shoot to thrill

If you want to witness miracles with any kind of regularity, don't go to a church. Go to a sports game.

(Yes, that's blasphemy. It is also true.)

The sports world is full of miracles. Maybe the fan favorite makes a game-winning three-point shot as the last buzzer sounds. Or your favorite team, the literal definition of downtrodden, participates in what some have called the greatest game in NFL history...and wins. The dying first baseman calls himself "the luckiest man on the face of the earth" in his farewell address to the fans.

It's enough to make anyone a believer.

And yet, I've never experienced one of these miracles for myself. Heck, I didn't even start seriously following a major sports team until recently, and even then, soccer and football (or, as I shall refer to them henceforth in this post, football and gridiron) are my only interests. Two or three seasons of gridiron games aren't enough to witness a miracle (especially when your team is San Diego; don't get me started).

Football (soccer), however...well, it deluged me with miracles from the very first. On my last day in England, two such miracles happened within minutes of each other.

So there I was. England. June 2010. Back in Newcastle after parting with Jeff in Edinburgh. There were a couple of big games coming up, which my English host Adam, his girlfriend Elaine, their friend Jay, and yours truly made sure to watch: England vs. Slovenia and U.S.A. vs. Algeria.

I need to give you the landscape first. As I mentioned previously, Slovenia had given the U.S. a disappointing draw a few days ago, and Algeria had handed England an even more humiliating 0-0. Now matters were switched. The U.S. would be taking on Algeria and England would have to pierce Slovenia. I was dreading the U.S. game all the more now that I knew the Algerian modus operandi: forget scoring, just block the opposing team. The ploy had proven horrendously effective. How would the American boys oppose it? My Geordie friends were feeling the same unease. They had seen how wicked the Slovenians were at blocking the ball. We were all big bundles of nerves. These were the last games before the Round of 16. If either England or the U.S. lost, they would not advance. That'd be it for us. We'd be dead, finished, out of the running. Everything came down to these two games.

Unfortunately, they were being played at the same time. The U.S. would face Algeria in Pretoria, South Africa, and England would play Slovenia in Port Elizabeth. This being England, and me being outnumbered three to one, it was the England game we watched. In between observing, I anxiously watched the ticker at the bottom of the TV screen for news of my fellow Americans.

The games were awful. It seemed as though neither side could gain ground. Twenty-two minutes went by as the valiant English offense battered away at the stubborn Slovenes. Before long, Gerrard, Rooney and Terry were bathed in sweat in the muggy South African air, and yet the scoreboard remained at nil.

Then it happened. Glorious relief. Jermain Defoe, a substitute striker, received a cross from Milner and bopped it into the Slovene goal with his shin. Yes. England was ahead. My heart soared for St. George's cross. The game went back and forth from there on out. Six minutes later, Milner and Defoe tried the same trick again but couldn't pull it off. It was so quiet that the announcers could hear the England fans quietly singing. After a few close goal attempts, the Slovenes were beaten back. The English ran down the clock as best they could while I chewed my nails, my eyes clinging to the ticker at the bottom of the TV screen. After 93 minutes there was still no score in the USA-Algeria game.

The English game ended. "God Save the Queen" rang 'round Nelson Mandela Bay Stadium. In Adam's mum's living room, there was jubilation. Adam and Jay were raucous, clinking cans of Carlson beer and rehashing the match in every detail. But they were good and sympathetic chaps. They patted my back, kept the TV on, and waited for news of my team.

And it happened again.

"News from Pretoria, the U.S. has scored against Algeria—"

The living room exploded. Adam, Jay and I leaped into the air, arms clasped about each other, yelling at the top of our lungs, the very air thundering with joy. Adam's mum stood there and grinned as the three of us worked off our overflowing emotions. The euphoria wouldn't let up. We'd been twice-blessed: each country had gone up against a seemingly unbeatable opponent, scored, and qualified for the next round. England had shut out Slovenia and the U.S. had beat down Algeria. Both teams were moving on to the Round of 16. In that golden afternoon, it was the best of all possible worlds.

And yet all good things must come to an end. The TV had hardly been turned off. The grins had not yet vanished from our faces. And yet the taxi was pulling up outside. It was time for me to collect my bags, ride with Adam to the train station, head to London, and spend a final 12 hours in that city before my flight to America the following morning. So it goes.

I said a heartfelt goodbye to Adam's mum and Elaine, threw my gear into the cab, and left. Adam and I soon found ourselves at the station. There was time enough for one more beer beforehand. Adam and I reaffirmed our friendship over a tall glass of suds, match recaps playing on every TV screen, travelers bustling past us. We chatted of this and that, loftily tossing around the possibility of another visit. That, I think, was the most bittersweet moment of them all. It was finally hitting me. I was leaving England. Who knew how long it would be before I saw all my crazy Geordie friends again?

