coulda, shoulda, woulda

I wouldn't last long in the military. You know why? Because I'm stupid, that's why. Most recruits in the armed forces have this thing called routine. There are certain tasks they're expected to accomplish each day. To help them accomplish them, they have a drill sergeant. But perhaps more importantly, they have another really neat thing called work ethic. (It might also be construed as fear of the drill sergeant's can of whoop-ass, but let's stick with the perfect world, shall we?) They have to want to get their assigned tasks done. They have to want to be at boot camp. They have to want to sculpt perfect hospital corners whenever they make their beds, finish their morning run in good time, score high during marksmanship trials and so forth. By adhering to that work ethic and by steadily completing their routine every day for weeks, recruits get an idea of what's expected of them, what they're supposed to be doing, and how things are supposed to go. They know what to do, how to do it, when to do it, and what the benefits are to doing it (not being appointed a permanent latrine orderly, for example). Me? Not a chance. I just sort of caper along through life, visions of dancing daisies in my head, whistling a happy tune until I run smack into a brick wall or fall down a manhole. Very, very rarely will I actually stop in my tracks, straighten up, scratch my head and yell, "Hey! I should be doing THIS!" That happened to me this morning. It was eleven o'clock. I had woken up at 9:30, rolled out of bed, eaten a heaping bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats, dragged a brush through my hair, and had been reading other people's blogs all morning in my pajamas. After a while, I finally got off my duff and into the shower. As I was bending down to pick up the bath rug and hang it over the edge of the tub, I suddenly thought, "HEY! Instead of loafing around the house all day, blogging, studying bartending flashcards, lackadaisically searching for a job, reading The Epic of Gilgamesh or playing video games, I could be starting in on my second novel!" (Well, something like that, anyway.) Immediately following, an enormous rush of childish glee ran through my body. It was as if Christmas was suddenly the day after tomorrow, or I'd suddenly won an all-expenses-paid trip to Las Vegas, effective immediately. It was the old, intoxicating feeling of anticipation and excitement. It was the writing fever. And it was back. It had fallen by the wayside in the wake of my first novel, replaced by the revision blues. I don't know about you, but I've never really liked editing and revising and proofing. Anyone who's ever spotted a typo in my blog posts will realize that. Typos are anathema to me. I'm a good speller. I'm something of a wordsmith, in fact. But I do make mistakes. And what's worse, I can't always be bothered to find them and fix them. I'm working on that, but it's a hard slog. But never mind about that. The point is that there's always something more I could be doing. And very rarely do I realize it. I get complacent too easily. I fall into a rut, stagnate, and just sort of stew for a while. Often it takes some calamity to make me notice how much I've slacked off. I mean, come on. I love writing. I'm drunk on this story I'm creating. Writers understand how much of a trip, a joy, a high, a tremendous kick in the pants writing is. It's like a drug, an illicit love affair (as Laura said). I can't understand why I would hesitate to dive back in. I'm not daunted by the task. I actually have a much clearer idea of the plot of this second book than I did for the first. Even now, as I contemplate the prospect of writing the next chapter in the series, my pulse quickens and my eyes gleam. I just got complacent. Lazy. Indolent. Mush-brained. The only thing I have on the docket for today is studying, studying. I have one final time-trial to pass at bartender's school, sours and blended drinks. (While we're on the subject of dithering, I could've been finished with bartender's school a lot sooner, too.) The newly-completed flashcards are sitting right here next to me on the bedspread. I have merely to roll over, pick them up, and begin the long process of memorizing 40 drinks before tomorrow. But in the meantime, I sat here for an hour and a half in my PJs, wasting precious time on the Internet. Yesterday I made those flashcards, sent an e-mail to my potential employer, and took an introspective walk. That's all I did. I've been dreaming and scheming about this novel series for years, and it was only the act of stooping to pick up a bath rug that made me realize that I'm spinning my wheels. Sometimes I really wish I could reach inside my head and punch my brain. A lot of writers can fall into this trap. Writing is fun, but it's hard work, too. Like an exercise routine, it can sometimes be difficult to start—even to remember to start. Maybe you're busy with other things: children, work, studies, hobbies, friends, obligations. You harangue, you chivvy, you exhort, but you just can't seem to get started. Perhaps you rationalize, and tell yourself that you'll get started first thing tomorrow morning. But tomorrow morning rolls around, and the idea stays in your head and your fingers off the keys. Maybe you throw up straw men, working on lesser projects while the Big Idea simmers on the back burner. That works for a while, but something's gotta give eventually. The best suggestion I've heard for combating the Great First Hurdle of Starting was given me by Stephen King. In his excellent autobiography-slash-writing guide, On Writing, King suggests that you get yourself a routine. Pick an hour in the morning or the evening. Make sure it's the same hour every day: six o'clock, or 7:47, or 11:09, whatever. You must be consistent. Sit down at your computer (or typewriter, if you're the old-fashioned sort) and write. Even if you don't feel like it. Even if your brain tells you that you'll never accomplish anything by forcing yourself to write. Even if the video games and millennia-old epics are calling to you. Just get on with it. Soon, King says, you'll notice that the words are coming easier. That the initial difficulty is slacking off, inspiration is welling up, and you're suddenly in the Writing Zone. It may take five minutes, or it may take five or so sessions. But soon, you'll notice that it becomes easier and easier to get on a roll. The writer's block will start crumbling faster. If you keep up your routine religiously, writing for an hour (or two) every day, same time, same place...good things will start to roll off that keyboard. It may seem counterintuitive, but it works. I myself was highly skeptical when I first read about the method. With my nose in the air and my voice laden with hauteur, I scoffed, "Poppycock! A routine would defile the creative process. Writing on a schedule is like trying to paint a masterpiece every month, or carve sculpture from nine to five. One must wait for the creative juices to flow, and then write." It didn't take me long to realize that if I sat around waiting for the creative juices to flow, I'd be in my 90s before I finished my second book. So I gave King's method a shot. And I noticed that soon, I was checking my watch and thinking excitedly, "Oooh, my writing hour is coming up." In no time at all, the creative juices were flowing, even before I sat down at the computer every night. I know this, and yet I haven't started doing it yet this year. I've set myself some goals for 2010, a battle plan (as delineated by Jon Paul). There remains but to buckle down and do it. Like those damnable New Year's resolutions, I can't seem to muster the diligence nor the intelligence to actually set myself a routine. Maybe I need a drill sergeant.

