recommended reading

Life's more fun when you own up to having bad taste. Or better yet, glory in it. Indulging in strange or antediluvian books, movies, clothes and décor is one of life's greatest and rarest pleasures. I had a pretty darn good day yesterday, not just because I spent most of it with a special lady, but because I know what I like and am secure enough to partake of it without shame. We went shooting in the morning. We had a Beretta semi-automatic, a .22-caliber Ruger target pistol, a big .45 M1911, and the pièce de résistance, an 1873 Colt single-action Army revolver. It's one of my father's reproduction cowboy firearms, and has served both of us well in many a competition. It's a surreal thing, just to see it and hold it: polished walnut grips, case-hardened frame, barrel and cylinder cold black steel, grit personified. It's a piece of history, this gun. Nothing satisfies the scholarly mind or itchy fingers like loading a few massive .45 slugs into it, spinning the cylinder flippantly, and driving six giant holes through a paper bulls-eye. Some people are too caught up in your modern, plastic firearms like Glocks and M-16s. They don't appreciate the worth of a classic six-shooter. But I do. Then we went to the Old 247 Café and laid waste to the cheeseburger special. Burger, fries, and a medium Coke for $4.60 apiece. Where else in the country can you still find that kind of deal? And it was delicious, let me tell you. Diets and veggie burgers and protein shakes can go hang themselves. There's no denying the decadence of a good old-fashioned hamburger, packed with lettuce, tomatoes and pickles and dripping ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise onto the grease-bound fries. But the spiritual center of the Postman's brand of arcana—the place where I really let my horrible taste and singular cravings run loose—is the used book store. I found a science fiction novel by some guy I've never heard of (James White), called The Escape Orbit. It's about a bunch of human prisoners-of-war who, taken captive by the instectoid race humanity has warred with for 60 years, get dumped on a wild planet filled with carnivorous alien monsters. How cool is that? Yeah, yeah, I know. It's not Twain or Brontë or Dostoevsky. But it's fun, all right? I don't care if people say I have questionable taste in books. I don't care if Dad rolled his eyes when I excitedly explained the book's premise. I think it's neat. I mean, come on: if I liked (the original) Clash of the Titans, where you've got a bunch of guys fighting fantastic monsters with swords and bows...well, shoot! How is this any different? The monsters just happen to be giant green elephants with six legs, two trunks and shark teeth. I've delved into the first chapter already, and I must say that White does an excellent job of not clogging up the beginning with too much description or background. He just gets the story started, introduces some of the characters, and lets the context seep in where it seems logical. I need to work on that. I stand to learn a lot from this novel, especially since there's quite a few monster-fighting scenes in my own series. I could probably use some tutoring on how to do them properly. Just to make sure they keep the tension going and don't drag on endlessly, you know? Now let's see, what else do I have to report? Did I ever render a verdict on The Reivers (William Faulkner)? I don't think I did. I also haven't told you much about Race to the Pole (Sir Ranulph Fiennes). I finished it. And I've started in on my cousin's Western romance novel, Blue Mist Rising. So let me give you the skinny on those three and then we'll be all caught up on our monthly book reviews. THE REIVERS: In 1905 Mississippi, half-breed Indian Boon steals his boss's new car and, in the company of Ned, the family's giggly black retainer, and Lucius, the boss's eleven-year-old grandson, embarks on a long-haul joyride to Memphis, Tennessee, getting into all kinds of messes along the way. I liked the book. Faulkner is one hell of a yarn-spinner, and manages to create an entire world, filled with characters of every stamp, and scrapes and plot-twists of every conceivable caliber. Despite using some admirably long sentences and an incredible amount of parentheticals, he doesn't waste a single word. The scenery is rich, the humor ribald, the voice matter-of-fact, the tone bleak and weary at times, wistful and almost jovial at others. I got the sense that Faulkner, in his declining years, and having witnessed the brutalities and absurdities of human existence and the hypocrisy, grandstanding, bombast and foolishness that accompany them, wrote this book to show all of it up. The author was rueful of men's idiosyncratic idiocy, and yet still able to jibe about it, probably because he realized that no one can honestly expect people not to behave like animals. At times his author's voice suggests a learned species of resigned acceptance. The trials and trammels of humanity in the modern age—greed, bigotry, mendacity, pettiness, fear, corruption, anger, and lust—are lambasted in this novel, often to humorous effect. Lucius, the eleven-year-old protagonist, begins as a naïve chump, and loses quite a bit of innocence over the course of the book. In the end, he comes to understand the basic principles of rape, extortion, whoring, horse-racing, horse-trading, misuse of power, political corruption, theft, dishonesty, and sexual exploitation, and even, to an advanced degree, the reason behind them. (And in only three days to boot!) This is, as you may imagine, a traumatic process. Faulkner demonstrates his brilliance in both analyzing the human condition and translating it into words when he writes that Lucius, "having no receptacle" to put these new and confusing experiences in, and not having the maturity or wisdom to muster up some perspective, nearly breaks down with horror and chagrin as his worldview is assaulted. But with precocious rationality, Lucius refuses to let himself be corrupted completely, even if he willingly abetted the original sin (the theft of his grandfather's car and the start of the trip to Memphis) and many that followed. He takes in the unpleasantness he's witnessed, absorbs it without allowing it to consume him. (Of course, the cup does brim over at times; but whose doesn't?) Lucius's character serves as a sort of everyman, with whom the audience can identify and learn: we may observe depravity, and even partake of it, but we must never fall wholly victim to it. With good reasoning and a little maturity, we may process the information and be on guard against temptation. Failing this, we risk being lampooned as a minor character in a Faulkner novel. RACE TO THE POLE: Renowned polar explorer and O.B.E. recipient Ranulph Fiennes, the first man to transect Antarctica on foot (and who also ran seven marathons on seven continents in seven days) takes pen in hand to debunk the myths and pernicious rumors surrounding Robert F. Scott's second and final expedition to the South Pole in 1912. This was also quite an interesting read. According to Sir Fiennes, Scott has been infamously and unfairly treated by the critics and the history books. Many of the mistakes that were made during the fatal endeavor (Scott and four companions died of starvation and exposure on the way back from the Pole, to which Roald Amundsen had beaten them by over a month) were the result of ignorance and circumstance, Fiennes alleges. For example, 1912 turned out to be the worst year possible for such work. It was the most freakishly cold summer in decades, according to data collected by the expedition itself and latter-day meteorologists. Being the first expeditionary force to push so far into the Antarctic wastes, Scott and his party also suffered from a profound lack of knowledge about conditions, particularly where nutrition was concerned: Fiennes's research reveals that neither Scott nor his men were consuming enough calories to keep them going, leading to a gradual loss of stamina, body fat and muscle mass, which eventually resulted in hypothermia and exhaustion. Sir Fiennes also hoists the English flag above Scott's icy grave, insisting that the only reason Amundsen made the pole first was his inherent sneakiness. He deceived the world, fooling both Norway and England into believing he was making a push for the North Pole, changed plans at the last second, bought up all the best Greenland sled dogs, rushed southward, and mounted his own expedition in opposition to Scott's. Since Scott's work was scientific in nature and Amundsen's was not, the Norwegian was able to make far better time and devote every ounce of energy to movement instead of data-collection. This may seem like fair play in the modern age, but in the old days Amundsen's actions were nothing short of barbaric. The English were hopping mad. Even Norway disowned him in embarrassment. Nonetheless, Amundsen rose to eternal glory as the first man to reach the South Pole. If you want an interesting and well-written treatise on Antarctic exploration, scientific diligence, and the limits of human endurance (plus an engaging account of both of Scott's harrowing polar expeditions), pick up this book. It's got everything: killer whale attacks, breaking ice floes, wooden sailing ships, ferocious storms, hellish blizzards, deadly cliffhangers, and enough seal-blubber soup to choke a sled dog. BLUE MIST RISING: Romance novelist (and my own second cousin) Jacqueline Franklin spins an erotic tale of danger, romance, and intrigue as Grady, a half-Indian gunslinger, returns to his Arizona hometown to save his lady-love Kaylee from the clutches of his mean and ugly arch-nemesis Dade. I haven't read much of this yet, and (if you've read even half of this blog post) you know that I'm not much into romance novels. But Cousin Jax did me a great service by reading my manuscript, which, as a fledgling piece of science and historical fiction, must've been as repulsive to her as erotic romance novels are to me. But I'm going to finish it. And I must say, Jax sets a scene pretty well. Two chapters in and we've already been introduced to all the major players and their wants, desires, and dislikes. I'll let you know more when I've read more. So that's what's on my plate right now, The Escape Orbit and Blue Mist Rising. And what am I going to read when I get through with these? You remember that special girl I mentioned earlier? Well, she has lent me a book. That book is Moby-Dick. Yes, the massive Melville classic. That's right, folks. I'm going into the breach again. Another attempt to scale the mountain will soon be under way. Let's see if I can get through the whole thing this time. I knocked off twenty chapters a few years ago and then completely ran out of steam. Melville is a pretty dry writer, even if the stuff he wrote about would make the average person pee their pants. I'll let you know how it goes. Until then...stay tuned.

