2012...as it relates to 2013

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

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

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

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

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

I'm going to make this blog more professional.

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

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

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

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

sordid tales of me and music

Dear Blogsphere,

I've joined a writer's workshop here in the High Desert. We meet every alternate Wednesday at this charming little coffeehouse called The Grind. The affair is supervised by an English teacher from the local community college (and the mother of one of my high school buddies). It's mostly for poets, but we stick some fiction in every now and then. I've already gotten help with one of my short stories, and was glad to find out what worked and what didn't.

The overseer doesn't give us "prompts" at the end of every meeting; she gives us "dares." One of the ones she gave us yesterday entailed the following: write about the first time you ever heard a particular song. Any song. Pick one. Write about the context. Where were you? What were you doing? Who was with you? Describe the scene in excruciating detail. (She didn't the word "excruciating"; that's creative license on my part.)

So, for your consideration, I thought I'd give you my response to that dare. It concerns South Korea, for which I am leaving in three weeks. And it concerns one of my very favorite songs, one which I shall forever associate with Korea, friends, being an expatriate, godawful Korean lager, and...well, a whole bunch of other things. Read for yourself.

     I was halfway through my fourth glass of beer and moving steadily into to a lolling, drunken stupor.  Adam sat across from me, as tipsy as I was, a toothy grin on his whiskery face as he dealt the cards for another round of Tripoley.  Elaine and Jeff were in the kitchen, mixing up some vile concoction of soju, orange juice and various liqueurs.  The scent of cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, soaking every surface in the apartment—skin, clothes, hair, upholstery, wallpaper.  Gossamer strands of vaporized carcinogens drifted up to the ceiling and hung there like lopsided spider webs.
     It was pitch-black outside, except for the streetlights and neon-lit storefronts.  The apartment was brilliantly lit by overhead fluorescent lighting.  The curtains were closed, providing few hints about the dank, humid night outside.  The linoleum floor was covered in crumbs, dingy tennis shoes, dog-eared paperbacks, smutty magazines.  The glass-topped card table was populated with stacks of shuffled cards, sweating beer glasses and their telltale wet rings.  Squashed beneath the glass were scraps of lined notebook paper with odd missives scribbled upon them in untidy ball-point: pot, kitty, king, queen, king-queen, ace, jack, 10, 8-9-10 all one suit.

     Another day in South Korea had drawn to a close, and four beleaguered expatriates—Jeff (the Canadian), Adam, Elaine (a Geordie couple from Newcastle-upon-Tyne), and their American friend had gathered together for a long night of decompression and relaxation.  A comforting dinner of beef and vegetables had been laid to rest in our bellies, various grievances had been levied against fractious students, copious amounts of booze were being consumed hourly, and the evening had gotten into its stride.  Now we all sat down to the table, drinks in hand and giddiness in our heads, to play cards for unshelled peanuts.

     Behind Adam, balanced on the ottoman, was a battered laptop computer hooked to a pair of squat speakers.  From this was blasting an endless stream of music—house rhythms reminiscent of English nightclubs, highlights of 1960s American rock, and several contemporary selections.  Among this was scattered a pleasing ensemble of R&B.

     And then it happened.  As Adam dealt the cards (a Marlboro hanging from the corner of his mouth), a wave of sound slammed into the alcoholic fog hanging over my brain.  It was a simple sound, but powerful, primal, elemental in its ferocity and intensity.  The power, the melody, and the pounding rhythm seized my soul in their sinewy clutches and refused to let go.

    It was an electric guitar and a drum kit.  That’s all.  Okay, there was some bass in the background, but the guitar and the drums were what got me. Two instruments bare-knuckling their way out of jerry-rigged speakers, filling the smoky air with raw noise.  It was the blues—but the kind of blues which human ears hadn’t heard on this earth since the fabled days of John Lee Hooker and Buddy Guy.  It was dirty, gritty, unfiltered, like a cigarette butt ground into the pavement.  It started low and slow, and then got loud.  It was impossible to keep my feet from tapping and my head from bobbing as thundering drums and jagged guitar riffs blasted ‘round the room like a sonic tsunami.  Even in the midst of a boozy funk I was stricken, overawed.  I leaned ravenously forward, elbows on my knees, straining to absorb as much of the music as possible from my remote position five feet away.

    “Adam,” I asked, “who is this?”

   Adam craned his head around and swiped a finger across the laptop’s touchpad.

   “The Black Keys, mate,” he said. “They’re mint.” 

   So it was.  I leaned farther forward and squinted.  The song was called “Busted.”

   Even the godawful Korean lager tasted good that night.

e-hiatus, day 5

We woke up at about ten o'clock. We ate brunch and got down to business. Miss H job-searched while I worked on the novel some more. At about 1:00 p.m., I was stricken with severe writer's block, so I went ahead and wrote that piece on A.E. van Vogt which was posted earlier. Things failed to improve after that, so I cheated on my hiatus and checked Facebook. I'm quite glad I did, because one of my friend's mothers (an English teacher at the community college) invited me to a writer's workshop on the 21st of December. I could really use some input on my writing, so I think I'll go. Might learn something useful, you know? I just have to be sure to pick a suitably noncommittal part of my novel to avoid plagiarism.

The rest of the day passed. I spent it finishing Starship Troopers (wow, what a book) and watching the movie Duel (1971) on YouTube. Excellent entertainment on all fronts. Miss H and I also came to a decision about our futures, but I won't go into that here.

I will say that the withdrawal symptoms have hit me hard...or rather, the boredom and emptiness associated with breaking a habit. I no longer find myself taking my phone out of my pocket automatically (in fact, I have no idea where my phone is). But I still open Facebook and Hotmail without even thinking about it whenever I turn on my computer. I must train myself out of this. Between job searches and novel sessions, I find myself wandering around the house, kneading my hands, wondering what to do with myself. I managed a walk with Dash yesterday but that was about it. Miss H and I have begun work on another 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle, and that should help keep me occupied. Maybe I'll teach myself Chinese ten or something to keep from going nuts.

Squaring my shoulders and hoping for a more productive day tomorrow! Postman out.