Help me, R. Lee Ermey. You're my only hope.

castles in the air

I'm always fascinated by the Pollinatrix's discussion of synchronicity: the interlacing of strange serendipitous coincidences. Whether or not they were caused by some higher power, they always seem to carry some sort of deeper meaning, applicable to one's existence. (Read what she wrote about the color orange, it's brilliant.) What does my existence consist of right now? Castles in the air. There are some castles way off in the sunlit clouds which I'm trying to lease, but I'm still down here on the ground, building a ladder to reach them. Some days it feels like Jacob's ladder. No matter how long I work or how high I climb, I never seem to get anywhere. I'm in the vertical doldrums. And yet...inspiration is everywhere. If I needed a reason to keep up the fight, synchronicity might come to the rescue. Each way I turn I'm reminded in some way of my struggle to attain the clouds. I'm in the middle of reading Louisa May Alcott's Little Women. Chapter 13 is named "Castles in the Air." In it, the girls and Laurie divulge their dreams to each other. Laurie would like to live in Germany and be a musician; Meg wants a lovely house with lots of luxurious accoutrements, and would rather live a charitable life as a well-loved woman (with, perhaps, a man); Jo needs a stable full of Arabian horses, a library full of books, and a magic inkstand; Beth simply wishes to stay at home and be of help to her father and mother; and Amy desires to be an artist, go to Rome, and paint fine pictures. It's a touching chapter, a delight to read. The girls and Laurie have each built a castle in the air and now plan to pursue it with every breath. As most of you know, I'm somewhat into Japanese comics, or manga. My favorite is called One Piece. It's a pirate-themed comic book wherein a 17-year-old boy, Monkey D. Luffy, sets out to sea to become the Pirate King. One of my favorite story arcs in this marvelous comic is when Luffy and his crew discover the existence of the sky island, Skypiea. It's an amazing voyage. Thought to exist only in legend, Skypiea is proven real when Luffy and his crew ride a monstrous ocean current up into the clouds and find the mystical land for themselves. But it's not a heavenly paradise. The sky islands are lorded over by a rather nasty villain, Enel, who has the powers of thunder and lightning. Luffy and his mates win the day through a series of hair-raising battles and close calls, all in the clouds and the islands floating on them. This is fascinating stuff, and partly what inspired me to try to write my own comic in the first place. But perhaps most tellingly of all, there's a quote by Henry David Thoreau. I put it on my Facebook page a while back, but neglected it. It's my favorite Thoreau quote, which is rather telling; that man was nothing if not quotable.

"Do not worry if you have built your castles in the air. They are where they should be. Now put the foundations under them."

How does this relate to me? Well, I'll tell you. Laurie, Beth, Jo, Meg and Amy remind me that you have to start out big or you'll never go anywhere. You have to have grandiose schemes and great ambitions. You must shoot high, right from the very beginning. And you have to be prepared to do what it takes to get there. Otherwise you'll forever remain a nowhere man. Like Stephen King says, "If you don't start out too big for your britches, how are you going to fill 'em later on?" Luffy and his pirate crew never cared if they were laughed at for believing in the impossible. They kept going regardless. They believed. They tried. They strove. They braved the storm and the danger and the fear of the unknown. And in the end, they won through...and were privileged to see something few others ever had. They had themselves a real adventure, kept their eye on the ball, and enjoyed the journey. What more is there to do in life? And as for ol' Henry...well, his sentiments are self-explanatory. I've set my sights on something I want, and all I have to do now is get there. I have built my castles in the air. Now I must see to the foundations, even if it's just one brick at a time. So I have to remember to stick with it. I must keep up the work I've begun. Even if it seems like I study day after day and hardly ever go down to Riverside to take a test, I have to continue my bartender's training. Even if I've completed the requisite 40 hours of flight training for my private pilot's license, and can't take my exams because of time and financial constraints, I'm still cracking books. Even if I'm frightened of my novel, not confident in my writing ability, or disgusted with the premise (as I am sometimes), I'll keep revising. Because what lies at the end is everlasting glory. A bartender's certificate. A pilot's license. A published book. A high-paying job in a bar or casino. An international airline. A successful, well-liked novel series. A castle in the air.

this damn novel

I don't know if I've mentioned this properly, but I'm an aspiring novelist. I've been writing ever since I was a pre-teen, mostly tongue-in-cheek poems and short stories about animals. Then, after I got to college, I realized two things: (a) I really couldn't stand advanced chemistry, and therefore probably couldn't be a zoologist; and (b) I actually really enjoyed writing. I began to wonder if I could do it for a living, in fact. I liked to write, and I liked animals, and science, and people, and culture...and I loved to travel, see new places and describe them floridly. Why not?

So I switched my major to journalism, got my degree, and set out on the road to become a travel writer. But even before that, the writer's madness began to take hold. My imagination has always been overactive. I read ravenously as a child and was instilled not only with the capacity to create fantasy-worlds from the whirling darkness of my mind, but also to put them on paper in an intriguing way. And so the short stories took shape. They were awful, undoubtedly. The writing may have been above average, but the plots were thin and the premises ludicrous. I wrote an entire novelette in high school about a family of nurse sharks who migrated across the perilous ocean floor to a new home in a secure reef. (Needless to say, it was inspired by Watership Down.)

When I was 19, something finally resembling an original idea began to coalesce in my head. An idealist. Yeah, there's this dissatisfied idealist. Unhappy with his lot, see? Working a dead-end job. Going nowhere, slowly. Him and his best buddy, both. And then what do they find out? They're reincarnated from history's heroes. The souls of humanity's most famous warriors, leaders and tricksters are bound up inside them. These two guys are privy to these famous men's powers, fighting prowess, intelligence, cleverness, and charisma.

The story underwent several permutations. At first, my two protagonists discovered a time-machine and became sort of like time-traveling private investigators. That didn't last too long. It's a rip-off, for one thing. There's half a dozen original Star Trek episodes just like that, not to mention that Sci-Fi Channel series TimeCop. I also wasn't happy with the realistic side of things, either. My idealist (let's call him Protagonist Number One, and his buddy Protagonist Number Two) was working in an antique clock shop in Los Angeles, inherited from his deceased parents. That coincidence seemed a little too corny. So I scrapped it.

I'm paranoid about plagiarism, so I won't say much about the plot of the story as it stands now. I will say that the theme is now post-apocalyptic. A global time disaster sucks these two guys in and spews them onto a new world, where (armed with their new-found metaphysical powers), they pursue their fortunes. The plot roughly parallels human history (beginning with ancient Sumer, hence all the stuff I've been reading about old Mesopotamia). I've got some rather weighty things to say about human civilization and social behavior along the way, too. Protagonists 1 and 2 will acquire a motley bunch of supporting characters over time, all of whom have something to contribute to the story (literally and allegorically). It's going to be a great adventure, a little bit preachy, grandiose, captivating, lucid, funny, rip-roaring, swashbuckling, touching, and all those other things that my favorite adventure novels and fantasy epics are.

Now, I've actually finished writing the damn thing. It's been sitting in my top desk drawer for months. Why could that be? I love writing. I love this story I've created with all my heart. I think other people are going to love it, too. So why am I hesitating yet again?

I'm scared. I'm scared of that manuscript. I know exactly how Victor felt when he looked down upon the monster he'd sewed together from corpses, and it opened its watery yellow eyes and grinned at him. I've created a monster. It's grown into something much larger than I thought it would. I think it could be great. But there's the terrifying thought that, after my editing is done, it might not be great. I want this to come out perfect, or as near to perfect as possible. And I'm not sure I can do it. And even if it gets to the point where I think it's good, and have grown as fond of it as a proud father of his child, and send it out into the world to seek its fortunes...where's the guarantee that other people will like it? What if they hate it? Or sweet mother of sassafras, what if they love it? What if it becomes the biggest thing since Harry Potter? What if this thing transcends genres, age groups, sexes, borders? What if the entire planet likes it? What if it becomes so popular that ravening fan groups on the Internet begin breathing down my neck for endless sequels?

All of these fears and apprehensions torment me daily—whenever I open that top drawer and see that manuscript sitting there, grinning at me with water yellow eyes. I'm afraid of imperfection, I'm afraid of failure, and I'm afraid of success.

But you know what? I've decided not to care anymore. I've waited long enough. I want to see people's eyes light up when they read this story, the way mine do. I want to get this thing revised, accepted, printed, published.

So I finally unleashed it from the desk drawer two weeks ago. It sat on my nightstand for two weeks, just sort of "airing out," as I told myself. But today, after a long bout of late-night soul searching the previous evening (during which tears were shed, Coldplay was listened to, mournful pamphlets written, and morose epigrams dispensed on Facebook)...

