walking to Oksu

Hey there, blogsphere.

I'm going to start posting on this here blog more regularly. One of my Facebook friends put me on to Young Adventuress, and I tell you: it's hard to find a cooler travel blog. I've visited lots and they were all pretty insipid, or were glorified travel brochures, or spent way too much time trying to look cool instead of focusing on the important stuff like quality writing. YA doesn't bother too much about that crap. And she belongs to the same philosophical school of blogging that I do: nice, long, wordy, florid, descriptive, opinion-driven posts with scads of luscious photos, breezy language, profound ideas and whatnot. So hey, follow along. She's gotten some intense recognition for her blog 'cause she works darn hard at it. 

Anyway, she also offers advice for wannabe travel bloggers, and part of it is to blog frequently and build a platform (Instagram, Twitter, Google+, Pinterest...everything). Awful similar to the advice I keep reading for wannabe novelists, too. Build that platform, build that platform. Create ways to get seen and get contacted. 

So I decided to get serious. I now have a Twitter account, and I went through and revamped my Google+ pages (both my writer's page and my blog's page). As soon as I get home and get a smartphone I'll update my Instagram account and start posting photos regularly there and let you folks know how to find me. I've updated my contact info on this page, too—see the about me page just underneath the big title up top. 

So...what to post? I don't believe I've shown you nearly enough of South Korea or Seoul. So here's some pics from another long walk I took on Saturday, November 8. All told it was about 7.3 kilometers, or 4.5 miles, on a grey, misty day that couldn't really decide what it wanted to be and just sort of hung there like it was waiting for its ship to come in.

I love walking around this town. Since I started doing all these long walks last month, I've discovered so many strange and wonderful things hiding just around the corner. A couple of weeks ago I saw a guy sitting on a bench by the Jungang Stream with a big blue macaw on his wrist. No explanation, no signage, nothing. Just a guy and his parrot. This particular Wednesday, as I walked from my oneroomtel to my new favorite burger joint in Oksu-dong, Seongdong-gu (near Oksu Station on Line 3), I saw this—some kind of dredging operation going on near the northern bank of the Han River, about level with Seongsu-dong, not far from Seoul Forest. 

Looking east along the bicycle path on the northern shore. You can baaaaaarely see the incomplete Lotte World Tower in the misty distance, in Jamsil.

Looking west, downriver toward the Seongsu Bridge.

Han River Park beneath Gangbyeonbuk-ro (North Riverside Road) in Oksu-dong.

Now I simply must tell you about this burger place, kids. It's called Bartwo. It's a beer-and-burger pub, and one of the absolute finest places in Seoul to get a goddamn good burger. It's right at the interesection of Deoksodang-ro and Hallimmal 3-gil, just a few steps up a hill from Oksu Station (go out Exit 4, turn right, pass the Paris Baguette on the left, and walk up the hill; it'll be on the right at the T-junction). I've been there a few times and have never been let down. The owner, Jeremy, is a gyopo and speaks really good English. He's a friendly dude and he keeps his bar stocked with excellent West Coast craft beers like Ballast Point and North Coast, and some I'd never seen in Korea before (Widmer Brothers anyone?). The Bartwo draft beer is only ₩2,500 a pop and tastes surprisingly good. The extensive menu includes stuffed peppers, tortilla pizza, chips and salsa, hot dogs, burgers, sandwiches, and salads. Also these, the fried mandu (Korean dumplings) with homemade salsa, three for ₩7,000: 

One word: INCREDIBLE.

The crowning glory is the Oksu Burger, ₩9,000. Beef patty cooked to perfection before your eyes, fresh red onion, lettuce, dill pickle (not sweet), tomato, melted cheese, fresh bun, a pile of fries, and all the ketchup and mustard you want. Add in the seasonal import beer (Sam Adams OctoberFest, ₩8,000) and the pickles I got as a side order (₩2,000) and my total bill came to ₩27,000 for one evening's debauch. 

  

How's that for a slice of fried gold?

my sardine can in Seoul

I've waited way too long to tell you guys about this.