Northeast England's anti-zombie fortress

Technically it's a priory, but Adam has on numerous occasions declared his intention to employ the fortified ruins on top of the cliff in Tynemouth as his last refuge against the zombie apocalypse.

The story so far: We find our heroes walking out of the Priory Café late on the morning of June 14, having neatly consumed an entire English breakfast and about 25 servings of toast, which Adam ordered up special because he thought he'd have a lot of sauce to mop up, but which we somehow managed to consume. First things first. Before we ate we'd had to go to the tiny Tynemouth branch library and pay a few pence to print our flight itineraries for Dublin. We'd be leaving the next day on a Ryanair flight.

But that's a story for another time. Now we were going to see the seaside. On the agenda were the old priory; the North Sea; the Collingwood Monument; and Fish Quay, just three of Newcastle's cultural hot spots. The priory sits perched on a crag overlooking the stormy North Sea, and has existed in some form or other since the 7th century. Various orders passed through it before Henry the Eighth literally ripped the roof off the place in the sixteenth century. Then the elements came in and did their job, and the priory fell to ruins. The crag, and the remains of the priory, were commandeered as a gun position during the Second World War, and a coast guard station currently sits there. But the ruins still stand, and are a treat for the eyes and the historically-minded. So in we went.
(I wish I could remember what Jeff was pointing and laughing at here. Must've been a hoot.)

The Newcastle Priory would make a rather good zombie fortress. The drawbridge isn't there anymore, but the portcullis is two-inch-thick cast iron, and there's defensible space all around the gatehouse. There's little shelter from the elements but some creative engineering (and perhaps some really big tarps) would solve that. There's lots of open lawns inside, so growing vegetables wouldn't be a problem. The yards of walls provide plenty of room for snipers and defenders, and the gatehouse has multiple stories to rain death down upon undead attackers. There's no escape route (except the cliff and the sea), but hey, if they get through the walls, you might as well shoot yourself in the head anyway, 'cause there ain't a comparably safe place for miles.

Jeff, Andrea, Adam and I spent a happy hour wandering about, peering into the old chapel, craning our necks up to look at the ruins, staring down the sights of the enormous anti-ship guns on the cliff edge, reading the nigh-illegible missives on the headstones, and (in my case) sipping ginger beer.
Adam and Jeff just had to get their pictures taken with the cannon.
Well, okay, so did I.
Eat this, Hitler!
In the graveyard we saw memorials to ancient mariners and their families, who perished in the 1830s.
In the chapel we saw stained glass windows, surely not the originals from the 1300s, but enough to give a jolly good impression of what worship must've been like when the monks roamed the premises.
In the gatehouse we saw just how easy it'd be to drop a rock on the head of a charging Viking.
And from the ramparts of the castle walls we took in a marvelous view of the coast, the sea, and the town of Tynemouth.
To summarize, I enjoyed myself immensely. This was the first time I'd been to a (mostly un-restored) building that had stood for more than 1,000 years. I'd been to a few temples in Korea that were likely 500 or so, but most of the elder stuff ain't around anymore. This was quite humbling, to stand amid the crumbling edifice of a monastery that was six times as old as the country as I was born in. Think about that for a minute. Staggers the imagination, don't it?

NEXT UP : a dip in the North Sea. Don't miss it. The water was nine degrees Celsius. I'll tell you exactly how cold it was after this quick break.

zombie preparedness

There's a certain group of paranoid loonies out there who are promulgating the notion of "zombie contingency plans."

That there may be no speculation, I am one of them.

Beginning to gain credence outside of Max Brooks fan clubs, the ZCP is a set of protocols to be followed in the event of a zombie apocalypse. Simply put, it is a blueprint for personal survival. One has to have a plan if the worst should happen. If a top-secret mutative virus was released into the atmosphere, and 95% of the world's population was turned into slavering, mindless cannibals...

• What would you do?
• What supplies would you gather?
• Who would you team up with, or include in your survival group?
• Where would you go to take shelter?
• What would your long-term plans for the stabilization of the tattered remains of the human race (if any) be?

These blueprints are rather comprehensive. Most commence at the very first sign of trouble, within minutes of an undead outbreak, and continue in excruciating detail through the course of many years, incorporating any number of apocalyptic scenarios.

My personal plan, I'm told, is rather high-flown (literally, as you'll see) but still maintains some viable elements. Needless to say, it involves flying. What better place to escape when Earth is overrun by hordes of flesh-eating undead than the empty sky?

I'd like to be able to share the details of my ZCP with you, but some things are better left classified. Suffice it to say that the fulfillment of my plan goes something like this: there's me, and a hand-picked crew of hardy, trustworthy souls—fully equipped with firearms and bladed weapons, pillaged or otherwise. We're flying an Osprey, a Bell UH-1 or some other military-type craft (preferably capable of hovering or STOL). We spend our days moving between hidden weapon and supply caches, and hiring ourselves out as couriers or zombie-killers to conclaves of terrified landlubbers.