Today, after four years of daydreaming, writing, ripping, tearing, destroying, rewriting, rethinking, and reworking...

Today, after four months of equivocating, stalling, hiding, cowering, rationalizing, hemming and hawing...

Today I picked that manuscript up, sat down on my bed, and had a look at Chapter One.

And you know what? I reworked it. I rewrote some bits that other people had said weren't working. I switched some stuff around. I changed some information. I refined, expanded, revised, expounded, redid. My heart swelled with every word. And I got it done. The long-awaited second edit of the Postman's very first novel has commenced. It's not the last edit, certainly not. But it's a start. It's the first step down the long, leery, hardscrabble, soul-scouring road of revision. At the end lies the publication process, itself a trial, but the next link in the chain to everlasting glory.

I'm sitting here, typing this, that exhilarated feeling pounding through my torso, feeling like I've just run a marathon or survived the final round of a trivia contest. I'm on cloud nine. This feels good. I don't know why I waited this long. I ought to be ashamed of myself. Since when have I ever cared what other people think? Life's scary. So what? Overcoming uncertainties isn't easy. Who cares? That's how you're supposed to live life: conquering insecurity, dealing with uncertainty, and learning from your mistakes. I don't care if I get critiqued. I'll take whatever harsh edits my friends and editors throw at me, and use them to better the final product. The criticisms of the audience I'll use as ammunition against error in ensuing works.

I don't mean to be a name-dropper, but there are a few people who said what I want to say before I did, and I want to give them their due. It was Winston Churchill who gave us what is now my new favorite quote:

"Criticism may not be agreeable, but it is necessary. It fulfills the same function as pain in the human body. It calls attention to an unhealthy state of things."

Henry Ford had something else pithy to contribute:

"Whether you think you can or think you can't—you are right."

And it was Eleanor Roosevelt, bless her, who stated:

"Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent."

I don't care if people say this is the single greatest flop in the history of literature. I'm going to fix it. I'm going to finish it. And I'm going to do my best with it. Then I'll sleep easy.

At least I'll have tried.

progress, or lack thereof

In the days since I began this ersatz hiatus, I've applied for four jobs; taken about six practice tests for my final pilot's exam (five of which I've miserably flunked); and memorized coffee drinks for Lesson 6—now I just have to learn the wine drinks.

I've progressed not one inch further with the second edit of the novel, let alone the furlong I was hoping for.

I haven't written anything else of substance: short stories, science fiction, even travel articles.

You'd think with a year-long sojourn in the Orient under my belt I would've come up with more than two articles. Maybe I'm lazier than I thought. Or just scared, I don't know. It's frustrating as hell either way. I keep promising to kick this hesitation and yet I haven't. I seem to be hesitant to stop hesitating.

I reckon I'll get my head on straight here soon. I'd better. My money's almost gone, my prospects are nonexistent, and there's a wedding in England I need to get to in June. I'll keep you posted... No, wait! I'm supposedly still on hiatus, blast it all! Bad Postman! Bad, bad Postman! No biscuit! Bad blogger! Sit...stay...staaaaaaaaay...

hiatus take

Say that three times fast and you'll get it. This post pertains mostly to the "hiatus" part, however. It is with mingled sorrow, chagrin, and determination that I must announce my temporary withdrawal from the blogsphere. It has recently come to my attention that I have other, much more pressing matters to attend to, and that the two hours daily I spend on Blogger would be better spent attending to them. So I'm afraid I shall be going off the air until further notice. I shall hate to miss all the lovely posts on people's blogs, and will endeavor to continue reading and commenting on other people's stuff. But I myself shall break with blogging altogether for the moment. I daresay I've become addicted to it, or at the very least, complacent enough to devote a large part of my energies to it. (I've done at least one post a day since January 5th; that should tell me something right there.) That's got to change. So until I learn to balance my other obligations with moderate blogging, I'm signing off. I crave your indulgence for this unexpected vacancy. Goodbye.

appeasement

THE STORY SO FAR:

Alli and Andrew find themselves in the middle of Las Vegas at midnight on the morning of Friday, December 18, 2009, with four hours to kill before Allison has to be at McCarran International Airport. Blue Man Group's show has finished, and the two have no definite plans for the remainder of the night. What will happen next?