Miss H and I returned from Hong Kong on August 7. On August 10, she decided to quit her job. She gave a month's notice at work, packed up all her stuff, and flew home with our black cat Charlie. She's now living in a two-bedroom, two-bath apartment in Henderson, Nevada, and working two or three jobs to be able to afford it until I get there. 

In the meantime, yours truly had to move out of that lovely three-bedroom apartment near Daecheong Station in Gangnam-gu (from which I used to take all those lovely walks by the Yangjae Stream, remember?). With the help of a website geared specifically toward foreigners, I located and moved into a tiny little oneroomtel in Gwangjin-gu, close to Sejong University, where I work.

What's a "oneroomtel"? 

This: 

www.habang.co.kr

...basically a closet with a bathroom. Oneroomtels are a nicer and slightly larger version of your basic goshiwon, which is just a room, a bed, and a desk. Mostly they're used by students who need to sequester themselves somewhere quiet and peaceful to study for exams, or by older men who've recently lost their jobs or gotten divorces. Either way, goshiwons are at best a temporary state of affairs. Technically I'm not supposed to be living in one; that's just nuts. The cabin fever will drive you insane. I'll be here four months in total, from early September to early January, at ₩400,000 (approximately $370) per month. 

It's not so bad. I jokingly call it my "sardine can," but it's actually quite livable. Having an en suite bathroom is nice. And I've made the place as cozy as possible, with soft bedding, an electric fan, a calendar on the wall, snacks and drinks in the mini-fridge, and so forth. The Internet sucks, so the room really comes in handy as a distraction-free writing zone. And I'm getting out of this monk's cell as much as possible. I take long walks by the Jungnang Stream now (which runs north of the Han River, not south like the old Yangjae did). I'm within walking distance of Itaewon now—nine kilometers—so I walk there and back sometimes. It's how I discovered a delicious burger joint in Oksu, in fact. I walk south or east across the bridges and into Gangnam-gu or Songpa-gu or Gangdong-gu, or I go west into Seongdong-gu and Dongdaemun-gu, or I go north into Jungnang-gu. 

Why so much walking, and so far? Exercise. I sold my bike. It was getting old and rattly and I figured I'd better let it go. So now my only way to exercise is to walk, and I figure the longer and farther I walk, the healthier I'll be (and the less time I'm spending in my sardine can). I've been living like this for two months, and I have two months left. This is the halfway point. I've seen more of this city in those sixty days than I did the previous three years, and uncovered many of its hidden gems. 

Postie out. 

a day in George Town

Not pictured: knee-biting lunacy.

A little historical context first:

George Town is the capital of the state of Penang, one of the smallest provinces in Malaysia, which not only incorporates Penang Island but also a decent wodge of the mainland, including Butterworth. It was named after King George III. That's right, folks—Crazy George, the mad king of Britain and Ireland during the American Revolutionary War. 

The island was originally part of the Sultanate of Kedah, until one day in August 1786 when an enterprising young sea captain named Francis Light of the British East India Trading Company landed there. He wound up marrying the sultan's daughter and Penang Island was ceded to the British Crown as part of her wedding dowry. Captain Light promptly established George Town, Britain's first permanent colony in Southeast Asia. It initially had only four streets and a couple of jetties. A fort was built in the northeast corner of the municipality, commanding a 270-degree view of the sea. The Netherlands Trading Society, the Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Company (known today as HSBC), the Chartered Bank (now called Standard Chartered), Boustead & Co., and a dozen others all set up shop here, and the town and the swampy island it sits on were the center of British trade and shipping in the area for quite a few years. There was a nasty problem with malaria in the early years of the colony, earning it the unfortunate nickname "White Man's Grave." 

There were geopolitical speed bumps as well. Captain Light had promised the Sultan of Kedah that the East India Company would offer him military protection in exchange for the island. In so promising he had acted without his superiors' approval. When the Siamese attacked the sultanate a few years later, no British help was forthcoming. The enraged sultan tried to take the island back by force in 1790. In this he failed, and was not only forced to give up the island permanently but also to pay the Crown a sum of 6,000 Spanish dollars per annum. This was later upped to 10,000 Spanish dollars when Province Wellesley (now modern-day Pulau Penang) was incorporated in 1800. Even to this day the Malaysian government pays an annual honorarium of 10,000 ringgit (around $3050 American) to the state of Kedah. 