The clock moved too quickly, as usual. I exchanged one last manly hug with Adam, shook his hand, hefted my knapsack over my shoulder, climbed on the train, and sat down. I gazed over the stained brick buildings of old Newcastle, the futuristic domes and bridges, the lush green trees and rolling hills. I stared into the gathering dusk and let out a hefty sigh. In that sigh were all the worries, dangers, adventures and joys I'd experienced during the past fortnight. (Two weeks! Lord! Had it only been two weeks?)

It didn't feel like quite enough. So I sighed again.

It helped ease the pain a little.

Adam and his lovely mum. Don't she rock that hat?

a dearth of eggnog

Dear Readers,

     I'd just like to point out (with no little pride) that not a single drop of eggnog touched my lips during the entire calendrical year of 2010.

     Honestly. The carton just sat there in the fridge. I promised myself, "Yeah, sure, tonight I'll grab that sucker out of there, add a nip of brandy, sprinkle some nutmeg on top, and have at it." But nothing materialized. Always I'd pass the nog over for something else, like a whiskey sour or a Bloody Mary or even a margarita, for Pete's sake. (Is this any time for a margarita? I mean, I know I'm in Southern California, and the nearest snow is halfway up the mountains in the distance, but hey, margaritas in winter? Ain't that some kind of alcoholic faux pas? A deplorable lack of sympathy for the poor saps up in Minneapolis huddling by their fires, trying to keep warm on Irish coffee and hot buttered rum?)    

     All the long days of the holiday season I let that carton of eggnog lie. I didn't touch it after a hard day's night of Christmas shopping; I forgot all about it for those three hours I spent actually writing during the month of December; I left it right where it was on Christmas Morning, Christmas Day and Christmas Night. Entire football games passed with the eggnog unmolested. I saw San Diego lose their place in the playoffs for the first time in five seasons without a sip of eggnog to soothe my heartbreak. I passed the stuff up on many happy evenings with Miss H, assembling that 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle (a nice painting of Nantucket with five identical hillsides and a huge rock pile and a lighthouse that could be the beach if you turn it on its side and eighteen square miles of goddamn ocean).

     When did I finally polish off that eggnog?

     Why, tonight.

     January 1.

     2011.

     After Yule. After Christmas. After New Year's Eve.

     Have I committed some kind of cardinal sin?


Your Sententious Correspondent,


Postman

the off-season (or, that's the way uh-huh uh-huh I like it)

Time for a football update! Ladies, shield your eyes.

First I'd like to point out that this is a LIVE blog post. I'm sitting here typing in front of the TV. San Diego is playing Denver. It's half time. Score is 21-7, Chargers' favor.

Now, I'd like to start off by giving you San Diego's current season standings. They're 5-5. For the uninitiated, that means that SD has lost five games and won five games so far, meaning their win-loss ratio is 50%.

By ordinary standards, that would be abysmal.

By the 2010 National Football League's standards, that's actually about average.

This is a weird season, folks. It's all topsy-turvy. Teams which have customarily been terrible have been kicking big-name teams' butts. Teams which previously were best in the nation have been...well, for lack of a better term, gargling balls. (Dallas anyone?)

Yeah, let's take Dallas. They're 3-7. Three wins, seven losses. Two of those wins were garnered just in the last couple of weeks. For the first months of the season the Cowboys racked up an impressive string of losses. Not that I took pleasure in any of it, of course (yeah, right, I was doing handsprings in the living room), but it was still a surprise. Dallas is unofficially known as "America's team." They are/were THE big name in football, one of the most recognizable teams, and their record was nothing short of stellar. Oh, sure, they've had off-seasons before. But this takes the cake.

Or look at the Vikings. Minnesota's usually done pretty well. They've never won a Super Bowl, but they've been to several. (Like Buffalo, only, you know, not as embarrassing.) But this season they're in the same boat as Dallas, 3-7, undergoing a pathetic collapse. In my humble opinion, Brett Favre should've called it good when he retired (for the first time) in 2008. He should've gone out on a high note. He should've ridden his legendary career with the Green Bay Packers into comfortable old age. He shouldn't have tried to relive his glory days. He shouldn't have vacillated. He shouldn't have signed with the Jets, and then the Vikings. He should've just quit when he was ahead. But no. He stayed in. And now he's showing his age. Sunday's disgraceful 31-3 defeat against Green Bay (oh, the irony) has sealed coach Brad Childress's fate, and almost certainly Favre's as well. It's almost painful to watch.

On the other hand...

Baltimore has been kicking ass this season, defeating such doughty opponents as Miami, New York (the Giants and the Jets), and Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh, for crying out loud! What's the world coming to? The Ravens are ordinarily a B-team at best, but John Harbaugh has set them against comers, despite some minor dust-ups in their offensive line. We'll see how they do in the coming weeks, when they face Tampa Bay, Houston and Pittsburgh (again).

Speaking of kicking ass...

