why I quit Facebook (and should quit the Internet, period)

Civilization is what makes you sick.

— Paul Gauguin

It's been three weeks to the day since I went dark. "Dark" is something of a misnomer; I haven't quit the Internet entirely. Facebook accounted for, at best, 10-15% of my total time surfing the web. It's fair to say, however, that it was the main reason for my being on the web in the first place, if you know what I mean.

Some of my friends have only just discovered that I'm gone. I've received text messages and e-mails asking me what's up and when I might be coming back. I have no definite answer to give, because honestly, I'm not sure myself.

The answer is "When I'm ready."

But why did I quit in the first place? I've been wrestling with this question for nigh on a week. As of this morning, I was still at a loss.

Then, this afternoon, I went down to the Han River to read. I took a folding chair, my new Stanwell pipe, a plentiful supply of tobacco and matches, a bottle of Jim Beam and a copy of Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. The air was crisp. The sun was sinking behind feathery clouds. The trees were dripping with reds and yellows. The river was iron-grey and lay at rest like a freshly-tempered sword. I unfolded the chair, lit up my pipe, filled a glass with bourbon, opened the book, and read the final four chapters in one go.

Upon finishing, I felt that I'd reached new levels of clarity in my search for answers.

Civilization.

That's the problem.

Civilization.

I've been staring the matter in the face this whole time and never recognized it. The problem of civilization is a central theme in Brave New World, just as it is in my own novel series (the third installment of which I'm writing for NaNoWriMo).

What do I mean by "the problem of civilization"? Bread and circuses. Mustapha Mond, the Resident World Controller of Western Europe (and the closest thing to a villain that Brave New World has) explains it thus: you can't have a civilization full of intelligent, independent people, or it will dissolve into chaos. There'll be differences of opinion, boredom, ennui, insanity, or outright war. Hence the system of control which is so thoroughly explained in the beginning of the novel: the intelligence, physical beauty, and usefulness (or lack thereof) of any particular human being is determined at the embryonic stage, and a series of clinical processes are enacted to ensure that the resultant human being is molded and shaped to be a cog in the machinery of civilization. Menial tasks are performed by big, dumb, ugly people who've been chemically and genetically altered in their test tubes and then conditioned in childhood to accept their lot and perform their tasks with joy. Administrative duties are performed by handsomer, prettier, smarter, and wiser human beings, whose development and conditioning were likewise controlled from the get-go. To counter any malaise or dissatisfaction, humans are encouraged to imbibe soma, an ecstasy-inducing drug; have as many dalliances as they like, with no strings attached; watch "feelies," tactile versions of movies; and play ridiculous sports like Obstacle Golf. With their minds mired in pointless pursuits and carnal pleasures, and their days filled with the drudgery they've been preconditioned to enjoy, human beings have no need to ever worry about things like war or civil strife. Anyone who shows "subversive" or "devious" preferences for solitude, monogamy, or sobriety is sent to an island, severed from the main population to preserve the public's general state of contentment. Only in remote places such as Western America, on the so-called "Savage Reservations" (vast tracts of land surrounded by electrified fences) is humanity's inherent barbarity allowed to continue: religion, viviparous birth, marriage, love, and natural aging.

Fascinating book. You should read it. Mightily depressing, though.

Why? Because it's coming true. I look around now and I see the same thing that John the Savage sees when he leaves his Reservation and comes to London: thanks to drugs like the Internet, amusing diversions like video games and smartphones, and Facebook—that saccharine filter of friendship and raw experience—we have a civilization more blinded to the ebb and flow of reality than ever before. I see people more concerned with emoticons, abbreviations, Bubble Crush, Angry Birds, KakaoTalk, YouTube, Twitter, news feeds, discussion forums, and torrent downloads than they are with a lavender autumn sky.

That's the way I saw myself heading. And I didn't like it.

When I originally quit Facebook, I told myself I was doing it because my right hand was moving of its own accord—creeping, crawling toward that Facebook tab, clicking on the bookmark unbidden. I also felt that my brain's natural tendency towards autodidactism had been superseded by a base craving for input: information of any stamp, no matter how sordid or simplistic. I perceived that I was logging onto Facebook every morning for two vile reasons, and those reasons alone:

(1) to peer at the winnowed grains of my friends' (and coworkers', and distant acquaintances', and too-distant relatives') lives and assess them subjectively; and

(2) to make myself angry. I'd foolishly become involved with ("liked") a slew of conservative political Facebook groups, and my news feed teemed with their inflammatory rhetoric on a daily basis.