In 1826, Penang (along with Malacca and Singapore) became part of the Straits Settlements under the British administration in India, and came under direct colonial rule in 1867. In 1946, it was absorbed into the Malayan Union and in 1948 was designated a state of the Federation of Malaya. This federation gained independence from Britain in 1957 and became modern-day Malaysia in 1963. The island was a free port until 1969, and even after losing its free port status became one of the world's foremost centers of electronics production in the '70s and '80s. In 2008, George Town was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and has seen an influx of tourists ever since. 

It was one of the most multicultural places I visited in Southeast Asia, despite having a population of only 720,000 and being rather off to the left compared to more popular tourist destinations like Kuala Lumpur or Langkawi. There were bearded, robed Arabs walking around; chattering Tamils with pearly white teeth; quiet, dignified Chinese; agile, jolly, skinny Thais; bald, pale, T-shirted English expatriates; and grubby foreigners like me from America, Canada, Spain, France, Germany, Brazil, Australia, and everywhere in between. 

I spent most of the morning of Tuesday, July 29 nursing my katzenjammer. (Seven beers at the Hong Kong Bar the night before, remember?) The Red Inn Court had a free breakfast of noodles in black sauce, toast and jam, coffee, and fruit. That helped a lot, as did the warm shower I took. I'd intended to sally forth and tour George Town promptly, but a thundering rain came pouring down between ten and twelve o'clock, the heaviest monsoon cloudburst I'd yet seen on this trip. The Matrix Revolutions has got nothing on Mother Nature. It kept sprinkling well past one o'clock, by which point I couldn't wait any longer, so with a poncho stuffed in my pocket I sauntered out and commenced my walking tour.   

It wasn't just the Muslims who were having a holiday (Hari Raya Puasa, the end of Ramadan). For the Chinese Buddhists, there was some festival related to Guanyin, the goddess of mercy, who has one of the largest and grandest temples in George Town dedicated to her. Crowds of elderly men and women swarmed the temple forecourt, barely visible through the thick, broiling fumes of incense. Prayers flew thick and fast and I couldn't get a show, so I walked on. 

Unfortunately, despite being a UNESCO site, there just wasn't that much to do or see in George Town. I saw the fort; Khoo Kongs, one of the oldest and most famous clanhouses; the jetties; a couple of temples...and, well, that was about it. 

All in all, I was so disappointed by the place (my debauch the previous night notwithstanding) that I ended up taking just six pictures during my whole 48-hour stay, including that one you saw in the previous post. Disappointing, to say the least. 

Lebuh Chulia, where a lot of the bars and noodle joints are.

The fertility cannon at Fort Cornwallis. The largest gun with the widest range, it will also cure barrenness in women, or so the local legend goes. You just need to place some flowers on it. 

After my little walking tour of the town, I got into a cab and tried to send postcards home to the States, only to be gently reminded by the Indian driver that today was a holiday—several, actually—and the post office was shut. I sighed, thanked him, got out of the cab, went back to the hostel, and napped until 6:30. 

Awaking hungrier than a horse, I strode toward what looked like the food-and-drink sector of town, determined to find me a burger and a beer. I was sixteen days into my trip and I had been a very good boy, eating local the whole way. Now I was fed up with rice and noodles and chicken and wanted nothing more than to get a thick, juicy beef patty between my teeth. I stopped off at the SoHo Free House, noting burgers on their menu and cheap beer. Seemed like a winning combo.

Well, it wasn't. That was the worst burger I've ever had in my life. What was supposed to be a rare patty turned out squishy, lumpy, and poorly seasoned; the bun was stale and soggy; the vegetables far from fresh; and the fries limp and cold. The best part about that meal was the mad specials they were having on—you guessed it—Tiger beer. Even so I could only bring myself to drink one. I laid my money down and sped out of there.