I just wanted to let you know that, as of now (four minutes into the third quarter, 7:35 p.m. Western Daylight Savings Time), the score is 28-7, San Diego's favor. YES!!! Eat that, Denver!

This is what I like to see. San Diego playing like they mean it. It's not a shutout, but we're not choking or dropping the ball or turning over incessantly, either. I like the way the Chargers are playing tonight. The defensive line has been on the ball (literally), we've made a sack or two, and we had a respectable turnover in the first half. On the offensive side of things, Darren Sproles is working his usual magic, the running backs are finding all the holes, the receivers are actually catching the ball, and Phillip Rivers's passes are (as usual) dead-on.

This is one of the NFL's biggest mysteries, in fact. Rivers has the most passing yards of any QB in the league, with nearly 3,000. (Denver's Kyle Orton is right behind him.) Rivers's career passer rating is 96.9, number one of all time. Nobody can figure out how San Diego can possibly be losing games when Rivers is throwing so many deep passes on-target...least of all me.

Indeed, the only black spot on tonight's ledger is the fact that San Diego is, as has previously been mentioned, 5-5.

If we win tonight, we'll be tied for second in the division (with Oakland, BOOOOOOO). If we lose...we're in last place.

'Course, it doesn't look like we'll be losing. I don't know what Denver's problem is, but they're dropping balls and running head-on into our defensive line. That makes me happy, of course, but this is something nobody expected to see from the Broncos, who have traditionally done well. It's a balmy 58 degrees at Qualcomm Stadium right now, so it's not like Denver can blame the weather.

There's six games left: Indianapolis, Oakland (BOOOOOOO), Kansas City, San Francisco, Cincinnati, and Denver again. Let's see how we do. All we have to do is come out top in the division (AFC West). To do that, we've got to beat Denver tonight (signs point to yes) and Kansas City in Week 14. It's a home game, so I'm fairly confident. We (ahem) lost to the Chiefs both in the preseason and in Week 1, but...let's not talk about that right now.

I can dream of a Super Bowl, can't I?

P.S. It's the fourth quarter now and Rivers just threw a beautiful touchdown pass to Jacob Hester. Score's now 35-7. Marvelous, folks. That's the way (uh-huh uh-huh) I like it.

football updates

I remember I said something a while back about how I was going to keep better track of football season this year, and even blog about it. I didn't do so well. Apart from a maudlin post about how my beloved San Diego has lost one of its Holy Offensive Trinity (LaDainian Tomlinson) I haven't said much.

Preseason recap: I don't pay much attention to preseason games, usually, because they're usually on when I'm doing something important, and let's face it, the preseason don't count for much anyway. It wouldn't have done me much good to watch the Chargers' preseason games anyway, because they SUCKED. Except for a slight win against Chicago at home (25-10), we lost to everyone else: Dallas (ouch), New Orleans (well, okay), and San Francisco (are you effing KIDDING me?!).

Thankfully, the pain of preseason didn't last that long, and after Norv Turner knocked a bit of sense into the Bolts, the regular season started and I began to sit up and take notice. Which leads us to...

The season so far: The first game was September 13, against the Chiefs at Kansas City. I didn't see it, because Dad is a Dolphins fan and I believe their game was on at the same time, and Dad had sovereignty over the remote control. It was an appreciably close game (14-21), but still a loss. Rivers threw for 298 passing yards, which I like to see, but surprisingly Darren Sproles didn't take the record for rushing. That went to Ryan Mathews, one of the rookies we picked up this summer, currently signed to a five year contract. Though described as "accident-prone" in college (and in fact, he's already bunged up his ankle this season) he still remains a gleam of hope in Tomlinson's wake.

Second game was September 19, at home against Jacksonville. Puh-leez. It was a 38-13 win, and I'm surprised the Jaguars got that much. I didn't catch much of this game, either; I believe Heather and I were out doing stuff (like buying six used books for $10, awesome-sauce). Rivers topped himself with 334 passing yards, but the real surprise was Nick Kaeding: all five kicks he made that day (four extra points and one 41-yard field goal) were good. Heck, I was surprised that Kaeding was even still on the flipping team. This was the same man who bungled no less than three field goal attempts in the last round of the playoffs back in February, and cost San Diego their shot at the Super Bowl. I felt certain the S.D.P.D. would find Kaeding's mutilated body hanging from the tip of Ocean Beach Pier by mid-March. I imagine Coach Turner has kidnapped Kaeding's family and is holding them at an undisclosed location, releasing one of them every time Kaeding gets it between the uprights.

The third game was another loss. Despite Rivers's stellar 455 passing yards and Gates's 109 receiving (I swear, that man is a ball magnet...he can catch anything), the final score was 27-20 at the Seattle's Qwest Field. My beloved Bolts went down swinging, though. Linebacker Brandon Siler sacked Seahawk QB Matt Hasselbeck in the end zone and scored us a safety in the third quarter; and in the fourth quarter, Rivers and Gates made a respectable nine-play, 65-yard drive to a touchdown in less than five minutes.