We found ourselves in the middle of the Venetian with nothing to do and no further plans. Fortunately, a town like Las Vegas is quite an amenable place to be under those circumstances, let me tell you. We'd hoped to catch the fountains at the Bellagio, but for some reason it seemed as if they weren't running that night. They ran on the hour, every hour, and though we'd never been far out of sight of them since about 4:00 that afternoon, they'd never gone off. I was bummed. I'd caught glimpses of that show from the car as my parents drove down the Strip, and it had seemed fantabulous. It also meant that we really now had nothing to do for four hours. Hmmmmmmm.... We took to wandering. We wandered everywhere, up and down the Strip: into the Paris Casino, right under the gigantic replica of the Eiffel Tower (the elevator was closed, unfortunately); all through the Bellagio, and the multitude of shops and bars and restaurants there; and into the Monte Carlo, where I finally took a crack at gambling. I'd been wanting to try it for some time, and had been wondering if I'd get my chance; Alli had declared that she'd sit it out. Not the gambling type, Alli, I guess. But I didn't want to inconvenience her. Far be it from me to go gambling and leave her sitting there, bored, when she was my special guest. But Alli was insistent: this trip was not all about her. I could gamble if I wanted, so I decided to try. I wasn't brave enough to actually try a real game with live dealers and players. I wasn't sure what all the chips were worth, and I didn't want to make a fool of myself. So I settled for something with worse odds but lower stakes: video poker. I pumped in a buck for a penny-ante poker machine and started playing. And get this! I won $3.25. I was on a losing streak when, quite suddenly, I got four fives. Bang, I had made a profit. I debated briefly whether or not to keep going; I ultimately decided against it. Might as well quit now, when I'd won. Then I could actually say I'd gambled and won in Vegas! I cashed out and then Alli and I debated what to do next. We still had two hours to go. It was 2:30. Her flight left at 6:30. It was advisable to be at the airport no later than 4:30. Our feet were really hurting, what with the 10 hours of walking and standing and moseying we'd been doing. We decided to give in. I purchased a deck of cards at the Monte Carlo's gift shop (that had actually been used on the gambling floor!), and Alli and I adjourned to Denny's. Yes, there was a Denny's right off the Strip. True, it resembled a space station, but hey, it's Vegas. We went in, sat down, ordered some nonalcoholic beverages and snacks, and relaxed for a bit. We were both on our way out. We'd been up for nearly 20 hours now, and not just standing still, either. Our brains were fogged up and our eyes were bleary. Nonetheless, we put a bold face on it. We ate, drank, and plotted. Our pre-printed list of free Vegas attractions was out; most of them had closed down by now. We had been plotting to go see the Aquarium at the Silverton; but that was prohibitively far to walk. The MGM Grand's lion exhibit had shut down at 7 p.m. The fountains at the Bellagio weren't working. The Tower elevator at the Paris Casino was closed. We were out of options. Defeated, we walked back to the Jeep with one hour to go. We chucked all of our purchases into the backseat, climbed in, shut the doors, and just sat there in silence, looking out over the landscape of glittering skyscrapers and flashing neon lights. Despite my best efforts, I dozed. I don't know if Alli did. Her seat wasn't reclined. She seemed to be just looking and thinking, looking and thinking. We had been exhausted into mutual silence. Even the turmoil inside me had died down, and my heart and mind had achieved a rapprochement. Soon it was four o'clock. "Well," I said, "we'd better go." I started up the Jeep, pulled out of the parking lot (making quite sure to look behind me carefully as I backed out), and within a few minutes, pulled up to the passenger drop-off point at the McCarran International departures terminal. I scarcely remember helping Alli unload, giving her a final hug goodbye, getting into the car and pulling away from the curb. I was tired, I was sad that she was leaving (already), and it was rotten cold outside, with a stiff wind. My mind could scarcely form a cohesive thought; too many sensations and feelings and distractions. I got back into the Jeep and watched to make sure she got inside okay with her stuff, of course. But then, once she was in, and it was just me, Roger, and the road again...well, my mind sort of went blank. I now had to face that long three-hour drive home, by myself, in the dark. Just outside of the city I stopped and got some gas. That stiff wind kept blowing. The night was pitch-dark. The distant glow of Las Vegas seemed somehow blank and unwelcoming now, even more artificial. From the gas station bathroom, I could hear the two cashiers arguing about some trivial money matter. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so empty inside. I'd always hated partings, and the hollow, dead feeling that accompanied them. It hit me especially hard that night. There I was, in a gas station bathroom in some godforsaken corner of Nevada, about to brave the lonely road home in the dark of night. It seemed a sad, ignominious, inglorious end to such a luminescent thing as Alli's visitation. I got back on the road and headed south down the I-15 once again. Now the real battle began. As I sat in the car, slowly warming up, surrounded by the white noise of the engine and the wind outside, my exhaustion and sleep deprivation loudly declared their presence. Things began to get dicey. It's a good thing there weren't many other cars on the road at that hour. I began to notice that I was slipping in and out of consciousness fairly early on. I'd "wake up" and find the car heading slowly onto the shoulder, or into the next lane. I'd find my head drooping, or my eyelids sinking slowly shut. My brains felt like they were being dunked into a warm bath; I'd have to shake my head forcibly to get them back into open air again. I'd correct the car's course with a jerk, worrying that some highway patrolman would see me and run me down. This was bad. I still had another two hours to go. I began to question my decision to drive home right after pulling an all-nighter. I'd been up for 24 hours. My body was rebelling on me. It was just a question of whether I could quell the uprising or not. If I didn't... I forced that thought out of my head and kept my eyes locked firmly on the dimly-lit patch of asphalt in my headlights. Then I noticed something interesting. Whereas before I could make out nothing of the landscape around me, now I could perceive the jagged outlines of the mountains to the east. Their black edges thrust up visibly against the lighter purple of the late night sky. "Dawn is approaching," I said to myself. Well, that would make things easier. Once it was brighter my mind wouldn't be screaming "SLEEP!" at me so loudly. Nonetheless, I figured a little creative help wouldn't hurt. I rolled down my windows and jacked in one of my favorite CDs, The Big Come Up by the Black Keys. They're a two-man blues duo out of Akron, Ohio, and boy, do those guys rock. It's nothing but booming, bashing drums and raw electric guitar riffs, plus some soulful vocals. It's enough to wake anybody up. I turned it up LOUD and settled in for the home stretch. Driving along in that Jeep, songs like "Busted" and "Heavy Soul" blasting out of the radio, the freezing wind howling in the cracked windows, the pale blue-yellow lights of dawn creeping into the firmament, is another thing I'll never forget. Appeasement was mine. Nothing had happened between us. There was no embarrassment or ill-feeling left behind, only goodwill and friendship. Even the car accident had been forgotten. Things were as they should be. I felt at peace inside as I drove along. I was glad she came, glad she had fun, glad I'd gotten to do things with her. That was enough. I just about made it home. I pulled into my driveway at about 7:00 a.m., shut off the car, staggered inside, and said hello to the folks. I paused only long enough to text Allison, thank her again for coming and wish her well (and check my e-mail) before hitting the sack and sleeping until three o'clock in the afternoon. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of Allison's visitation.