Night fell. I wandered, unwilling to give up George Town so easily. I thought vaguely of finding a historic hotel and having a cocktail, but again I felt worried by potential dress code violations, and the proliferation of foreign phonies that were sure to be in the hotel bar, boozing it up. I strode longingly past the Eastern & Oriental Hotel, trying to peer through the big casement windows and catch a glimpse of all the idiots partying inside, but my reconnaissance was for naught; I couldn't make out a thing. 

Not my photo.

I walked home, a bit miffed at the double holiday that prevented me from mailing postcards or exchanging ringgit for Singapore dollars. Testily I went to sleep, ready to rise at 5:45 a.m. on Wednesday morning to catch the long-haul bus at Butterworth Station. 

Hokkaido diary: Mount Moiwa, the Sapporo Beer Museum, and Susukino

2/4:

• 12:45 p.m. After I finished last night's entry, I spoke with Miss H on the phone. Turns out Adam—the friend I was supposed to meet in Busan, got his dates mixed up. He will be in Seoul on the 7, 8, and 9. Darn. Oh well.
  
  I turned on the TV and Cool Runnings was on. Yay! I left it on and took a glorious hot bath that washed away the aches and travel grime. Then I read a few more chapters of The Terror, turned out the light and slept like the dead.
  
  I awoke to bright sunshine, feeling amazingly refreshed. I washed up, dressed, ate the rest of my snacks, and strode into the cold air, bound south for Odori Park and the streetcar station.

• I was crossing over the pedestrian bridge by Sapporo Bus Terminal when I looked over and spotted a scruffy, tanned foreigner emerge from its Stygian gloom. The first thing I noticed was his huge grin. He raised both his hands into the air in a gesture of triumph. Then he spotted me.
  
  
  Far from being embarrassed, his grin grew wider.
  
  "Good morning!" I called.
  
  "Morning!" he called back.
  
  
  "It's cold, mate!"
  
  His accent was Australian.
  
  "Yeah, I love it," I crooned.
  
  "I love it too," he said.
  
  "I could have gone to Thailand," I said, "but not me."
  
  He laughed. "Why go to Thailand when you can come here and do this—" he pounded his thickly-swathed hands together—"with your gloves?"
  
  "I forgot mine," I said, showing him my bare hands. "Pockets."
  
  He laughed again. "Want one?"
  
  With his left hand he removed his right glove (revealing another glove beneath that one) and made a mock-throwing gesture. I raised my arms. 
  
  "No, no, that's all right." 
  
  He laughed a final time. 
  
  "Take care," I said.
  
  "You too."
  
  His grin never faded. 

• I made it to Odori Park, turned west (past a bunch of impressive snow sculptures which shall be unveiled tomorrow) and alighted at the streetcar stop. An old, clanking trolley car (just like those in Kyoto and Kumamoto) pulled me to Ropeway Iriguchi Station. 

• I took two cable cars (regular and mini) to the top of Mount Moiwa and had a look at the knee-deep drifts, bare trees, cawing crows, blue skies, and the whole massive sprawl of Sapporo below. 

I would have been able to see the whole valley (and the mountains and Sea of Japan beyond) but a huge snowstorm was rolling off it and blanketing the town in a sea of gray obscurity.

• I made it back down to Earth and took the tram to Susukino (the fun district) when the storm struck in earnest—huge wet flakes sticking to my clothes and socking me in the eyes. It drove me off the street and into a curry house, where I am now munching on a delicious seafood curry and thinking about hitting the Sapporo beer museum next.
   
  
• 2:45 p.m. Best idea I've ever had. The snow is still bucketing down. This beats everything I ever saw. Sapporo is just getting dumped on. Good thing I switched to indoor activities. 

• I'm sitting in the big 1st-floor beer hall at the Sapporo Beer Museum, sampling their classic brew, their black label (also a favorite of mine) and the KAITAKUSHI beer, made to the original recipe of the brewery, back in the late 1860s and early 70s when it was still a government enterprise. There isn't really much to the museum at all—some blurbs about Hisanari Murahashi, the original project leader, and Seibei Nakagawa, the brewmaster, the first Japanese man to learn brewing in Germany, and the history of the company and the idealness of Hokkaido for good beer-making, etc., etc. The real highlight is this tasting you can do afterward. You order your beer (or a sampler of all three for just ¥500, or $5) and sit around and drink 'em in peace. The nuts are excellent. I have no idea what to do after this—catch the 747 Chuo bus back to Sapporo Station and walk, head down and blinking, back to the hotel. Maybe I'll stop by Hokkaido University on the way and check out Clark's bust. 
  P.S. There's a French couple sitting near me, sampling beer. The dude, a slim, gaunt fellow with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, is wearing a GoPro on his head. THAT IS SO STUPID.
  