Next in line are the Arizona Cardinals, at home on October 3. I'm going to be working, unfortunately, but maybe I can convince Mack to let me turn the game on. Then I can watch it over my right shoulder as I scrub the pots and pans. (Mack usually keeps the TV on Fox anyway.) I don't know much about Arizona, players, stats, what have you, so I'm drawing a blank as far as pregame predictions are concerned. But I have a feeling it's going to be a good one. These are two decent teams, we're on home turf, and I don't hate the guts of the opposing team for a change (in fact, I have something of a soft spot for Arizona now, due to certain laws they've passed regarding illegal immigration).

Still, I'm no traitor. You know who I'll be supporting. The Cardinals are going to get thunderstruck.

inspired by Smithy

There are a lot of people I could talk about in terms of inspiration. Indiana Jones, for one. Jeez, I've wanted to be that guy ever since I was twelve. H.G. Wells, for another. Writing in the late nineteenth century, he managed to predict the invention of airplanes, lasers, space flight, space-time manipulation, and bio-weapons, and do a damn creepy job of it.

But right now I'd like to talk about my friend Smithy, over at smithyblogs. Now there's an inspiring man for you. He always says what he thinks, and means it. He doesn't seem to give a rat's ass about naysayers or detractors. He just up and opines. I like to think I'm the same way, but I'm not. I'm a weasel. Smithy's the genuine article, and that's a woefully rare thing in this day and age. Smithy siphons this exceptional quality into an equally inspiring medium: sports rants. Being a Brit, Smithy was born and naturalized a soccer football nut from Day 1. Being from Manchester...well, presumably you've heard of the legendary Manchester United football team. They're the only one that most Americans have ever even heard of. (What other teams are there? What, like, maybe Arsenal?)

So let's just say that football (meaning soccer) is a subject near and dear to Smithy's heart. And he expostulates upon it with passion, verve and vehemence. Check out his latest update, a rundown of the results of the predictions he made a few weeks ago, a tirade against Chelsea, a word about the British election, and the Seoul Friendship Festival, which, from Smithy's description, sounds like the only celebration in South Korea during which English sausages may be had in profusion. I heartily enjoy standing before Smithy's soapbox and listening to his match breakdowns, season reports, and sportsman's proselytizing. Not only are they entertaining and often hilarious, but they provide a valuable sort of secondhand education for me. I'm learning that, yes, there are other teams in England besides Man U and Arsenal. Smithy drops a lot of names that I have to run to Wikipedia to look up. It's educational, both in regards to the sport itself and my own cultural awareness. Or lack thereof.

So I've decided, as any upstanding and humble apostle would, to copy him. I'm going to ape Smithy. I'm starting up a new installment on this here blog (title to be announced), concerning what's happening with my team, predictions for future games, how the season's shaping up, players, enemy teams, breakdowns, tirades, commiseration, the works. (I apologize to any women in the audience whom I may be turning off.)

Trouble is, we haven't really got a soccer league in this country. Well, okay, yeah, we do. Major League Soccer. But you never hear or see it anywhere. Okay, yeah, they're televised by ESPN, ESPN2, and Fox Soccer Channel (hey, whoa, Fox has a whole channel devoted to soccer?!) but that's about it. The last sports bar I was in had maybe one or two television screens devoted to MLS. The remaining eighty-three were busy depicting the Lakers getting themselves kinged by Oklahoma City. I played soccer for four years and reffed it for two (which means that, yes, I once understood the bloody offside rule). I love soccer. Great game. But I don't feel as though I'm qualified to speak on it, not to the degree and depth that Smithy does. I think I know football gridiron a bit better, especially now that I'm following a team religiously. Smithy's already got the market cornered on soccer rants anyway.

So let's get to it, then. We had a heck of a season in San Diego last year, but there were still a few...erm...problems. We started slow, as usual. Denver beat us hollow and in Pittsburgh...well, let's not talk about that. Some of the fans stated clattering for Coach Norv Turner to be sacked. But things started picking up again as the season went on. The thing about Turner, I hear, is that he really comes through when the chips are down. The grudge match against Denver went well (32-3) and we slaughtered every NFC East team in our way, winning 18 games in a row. Our 13-3 run for the sun was tragically cut short in the last round of the playoffs, thanks to three—count 'em—three missed field goals by Nate Kaeding. New York went on to face Indianapolis and their hick quarterback Peyton Manning, a full-size poster of whom I had to stare at in middle school homeroom in Oak Ridge, when he was still playing for the University of Tennessee. Indianapolis then went on to lose against the New Orleans Saints in Super Bowl XLIV. Ha ha ha, I suppose all's well that ends well, eh?