turmoil

Yes, you guessed it, folks: we woke up early again. This time, the morning of the 12/17, we had to get down to the airport for Allison's flight. Her introductory ride in N42126, I mean. I was going to usher Allison into the world of aviation, and Harold and Apple Valley Aviation were going to help me do it. We drove down to the airport, met Harold, and soon enough he and Allison were preflighting the plane. I helped as best I could, explaining things as I went, a tad over-zealously perhaps. Alli was bold as brass. She got in, strapped in, and watched attentively while Harold went through the motions of starting the plane. Once we were on the taxiway, he let her take over. She got the hang of taxiing real fast. Impressive. Most impressive. We pulled off at the end of runway 18, did our run-up, and then cruised onto the runway. This was the moment of truth. Allison had the controls for the long run down the tarmac. She kept us straight and true, and lifted us off the ground with hardly any dips or bumps. Soon, we were at 5,500 feet, floating contentedly along above Apple Valley. Harold put Alli through some basic maneuvers, being his usual cheery, helpful self. She remained cool and collected, like she'd been flying all her life. She didn't cackle like an idiot, nor panic. She said, calmly, that it wasn't as hard as she thought it'd be. We did some turns, and then flew around to see what we could see. We flew over the golf course, Interstate 15, Southern California Logistics Airport, Bell Mountain, and finally circled back to the airport and landed. Alli gave me one of her signature grins as we unbuckled our seat belts and climbed out of the plane. I'd love to show you some of the incredible pictures I got, but I can't, because I didn't get any. I forgot my stupid camera, both for this flight and for the duration of our time in Las Vegas. More's the pity. I took some incredible shots with Allison's camera, however. If she ever starts a blog, and she uses those photos, you'll know who took 'em. In deference to the amount of sleep we'd been getting (or rather, not getting), we elected not to head straight off to Vegas after the flight, like we'd planned. Instead, we came back to the house and sacked out again for a couple of hours. Well, we tried to, anyway. Alli curled up on the futon in the front room with the TV and dozed for a time; I did my best, but I just wasn't sleepy. That's just the way I am. Once I get up, I'm up. I can't get up, do something for an hour or so, and then go back to sleep. I showered and then began planning our route in Vegas. That meant I got no extra sleep that morning of the 17th. It would come back to haunt me later. But by and by, we hit the road. About noon or so we finally got everything of Allison's out of the house and into the Jeep. We also exchanged Christmas gifts: I gave her some dominoes and a fun card game called Quiddler (where the cards have letters instead of numbers and you have to make words); she gave me another fun word game, mentioned earlier, called Bananagrams. Mom got Alli some notions from Bath & Body Works, which she appreciated (they smelled like vanilla). Then we climbed in and headed out. I don't think I'll ever forget that sunlit ride back to Vegas. It was bittersweet, I can tell you that much. There we were, Alli's iPod plugged into my car radio, Alli sitting beside me and knitting socks for her sisters for Christmas, singing softly and beautifully along with her favorite tunes, me joining in with my broken yowl whenever one I knew came up. And all the while, the fact that our time together was almost over kept looming. It would be goodness-knew-how-long before I'd see her again. Harmonious yet strange is the marriage of rapture and despair! And, underneath the deep-seated affection I had for her as a friend, was another feeling, more desperate, more insistent, more infuriating. It coalesced as a wordless interrogative, and nagged at me unmercifully those last few hours. It had been nagging at me ever since I knew she'd be coming. Do I make a move on her or not? I didn't have an answer to that question. My rational mind and frivolous heart were at war, endlessly attempting to formulate one. The resultant turmoil wreaked havoc in my brain and gut. I felt, during some periods, as if I was sitting on an anthill, as if my spirit were slowly being eaten alive by venomous, mindless Myrmidons. I couldn't sit still, nor think rationally. My Cro-Magnon mind was gone. There was a blind, mute, unspeakable monster loose in the halls, demanding action at any price, no matter the risk. Go for it, the monster bellowed. I can't. She's not interested in me that way. It's impossible. I'm too scared. What if she's unwilling? I couldn't handle it! my weaselly ego whined. Thou craven! the monster screamed. What hast thou to fear? This could be the start of something beautiful! This is your second chance! Don't blow it! But what if she says no? the weasel almost sobbed. Damn it, man! Show some backbone! howled the monster. Are you going to let one potential moment of embarrassment get in the way of a potential lifetime of happiness? No, but what if— And so on, and so on, and so on. You all have been here before. This is high school stuff. You don't need me to spell out the rest of the conversation. It leads right back to the place it began, an endless litany of vacillation, exhortation, courage and cowardice. It's a funny thing: no matter how much you think you've matured in life, when it comes to such a simple thing as asking a girl whom you think you might go places with to take the next step in step with you, you can't do it. Because deep down inside, we're all third-graders. We know we like that boy or that girl, but love is such a big huge mysterious unknown THING, and we're all so worried about opening our hearts to others and possibly getting burned, that we don't act. Instead, we deflect, dodge, run, hide. We project. We drop hints. We hedge. We hem and haw. We stammer. We try to look cool. We pose. We posture. We challenge. We pretend. I'm sure, somewhere in the universe, there must be some planet, somewhere, where, when Male Inhabitant A discovers that he loves Female Inhabitant B, he simply walks up to her, unafraid, and says, "I love you. Let's spend the rest of our lives together." If Female Inhabitant B doesn't love Male Inhabitant A, she says, "I'm sorry. I don't love you." To which Male Inhabitant A, completely free of embarrassment, mortification, self-doubt or angst, replies, "Well, thank you for hearing my proposal. Good day." And then Male Inhabitant A strolls off into the sunset, on the lookout for Female Inhabitant C. If Female Inhabitant B does love Male Inhabitant A, she simply says, "I love you too. Let's get married and move in together." And the two of them live happily ever after. Not as much fun as Earth, you might say. It's a helluva lot more straightforward and honest and open, though, you've got to admit. I'm actually glad I didn't put Allison on the spot during that car ride, or any time after. I needed some time to think. After I'd considered things properly, I figured that I'd done the right thing. Alli and I probably weren't meant to be. Our lives are going different directions, and there are some glaring incompatibilities between us that probably would be insurmountable obstacles in a marriage. (She considers modern art to actually be art, for Pete's sake.) So it's good that I didn't do anything stupid or hasty. But there was a considerable amount of turmoil going on inside me during that car ride, and our time in Vegas. Speaking of which, let's get back to it! We made it to Vegas fine, just after the sun had set and the strip was beginning to light up. Once again, I had to take a few runs at the parking lot. Having missed the turnoff a time or two, I finally managed to swoop in, pay $3, and find a good parking space. Whew. We were in. Now we could waltz about with impunity. First stop? Caesar's Palace. We were going Swatch-hunting. Don't know what a Swatch is? Well, neither did I. And I haven't been living under a rock for 23 years, either. Swatches are something you just hear about, I guess. They're Swiss watches (hence the name), which come in all sizes, designs, styles, and colors. Alli's Swatch (gaudily hued with brown, blue and green stripes) was winding down, and she wanted to replace it. The only Swatch store she'd ever seen had been in Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. Alli had been to Sin City before, visiting with her family, and had bought it then. That in mind, we elected to head to Caesar's Palace first, get her a Swatch, and figure out the rest. Oh, and we had tickets for the ten o'clock Blue Man Group show, but we had a few hours to kill before that (and after). So, after strolling down Las Vegas Boulevard for a half-hour, going over bridges, through construction tunnels, past people of all sorts and varieties, past the old man in the cowboy hat playing Christmas tunes on the accordion, past the two ladies in platforms on the street corner (one dressed like a devil, the other like an angel), past the Aria and the Bellagio and the Monte Carlo, we came to Caesar's Palace. Now, I've been to Vegas before. Driven past it many a time. Driven through it on occasion. Been into one casino (the Aladdin) a few years back. This was the first time in a long time, however, that I'd been on the Strip and inside one of the most famous casinos in the world. It was fantastic. I can't even begin to do it justice. I'm no stranger to glorified surroundings and I was still floored. Picture vast promenades, dotted with high-end shops on either side, a faux blue sky overhead, magnificent statuary and fountains every few hundred yards. The whole pantheon of Greek gods, their hair adorned with olive wreaths; nymphs, satyrs and hippocampi, surrounded by rushing water; and aquariums filled with the most exotic and colorful fish. Bars, restaurants, rare bookshops, jewelry and designer clothing outlets...it was almost too much to take in at once. I felt as if I was in the middle of a fabulous dream. It was a maze, a labyrinth, a spider's web of opulence and lavishness and sinful excess, seemingly brought down from Mount Olympus for all the world to see. It may all have been a sham, sure, but the illusion was compelling enough. That's one of the things I love about Las Vegas. It's all artifice, sure. But it's fun artifice, convincing artifice, cinematic, glitzy artifice. I'll take it. We located the Swatch shop, and spent a few minutes rooting around. The attendants informed us that, beginning at 6:00, a massive sale would begin. So we elected to find somewhere to eat and then come back after the sale had started. A quick consultation of the directory gave us a prime candidate: the Cheesecake Factory. Allison went all ga-ga when she saw that little name stamped on the directory board. But then again, she'd sampled the Factory's delights before. I hadn't. Boy, was I ever in for an eye-opener. Or rather, as it proved to be, a mouth-opener. We had to walk the entire length of the Palace's promenade once again to get there, but I didn't mind. It gave us a chance to peruse the stores, the fountains, and the faux opulence once again. We descried the restaurant at the end of a cul-de-sac, just past the giant aquarium. I didn't know where to point my eyeballs: at this aquarium or the impressive façade of the Cheesecake Factory. (Why am I using so many French words?) It was staggering. It arched two stories up (and this was indoors, mind), built to resemble an ancient Roman structure, as most of the storefronts in the casino were. Just standing in front of the reception desk, I could see a bar, tables with spotless white tablecloths, huge (faux) pillars, mood lighting, and quite a few people who looked more than happily fed. This was going to be good. And it was. We were ushered to our table, right on the edge of a balustrade overlooking nearly the whole restaurant, with a clear view up to the gallery-like ceiling and the second floor. It was like eating in a Roman palace, with pillars and rich tiling and soft yellow light all around. Like I said, fun artifice. I was truly starting to have fun. That turmoil had abated a little. What the hell, I said to myself. Just roll with it. Whatever will happen will happen and whatever won't, won't. Our server, John, a thirtysomething blond-haired man with short sticky-up hair and a cheery smile, came over, gave us our menus, and made some very genuine small talk. I took an immediate liking to him. He seemed somehow different from 98% of the other servers and waiters I'd met in my lifetime, who were friendly and helpful without being honest about it. Their demeanor, like the statues of in the Palace promenade, was artificial. John seemed truly pleased to see us and glad to be working where he was. That manifested in his conduct. He wasn't sappy or superficial, but warm and jocular. I appreciated that. After warning us that the portion sizes were enormous, John let us have some time to decide what we wanted. We could already tell it'd be a tough choice. I've never seen such a huge menu. It was like a book, as John had pointed out. There were pages and pages and pages of pastas, soups, salads, sandwiches, and other entrées. And that's not even including the cheesecake, which I will get to later. It deserves a blog entry of its own, I can tell you that much. We decided to have a drink while we pored over the expansive menu. Mojitos seemed like a good idea. We informed John, and before we knew it, a pair of tall glasses filled with ice, rum, sugar, lime juice, club soda and mint sprigs was set in front of us. And brother, believe me when I say the Cheesecake Factory makes a fine mojito. I hope they pay their bartenders well, 'cause that was the best dang mojito I ever had in my life. I could detect the rum, beautifully supplemented by the lime and sugar, underscored by the carbonation and perfectly tinctured with copious mint. Heck, I don't even like mint all that much, and I liked this mojito. I began to have very high hopes for the dinner to come. In the end, we decided on the spicy chicken chipotle pasta. We ordered one plate for the two of us, which was a good thing, because