• 8:40 p.m. Went back to my hotel and read for a couple hours, then began to think about dinner. I researched a couple of seafood places (Hokkaido's famous for it, especially sushi and crab) but found they were hideously expensive—a good crab dinner will run you $200. So I rode 3 stops down the green (Tozai?) line to Susukino and found TK6 in a big shopping arcade. Brant (who was here in December) recommended it to me. Amazing burgers, loads of great beers and a thrilling selection of cocktails. They had a good choice of odd liqueurs (Frangelico, Pimm's, and others whose names I didn't even recognize, plus ouzo). As I ate and drank, a 27-year-old Japanese fellow named Dai (Japanese for "big") started talking to me. He works in translation here in Sapporo, and speaks English, Italian, and Spanish. He asked what I thought of Korean girls (whiny, childish) and I asked him what the best and worst parts of his job were (meeting famous people and pretending to care about what they think, respectively).
  
  I left and rode the Ferris wheel at Norbesu entertainment center, and got a line on eats for tomorrow (Sushizanmai in Susukino and a yakitori place around the corner).
  

Some footnotes: what I referred to as "nuts" above were actually Sapporo Beer Crackers, which are fantastic with any kind of beer.

The Kitaikushi was the name of the committee in charge of setting up a working government after the end of the Boshin War and the beginning of the Meiji Era. The brewery in Sapporo was founded to stimulate agricultural growth in the area, and the brew claims to use only water, malt, hops, and yeast—no fancy additives. It was delicious, and even gave the Black (my favorite Sapporo brew) a run for its money. I bought a pack of Beer Crackers for ¥500 and a souvenir T-shirt for ¥1600.

Yakitori means "fire chicken." Yaki- is the Japanese prefix used to denote that something's been flame-broiled or grilled or barbecued, much like bul- is in Korean. Yakiniku, bulgogi...it all means "fire meat." Yakitori is barbecued chicken on a stick. I was willing to bet it went well with beer, so I staked a place out just around the corner from the Sapporo Clark.

W.S. Clark, or William Smith Clark for short, was...well, you can just read about him here. That's your homework until the next post. 

2012...as it relates to 2013

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

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

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

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

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

I'm going to make this blog more professional.

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

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

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

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

British barbecue blues

There was hardly any time to breathe, let alone detoxify, after Jeff and I returned to Newcastle from Ireland on the 17th of June, 2010.

We had a barbecue to prepare.

Being guests from the colonies, we thought we'd repay our kindly English hosts by throwing them a little bash. Jeff and I would put our heads together and bring the best of our backyard party skills to the fore. I'd grill up some ribs and hamburgers and Jeff would do his famous cornflake potatoes, with some other side-dishes thrown in.

It sounded good on paper. How it actually turned out is something else altogether.

Adam took Jeff and I down to Morrison's (the big grocery store) the evening of the 17th to get all the ingredients we'd need...including the charcoal, and even the barbecue itself. Adam's mum didn't have one, you see. Living within spitting distance of the North Sea, she doesn't have cause to grill outdoors very often. They have that stuff out in England called rain, you see. I don't know exactly what it is, but I guess it has something to do with water coming out of the sky. I have a difficult time imagining such a miraculous phenomenon, but I can see how it would make fire-starting difficult.