Needless to say, some changes in the lineup were in order. The draft was back in April, but I've gotten some news that San Diego recently signed Nick Novak for a one-year contract. Don't know much about the man, myself. A Virginia native, Novak graduated from the University of Maryland, and has played for Washington, Arizona and Kansas City. He made 13 out of 20 field goals while playing for the Redskins and the Cardinals, and his average was 6-10 with the Chiefs. (That's a lot better than Kaeding's 1-4, that's for dang sure.) Novak's six feet and 198 pounds, which is a bit heavy for a kicker, I reckon, but maybe he'll be able to put a little extra meat behind his punts, who knows? Now, ostensibly, Novak has been signed to "fill in" for Kaeding, who is still recovering from a groin injury sustained prior to the 2010 Pro Bowl. Yeah, right. What a load of hogwash. I think Kaeding's groin was actually injured by the business end of a patent-leather shoe, heading straight up at about 40 miles per hour. There were about 30,000 people in Qualcomm Stadium last January who would've loved to have their foot in that shoe, let me tell you. I'll bet you anything ol' Nate won't be coming back for the 2010 season. Or if he does, he'll be third string, easy. Novak's been signed to replace him. After three missed field goals, one could hardly expect otherwise.

In other draft news, the Chargers picked up no less than twenty rookie free agents in April, from schools all over the country: Fresno State, Eastern Oregon, West Texas A&M, Southern Methodist, even Cornell! If I watched college football I'd probably know more about these guys, but I don't. Sucks having a seven-to-five job and trying to write for a living; you don't have much time for the idiot box. But I'm looking forward to seeing them all in action. The three to watch seem to be Ryan Mathews, Donald Butler, and Darrell Stuckey. Mathews is a running back from Fresno State who's got 1,808 rushing yards and 19 touchdowns to his credit. We secured him by trading picks with Miami; we got their first-round, fourth-round and sixth-round picks, while they got our first-, second- and fourth-round picks. We also traded the Dolphins our inside linebacker Tim Dobbins. To replace him, we got Butler from the University of Washington. At a hulking 245 pounds, Donald nearly racked up his weight in tackles, knocking out 238 enemy players when he was with the Huskies. Only four of those were sacks, however. Stuckey opened the third day of the draft pick. San Diego snagged him from Kansas, where he played both safety positions; but the plans are for him to play mostly strong safety. That's fine by me. Stuckey's 5'11" and 205 pounds, which makes him heavier than the free safeties we've got. But he's not too porky to move around and still get some coverage done. He has 295 tackles to his name, too, which means he must be doing something right back there.

I'll be the first to admit I don't know all the names of the players on my team. I didn't recognize Dobbins's. I don't know why I never noticed him out there, but I have a few ideas. When I'm watching a Chargers game, I'm usually too absorbed in the Holy Trinity of LaDainian Tomlinson, Darren Sproles and Philip Rivers to notice much else. Or rather, I used to be too absorbed in the Holy Trinity. Philip Rivers, our able quarterback, and Darren Sproles, Mr. Greased Lightning himself, the Artful Dodger, the un-catchable running back, are still around. For reasons I can't explain, the Chargers released Tomlinson in March. If I was to tell you that "I could crawl into a hole and shoot myself right now," you'd have to laugh and tell me to get serious, because you'd know that in order to adequately express how I feel about losing Tomlinson (to the New York JETS, for f***'s sake), I'd have to crawl into a hole, castrate myself with a rusty razor, poke out my eyeballs with sharpened Popsicle sticks, commit hara-kiri, light myself on fire with a blowtorch and then shoot myself. After nine seasons, 138 touchdowns, 12,490 yards, and more NFL records than Jesus H. Christ, LaDainian Tomlinson is no longer on my team. Excuse me, I have to go find a blowtorch.

Anyway, even with Tomlinson gone, I reckon Rivers and Sproles will still make out. With a pool of free agents that size, and a new kicker, I have high hopes for San Diego in the 2010 season. I'm depressed that we don't get to play Oakland until October, though. Those bastards are IN for it. More about that later. I'll continue checking up on the news, and if anything interesting happens I'll blog about it. We should be in the doldrums for a while, though. I'm not sure if the preseason is going to be worth covering. But even that doesn't even start until August.

So, all other things being equal, I'll see you then... Thanks for the inspiration, Smithy.

cocktail review no. 31 - Fifty-Fifty

Whew! I think I need a drink after all this talk about family and ancestors.

I hope everybody had a good Superbowl Sunday. I sure did. It was weird to be home and watching the game with the folks. I haven't done it in two years, you see. I was away in Korea last season, and the Koreans aren't so big on football. (Excuse me, my non-North American readers; I mean gridiron.)

I also followed the season more closely than ever before. I watched as many Chargers games as I could and actually kept track of their wins and losses. And they almost made it, but not quite. Oh well, congrats to New Orleans on the defeat of those dastardly Colts.