I don't know about you, but that blows every other zombie contingency plan I've ever heard out of the water. Most of my buddies all have land-based plans, which, in my opinion, have one fatal flaw: they're land-based. Zombies walk on land. To me, land doesn't sound like the best place to be when the scourge of the living dead arises. Zombies don't swim, either, but seeing as how they're undead, they can still infest shallow water. Only thing scarier than a zombie shambling toward you on a dark street is one reaching up from the bottom of a murky pond and grabbing the oars of your rowboat—or one of your appendages. Therefore, I would argue that life as an "aerial nomad," rotating through a series of secured caches, armed to the teeth, keeping mobile, is a more feasible idea.

This plan depends on well-maintained equipment and absolute readiness. To that end, I check on my equipment frequently, and update it or refurbish it as needs be. Last week I gave the multifarious components of my anti-zombie kit a going-over.

First I grabbed my machete and my single-bit axe out of the Jeep. Each of these implements was chosen with the utmost care. The machete is carbon steel, rather than stainless, which, though more susceptible to rust, does not flash brightly in the sunlight and alert potential enemies to my presence. I would've preferred a double-bit axe, but Pops has one in the tool shed, so as long as the house isn't completely overrun following the outbreak (which is unlikely; we're far removed from town, and zombies shamble at 1-2 miles per hour) I can run out there and grab it. The Jeep, though neither heavy nor as thick-skinned as a Ford F-350 or an Excursion, still has plentiful cargo space, and suitable 4WD capabilities to get me over most obstacles. It'll do for a start. Later on I can see about getting my hands on a Bradley Fighting Vehicle or an armored F-650.

Once inside the house, I opened my closet and took out my Louisville Slugger and my aluminum Easton. Both baseball bats would do some damage to a half-rotted skull at close quarters. Both have their plus sides and drawbacks. The Slugger is made of wood, but its reach is longer. The Easton is shorter but inestimably stronger. Wouldn't hurt to have both along. This being the United States, where guns are not irrationally viewed as being scary, violent or barbaric death-devices which wantonly kill people for no reason, I have several firearms in my arsenal as well. I would detail them here, but again, such things are better left unsaid. I will say that I am equipped for almost every conceivable scenario—and have more than enough ammunition to outlast the initial outbreak.


My machete and axe were in bad shape. Somehow, moisture had seeped into the back of my Jeep. (Yes, moisture. In the desert. Didn't have that in my contingency plan, oh no.) The blades of both tools were encrusted with rust. It took a fair amount of spit, polish, and steel wool to get it off, but I managed it. Dad helped a lot. He's good for stuff like that. I think I'll keep those (ahem) tools inside from now on, unless I really need to have them in my car.

If you must know, I didn't buy an axe and a machete expressly for zombie-fighting purposes. I actually wanted them for that inconceivable moment when I finally move to Alaska, and might need to clear fallen trees off the roads. Zombie-killing is an added bonus. A special feature, if you will. And so my anti-zombie kit has been revitalized for the nonce, and I am once again prepared to face the zombie plague, the end-all disaster. Hee hee.


Speaking of disasters, there was a slight earthquake as I was typing this post. I am not making this up. I live less than 50 miles from the San Andreas fault, so earthquakes are nothing new around here. I was just sitting on my bed, typing, when all of a sudden I felt the mattress begin to sway ever so slightly beneath me. There was some relative motion being achieved between the elbows on my knees, and the hands on my keyboard.

I jumped up and yelled "HEY GUYS! I THINK WE'RE HAVING AN EARTHQUAKE!"

No sooner did I reach the living room when Mom hollered "YEAH WE ARE!"

I felt the carpet sway to and fro under my feet. I was like riding the most gentle surfboard in the world. The light bulbs in the ceiling fan began to rattle, and I could see the clock on the mantelpiece (suspended by a thin wire) wobble back and forth. Dad—the geologist in the family—sat at the computer, grinning.

"Hey," he said, "This is a good one!"

It continued for perhaps 15 more seconds. We looked out the front window to try and see the ground wave moving down the hill, but the quake was too gentle for that. Finally, it died away.
"Somebody got really hammered somewhere," Pop mused, a little while later. "That was a good one."

The weights on the cuckoo clock still swung back and forth.

Dad was right. The earthquake turned out to be a 7.2 on the Richter scale that struck Baja California about 29 miles south of Mexicali. It took place six miles beneath the surface. Haven't heard too much about the damage it caused. But we felt it all the way up here. Yowzer.

This is perhaps the eighth or ninth earthquake I've experienced here in the Mojave. Three of them I've driven through, and haven't noticed. One of them rattled a few tools in the garage, but I couldn't feel it. Another woke me up in the middle of the night, making me think my box-spring mattress had mutated into a water bed. The rest were so gentle that I didn't detect them. Normally, earthquakes don't last as long as this one today; they just roll through, like a wave.

That could change in the near future, though. Southern California is about ten years overdue for a truly massive quake, the proverbial Big One, a 2012-style monster that'll level every overpass in the Los Angeles Basin and (hopefully) put Malibu and Santa Barbara underwater for the rest of eternity. I think I might go buy a crash helmet tomorrow. And a video camera.

Wouldn't that make an interesting vlog entry?

Kelly's Heroes

Most war movies fit into into one of three molds:

Mold #1: Bunch of guys. Guys claim to hate each other. Guys are really buddies. Guys go to war. Guys have to take some hill or something. Most guys die. Remaining guys feel guilty. We Were Soldiers (2002), Hamburger Hill (1987), The Green Berets (1968), Saving Private Ryan (1998), and Gallipoli (1981) fit this mold.

Mold #2: Bunch of guys. Guys are behind enemy lines/inside a prison camp/up against overwhelming odds. Guys have to escape. Guys come up with interesting harebrained scheme to escape. Harebrained scheme works. Some guys die. Remaining guys get away with mixed feelings. Force 10 from Navarone (1978), Von Ryan's Express (1965), The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957), and Hell is for Heroes (1962) fall under this category.

Mold #3: Bunch of guys here, bunch of guys there, bunch of guys somewhere else. Bunch of guys here take a hill. Bunch of guys there conquer a town. Bunch of guys somewhere else destroy a vital enemy thing. Overarching picture of heroic war effort is painted. The Longest Day(1962), The Battle of the Bulge (1965) and other war epics belong here. Patton (1971) might also fit in this category, except that in his case, it's just one man going all over heck and back, machine-gunning this, exploding that, kicking the hell out of the other. 

Noticing a pattern here? There's this bunch of guys. And they have to get something, or go somewhere, or blow something up, or all three. But the theme is doing. Setting aside pessimistic flicks like Apocalypse Now (1979), war movies generally concern the selfless bravery of ordinary men in pursuit of a lofty sociopolitical cause. Serving one's country. Protecting the defenseless. Accomplishing a mission. Learning to cooperate. Establishing peace and justice. Patriotic sacrifice, high moral feeling, the do-or-die kind of mentality. Even movies about P.O.W.s, such as the excellent Stalag 17 (1953), or nihilistic WWII movies that are really about the Vietnam War, like The Dirty Dozen (1967), conform to the same school of thought. (The Dirty Dozen, by the way, is totally effing brilliant. You'll feel as though you could chew on solid rocks or split rails with your nose after watching it. That's how masculine it is.) It's all about defeating the enemy, forwarding the good and righteous, courage under fire, upholding a nation's pride, or just fighting for the man next to you. You never saw a war movie where the protagonists were in it purely for themselves, did you? (Okay, okay, I know...The Dirty Dozen.)