So we picked up the goods, lugged 'em back to Adam's mum's house in a taxi, and set about getting the preliminary preparations done. I assembled the new grill myself, which I'm rather proud of. I'm not the most mechanically able, but give me enough time (and mulligans) and I'm usually able to work it all out. I got it done just before dark (at 11:00 p.m.) and we all sat around having a few beers and admiring the thing. It was the same shape as a typical tripod grill (wheels, tray, big black pot with a round lid, etc.) but about half the size. You had to stoop to flip anything grilling on it. It was about the size of the grill on the left in the picture below, here:

Again, I wish I could show you my own pictures (this one's from Wikipedia), but I have none. I think I tried to take some photos of the grill I assembled, but by that time it was dark and the pictures came out unrecognizably blurred and obscure.

We had a marginally decent night's sleep that night. When you get the bunch of us together—A, E, Jeff, and me, not to mention E's friend M—well, we have a tendency to bounce of each other and egg each other on, and what was supposed to be "a few drinks" and "an early bedtime" turns into yet another late-night lesson in debauchery.

The day arrived, and after an eleventh-hour dash to Morrison's for some forgotten ingredients, all was in readiness. The ribs had been seasoned and rubbed, the charcoal was resting comfortably in the tiny grill, the burger patties were lovingly shaped and patted down. Jeff, with E's help, had already mixed up and baked his cornflake potatoes, the recipe for which I shall not include because it is a sacred H_______ family heirloom, and to divulge it would bring the wrath of all Canada down on my head.

Just kidding.

Anyway, Jeff's preparations were now done, and he joined the rapidly growing crowd of guests in their cans of Carlson while I flitted between the kitchen and the backyard.

Things were not going as planned. I had two five-pound bags of charcoal at my disposal. The first one burned far too hot. Seriously, the burgers were being instantly charred. That was all well and good if I'd been preparing only the burgers, but I was trying to put together a whole course of meat dishes here. I only had one extra bag of charcoal and this one was burning up too fast. I was only able to dish up about five or six burgers before the heat died completely.

British barbecue: 1
Postman: 0

Daunted by a fast burn and low heat retention (on the part of the grill itself), I was determined not to lose to the second bag. I readied the remaining burgers and ribs, lit the last load of charcoal and prepared for some heavy action.

None came.

The second batch was far too cool. The inferno of the first bag never materialized. The second bag was slow to ignite and when it finally did burn, it was cool enough that I could place a finger on the bare metal of the grill lid and not be burned. The ribs and burgers just sat there, not even cooking, as pink as they'd been at the supermarket.

I was eventually forced to move the uncooked meat from the useless grill and finish it off in the kitchen oven.

Oh, the humiliation.

British barbecue: 2
Postman: 0

I did get a consolation prize. Everyone enjoyed the burgers, and even more so the ribs. Though I was slightly dilatory in serving up the goods, the assembled guests complimented my grilling prowess, and even commiserated with me.

"It's a British barbecue, mate," said N (one of Adam's friends), as if that explained everything.

Jeff's cornflake potatoes were by far the most popular thing on the menu, but we won't talk about that. I can't have it said that a Canadian served up a tastier dish at a barbecue than an American, can I?

Way to upstage me there, Jeff old pal.

Anyway, we made a jolly night of it. Once the cooking was done I was able to sit down, relax, enjoy a burger and a beer, and yell at the TV along with the rest of the guys as the English World Cup team played to a somewhat embarrassing 0-0 draw with Algeria. (The ladies sat outside with a bottle of wine, sharing some much-needed girl talk. Jeff joined them, but we won't talk about that either.)

After the game we all got drunk and partied until the wee hours of the morning.

Pretty good day overall, I guess.