To business! In the world of gin, there are martini drinkers, Gibson drinkers, gin and tonic drinkers, gin fizz drinkers, Dubonnet cocktail drinkers... And in the world of martini drinkers, there are straight martini drinkers; double martini drinkers; dirty martini drinkers; dry martini drinkers; extra dry martini drinkers; extra dry double martini drinkers; and even some dry double dirty martini drinkers (like me). There are also vodka martini drinkers, but we won't count them, because

they're dead inside

if brains were bees, there'd be no honey between their ears

they were born without tastebuds, genitals, or any sense of culture or refinement

they have questionable taste. Then there are the fifty-fifty folks. A "dry" martini is one that has a higher ratio of gin to vermouth; a dry martini will have, say, only three-quarters of an ounce of vermouth mixed in with the shot of gin, instead of an ounce. An extra-dry martini will have no vermouth; just gin. (Hardcore gin drinkers only!) The fifty-fifty is the antithesis of the dry martini. It possesses a more equal ratio of gin to vermouth. A fifty-fifty ratio, in fact.

• 1½ ounces gin
• 1½ ounces dry vermouth
• 1 cocktail olive

In a shaker half-filled with ice cubes, combine the gin and vermouth. Shake well. Strain into a cocktail glass and garnish with the olive.

This isn't actually a takeoff on the martini. It's an ancient ancestor, a proto-martini, as it were. Time was, martinis were consumed with an equal ratio of gin to vermouth. Only later did folks reduce the vermouth-gin proportion, creating "dry" and "extra dry" martinis.

The fifty-fifty has now faded into obscurity. Nobody drinks them anymore, so far as I know. I mixed one up once, way back in Wyoming, when I was just starting down the road to bartenderism. At the time, I thought it was awful. I had just begun drinking, though. I didn't like martinis yet, and didn't even know what to expect from vermouth. Needless to say, the fifty-fifty wasn't up my alley.

On a whim, I mixed a second one just the other night. After sitting for Lesson 3 down in Riverside last week, and then taking (and passing) the test on Saturday, I was sick of hearing about martinis and Manhattans and Rob Roys, dry and extra dry. I wanted the antithesis of dry. And suddenly I remembered my old friend the fifty-fifty. MAN, it tasted good. The stellar tang of gin was still there still. But the vermouth finally got its day in court. It layered itself like a silken veil over the gin: a spicy, herbal purdah, easing itself past the tongue to the back of the throat, underscored by the coolness and the body of the gin. It was a precisely equal partnership. The two spirits formed a symbiotic relationship within the confines of the cocktail glass, creating a familiar but now more intense flavor. The drink is easy on the draw, pleasant on the finish, delicious all 'round. I like martinis a lot better these days.

I've fallen in love with gin (good gin, mind you, like Broker's). Still, it doesn't get too much better than the fifty-fifty, folks. Try it and see. 

the Apple Valley Airshow and other desert doings

Not much has happened over the past few days, and yet so much has. That is to say, by readers' standards, what's been going on is rather humdrum. By my standards—seeing as how it's my life and all—quite a bit has happened. I'll tell you about it anyway, shall I?

Let's get the obvious stuff out of the way first. Saturday, October 3, was a red-letter day in Apple Valley. There were two events going on, the Equine Affair (sort of a rodeo-cum-horse show open to all livestock owners in the area) and the airshow. We stopped off at both. We went into town about 10:30 to get some stuff done, and since the Horsemen's Center is right off Highway 18 on our way into town, we had a gander at the Equine Affair. It was mildly interesting—all the feed stores in the area had set up display booths, as had the farriers. Other parties had brought horses, so there were a bunch of people in cowboy hats riding about on beautiful paint and quarter horses. There were also some neat miniature horses standing by for people to cuddle with.

We stayed only long enough for Dad to locate a heavy equipment dealer who our neighbor Sharon knew. She'd told him that Dad was a gunsmith and he had expressed interest. Dad found him and they exchanged contact information, and then we were on our way again. We hit a couple more places, and then (as I'd been eagerly hoping) we turned down Dale Evans Parkway to the Apple Valley Airport, on the northern outskirts of town. A tiny general aviation airport, the place is even smaller than Cheyenne Regional. But that day it was packed. People of all ages and sizes were going back and forth from the dusty lot where their hundreds of cars were parked onto the apron at the airfield. 



The first thing I noticed after we paid the $2 admission fee and walked in the gates was a Rockwell Commander parked with its door thrown open, inviting people inside. I would've killed to get inside and sit in the cockpit—but that would've involved infanticide. The plane was a hit with the little kids. I never got a chance. Oh well, I got a photo-op with the Predator drone at least. 

Moving on, we discovered that Apple Valley Aviation, the flight school I hope to attend, had hauled out its fleet onto the tarmac and was displaying them for the public. I looked over their Cessna 310K, which I'd be using for my multi-engine rating, and perhaps my commercial license as well. 