There's also Kelly's Heroes (1970), starring Clint Eastwood, Telly Savalas, Donald Sutherland, and Don Rickles. France, 1944. The Normandy invasion is several months old, and Allied forces have pushed deep into Fortress Europe. One battered unit, an element of the American 35th Infantry Regiment, has been pushed particularly hard. They've been at the front lines for months. Not only have they had to deal with the fiercest soldiers in the Wehrmacht, but they must also routinely dodge incoming fire from an inept American artillery commander. Every time these guys get close to a town, with booze and soft beds and warm baths and "passionate women," the 3rd Army comes in and takes over, and the 35th goes back out into the rain and mud again, up to the front lines. Needless to say, these guys are sick and tired of the business. 

The movie opens on an especially dismal night. The rain is bucketing down. The thunder mingles with bursting shells. Kelly (Eastwood) is sitting in a Jeep with a captured German officer...right in the middle of a horde of mobilizing German troops. A traffic cop spots him and Eastwood calmly drives away, out of the town, back across friendly lines, and up to a large barn near a canal. Inside, the platoon's commanding sergeant, Big Joe (Savalas), looking harassed as usual, is yelling at that aforementioned artillery commander to lift his barrage: the mortars are not coming down on the Germans, but rather the barn. Kelly goes about interrogating the German officer, who speaks good English. Inside the Hun's briefcase are papers, documents, and some rather suspicious-looking lead bars. The German officer is noticeably nervous. Kelly takes a closer look at one of the bars. He soon discovers that the lead is merely painted on. And there's solid gold underneath. 

Kelly doesn't waste an instant. He grabs the bottle of "liberated" brandy, sits the colonel down in a corner, and proceeds to interrogate him. Sure enough, the Germans are transporting a mountain of gold bars from France to Germany. Kelly learns the location of the convoy from the now-sozzled colonel, scoops up the briefcase, and runs from the barn just as it explodes under an American fusillade. After the platoon's deadhead captain sets them on leave at a secluded farmhouse ten miles from the nearest town, the men have finally had enough. They agree to go after the gold with Kelly. 

There's just one catch: it's behind enemy lines, inside a locked bank, in a German-held town, guarded by three Tiger tanks. But that doesn't stop these guys. The gold fever is full upon them. Millions of dollars in gold bullion is a far better payoff for risking their necks than the regulation $50 they earn each month. So they mount up and head out. Along the way, they acquire some unusual allies: Crapgame (Rickles), the tightfisted, financially-minded supply officer who finances the expedition; and Oddball (Sutherland), the philandering commander of an AWOL tank squad. He and his fez-wearing crew are hippies 20 years before it's cool. They laze in the sun, have dalliances with the local women, get drunk, listen to strange music, and shoot paint-filled shells out of their tank guns. But they're handy in a pinch. This unlikely team somehow manages to sally 30 miles behind enemy lines to the bank, and...

Well, I won't spoil it. Suffice it to say, Kelly's Heroes is a splendid movie. The plot is refreshingly unique: instead of the usual heroics and derring-do, we get an adventurous, often-comedic tale about a bunch of guys sating their greed. But mind you, the premise doesn't eclipse the plot. There's plenty of action in this film for war-movie nuts like me. There are shoot-outs, espionage, and fireballs galore. Indeed, the demolitions budget must've been astonishing: the film has more explosions per yard than even Patton could boast. The final sequence (the taking of the town) is one of the most brilliantly crafted battle plans I've ever seen, wonderfully shot and expertly choreographed. The characters are diverse and endless fun. Big Joe, played to the hilt by a masterful Telly Savalas, curmudgeonly as hell; Little Joe, the timid radio operator, always changing his story; Cowboy, the drawling Texan and half-track driver; Willard, his harmonica-playing sidekick; Oddball and his delightful laid-back flakiness ("Why you gotta be hittin' me with them negative waves so early in the morning?"); and many more.

Memorable characters, a one-of-a-kind plot (for a war movie, anyway), explosive action, and hilarious hijinks—culminating in a memorable showdown scene at the movie's climax—combine to make Kelly's Heroes a fun and worthwhile film for almost everyone. Those who enjoy a rousing tale about a motley crew of greedy buggers sticking it to the man should watch this film, by any and all means.

And don't be hittin' me with them negative waves.