I was fed up. I felt like Facebook wasn't much good for communicating with or keeping track of loved ones anymore; now it was just a place for my friends to post insufferable political views, hackneyed jokes, fatuous memes, mushy musings on pets or spouses or babies, and pictures of cats. I felt like I wasn't really contributing anything to Facebook anymore; I realized that I was reposting quotations and news stories basically in order to annoy my liberal friends. I had degraded. I was no longer an intellectual, upstanding member of the online community. I was little more than a troll. Enough was enough. When I woke up and saw that Facebook was making me miserable, that my hand would relentlessly click on the link and prevent me from accomplishing anything worthwhile, and that I was spending nearly six hours of my day—all of my free time—just staring at screens, it became clear that I was a full-blown Facebook addict. 

I didn't feel like I was really living.

You'll notice that "living" is one of the tags I use for posts. You'll find it in the tag cloud over on the right side of this blog's webpage. (Even using the term "tag cloud" makes me want to puke.) I did that intentionally. I want to highlight the posts that are actually about Life, life with a capital L, not life through a fiber-optic cable. I want to keep track of how much living I'm doing. I want to feel like the two hundred hours Steam so thoughtfully tells me I've spent playing RAGE have been counterbalanced by at least a thousand hours of pure-D experience. 

Facebook wasn't letting me do that, and I knew it. I've known it from the beginning. I mentioned something in my original post about wanting to accomplish more during the hiatus, such as touring Gyeonggi-do, riding trains, visiting Hwaseong Fortress, exploring Ganghwa Island and so forth.

I don't know why I got so wrapped up in Facebook and the Internet at large. I can't explain why it's so easy for the human brain to fall prey to instant communication, electronic entertainment, and easy access to moving and static images. But that's what happened to me. Maybe it's a byproduct of civilization. We're social animals, and we've been conditioned to be even more social by our millennia-long habit of living in cities. We want to feel connected. Perhaps it also has something to do with the way our brains our wired. After an eternity of playing with things like marbles and Jacob's ladders, video games and streaming video are a quantum leap forward. (Whatever the reason, the effects are insidious.)

I just want to feel alive. I believe that civilization, and with it technology and all its insidious tendrils, is sapping the genuineness and joie de vivre from the existential equation. I was on Facebook for the sake of keeping my brain entertained during its downtime, like a kid with a Game Boy in a waiting room. And I wasn't even using my time on Facebook in a constructive way (as far as it's possible to use one's time on Facebook in a constructive way, anyway): I was just trolling. If it wasn't Facebook, it was something else: editing pages on TV Tropes, looking up trivia on the Internet Movie Database, watching Grand Theft Auto V videos on YouTube, researching firearms on Wikipedia, even browsing news sites with the same ulcerating anger with which I once patrolled my Facebook feed. Technology, man. The Internet. It's eating my life. I'm 13,000 words into my NaNoWriMo project, and I can ill afford to be wasting time wholesale—now or ever. 

So I quit Facebook. And I might just quit the Internet, too, at least until November's over. We'll have to see. Something's gotta give. Civilization's making me sick, especially now that I've finished Brave New World. I read about soma, and feelies, and sex-hormone chewing gum, and Obstacle Golf and Centrifugal Bumble-puppy and Assistant Predestinators and bottles and television and I thought, Man.

No way. Not for me.

As the Savage defiantly tells Mustapha Mond, "I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want goodness. I want sin."

Living, in other words. Not virtual reality.

If you agree with me, then get off my blog and go eat an apple in the autumn air. You'll thank me later.

cocktail review no. 68 - Presbyterian

"A man with God on his side is always in the majority." 
— John Knox, the father of Presbyterianism

Continuing on in the vein of simple cocktails you can make at home ('cause who likes to go out and hunt up a whole bottle of blue Curaçao just for one measly drink?)...

This is one of the most well-known highballs—and yet, well, it isn't. It's the most famous cocktails that nobody's ever heard of. You wouldn't hear it mentioned at a party or a rave, even though its roots go back further than many other lauded alcoholic creations. It's rather like one of those scratch-'n'-win things you'd buy at a gas station: unknown and inscrutable from a distance, but a little digging and the information is revealed.