the portion sizes were indeed massive. A huge heaping bowl of penne, peas, asparagus, and a just-spicy-enough chipotle sauce was laid steaming before us, and we dug in with relish. It was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. Conversation practically died as we satiated ourselves, all the while continuing to admire our surroundings, trying to guess what language the Mediterranean couple beside us was speaking. (We had no luck.) But wait, I haven't gotten to the best part yet. This restaurant was named "The Cheesecake Factory" after all. It's famous for its cheesecake, ever since the founding couple got the business started in California some decades ago. The menu's cheesecake pages alone would've sufficed for an entire menu at a lesser confectioner's shop. There was so much to choose from. We'd gotten a tantalizing glimpse from the reception desk: there had been a glass case filled to the brim with dripping, gleaming, glistening slices of cheesecake of all shapes, sizes, hues and patterns. And that was only scratching the surface. We pored over the gigantic master cheesecake list, calling out whatever sounded good to each other. I thought the Chocolate Turtle, Dulce de Leche and Kahlúa Cocoa Coffee all sounded delectable. You can guess which one I chose in the end. Come on, I'm a mixologist. I like Kahlúa anyway. Getting to sample some in cake was an idea I just couldn't pass up. The description in the menu said that my choice was "chocolate brownie, Kahlúa cheesecake, and chocolate mousse" all overlaid. Come on now. Try and pass that up, even after a full bowl of chipotle pasta. Alli was vacillating as well. She had been on a pumpkin kick lately (she had tried to get the pumpkin pancakes at IHOP two days earlier, but they'd been out). However, she was also a lifelong fan of strawberry cheesecake. Both options were represented on that menu. What to do? In the end, her decision was made for her. When John returned and asked us what we'd like, he had to inform Alli that, unfortunately, the Cheesecake Factory was also out of pumpkin. So Alli went with strawberry, not without a hint of reluctance, and that was that. In seemingly no time at all, two humongous wedges of cheesy goodness were set upon our table. Both of us just sort of stared at them for a bit. It seemed almost a shame to eat them, they were so beautiful. My slice was sitting pertly on its plate, a dollop of whipped cream on top, another one right in front of the wedge, as if the cake slice was a ship crashing into a creamy iceberg. The slice itself was excitingly tinted, dark brownie underneath, lightening to muddy brown above for the cocoa and the cheesecake itself, covered with dark frosting cross-hashed with wavy light-brown stripes of mousse. Aw, man. Of all the times to forget the camera. After a moment, and an encouraging look from Alli, I picked up my fork and tenderly excised the first bite. I opened my mouth and bit down respectfully. Now, I don't claim to be a religious man, but whatever happened in my mouth right then was something like an epiphany. I could almost hear the heavenly bells ringing, the voices of the angels lifted in a hallelujah. It. Was. GORGEOUS. I've had cheesecake before, many times. I've just had your regular, straightforward cheesecake, no special flavoring or additives, though. I've also had a lot of cheesecake at (for lack of a better term) half-baked shops and restaurants who don't really put a lot of artistry into their creations. The preceding facts became readily apparent as I took that first bite. It was amazing. The Kahlúa wasn't overpowering, but lent a special coffee overtone to the overall chocolate flavor, which itself was explosive. The cheesecake and frosting melted in my mouth almost immediately, while the brownie remained solid for a good while longer, providing an intoxicating textural blend. Alli was no less absorbed. Her eyes were closed and she was emitting the occasional sigh. John came back to the table while as we devoured our cheesecake in a fugue. "Horrible stuff, isn't it?" he asked, with a mock-serious expression. "Terrible," Alli agreed. "Venomous," I concurred. "I'm sure," John replied. "I know you're just eating it to be polite. I can't stand it myself." All three of us grinned. "You guys need anything else?" "Could I have a glass of milk?" I asked, around a mouthful of brownie. John got one for me, and then gave us the bill. I made a point to comment to the lady at the front desk just what a genuine, helpful, diligent guy John was. My conscience wouldn't permit me to do anything else. He was really the cherry on top of the ice cream sundae (or slice of cheesecake) regarding that whole experience. Suitably satiated, we set off once again into Caesar's Palace. My benighted mind had now been opened to heretofore unsuspected horizons of cheesecake, and I was ready for anything. We stopped briefly at a large toy store so Alli could do some Christmas shopping. Her sister was an ardent fan of Uglydolls (you know, those stuffed toys that look like horrible little monsters), so Allison got her an Uglydolls all-purpose bag. I got me a tequila-flavored lollipop with a meal worm in it, and then we left. Now for a Swatch. We ducked back down the curved escalators, down through the three-story gallery filled with enormous plaster statues of half-naked women ("We're surrounded by boobs," I told Alli), and reentered the Swatch shop. Alli had previously narrowed her choices down to three finalists: white band with hippos; turquoise band made of interlocking ovoid stones; or plain brown. She elected to go with the turquoise band. It had to be taken in a little to suit her wrist. While we waited, I browsed a bit myself. I saw one particular Swatch that I liked: plain, no frills, a simple black band and a white analog face, with a small window for telling the date and day of the week. If I'd had $55 I wasn't using I would've probably dropped it right then and there. Suitably Swatched, we exited the shop and plotted our next move. Both of us figured we'd better mosey on over to the Venetian. It was two hours to show time. We could check out what shopping the Venetian had to offer and then walk for a few minutes and be ready when the theater doors opened. I was about ready for a drink, too. We'd been walking past bar after bar after bar, all of which looked exciting and fun and interesting to sit in (and fully stocked). Those mojitos we had at the Cheesecake Factory were good, but they'd worn off. I was getting thirsty, and no mere glass of water could mollify me. So we walked out of Caesar's Palace, turned left, and headed north up Las Vegas Boulevard until the Venetian peeked out from behind Harrah's. We went in, found the Blue Man Group theater, procured our tickets, and then just began to browse. As impressive as places like Caesar's Palace and the Bellagio had been on the inside, the Venetian gave them all a run for their money. They've got a canal inside the casino. A real, full-blown canal, about the same size as the ones in Venice actually are! And they've got men and women in straw hats and striped shirts—gondoliers—punting gondolas with happy couples up and down this canal, just like in Venice! And some of them even sing, too! "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore..." How awesome is that?? So we took to wandering. We peeked in a few stores, and a few art galleries showcasing caricatures of well-known actors and musicians, and also a fair bit of Snoopy-related artwork (Vegas, Vegas, Vegas). We walked under arches, past strange forms of Christmas decoration (a giant, serpent-like sculpture of evergreen branches tied up with red ribbons and Christmas lights, writhing over a cranberry pool by the waterfall). We strolled along the canal, peeking through windows, me drooling over every bar we passed. Noticing my stares, Alli suggested we stop in to Davidoff, a fine cigar shoppe right by the side of the canal. They had a walk-in humidor. I'd never seen one of those before. The glass walls were lined with expensive, fancy cigars of every stamp and vintage. The quality and prices were both outrageous. In the end, however, I folded. I got myself an Opus X, supposedly one of the most full-bodied and "peppery" cigars offered (according to the pretty attendant), for $31.50. Heh heh, I chuckled to myself as I shelled out the money, I can't wait to get home and wave this under John and Chris's noses. I haven't smoked that cigar yet, but I'll let you know when I do, and how green the boys turn. We stopped at a directory to see if we'd missed any interesting shops. As we looked, a bald, uniformed guard in white gloves walked up to us and asked if we needed help finding anything. On a whim, I asked, "Do you have any bookstores here?" The man thought for a moment, and then said, "The only bookstore we have would be Bauman's Rare Books. Head straight that way," he pointed down the hall the way we'd come, "past the escalators, make a right and a quick left. Bauman's will be on the right." He had me at "rare books." Alli noticed the sinister gleam that came into my eye as he said it. The guard began to tell us about a general store on another floor that sold magazines, but Alli cut him off. "I think we'll take the rare books," she said, looking at me with amusement. Bauman's Rare Books was a tiny shop set into the side of a long, low, carpeted hallway on the second level of the Venetian. I could immediately tell we were in for a treat. They had a first-edition copy of Green Eggs and Ham by Dr. Seuss in the bulletproof glass case out front. Mentally, I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. Books, books, BOOKS. They were all in excellent condition, if a little worn and old-looking, and their sheer antiquity (and price) boggled the imagination. I saw 26 rare editions of Edgar Rice Burroughs's original Tarzan stories; a note penned by Walt Whitman himself to his publisher; first-edition copies of everything from Cool Hand Luke to Watership Down; and even goodies like early printings of Charles Darwin's Origin of Species. All right there, right then! In the store! In Las Vegas! We couldn't browse enough. We walked up and down, staring up at the high wooden shelves, wondering at their miraculous contents. The proprietor (probably not Bauman himself, being young, sprightly, bearded, and bespectacled, but quite helpful and amiable) opened up whatever case we chose and let us look at whatever we wanted. He also exchanged book reviews with us; I'd name a title and he'd give me his two cents on it. It was great fun. I handled those books like they were glass. No, like they were nitroglycerin. I must be a hardcore bibliophile, because that store was like a treasure trove to me. How I would've loved to keep coming back, day after day, and peruse all of the volumes in the collection. Alas, we had no time. We thanked the proprietor and moved on. I caught a last titillating glimpse of a signed copy of Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms in the armored window, and then the store vanished from our sight. It was right about here that I figured I was long due for a whiskey sour. We settled on Samba Sushi, a low-lit and chic sushi bar a few yards down the hall, bellied up to the bar, laid down our burdens and sat down on the stools. There was a frizzy-haired man in a gray suit a few stools down from us, reading a newspaper, a champagne flute and a glass of ice water in front of him. By the looks of things, he'd been there a while. He ordered up another drink as we sat there (it looked like something creamy). Must've been a stock market crash or something... Anyway, to our own drinks. I knew what I wanted. The whiskey selection was rather bad, so I decided to have a Jameson sour. Bad idea. Here again I showed my true ignorance of the ways of John Barleycorn. You never make a whiskey sour with anything other than bourbon or Canadian whisky. Doesn't taste right. Has to be the right stuff, Jim Beam or Wild Turkey or Black Velvet or Crown Royal, maybe. Anyway, I dealt with that mishap as best I could while Allison had a look at the menu. She finally settled on Samba Juice, a house special, consisting of rum and a whole lot of fruit juices. I tasted it; it wasn't bad, if you like that sort of thing. She loved it, that's the important thing. We had a quiet drink as we whiled away the last few minutes before the show started. When we got to the theater the line had already formed, but fortunately it wasn't too long. (Good thing we were there on a weekday!) We got in line, and got in fairly quickly. I hadn't quite realized just how close we'd be to the stage. I'd intentionally chosen seats that were just outside the splash zone (the first six rows or so, where everybody was sure to get hit by some splatter or other). On the digital seating chart, however, it had looked as if there was a substantial gap between rows E and F. There wasn't. Row F was right behind row E, the last row in the danger zone. So you may imagine that Alli and I felt a little nervous as we took our seats directly behind folks who had already donned their protective clear plastic ponchos. Our fears proved to be unfounded. We didn't get splattered. I won't say much about the show, out of respect for the performers' livelihood, but I will say this: go see it. If you've never seen Blue Man Group, you need to. As so many others before me have raved, their performance is what all other live shows aspire to be. It was hilarious, visually stunning, interactive, fun, engaging, astounding and captivating all in one. It was a festival of sight and sound I can't even begin to describe properly, so I won't try. Needless to say, those were two hours of our lives well spent. We laughed, jumped, clapped, and gaped all through it. It was brilliant, to say the least. The show got out just about midnight. So, therefore, here ends my narrative for December 17th, 2009. I shall resume at this point in the next entry. I apologize that this was so long; it's just that we did a lot of stuff, and I'm naturally garrulous. You have my permission to read this in parts if you have to. If you do read it all in one go, kindly time yourself and report back to me how long it took you. If you do, you get a cookie.