The rest of the airshow passed in the blur of whirling propellers. I saw a P-51 Mustang, a P-47 Thunderbolt and a P-40 Tomahawk, all great favorite World War II fighters of mine, do flybys—and come taxiing down the runway after landing. This one's the Thunderbolt. 

I'm particularly proud of this photograph, just so you know. Ain't that a beautiful piece of machinery? You should've heard it roar as it flew over. I'm 75% German, and I got a strange urge to duck.

We walked further along the flight line and saw a life-size replica of the Red Baron's triplane (with a life-size replica of Snoopy in the cockpit).

I got to peek inside one of the California Highway Patrol's nifty Eurocopters, and meet one of the pilots, with a .45 automatic holstered at his waist (cool!).

Finally, I got to drool all over the B-25 Mitchell parked in the center of the flight apron ("Photo Fanny"), and be blackly jealous of its pilot, who would be flying it out of there at 4:00. The B-25 is a seriously cool airplane, folks. I dig warbirds, and have ever since the age of 14, but the Mitchell has always been one of my favorites. What a sexy beast! 

We wandered out, and went over for a bite at the Phoenix House. It's a Chinese restaurant on the corner of Navajo Road and Bear Valley that has been there since I was in high school. And get this—we haven't been in to eat there since we left for Wyoming three years ago, and the old proprietress recognized us. She remembered us perfectly. It was like we'd only been in the week before. She couldn't believe I was 23 already. She asked me if I was married yet, which made me go red (she's a past master at making me blush). What I should've said was "You got a daughter?"

We ordered up our old favorites: hot-and-sour soup for starters, followed by three-flavor delight (Mom likes this, a blend of pork, beef, and shrimp with assorted vegetables over rice), Szechuan chicken (Dad's favorite of course, being hot and spicy) and sweet-and-sour pork. Normally I go for the shrimp with lobster Sauce, but this time I decided to shake things up a bit. It was a lovely day, I'd found my old safari jacket packed away in a box in my room, my beard was actually longer than an eighth of an inch for the first time in my life, and I was feelin' mighty fine. We ate and departed with much good cheer. That was Saturday.

Later that afternoon, the winds were howling along at forty miles an hour, gusting to sixty. The Santa Ana winds had kicked up with a vengeance. With the worst timing possible, a wildfire sprung up in the San Gabriel Mountains, near Wrightwood. The ferocious winds fanned the flames and blew smoke throughout the entire valley. It was a disorienting thing to wake up Sunday morning and see a perfect river of smoke flowing through the sky thousands of feet overhead, heading northeast, following the path of the jet stream.

In that howling wind, Dad and I flung ourselves under my '95 Jeep Cherokee to fix the hoses. Remember, while my Jeep technically passed its smog test, it still couldn't be registered, because the filler and vent hoses were leaking and needed to be replaced. The repairs would have cost me $450. Dad figured we could do it ourselves instead, so I simply ordered up the parts through the mechanic's shop and took them home. The morning of October 4—and those ghastly winds—found us prostrate under the Jeep's rear axle, making earnest repairs. At first we figured we could simply unscrew the metal bars holding the gas tank in place and drop the tank only part of the way, in order to be able to access the hoses on top of the tank. No such luck. Quarters were so tight that we had to drop the tank all the way down. I thanked Our Lady of Internal Combustion that I had only about a quarter of a tank of gas at the time of the repairs; if I'd had a full tank the task would've been flatly impossible. As it was, Dad and I had a devil of a time wrestling the tank out of its slot and lowering it onto a makeshift platform—while laying flat on our backs under it. But we did it. We took out the old hoses (which were chewed and worn through in places), slapped the new ones on, somehow hoisted the gas tank back into its proper place, and screwed it back in. Whew!

It was then time for some beer and some football, no doubt about it. Too bad the Chargers lost to the Steelers 28-38. That was a real letdown. I almost thought they'd pull the rabbit out of the hat, seeing as how they were down by 28 points through most of the game. But no, even Darren Sproles couldn't make up for the deplorable holes in the defense. Shucks. Next game's October 19. Double-shucks.

On Monday the fifth, I finally, finally managed to get my Jeep registered with the state. (You remember what a hassle that's been, right?) I drove the Jeep down to A-Action to have it re-tested. It passed. I came straight back home to get my registration paperwork (which, in retrospect, I should have taken with me when I left in the first place; it would've saved me a trip). I retrieved it, and since the hour was still reasonably early (as I thought) I decided to try to hit the DMV and get it registered that very same day.

I'm not going to go into a lengthy description of the California Department of Motor Vehicles. I'm sure many of you reading this are familiar with the DMV in your own state and can identify with me, and those of you that aren't have gotten an earful already. So I won't describe the mile-long, 'round-the-building lines, or appointment schedules months backlogged, or the rainclouds over the heads of the people on both sides of the desk. Suffice to say that, when I drove down to the Victorville DMV, the line was going around the building, twice. I went there merely on a whim; I suspected in my heart of hearts that the crowd would be prohibitive.