S.A.S.S. and the city

Dad and I are both members of the Single Action Shooting Society, also known as S.A.S.S. It's a large national club wherein members choose a cool Old-West alias, get all dolled up in some Western duds, grab some reproduction 19th-century firearms and go target shooting every weekend. It's great fun. Some of the aliases people come up with are funny too. You can pick something normal like "Tex" or "Slim" or "Red," but a lot of people make puns and plays on words. I've seen names like "Deathrow Bodine," "Jed I. Knight," "Dirty Sally" (you know, a feminine portmanteau of Dirty Harry and When Harry Met Sally), and a bunch of others. Dad's S.A.S.S. name is "Nevada Jones," a combination of "Indiana Jones" and "Nevada Smith" (Pop really likes Steve McQueen movies). My S.A.S.S. name is "Painless Potter." This one's a bit esoteric. There's this really excellent Bob Hope movie (with Jane Russell as Calamity Jane, va-va-va-VOOM) called The Paleface. Bob plays a hopelessly inept dentist who somehow gets suckered into going west with a wagon train. Along the way, the protagonist bumbles through through a hilarious heap of hijinks. Hope's character, called "Painless Potter," after his dental practice, saves the wagon train from Indians, bandits, and a host of other dangers. And he gets the girl at the end, too. No wonder I admire the guy. (I love Bob Hope, just so you know; one of the funniest men alive, and a true patriot.) Anyway, Dad found out about a S.A.S.S. shoot in Tombstone, just 30 miles from Benson, where we'd be staying in Arizona. So we decided to go check it out. That was why we needed an SUV; those "bulky items" I mentioned before were Dad's gun cart, ammunition boxes, and guns. Pop's got a couple of 1873 Colt Single Action Army .45-caliber revolvers; a nine-shot 1892 Winchester lever-action rifle; and a Winchester model 1897 pump-action shotgun. Hell yes. So we rose at 6:30 or something (again) to get ready and go to this shoot. Dad and I got all duded up, and then we all piled into the Hummer and got on the road for Tombstone. We found the range with little difficulty; Tombstone's not a big town and you can see a long way in Arizona, anyhow. The shoot went well. We gathered 'round, listened to the mandatory safety meeting (which takes place before every match), then split up into posses. See, cowboy action shooting (as this type of shooting event is known) is done in stages. There are 6-8 different shooting ranges set up, each with its own set of props. These include things like rail fences, barrels, boxes, wagons, horse troughs, even the façades of shops and barns and stables. It is, really, like being in the Old West. Anyway, there's usually too large a group for everybody to be using one stage at once, so people get split up into groups of about 15 people, nicknamed "posses" in keeping with the flavor of the affair. Posse 1 went to Stage 1 and started shooting. Posse 2 (my group) went to Stage 4. Picture three high berms, forming the walls of the stage. Put a rail fence between the two side berms. On the far side of this fence are the targets: black and gray cast-iron panels on supports. (The shotgun targets have ropes attached to them so they can be pulled back upright after a shooter finishes blasting them.) On the near side of the fence (left to right) are a livery stable, a wagon, and a water trough. (The livery stable is just the building front, completely open in back to allow access to the targets; and the wagon is nothing more than a frame resting on the ground without wheels. But the illusion is achieved.) Here's Pop shooting... This is the other cool thing about CAS (Cowboy Action Shooting). You don't just pick up your guns and blaze away. Things are a good deal more intricate than that. For this first stage, our instructions were as follows. When the buzzer sounded, the shooter would, from inside the livery stable, draw his or her first pistol and fire off four shots at the first two pistol targets, alternating, landing the fifth shot on the third target. (For safety purposes, only five shots are loaded into the six-shot revolvers.) Then he would draw the second pistol and fire four shots at the last two pistol targets, landing the last shot on the third target, as before. Holstering the pistol, the shooter would dash to the wagon, grab a rifle, and fire off all ten rounds at the five rifle targets, double-tapping each one. He'd then put the rifle down, move to the front of the wagon, grab the shotgun, and blast the six shotgun targets one by one. Imagine the targets are all desperadoes, and you've got the makings of a damn fine shootout right there. Lots of shooters train hard to get fast. There were some competitors there that day who fired off rifle rounds as quickly as though they were firing a semiautomatic rifle. Keep in mind that they were using lever-action rifles, meaning they had to work a lever after every shot to chamber the next round. That's fast. This was one of the shooters who exemplified speed. His Winchester sounded more like a Gatling gun. This was only my second S.A.S.S. shoot, so I didn't hurry. I took my time, made sure of every shot, and did pretty well. I practice the "duelist" style of CAS, where you hold the pistol with one hand instead of two. Just to add a bit of flair to the whole thing I usually put my other arm behind my back, like I would if I was actually fighting a duel. Here's me on the first stage... I only got to do about four stages or so before noon rolled around and it was time to head back into Tombstone with Uncle Bob and Aunt Barb and see the sights. Poor Dad got disqualified in the first stage; he let a round go over the berm. That's a safety issue, and an automatic match disqualification. He wasn't pleased with himself, but he took a lesson from it. That darned 1892 of his keeps locking up; as he was working the lever to try to clear it, finger still on the trigger, the round went off. The rifle was pointing up, so the round went over the berm. Oh well. We both had fun while it lasted. The plus side to this was, though, that Dad and I got to walk down the mean streets of Tombstone, Arizona, in full cowboy array. Tombstone was small, and kind of a letdown. It was just all shops and restaurants. Sure, they had reenactments going on, and you could take stagecoach rides and sit in the saloons with dancing girls and self-proclaimed "half-ass piano players," but that's about all there was to it. We walked up and down, looking for the jewelry store that Mom and Pop had been to when they were here last. We didn't find it. I did get myself a rather groovy Tombstone sweatshirt (okay, okay, I'll call it a "hoodie"; are you satisfied?). Then we left. Next stop? Bisbee. Bisbee used to be a mining town. Founded a year after Tombstone (in the 1880s), it's splattered all over the sides and floor of a narrow, twisting valley. It's practically within shouting distance of Mexico, in fact. It's also become sort of a hippie venue. No sooner did we pull into town than we passed the town square, where were parked three jauntily-painted, faded buses with peace symbols scrawled all over them. A gaggle of scrawny, scruffy-looking youngsters, bearded (in the case of the men) and dread-locked (the women), sat in lawn chairs in a circle outside these buses, wearing grubby clothes, smoking and talking. Wherever they were planning to go, I'll bet it was neat. Whatever they were smoking, I'll bet it was fun. Whatever was going through their heads, I'll bet it was probably hopeless liberal horseshit. Bisbee itself was pretty. We meandered through the meandering streets, searching for a gem shop, but found none. The populace looked like a pretty laid-back bunch; lots of guys had ponytails and lots of women were pseudo-Goth, but there were a few normal-looking people here and there. The town itself looked like it had lots to offer in the way of museums and eats, too. The place was worth a look, and not much else. So we went back to Tombstone. We had a date on Boot Hill. Yep, the infamous graveyard where all of Tombstone's desperadoes, thugs, outlaws and even a few poor townsfolk were buried. This is what it looked like: We wandered up and down the rows, investigating graves, some of them famous... Some of them obscure... All of them with a rather pretty view of the desert. It was amazing. To see these people's names, the names of actual people who lived in this town over a hundred years ago, living and dying and making their way...it stimulated an almost physical sensation of awe. Some people had committed suicide, waiting for their lovers; some had been killed in accidents; many in gun battles or shootouts. There were maybe one or two "natural deaths." The year 1882, in fact ,was the worst. There were more headstones with that year on Boot Hill than any other: two "Chinamen," killed in a gunfight; a little boy who died "with a spasm" after falling off his stilts; a man killed by Indians as he returned to town with a wagon-load of firewood; a woman who killed herself waiting for her husband to return from the mines; an Englishman killed by a ruptured water line in Bisbee; the list went on and on. (They gave you a brochure at the gate with the names, dates, causes of death, and a little personal history about each stiff.) We bought some root beer fudge at the gift store (absolutely fab-u-lous) and departed back to the trailer. Uncle Bob and Aunt Barb came over in the evening with the makings for sloppy joes, and we had a delightful dinner party on the trailer porch, with the red Arizona sunset limning the distant Dragoon Mountains. Every minute spent outside and awake in the American Southwest, it seems, is a good minute.

Look, Ma! I got another one!

A thousand thanks to JennyMac from Let's have a cocktail... She has presented me with this, my second blogging accolade, the I Give Good Blog Award...because, in her words, all of the people to whom she gave it "contribute something great to BlogWorld." I don't know what I can say, except thankyouthankyouthankyou, JennyMac. That warmed the cockles of my heart. I truly appreciate the thought, the word, and the recognition. Ditto for you, and best regards. You give pretty good blog yourself... As with many other awards going around the blogsphere, this one has some provisos. First, make a cocktail. Then, pick out some of your favorite bloggers. Then, send this award to four of them. Tell them why you think they give good blog (heh heh heh). In JennyMac's words, "There are SO many fascinating, witty, and fantastic bloggers; let's invite them all to the party." Well, I've made myself a cocktail. After somehow going without sweet-and-sour mix for a week, I managed to procure some today while ducking into the local supermarket for dog food. I was finally, finally able to kick back with a whiskey sour this evening, after a long easy day of walking, getting a haircut, and reloading a few hundred Colt .45 cartridges. It was eminently satisfying. Okay, now to pick the four lucky bloggers. This should be simple. There are a lot of good ones out there, blogs that never cease to make me smile, think, or sympathize. These blogs inspire me, encourage me, stimulate me on a fundamental level. And believe me when I say that's not easy to do. I have high standards. These blogs exceed them.