And what a wealth of information. Famous drinks always have a plethora of variations—everyone has their own margarita recipe, for example, and everybody likes their martinis a little different. But the Presbyterian has a staggering number of variations: literally trillions. Before I go any farther, I should give you the (baseline) recipe. Here it is:

• 1.5 ounces whiskey
• 3 ounces club soda
• 3 ounces ginger ale
• 1 lemon twist

Pour the bourbon into a highball glass half-filled with ice cubes. Add the club soda and ginger ale in equal measures. Add the lemon twist and serve.

A few words about the flavor: simple, direct, easy, and fine. The fire of the whiskey is tempered by the fizz of the ginger ale and the club soda; the ginger ale adds sweetness while the soda tempers it; and the lemon twist adds just the perfect touch of citrusy tang. If you're looking for something a bit more exciting than the classic highball, then this is the drink for you. And if you like anything that resembles a whiskey fizz or an old-fashioned, then you'll love the Presbyterian.

But you wanna know the best part? You can customize this drink. Mix and match the ingredients until you find a winning combo. You can use bourbon, American rye, blended Scotch, or Irish whiskey. Some people substitute 7-Up for the ginger ale and some people add lime instead of lemon. It's up to you. Whatever floats your boat.

Isn't having choice great?

sci-fi art, entry #2

It's 12:35 a.m. on a Friday night (or a Saturday morning, if you want to think about it that way). I've had a hard week and a glass of bourbon. I don't feel like posting anything particularly profound, and you know what that means—time for some more sci-fi art.

This one's called "Ancestors." I don't know what the title means, and I have no clue what the contents were meant to portray. And that's the beauty of it, really. Just stare at that half-ruined structure and the stunning panorama in the skies above it, and wonder.

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.

fireside chat

I was reading something on Jon Paul's blog Where Sky Meets Ground about how this one blogger has surpassed 100 followers after blogging for just two months. Why? Because her content is amazing, he says. I've run across several blogs which other folks label "amazing," and I'm still not sure exactly what the common factor might be. As near as I can figure out, though, these "amazing" blogs are popular because they speak the truth. They resonate. They tell stories everyone can relate to. They showcase the human condition in some evocative way. They're simply written, intimately personal, refreshingly honest, and often eerily familiar. Jon Paul has declared his intention to begin publishing stories about the lessons he's learned during his eighteen-plus years in the military, specifically in regards to writing. That should resonate with any male between the ages of 13 and 99; plus a vast cross-section of the population who are interested in writing, or need help with some of the particularly trying aspects of it. Now, I'm not saying that I blog just to garner followers. No worthwhile blogger does. That's not the point. Having a zillion followers is good in some ways; feedback, community-building, and (for writers) literary criticism. But it's an added bonus, not the ends of the means. That being said, I wouldn't object to appealing to a wider audience. Right now, I suppose, this blog is pretty esoteric: booze, literature, aviation, travel. If you're an earthbound, jingoistic, illiterate teetotaller, the Sententious Vaunter will hold no interest for you. What am I missing? Those stories. Those relatable, resonant, intriguing vignettes. Those intimate, whimsical glimpses into people's lives that I (and many others) love to read. Dumb dogs. Vanishing passports. People who forget their gender after a few drinks. After all, people don't live on book reviews alone. Unfortunately for me, I don't get drunk often enough to tell war stories about myself and Wild Turkey. I'm not living in a foreign country, unless you consider my room the home ground and the rest of Mom and Dad's house alien territory. Nothing much ever happens in this town besides murders, rapes, gang fights, drug deals, and sexual predation. Most of the stuff I do with my friends is pretty typical: we watch movies, go to dinner parties, drink beer, go off-roading, etc. (Actually, THAT might be worth blogging about...something really interesting happened. We were driving back down Pilot Rock Road after failing to reach Fawnskin the back way due to heavy slush when a dirtbiker flagged us down, and...) But fear not! I may have failed to judiciously post current events and thus keep my blog timely, but I shall not fail in this. I hereby resolve to devote a few more posts to personal stories. I bloviate a lot, but I don't reminisce enough. So I'm going to tell you some of the funny, interesting, whimsical, didactic, touching, enlightening, enrapturing and hilarious things that have happened to me. If nothing funny, interesting, whimsical, didactic (etc.) has happened recently, I'll draw on something from previous years, college life or childhood. We'll have ourselves a little fireside chat every now and again. Should be a good time. Stay tuned. And if you like what you see, follow along. It'll probably get better.

cocktail review no. 30 - DeRosier's 19th Hole

Apparently, I have never had a hot drink. Not like this, I haven't. The others were hodgepodges of disparate ingredients which failed to harmonize. This cocktail is a heavenly chorus.

