "If you don't start out too big for your britches, how are you going to fill 'em later on?" Luffy and his pirate crew never cared if they were laughed at for believing in the impossible. They kept going regardless. They believed. They tried. They strove. They braved the storm and the danger and the fear of the unknown. And in the end, they won through...and were privileged to see something few others ever had. They had themselves a real adventure, kept their eye on the ball, and enjoyed the journey. What more is there to do in life? And as for ol' Henry...well, his sentiments are self-explanatory. I've set my sights on something I want, and all I have to do now is get there. I have built my castles in the air. Now I must see to the foundations, even if it's just one brick at a time. So I have to remember to stick with it. I must keep up the work I've begun. Even if it seems like I study day after day and hardly ever go down to Riverside to take a test, I have to continue my bartender's training. Even if I've completed the requisite 40 hours of flight training for my private pilot's license, and can't take my exams because of time and financial constraints, I'm still cracking books. Even if I'm frightened of my novel, not confident in my writing ability, or disgusted with the premise (as I am sometimes), I'll keep revising. Because what lies at the end is everlasting glory. A bartender's certificate. A pilot's license. A published book. A high-paying job in a bar or casino. An international airline. A successful, well-liked novel series. A castle in the air.