• Entrepreneur Chick - This witty, fearless lady has multiple business concerns on the go, and is always attending some high-powered function or shindig. She's never at a loss for something smart, funny and feisty to say, nor a pearl of wisdom concerning the business world. If you're a burgeoning entrepreneur yourself, or just want to read about the exploits of a bold and brassy businesswoman, this is the blog for you.
• The Whole Blooming World - A quiet, beautiful, florid, introspective blog, in which a New Mexico mother, writer and inveterate learner discusses life: its intricacies, its loveliness, its pain, its lessons, its subtleties, and its interconnections.
• It Was Dark, Stormy and I Lost My Serial Comma - Here is Man. Man has kids. Man has divorce. Man has unusual friends. Man has likes and dislikes. Man has funny addictions. Man has hilarious observations. Man has nothing but the deepest love for his children. Man wears mismatched shoes. Man is good writer. Man is humorous writer. Man is heartstring-tugging writer. Go read. Now.
• [carrotspeak.] - The lyrically-written account of a Kentucky army fiancée, her life, her man, her friends, her obsession with Twilight, her worries, her woes, her joys, her highs, and the innermost workings of her heart. She's got so much love and beauty and hope inside that it's almost heartbreaking to read her stuff sometimes...but that, in my opinion, makes it all the more worthwhile. Her words are moving, yet tinged with humor and inherent determination.

Check 'em out, folks. It's worth your while. Them's the rules! However, I think I'll go a step further and tell you about some other blogs I think deserve some honorable mention:

• Fortune Cookies and Men
• It's On.
• ResidentAlien
• smithyblogs
• Stranded on Gaia
• Ramblings of the Bearded One
• From the Faraway, Nearby

Th-th-th-that's all folks! Congratulations to the winners...keep those delectable musings coming.

and now, here are a few of my friends

These are some good buddies I've been bumming around with here in the desert: John You already know a little about him from what I've told you before. He's six-foot-four, thin as a rail, eats like a wolf, works at Best Buy, loves Scotch and cigars, and has girl problems out the wazoo. I could go into detail, but that would both violate his privacy and give you the impression that I don't like him, which would be patently untrue. He's done a few things that I really don't approve of, like refusing to go to Australia with me on the grounds of remaining devoted to his girlfriend (not to mention converting to Catholicism). Nevertheless, I consider John my best friend. He's funny, smart, brutally honest, violently profane, endlessly hospitable, and delightedly human. If I was Winston Churchill, I'd still be very fond of him. He has none of the virtues I dislike and all of the vices I admire. Chris Though two years younger than the rest of us, Chris, son of Apple Valley's former mayor and very politically-minded himself, is anything but a baby. He lost his cherry before the rest of us did, that's almost certain. He, too, likes Scotch and cigars, has gotten his pilot's license (which he never ceases to wave under my nose), works at Del Taco, is almost flat broke, drives a red Ford Mustang (and drives it like a maniac), has a most ribald sense of humor, was in the Army for a few months before a leg injury forced him to bow out, digs guns and weaponry, is a dyed-in-the-wool Republican (and a newly-minted atheist), and is about as modest as a rabid chimpanzee. Despite this (in many cases, because of it), I love the guy. He's awful fun to be around, and is always up for doing something, anything. Basel That's pronounced just like the English name, Basil. Basel is also skeletally tall and thin, has an aquiline nose, Arabian features (he's of Syrian descent), is Catholic, loves rap (especially Eminem), really knows how to fill out a hoodie, is bilingual, works in his father's liquor store, is an excellent bowler (compared to the rest of us), has about a million cousins, eats salad unashamedly, and is currently having sort of an early-life crisis. He quit school because he hated it, and is now in the process of figuring out what he wants to do instead. He's also a fun guy, genuine, and generally available for a party or a get-together. Last night, the four of us went out on the town to celebrate John's upcoming 23rd birthday. Chris and I met up at Albertson's beforehand and purchased our good buddy an early birthday present: a bottle of Jameson's Special Reserve, aged 12 years. Then we rendezvoused with John at Oasis Lanes and bowled a couple games. Basel beat us all out the first game, being the only one to break 100 (he got 105). He got 105 the second game, too...only Chris and John had warmed up by then and scored even higher. I got worse from Game 1 to Game 2. I scored 78 in the first game and 66 in the second. Then we adjourned to Buffalo Wild Wings over on Bear Valley Road, sat down at the bar, and had some drinks. We started out with a quartet of White Russians...we'd been quoting The Big Lebowski while we were bowling the second game. Then we moved into Leinenkugel's (B-Dubs is the only place in the whole town that has Leinie's on tap), and shots of Jack Daniels Single Barrel and Maker's Mark, and finished up with a Colorado Bulldog each (White Russians with Coke). In the meantime, we talked, jibed, japed, took over the jukebox with the Moody Blues and the Band and Joe Walsh and Warren Zevon, and quoted every funny TV show or Internet gag we knew. The bartender (his name was Adam, but we called him Gary; it's a Big Lebowski thing) must've thought we were a pretty sad lot. I can't explain why my bowling got worse over the course of the evening, even without the aid of liquor. Of course, I did have a lot on my mind right then. Seems like every time I get together with the old high school gang I can't help but wonder. I marvel at how much they haven't changed. They're still the same people, admittedly older, their faces more angular, the baby fat all gone, a tiny bit of real life in its place. Their voices are deeper, and they're a tad taller and broader. But their minds remain the same. They still laugh at the same jokes, frown at the same misfortunes, shrug at the same problems. All that's changed are their catchphrases. They're not going the same places they were when they were younger. That's changed, too. When we graduated from high school in 2004 (Chris in '06), our ambitions were a lot different than they are now. We were shooting for the stars. Basel was attending the University of California in San Diego. Chris went to Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in Arizona. John went to California State University in Stanislaus, and was originally trying for a chemical engineering degree. I went off to North Dakota State for zoology. None of that's the same now. I'm not really sure what happened. Maybe life intervened. Basel quit school. Chris spent $20,000 in one year at Embry-Riddle just to get his pilot's license, then joined the Army, hurt himself, and came back here, broke. John couldn't stand being stuck at CSU Stanislaus (in the middle of a dusty, one-horse town called Turlock), switched his major to English, went through some ugly break-ups, came down here to the local community college to knock off some general education requirements for cheap, and now has serious girl problems. And I, finding that I didn't get along with advanced chemistry, switched my major to journalism, graduated in three and a half years, job-searched for six months without luck, went to Korea out of desperation, came back, got fired from the local newspaper, and am now living with my parents and can't find a job. I wonder about three things when I get together with the old crowd: where our lives wound up going, how different our situation is from our original destination, and where things are going to go from here. I have no idea about the latter. None of us has been through any real trauma. We haven't even had difficult lives relative to how hard it's going for the rest of the world. We've got loving homes to go back to at the end of the day. Most of us have steady employment. We're not sad or depressed. It's more like we're disappointed. You know how it is. When you're young and bold, you reckon everything's going to be wine and roses for you no matter what happens. Then you actually start down the road and find out that, like Tolkien said, adventures aren't all pony rides in the May sunshine. Sometimes—often—there's frustration, and anger, and disappointment, and bitterness, and humiliation, and awkwardness, suffering, shame, misery, impatience, and stupidity. That's that little thing called life, I reckon.