• 1 ounce añejo rum
• ½ ounce bourbon
• 2 teaspoons crème de cacao
• 2 teaspoons Drambuie
• 4 ounces hot coffee
• 2 ounces heavy cream

Pour the rum, bourbon, crème de cacao, Drambuie, and coffee into an Irish coffee glass. Pour the cream carefully over the back of a teaspoon so that it floats on top of the drink. Poetic fluff aside, this libation is fit for a three-dog night. Once again I was flabbergasted by how harmoniously rum and bourbon mix. The crème provides a chocolate overtone, the Drambuie adds its own Scotch sweetness, and the coffee provides a solid vehicle for transmission. But I meant what I said before. These ingredients don't just mix, they combine. It seems like most of the hot drinks I sampled before this (hot buttered rum, candle in the window) were disjointed, fractured. You could taste each ingredient separately. With DeRosier's 19th hole, however, the flavors form a massive, amalgamated super-flavor. (I know there's probably a better and more erudite culinary term for "super-flavor" but what the heck.) And that super-flavor is fine. Chocolaterumbourbonsweetwhiskycoffee, with cream on top. I didn't have heavy cream; so I just used ReddiWip. That's a big no-no. I also didn't have añejo (aged) rum, so I used Bacardi Gold. I can only imagine how fine the flavor would've been if I had employed the proper ingredients. If anyone out there mixes this drink properly and gives it a go, kindly report back to me and tell me how it went. But whatever you do, enjoy.

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.

a windfall

Well, shoot. That hiatus didn't last too long, did it? Fuhgeddaboudit. I've got two good reasons for violating blogger parole. Number one, I'm trying this whole "post labels" thing. For some unexplained reason, it seems that they won't show up on my posts if I add them in retroactively. So I'm creating this post with labels, and adding it onto the blog to see if they'll show up then. If they don't, there's something rotten in Denmark, and I'll know about it. Second, I have a story to tell you. So there I am, sitting in my easy chair, trying to absorb certain key principles of aerodynamics. There's a baleful, blasting rainstorm pounding around outside. It's a nasty, wet, windy afternoon. Without warning, Dad comes into the room. He has a small cardboard box in his arms. He deposits it on the floor and says, "Hey, I found these books in the garage. Think you might have any use for 'em?" He has me at "books." I throw my flight school textbook aside and bend forward to examine the box. It's filled with ten faded, dog-eared, worn volumes. Here's the manifest:

• The Autobiography of Malcolm X
• Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
• A Separate Peace by John Knowles
• Flying Saucers - Serious Business by Frank Edwards
• The People's Almanac #3 by David Wallechinsky and Irving Wallace
• The Reivers by William Faulkner
• The Boston Strangler by Gerold Frank
• Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin
• On the Nature of the Universe by Lucretius
• Six Great Modern Short Novels

Pages are bent. Covers are stained, torn or missing. Dust blankets everything. The cardboard box once held twelve bottles of Henry Weinhard's Private Reserve. In other words, it's a veritable treasure trove, an unbelievable haul. Just when I was wondering what I was going to read after The Epic of Gilgamesh, Pop drops ten unexplored books on my rug. One of them has six novels in it. Another deals with UFOs. I love UFOs; don't believe in 'em, but I love 'em. A third is a reference book that was written to be read for pleasure. If you knew me as well as I do you'd realize just how appropriate that book is for me. Several of the books are classics. One is a scientific treatise written by a materialist poet nearly 2000 years ago. Another was authored by William Faulkner, a purportedly great author, whom I've never read before and have always meant to. Most of the books concern subjects which I know absolutely nothing about. And I have never read any of them. My excitement cannot be understated. Needless to say, there are going to be some jolly good book reviews on the way very soon. And as if that wasn't enough sympathetic magic for one day, I just recently learned that Hunter S. Thompson and I apparently have similar taste in bourbon. We are both fans (or perhaps I should say "I am and he was a fan") of Old Crow. Now, if it turns out that Wiley Post liked a whiskey sour, I might just die of empathy.

cocktail review no. 27 - Candle in the Window

Humdinger. That's the first word that came to mind when I began composing this entry in my head, like I usually do. I've picked a humdinger this time, folks. If you like coffee and booze, you're in for a real treat. Caffeine and alcohol in the same drink...the most natural thing in the world, I reckon. Why limit yourself to only one high?