this blog stinks lately

You know, if it's one thing I have a problem with, it's holding things in. I bite my tongue. I don't speak up when I should. I do this in conversation and in the literary arena. I'll often nix a story idea when everyone else says it's Pulitzer-worthy, just because I don't think it would come out right. It's a disease. Here I am, trying to make my way in a hostile world that does nothing but throw barriers in front of me, and what do I do? Throw barriers in front of myself, that's what. I've got to quit it. So, in recognition of that fact, I am hereby going to blog about something that's been on my mind the past couple of days. This blog stinks lately. No, really. You know that miserable little piece I did about my Halloween-themed cocktail party? That was originally going to be an epic, long-winded, wittier-than-Oscar-Wilde essay on the joys of Halloween-themed cocktail parties. And what did it turn out to be? A blurb. You know why? I couldn't be bothered. I went ahead and started writing it, stopped, loafed around the house for a couple of days eating leftover party snacks, and decided it wasn't worth my time. Eh, not much to say. People came. We drank. We sang. We made merry. We listened to some of my Bill Cosby stand-up albums. We broke up. Game, set, match. Nothing to report. Show's over, folks. I'd already written an epic, long-winded, wittier-than-a-hot-poke-in-the-eye essay on the joys of regular ol' run-of-the-mill cocktail parties anyway. Why get into a rut? So I typed up a brief and let it lie. Thankfully, some people were courteous enough to give me their feedback regardless. Or what about that thing I scribbled about Sour Apple Pucker? Did that have a compelling premise? Was there a reason for its existence other than my need to crow about employing apple schnapps for the very first time ever? Was there anything enlightening or worthwhile for the readers in it anywhere? Heck no. It just exists, without even a pretty picture hung on it to obscure its infinitesimal worth. Yeah, and those paragraphs that are currently in the works about me taking up flying again after 17 months on the ground? Rediscovering the thrill of flight and beginning to relearn the skills of a pilot in the clear skies and calm morning air over the Mojave Desert? Come on. That kind of stuff is puerile. Jejune, too. As if yards of similar drivel were never written by scores of moon-eyed, imbecilic, neophyte aviators before me! I'll finish it, though, much good may it do me. Don't try to deny it, people. I'm not having self-esteem issues, here. I'm not being insecure or fishing for compliments. Whether you agree or disagree, my mind is made up. I've gotten into a rut. This thing has stagnated on me. I need to go rob a bank or something so I'll have something really interesting to write about. Perhaps I need to get into another street fight or save a damsel in distress. Anything. Anything just so long as I get something vivifying to write about again...and actually write about it.