psycho-emotional armor

Insecurity is one of those things everyone denies suffering from. Yet we all have to deal with it on some level. Every time one's beliefs are ridiculed, one's intelligence is defamed (after one makes a mistake, for example), or one receives a personal insult, even the most stalwart sense of self-esteem crumbles just a little. Well, mine does, anyway. Guess I must be a softy. Once, I was the most untouchable weirdo in my peer group. I didn't care one whit for what people said about me. I'd go sauntering through the playground in a camouflage jacket and a black top hat (styling myself "Mr. Different"), and all the insults and derisive hoots that were hurled at me just bounced right off. And then, for some reason, I began to care what people think. Thus began the downhill slide. Nowadays I don't deal very well with criticism, nor belittlement. Soon as somebody says, "That's stupid, Andy," or "How can you not like Family Guy? You must be a Communist, Andy!" my soul shrivels up a little, and I feel a mysterious need to backpedal and void my previous assertions. And in so doing, I want to backpedal again and reassert my previous assertions, because voiding them due to public opinion makes me feel like a spineless, obsequious, sniveling, slimy weed, bending whatever way the wind blows. I have resolved to go back to utterly not caring about what other people think of me: particularly, what I do and the things I like. As I mentioned earlier, I'm something of a weirdo, you see. Take In-N-Out, for example. In-N-Out is a fast-food burger chain native to California and the west coast. It's inordinately popular, particularly in Southern California. I've never liked the place much myself. The fries are too greasy, the decor is sterile white, and the burgers don't come up to the level of, say, Tom's, or even Carl's Junior. But the moment I say that I don't like In-N-Out, no matter how large the group of friends I'm with is, the vote is unanimous. Jaws drop, eyes bug out, horrified gasps resound. "What?!" "How can you say that, Andy?" "Have you even had In-N-Out?" "Are you a Communist?" "You're definitely un-American if you think that." Some of you might be wondering Hey, how come this weasel gets so insecure over an issue as trivial as this? So his friends all disagree with him about which burger chain is superior. Big whoop. That's no reason for him to feel he needs to change his opinion to fit in. Well, hold on a minute. You said it just now. It's not so much the issue at stake. It's the fact that all my friends disagree with me. All of them. That's bound to make any member of the group, particularly one whose acceptance is as iffy as mine, nervous. I was a social outcast my first year in high school, and was (and still am) so socially inept that I still wonder how I managed to garner any friends at all. My pals are incredibly valuable to me. I would have had a lonely, lonely time in high school if they hadn't seen fit to tolerate my weirdness. I'd like to keep running with this gang. So naturally, if it seems as if I'm about to alienate them (or even distance myself from them in any way, shape, or form, no matter how minor), I go on red alert. Pretty pathetic, right? It's not that I'm fundamentally weak-willed or mealy-mouthed. It's just that I've been out on the fringes for so long that I'm starting to get the idea that I might be off base after all. I've gotten so used to being the only person in the room who thinks a particular way that I'm beginning to believe I might be wrong. Now I realize that this is all just herd mentality. Just because no one sees eye-to-eye with me doesn't mean I'm the littlest man there. So no more. I'm done being a sniveling weasel. I'm through cringing inside whenever somebody criticizes something I like or believe in. I'm done thinking that my beliefs are inferior to anyone else's just because I happen to be the only person who holds them. I'm through caring what other people think. From now on, it's just going to be me and my mind, laughing together at private jokes, starting two-member fan clubs for the most arcane and obscure bits of pop culture available, grinning at each other whenever another person's eyes bug out. I'm going to be more like George Bernard Shaw: I'll say what I think, be right most of the time, abhor the general lack of intelligence in others, and focus on offending as many people as possible. Mr. Sulu! Activate the psycho-emotional armor! But I can't leave it there. I've dropped a few hints but have not unveiled the full enchilada. I'm going to give you a complete rundown of my most controversial beliefs, opinions, likes, and wants, so you can judge for yourself how weird they are, and have an appropriate baseline to appraise your own. This is also a defiant scream. Each item listed here has earned me a disbelieving look, a disapproving comment, or a jaw-drop at least once. This is what I believe, world, and nobody's going to make me doubt myself anymore for believing in it. And we commence!