• 2 ounces light rum
• 2 ounces bourbon
• 1 teaspoon crème de cacao
• 1 teaspoon cherry brandy
• 4 ounces hot coffee
• 2 ounces heavy cream

Pour the rum, bourbon, crème de cacao, cherry brandy, and coffee into an Irish coffee glass. Pour the cream carefully over the back of a spoon so that it floats on top of the drink. (Just as a side note, I now know exactly how to pour stuff over the back of a spoon and make it float on top of a drink. Dan taught us how to do it in bartender's school when he showed us how to make a B-52.) I have to say, this drink reminds of the Tom and Jerry, only without the spices and the smoothness afforded by whisked egg whites. Instead, there's the naked heat (ooh, sultry) and the tacit backing of the coffee. All this is overlaid by the surprisingly harmonious union of rum and bourbon, with just a hint of chocolate and cherry. (I couldn't hardly detect the latter two flavors, but I'm not exactly a cocktail connoisseur.) This thing will warm you up, regardless of what you think of the taste. Hot coffee and four ounces of hard liquor (plus two teaspoons of liqueur) will do that to you. Be warned, this thing packs a wallop. In short, I might consider having this drink again. I'm not the biggest fan of coffee, so I'm not the biggest fan of this drink (there's some litotes for you; I actually hate coffee). The CITW doesn't quite come up to the Tom and Jerry or even the mudslide (a cold drink) but it's good in its own right.

cocktail review no. 26 - Potion F

Here it is: the first cocktail review about a cocktail I, yours truly, actually invented.

The Pollinatrix, a dauntless supporter of my barman's ambitions, once suggested I make up some cocktails named after Blogger verification words—you know, those little words you have to type to post a comment on somebody's blog. They're often weird or off-the-wall, like shakera, etrumix, gencalsi and rigunp. For a long while I dawdled and dilly-dallied, not confident enough to actually start experimenting. Then, on the night of December 30, it happened. They say necessity is the mother of invention. I believe it. I was forced into making this drink.

• 3 ounces bourbon
• ½ ounce Southern Comfort
• 2 dashes bitters
• 6 ounces margarita mix (or sweet-and-sour)
• 1 ounce cranberry juice

Chuck all of the ingredients into a shaker half-filled with ice cubes. Shake well and strain into a cocktail glass.

This beast started out as just bourbon, SoCo and bitters, shaken and poured (a cocktail known as J.R.'s Revenge). The result was, however, revolting. The pureness of the bourbon was despoiled and violated by the vile mixture of Southern Comfort and bitters, which made the whole affair taste exactly like cough syrup. I don't know why mixologists insist on combining Southern Comfort with bitters so often. There are dozens of drinks with both those ingredients in them, and they are uniformly awful.

After a few sips, it became readily apparent that I wasn't going to finish. Something my father had said to me earlier came roaring back onto center stage: "You can make a whiskey sour with Southern Comfort, right? A sweet whiskey sour?" Sounded like a good idea about then. So I got the margarita mix (also known as sweet-and-sour). I poured my J.R.'s Revenge into a highball glass with some ice, added a few ounces of mix (and a little cranberry juice for good measure), and, after a little fiddling and readjusting of proportions, I took a taste. It was much, much better. It was, indeed, like a sweet whiskey sour. There was tartness and sweetness, perfectly supplemented by the strength of the Wild Turkey, and offset just a tad by the unexpected cranberry sting. An eminently sippable libation it turned out to be, if I do say so myself.

The reason I named it "Potion F" was that potionf was one of those Blogger verification words I ran across and noted down for later. I believe I encountered it while leaving a comment on the Pollinatrix's blog...

Anyway, all the pieces fell into place. The name "Potion F" seemed perfect for this recipe, since there were so many ingredients involved, and I had to play around and add different things in various proportions to get it right. It was kind of like brewing a magic potion. Enjoy responsibly, and thank you for tuning in.