Busan: the last shout

I wrote some time ago about the grand send-off we gave to Andy Smith in Busan. We elected to do the same with me. Our master plan was to go to Busan for the weekend, as we'd done several times before, and spend a couple days raising hell. We had quite a grand scheme as far as that was concerned, what's more. We were determined to go shooting, a rarity in Korea, a country that outlaws private gun ownership. Jeff had located a gun club in central Busan, however...conveniently located right next door to the all-you-can-drink bar. They had an evening special, six to eleven on Saturdays, where you could have as many beers as you wanted for ₩12,000 per person. After that we didn't know what we'd do. Go dancing, mayhap.

 After meeting up outside the shady chicken place (which re-fries its chicken I don't know how many times; it's run by a leather-faced lady who's openly suspicious of foreigners) at 7:00, we hailed a cab, waltzed into the bus station, secured tickets for the Busan Express, and then spent the next two and a half hours stuffed into a cramped, airless, hot, lurching sardine can. The bus ride was only ₩13,000 and that STILL wasn't worth it. I resolved, stepping out of that torture chamber, never to set foot on another intercity bus as long as I lived, at least one without the benefit of opening windows. We stopped off at McDonald's (I was too queasy to get anything), then headed into the subway. We resolved not to waste time traveling across the city and back to Haeundae to get our rooms immediately; we'd explore a little, dump our stuff off, and then go shooting and drinking around dinnertime.

For the early afternoon, however, we elected to hit up Jagalchi, the massive Busan fish market spread over half the harbor. I was elated; it was on my to-do list but I thought I'd never get the time to see it over all the other stuff I wanted to get done. Now was our chance, and we took full advantage of it. The market was a bit gloomy under the overcast skies and the air was admittedly odoriferous, but the profusion of sea life was intoxicating nonetheless. Jagged rows of stalls and booths, overhung with shabby tarps and gaudy-colored umbrellas, sprawled in every direction. Everywhere we looked, there were vendors frying unidentifiable foods; enormous fish laid out on trays of ice, white underbellies gleaming invitingly; squid and octopus draped over crates and planks, tentacles dangling; and utterly amorphous chunks of sliced seafood and entrails stacked in heaps. One fellow we passed was shaving rinds from one such block (it was shark, we discovered) and handing them out as free samples to the crowd, inviting them to sit down and try a full dish for only man won (₩10,000).

Off the streets the sights and scents didn't diminish. If anything, they increased. We passed into one of the gigantic warehouse-esque buildings that thrust itself out of the center of the open-air market; it was likewise filled with vendors, immaculate in yellow and pink rubber aprons and gloves, surrounded by glass and plastic tanks of their wares, oxygen bubbles concealing their slimy, piscine contents. Unable to restrain myself at the sight of a live octopus the size of my head, squirming its way around its submerged colander (and the insistent urgings of its owner) I caved and ordered sannakji once again. In five minutes (and ten thousand won) a majestically writhing pile of tentacles, seasoned with sesame oil and sliced onions, was brought to our table. I partook with gusto, having regained the appetite I lost on the lurching bus journey. Even Adam and Jeff pitched in a bit. This was real sannakji; I could feel it sucking on to my cheeks, tongue, teeth and gums, its suckers like little tiny hooks. I devoured the plate, thanked the proprietor and moved on.

Two warehouses down I was overcome with a burst of gluttony once again; I ordered a couple of strings of giant abalone for fifteen thousand (about twelve bucks), and munched them raw as we sauntered out of the fish market and into the souvenir market and tourist mall beyond. It would have been better with ssamjang, but I was content to slurp the shellfish down as they were. I had to leave the last two, though; I got full. I felt bad, forking over money only to waste it and some fisherman's hard work. I couldn't have saved them, though...they were already beginning to turn in the hot sun. I'll know better next time.

 I washed my hands in yet another McDonald's (Adam, Elaine and Jeff hit that place at least five times in three days), and then we headed out into the souvenir market. We wandered here and there, looking in the shops, the clothing stalls, the tiny seamstresses' cubbyholes, the western clothing chains, the fast food joints, and the actual souvenir boutiques themselves. We stopped at one (real tourist trap) and I purchased a Korean fan for my mother and an emblazoned business card box for my father. It may have been a tourist-trap shop, but I think Mum 'n' Dad will appreciate the gifts nonetheless. We also stopped off at Krispy Kreme Doughnuts and polished off a box of a dozen between the four of us. They were nice, but blander than I recall (I haven't had a doughnut in a year, remember). It would have been better with some milk. If I hadn't been so fixated on getting some chocolate in my system, I might have had the courage to try one of the oddball Korean doughnuts with green tea icing.

Done with Jagalchi and the markets, we headed back to the subway, rode thirty minutes to Haeundae, checked into our usual love motel (wonderfully inexpensive at ₩35,000 per night, or about $28), relaxed at the beach for a bit, and...well, it was at the beach that the real surprise of the whole weekend came, one that totally made my month. Adam and Jeff slid off to get drinks (non-alcoholic; we weren't going to drink before shooting, no way). I should've known they were up to something, 'cause it took them a long time...long enough to be lost. Elaine went on the cell phone and directed them to our location on the boardwalk. The first I knew that they had, all three of them, tricked me, was when the Papa John's large pepperoni pizza with a side order of cheese sticks plopped down on the grass behind me. It was a plot. Adam and Jeff had sneaked away on a prearranged scheme, and Elaine had stealthily covered for them over the phone, like a seasoned black ops pro. I had not the slightest inkling of their intentions. I was struck speechless. For a moment my mind would not even comprehend what I was seeing, as my brain tried to force my body and face into expressions of nonchalance. It didn't work. Soon as my teeth sank into that first cheese stick, I was gone. I poured out disjointed words of gratitude, not nearly enough, while I chewed and swallowed. I will never be able to thank those three enough for ending my deprivation. Having stood my complaints about the lack of Papa John's in Korea all year, my three friends had graciously, thoughtfully, generously, wonderfully concocted this covert operation and carried it off without a hitch. That alone made it the best send-off ever. I am truly blessed with true companions (and pizza, munch munch munch).

 Anyway, we carried the leftovers (what little there were) back to the hotel, showered, changed, and then boarded the subway for Seomyeon and the center of town. We wandered around a little, taking in the sights and smells of this new corner of the city (only Jeff had ever been here before). The streets were narrower, the buildings somewhat dingier, but the streets were lively and full of all sorts of people, and the sidewalks were jammed with tiny shops and food vendors giving off delicious odors.

We wandered about for a time until Jeff's nose kicked in and we discovered the Seomyeon Gun Club, tucked away on the second floor of a glass-fronted building at a small three-way intersection. We ascended the steep, dark staircase and received an effusive greeting from a young, thickset Korean fellow in glasses.