So I swung away, got on Interstate 15, and drove to Barstow. Barstow is this wonderful little town about 30 miles north of Apple Valley, right in the middle of the Mojave Desert. It's about as crappy as Victorville and Apple Valley on a per capita basis, but since the population is drastically lower, the crappiness is not as noticeable. Plus there's a neat little gem store there where you can buy all sorts of cool rocks, and a Sherman tank in desert camo set up at the entrance to the downtown area. It was that downtown area to which I drove, exiting the highway, turning left on Barstow Road and hanging a quick right down Virginia Way, whence lay the Barstow DMV.

Now, customarily, the Barstow DMV is far less crowded than Victorville's. This is—or was—a well-kept secret, and for years a furtive legion of tri-city residents has been sneaking up to Barstow to get their vehicles licensed and their driving tests taken.

No longer. Somebody squealed. When I pulled into the parking lot there was a line out the door and along the windows of the Blockbuster Video next door. Only a fraction of the lines at Victorville, certainly, but still an inconvenient wait.

Oh well, I thought to myself as I parked and clambered out into the 70-degree sunshine, I came all this way so I might as well stick it out.

And I'm glad I did, despite the two-hour wait I endured. The façade of the Blockbuster was decorated with faux-stucco pillars. In one hour, I had moved approximately three pillars, or about forty feet. It took another hour to round the corner and get in the door, and about 20 minutes to get from the door to the counter...about twenty-five feet or so. That was the only downside. I had a very interesting conversation with a short, swarthy, craggy-faced Barstow man who was registering his vehicle as well, and was worried that they wouldn't take ATM cards. Better yet, I managed to get all of my stuff done: I not only completed my registration, but I also applied for a California driver's license. (Both should be mailed to me within two weeks.)

I stopped by a Valero station on the way out of town to grab a snack (an awful gas station roast beef sandwich, some Sun Chips, a Nutri-Grain bar, and some Tropicana orange juice; it reminded me forcibly of the kind of meals I subsisted on when commuting three days to college every August and January).

Best of all, I got to come back home on the 247.

Beautiful, ain't it? It's old Highway 247, which turns into Barstow Road as you come into town. It's the back way out of and into Barstow from Apple Valley. After some winding turns across the stark beauty of the desert, and one pass over a 4148-foot mountaintop, it dumps you out on Highway 18, right in the middle of Lucerne Valley, hardly a stone's throw from my house. From someone who lives where I do (off Milpas Road) it's a sweeter deal than coming back on I-15 and having to bulldoze my way back through Victorville and Apple Valley traffic. Not to mention that it's scenic as all get-out. I thoroughly enjoyed the 40-minute drive back in the cool autumn air. And that was Monday.

Tuesday (today) I went into town with Mum to do something I should've done a long time ago: get my own bank account. Mom and I have had a joint account ever since I first opened one in 2000. Now that I'm all done with college and have gotten back from abroad, it's high time I took charge of my own finances. So we did that, closing my old student account (with the help of a lovely Wells Fargo representative, Dori) and reopening another one.

And you want to know something scary? On this new account, I pay $75 every month into my IRA. I'm only 23, for cryin' out loud. Yeah, I know that the sooner you start, the more you'll end up with, but still, it's a scary thing to be thinking about this so soon. Yikes. I'm not ready for this. I never really figured I'd retire anyway. I always thought I'd keep flying and tending bar until I drilled a hole in the ground or got shot. Strange to think of saving for retirement now...

Ah, but how callous of me to worry about things like my personal finances, waiting in lines, and the state of San Diego's defense, when there are poor people in Wrightwood whose homes burned down! Sadly, the Sheep Fire, which I mentioned earlier, eventually spread to 7,500 acres and burned several homes. The entire town of Wrightwood had to evacuated, and it was only today (the sixth) that they were let back in. All today, while out and about in the valley, Mom and I could look up at the slopes of Mount Baldy and see the smoke wafting up from it, gradually dying down. The fire is now under control, last I heard. Once the Santa Ana winds died, the firefighters had things a lot easier. The cool autumn temperatures helped, too. Thank goodness that's over. Lord knows we don't need any more fires this season.

Oh yeah, one more thing: last night I sat down on my bed, comic books, various novels, CDs, cell phone, glass of water, USB drive, and reference volumes scattered and piled close at hand, and took an enormous chunk out of the novel. I banged out 7,500 words (the same number of acres burned by the Sheep Fire—how's that for a spooky bit of coincidence?). In so doing, I took care of the climax. Now all that's left is the denouement...which I'm about to start working on now. That means I could have this novel of mine—my very first—finished tonight. Tonight. After having worked on it for nearly a year, and various other versions of the same story since I was 19 years old. Finished. Completely.

Now that's scary.