P.S. The holidays may be over, but winter's only just begun. Don't worry. I'll keep those comforting Christmas drinks coming.

waiting for Ivan (no explanation needed)

Evening. She and I are sitting in the leather seats, staring out through the windscreen, waiting for Ivan to finish making the rounds. The sky is like a Renaissance painting: pale blue sky and fluffy clouds, tinted orange and pink and purple by the softly setting sun. The windows are cracked to let in a little of the sweet cool breeze. "Do you really know what all of these do?" she says, indicating the control panel with a sweep of her hand. "Yep," I say, in a howdy ma'am sort of voice. "Every single one of them." "All of them?" "Well, except for that little red one, there. I've got absolutely no clue what that one does." "Really?" "Nah. That's the eject button. One little push and you'll get a free a flying lesson, sans airplane." I'm being silly and I know it. But perhaps that's for the best. If the two us are going to have any future together, she needs to understand how goofy I am at my core. I believe in honesty in a relationship. "Hey," I say, feeling like I ought to be thorough, "did you see the one in Reader's Digest a while back about the new ice cream parlor slash beauty salon they opened?" "No, I didn't see that." "They decided to call it 'Custard's Lash Stand.' " Ouch. That was probably overdoing it. Silence falls again. I'm cringing inside. This is the first conversation we've had that I haven't blown. Please, whoever's in charge, let me get it all right this time. I want us to work out. Flowers, wedding bells, little chubby kids, evening walks, and all that jazz. The door of the hangar bangs open. We watch as Ivan heaves his ponderous, vodka-nourished bulk around the perimeter. He's as lithe as a sleepy cat. I look at her. She's sitting on her hands. One shoe rests on top of the other on the floor of the plane. Her wool hat is cocked at a rebellious angle on her wavy, shoulder-length hair, and her oceanic eyes reflect the glory of the sunset. She's leaning forward a little, her lips half-pursed reflectively. Her expression is unreadable. What is she thinking? Hmmm, this joker is kind of interesting or I wish I was a million miles from here right now? Time to do something manly. I reach into my coat pocket and bring out my prized denim-coated hip flask. I unscrew the top as noisily as possible, so she won't have any doubt. Before I imbibe, I pause, give her a pointed look, and hold out the flask, its contents swishing audibly. "Want a swig?" "What is it?" she asks, giving the flask a dubious look. "Bourbon." "Sure," she says, almost cheerfully. She takes the flask and knocks back a gulp. My heart begins to pound. HOLY CRAP. She took a drink. She likes bourbon. Man, this girl is incredible. And underneath that lies another, inarticulate thought, which breaks through the subconscious wall for just an instant: I want her. She hands the flask back. I take it, have a sip (my hands shaking a little), and both of us resume gazing at the western sky above the hangar. "Why'd you start doing this?" Her question catches me off-guard. "What, drinking bourbon?" "No, flying. For a living." "Well..." I ponder for a moment. I've been asked this question many a time, and have given the explanation even more frequently. But I'm suddenly stumped. How do you tell someone special something that's so important? How do you bare your soul in front of somebody you're secretly afraid to lose? What might happen if you do? What will she think? I have to be careful. I don't want to lie, I want to be honest. I don't want to brag, I want to be modest. I don't want to talk her ear off; I should give it to her plain and simple. "I guess I just wanted to have fun," I say. "I never wanted to work behind a desk, I knew that much. I figured I'd love flying, and I thought if I could get paid to do it, then..." She looks at me, her expression still unreadable. The right side of her face is lit with a pale glow by the dying light. She's waiting for me to finish. "I guess that's the only way I know to make a living. Doing what I love. Beats the alternative." Her gaze lingers on me a moment longer, during which my heartbeat kicks up another notch. Did I say the wrong thing? What did she think? Am I being appraised? Better hedge my bets. "It's certainly worked out so far," I add. "I mean, here I am, sitting in my favorite airplane, watching one of the most beautiful sunsets I've ever seen, with a very, very beautiful girl here by my side..." "...waiting for a fat, alcoholic Russian to climb in so we can give him a lift back to town," she adds, with that mischievous tick of her eyebrows I've come to love so much. With a comically grumpy expression, I cock a finger at the little red button. She smiles, then I smile. There's no explanation needed.

cocktail review no. 6 - Whiskey Sling

Let's cut right to the chase:

• 1 teaspoon superfine sugar
• 2 teaspoons water
• 1 ounce lemon juice
• 2 ounces blended whiskey
• 1 lemon twist

In a shaker half-filled with ice cubes, combine the sugar, water, lemon juice and whiskey. Shake well. Strain into a highball glass and garnish with the lemon twist. I should point out, before I commence opining, that I used Wild Turkey bourbon whiskey to make this instead of regular ol' blended whiskey like the recipe called for. Still, I liked it. It's sour, and not so sweet, but that's more like how I prefer my drinks, particularly ones that are whiskey-based. I actually find it to be an improvement over the whiskey sour, which is actually more sweet than sour (the way I make 'em). This drink goes down smooth, with nary a pucker.