"Shooting?" he asked. "Come this way!"

The waiting room resembled my family doctor's, only with more toy guns. It was sparsely decorated, but the couches were soft and the small coffee tables arranged pleasantly. There was a long, L-shaped counter at one side of the room, on which a pleasant-looking, skinny woman leaned and smiled at us. There were some empty water-cooler bottles lying about. The targets of previous shooters, pocked with bullet holes, were hung on the walls. A few copies of American gun magazines were on the tables and couches. One entire wall of the room, however, was taken up with an enormous color poster with photographs of the available firearms, their names, and for the most part their calibers as well. The jovial, thickset proprietor directed our attention to this and then stood by eagerly with a notepad and pen.

Elaine and Jeff were a little nervous (it was their first time shooting real guns), but I did my best to put their minds at ease. I selected weapons and calibers that I thought would be best suited to their tastes, which our host jotted down on his notepad. Selections completed, he ushered us through a door and into the actual range itself, which resembled any indoor range in the States: booths with targets set up on lines. From a gun cabinet at the rear the man produced our weapons and ammunition. I was first. The proprietor had me demonstrate checking the gun for cartridges, and then had me dry-fire. Satisfied, he let me go ahead. I originally opted for the Desert Eagle; but they didn't have it. I was going to go for a .44 Magnum next...but they didn't have that, either. So I went with the .357 Mag. That was a fun little number, and made quite a bang.

In the next booth, the man was attempting to explain to Jeff how to use the sights and so forth, but his English was not up to the task. So after I was finished, the man brought me over and asked me to explain. I told Jeff the rudiments of using handgun sights, and then Jeff went ahead with shooting, steady as a rock. We had ear protection but not eye protection, which turned out to be a bit hard on Jeff, because he was in the last booth down and the shell casings ejected from his nine-millimeter Beretta kept bouncing off the wall and came close to hitting him. One actually did smack him on the tip of his nose. Jeff finished all of his rounds, however, and scored 74%, which I can assure you is excellent for a first-timer. (Most people can't even hit the target at all.)

Elaine and Adam were next. Elaine was using a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver. The proprietor asked me to show her how to cock it. I did, and Elaine just took over from there. She was phenomenal. Her aim was steady, her form was flawless and her scores reflected it: 82 percent. She even got two rounds through the same hole, Robin Hood style. She said herself that after the initial shock of the first round going off, she settled right down and got into it. I think she had fun, to say the least.

 Poor Adam was in a bit of difficulty, which was all my fault. I'd picked a .45 Colt for him, but the stupid thing kept jamming, so the Korean proprietor had swapped it out for a different forty-five semiauto. It fired better, but still kept jamming. Also, the kickback gave Adam some problems...forty-five slugs are heavy buggers. Nonetheless Adam's hand was steady. He jerked the trigger a bit at the outset but once he started squeezing his aim improved considerably, and he scored 75%. He enjoyed it, he said...he even grabbed two of the Magnum revolvers and posed for a picture with them, reminiscent of Clint Eastwood on the movie poster for The Outlaw Josey Wales. Matter of fact, we all grabbed a gun (Elaine with a .44 Mag, Jeff with a Walther, and myself with my trusty nine-millimeter Beretta) and posed for a gunslinger-style shot.

The proprietor tallied up our scores, rolled up our precious targets with holes rendered by our own hands, and bowed us out of the shop. My .44 cost ₩50,000 to shoot; Elaine's revolver and Jeff's automatic, ₩40,000 apiece; and Adam's .45 was another fifty grand, I'm reasonably certain, total cost therefore being ₩180,000. Expensive though it may be, nothing replaces the thrill of shooting, particularly since I'd been separated from it for so long. Adam enjoyed it, Jeff is coming around and Elaine, I think, is hooked. I'll have to open up the gun cabinets for all of 'em when they come visit me in the States...

Then we went drinking. The place still had the sign over the door reading Dojima; but it's since been changed, if Lonely Planet is to be believed, to the Barony Brauhaus. (German-themed drinking establishments are quite popular in Korea; there's a couple on this island, even.) We opted for the all-you-can-drink option, knowing we were in it for the long haul, and then sat through the next four hours sipping beer. I say "sipping" because the glasses that we were given didn't really lend themselves to chugging. They were much smaller than even the standard beer mugs we get at the Local in Gohyeon. Skinnier, too. Now that I think back on it, such tableware is probably insurance. They know people can and will go hog-wild with this liquid buffet, so they serve it up piecemeal, in very small increments. We arrogantly thought, as the dutiful waiter shuffled back and forth to our table every five minutes, that we'd tire him out with our pace and force him into granting us more capacious drinking vessels...but no such luck.

The atmosphere in Dojima (or whatever) is fine; recessed lighting, dark wood furnishings, and a decent view of the city streets out one wall of windows. The establishment also boasts something known as "the Beerzooka," a plastic tube about six feet high and graduated with measurement markings; large parties can order "one foot" or "two feet" or the whole "six feet" of beer and spend the rest of the evening slowly lowering the levels from a tap at the contraptions base. It was more economical for us to take the option we did, but had we been pressed for time or not so hard up for cash we probably would've tried it. "Beerzooka," indeed...the name still makes me chuckle. Who thinks up this stuff anyway?

Well, we were in fine shape when we departed. I'm afraid I don't remember what the bill was but it must have been just, for no fights broke out over it. (We've had our fill of fights over drinking bills; did I tell you about the street fight we got into yet?) We caught the subway over to Sinchon, the swingin' university district. We danced our shoes off at a couple of clubs, most notably Vinyl Underground, famous throughout Korea. The staff was fluent in English, there was no cover charge, drinks were plentiful and the music wasn't half bad. I was up on the stage quite a bit, too. (Insert embarrassed grin here.) After this, we got some Turkish food at a stall outside, then got a cab back to Haeundae. I was dead beat. I opted out of Adam and Elaine's plans to sit on the beach awhile with some more beer and snacks, and collapsed into bed.

There remains yet little to tell. I woke up with a pretty decent hangover, but a couple of ibuprofen tablets, a liter of water and an hour in a dark room got me out of it cleanly. We recovered, freshened up, paid the bill and went out and sat on the beach. It was a gray, overcast sort of day, as it unfortunately always is whenever we go to Haeundae Beach to swim. Meteorological racism, that's what it is. Those darn Korean clouds won't let any sunshine fall on non-Koreans at the beach. After a brief splodge (Geordie lingo for "wade"), we discoursed about our plans. A, E, and J were all for sticking around in Busan to go see Terminator: Salvation. I wasn't too keen on it; I was still a bit beat, and wanted to have a bit of time at home to relax...plus I didn't want to take the bus back, no matter if my good friends were on it. I'd beaten my hangover but there was no sense in tempting fate. So we split up on the subway at Seomyeon; I rode to the coastal ferry terminal and caught the Pegasus for Gohyeon (₩21,500), while my three cohorts rode on and saw the movie. I spent the rest of that Sunday on my bed, chillaxin'.

And that was the last weekend in Busan.