• I hate vodka. Yes, I'm a mixologist. But still, I detest the stuff. Can't stand it. The only way I can stomach it is mixing it in cocktails, and even then, it's only good for its alcoholic content. Gee whiz, what's the point?
• Capital punishment is a good thing. Violent criminals don't need to be helped. They don't need to be rehabilitated. They need to be killed. Removed from the gene pool. Sent to hell. Whatever you want to call it.
• There is such a thing as "righteous war." When innocent people are suffering, when peace and injustice have gone to the dogs, when diplomatic relations have broken down, and economic sanctions have (finally) proven their impotence, it's the duty of the powerful, forthright, upstanding nations of the world (you know the ones I mean if you live there) to step in and take a military hand in matters. People say war is ugly, and that killing our fellow humans is the worst crime we've ever committed. I say, standing by and letting evil men take over and run things according to selfish whim is worse. I say, live and let die. And I also think rapists and child molesters ought to be castrated.
• I'm an atheist. I don't believe in God. And when I say "I don't believe in God" I don't mean that I believe He exists but don't worship Him. I mean that I don't believe He exists, period. Apparently those are two different things now. Jesus may very well have existed, but I have serious doubts about his parentage. I've examined the evidence for both camps, read science books, attended numerous churches and church services, and made up my mind that a universe based on random chaos and the complete lack of any divine guidance just makes more sense. It's more logical to me, more believable. I keep an open mind, however. Given compelling evidence I might start believing that God exists. Don't know if I'd worship Him even then, though. I do believe that we humans know less than 0.001% about the way the universe works, and that there are things undoubtedly going on out there that science can't explain. That thought thrills me.
• I have not seen American Pie, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Superbad, Beerfest, or any other such raunchy, tasteless, obscene comedy. And I don't intend to, either.
• I have not seen Mrs. Doubtfire, Dumb & Dumber, The Big Lebowski, and a lot of other films that everybody tells me are "essential." (Name another, I'll bet you I haven't seen it.) I suppose I will someday, though. Maybe. I have my own ideas about what constitutes "essential," thanks very much.
• I am reading Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. I've discussed this before. People now doubt my sexual orientation. Apparently this is a "girl's book." I don't care. If it's a good book, I'll read it. (Romance novels don't count, of course; but this isn't a romance novel.) I'll bet LW is a grand book, too. And you're all missing out on it because you're worried that if you even touch this book you'll have to run and wash the gay off you or something. I'll bet you don't wear any purple, either. Your loss.
• I just might put bourbon in my hip flask. Yes, yes, I know that's a cardinal sin. A real man would never keep anything but high-grade Scotch whisky or brandy in his hip flask. It could be worse, though. I haven't stuck any rum or vodka in there, and I don't intend to. I just thought bourbon might be a nice change. And I've got to do something progressive in my life. Maybe I'll start a new manly trend.
• I despise Family Guy. And furthermore, I don't see how any right-thinking person couldn't. It's crass, vulgar, stupid, disgusting, shoddy, obnoxious, and a blatant, shameless Simpsons knockoff. Suck on that, my former college roommates.
• Gifts should not be purchased cheaply. To me, the whole idea of shopping around for the best deal (on a gift, that is) is abhorrent. One should buy the gift from the first place one finds it, irrespective of how expensive it is. To go around pricing gifts seems very, very miserly to me. One might as well hand the person their present and say "Here, this is the cheapest one I could find." No. Gifts are not given in that spirit. Price is irrelevant. What matters is that you're giving them what they want. On the other hand, if it was me, I'd want people to save as much money as they could when buying me gifts. This rule applies only to yours truly.
• Jethro Tull is the best rock 'n' roll band of all time. 'Nuff said.
• Asparagus sucks. Yes, there are actually some people who disagree with me on this one.
• I'm pretty set in my ways, musically; rock 'n' roll, some progressive, some classical; but I enjoy the occasional bout of hip-hop. I'm not a hypocrite. There's a few tunes (by, say, Lil' John, or Ludacris, or Usher, or Sean Paul) that have a remarkable amount of nostalgic value for me, seeing as how I got down and dirty to their stuff at my high school dances. And you must admit, while most rap is atonal or just downright abrasive to the ear, it has a pretty good beat. It's just those buggers who drive around with their bass woofers turned all the way up (making the everybody else stuck in traffic think there's a mighty rhythmic earthquake going on) who give it a bad name. If you want a specific example, I've had "Stand Up" (by Ludacris) stuck in my head the last few days. That one makes me chuckle.
• Fox News IS fair and balanced. Nothing you can say will make me think otherwise. CNN can go pound sand.

That's all I can think of for now. So help me, I will never waver in my convictions again. Unless I hear some compelling evidence to the contrary, of course. So there.