and so, the long-awaited cabin fever sets in

It's 102 degrees outside. The Internet wasn't working until 10:30 a.m. because I went over the bandwidth limit yesterday downloading the Anniversary Edition of Ad-Aware. I'm having a homemade fruit smoothie every day. The most exciting thing I have to look forward to tomorrow is getting up at 7:00 to paint the shed, which I am actually looking forward to. I dug through at least four hundred article titles on the Demand Studios website, and I only found one that I thought I could successfully do ("Advantages of Renting a Car"). I've got a lopsided, half-deflated blister on my right heel that I desperately want to pop. I've run out of fresh reading material; what I do have are somewhat dense books like Keith Sinclair's A History of New Zealand and a load of self-help books regarding writing. My resolution to quit picking my nose, sworn in my parents' hammock under a sparkling canopy of stars late last night, lasted barely eighteen hours. And, oh yes! I've got five weeks until I find out whether I can leave for Alaska or not. I love my parents and it's nice being back in the States, but man...I've got to get out of here.

momentous decisions: an addendum

As an addendum to that last post: My folks have been pressing me lately to stay here in Apple Valley. This is not because they're clingy (although they wouldn't mind having me around). Mom figures I could stay at the house (and pay monthly rent), work in the valley (perhaps at my old job at the paper) and save up oodles of money. If I stuck around for a year, I could rack up a sizable amount. Plus, that would then give me time to bug my friends about coming to Australia with me, and also give them time to finish whatever they need to get done beforehand. If I go to Alaska now, Mom says, without prospects or patience, I'll burn up another huge chunk of what I saved in Korea, one-quarter of which has been sunk into my new car and all the related maintenance and insurance fees. This is true. I've given myself three or four months to find a job up there before I quit and return to the lower 48, and if I'm unsuccessful, that'll be three or four thousand dollars gone, not including food and expenses. Here, I have friends. Here, I have contacts. Here, I have cheap accommodation. Mom and Dad's suggestion is a sound one; I could save a lot, have plenty to spend on an Australian or European sabbatical (Jeff and I had talked about meeting up in England in the summer of 2010, six months before Adam and Elaine's wedding)...and, well, what-have-you. The only problem I have with that is it means that I'll have to wait to go to Alaska. I'll have to wait on flying...I'm not sure if they give flight lessons at the dinky little Apple Valley airport. I'll have a journalism job, perhaps (if I move fast), but I sense that I'll be unhappy doing it. I've worked there before and I know how hectic it is, even for an intern or an entry-level reporter. Perhaps most dismaying, however, is that I'll be living in my parents' house. I love them, and it's nice and easy and fun to live there, but my pride and independent spirit are niggling at me. How come you're sitting on your tucus in your nice parents' cushy house when you could be out gallivanting around the Arctic after a week of driving through the Western United States and Canada? Why are you still sitting here when there's sheep waiting to be herded and beautiful thirsty chicks waiting to be served cocktails in Australia? What's with you sticking around in Apple Valley when there are dozens of open teaching jobs in Japan and Greater Asia? I know I'm sounding like a stupid, flaky whiner, but those niggling feelings are undeniable. Running off to Alaska without carefully laid plans (or abundant capital) somehow just seems like the thing to do. I'm letting my heart rule my head here, yessir. But there've been people throughout history who have done that and made it big, haven't they? Give me a few minutes to think about it.

last day at Reading Town

I woke up the morning of Friday the twenty-sixth of June with a slight hangover. The previous night we'd taken Kevin out to the sogogi restaurant. Andrea and Melissa, two other foreign teachers, came too, as well as Jeff. So there we all were, partying hearty at our favorite restaurant until closing time. Then we bought some more booze and went back to Adam and Elaine's and kept it up until four o'clock. It was a blast, but tiring. I woke up at eight, looked at my watch, mumbled something negative under by breath and went back to sleep until nine, when I saw fit to get up. I had errands to run. First I received a visit from Jacob (to determine what needed fixing around the apartment; I'd told him that the light was out in the laundry room and the panel had fallen off the switchboard). Then I went down to the bank, paid some final bills (the ones from last month; this month's were subtracted from my paycheck), and put together a fruit basket for Jacob and Lily down at Homeplus. That having been done, I went into work. Picture this: the teacher's room, with Kevin sitting at my desk correcting papers, the once-gigantic stash of candy on the top shelf dwindled to almost nothing, and kids clamoring at the door like usual. That was pretty much my last day, organized chaos. First, let me say that I think Kevin is and will be a much better teacher than I. He has prior experience, and he's game. He was stepping up to the plate even as early as yesterday and starting to teach, and his methods are tried and true. The kids, having difficulty pronouncing the word "wave," were immediately corrected when he taught them the v sound and then taught them to ignore the e (writing it on the board as "wav" helped). I see now that I was never really creative or imaginative (or strict) during my tenure at Reading Town. I think Kevin's going to be a breath of fresh air for Jacob and the parents. I think the kids will still miss me, though. Remember how I said they were clamoring at the door? The ones who weren't doing it for candy were repeating this: "Teacher! Miguke gaji maseyo!" That literally translates to "You can't go back to the U.S.!" They were asking me to stay. Little Eileen, who's always looked at me as if I'm some kind of zoological curiosity, was hollering the loudest. Classes were pretty chaotic, too. Aside from their usual demands for water and use of the bathroom, the little kids kept asking me if it was my last day. Their eyes widened and their mouths opened when they saw me nod or heard me say "yes." I think Bad Arthur finally repented. He slipped me a voucher on his way out of the door. Leslie demanded twice the usual number of "one-two-thlees." Mary, in AP1-5, desperately wanted to play rock-paper-scissors (kawi bawi bo). She plays for keeps, too: losses are punished with two fingers to the forearm, usually moistened with one's breath and delivered at high speed. My arm's bruising up nicely. But everybody wanted my phone number or e-mail. I felt like a movie star as I scribbled on countless Post-It notes and scraps of paper. (Just this morning I got an e-mail from Helia, a precious little girl in AP-1, who asked me how I was doing.) I can't describe to you the feeling I had when I was filling these bits of paper out. I've said goodbyes en masse before. I survived the final yearbook-signing frenzy in high school. But this was different: these were kids, and I was an adult. I'd spent a year with them, teaching them, playing with them, tickling them, laughing with them, yelling and screaming at them, whacking a few of them over the head with textbooks and dispensing more than a few noogies. And furthermore at the terminus of my time in Korea we'd be separated my 5,000 miles and an entire ocean. There was something intangibly different, more emotionally charged and bittersweet about our parting. The very fact that they wanted to remember and keep in contact with me, a teacher, a foreigner...well, it touched me to the very soul. And that's not even mentioning some of the letters and gifts I got. Christy shyly came by the teacher's room and gave me a wrapped gift (with the words "bye bye teacher" written on it in marker). It turned out to be a build-it-yourself music box shaped like a church which plays "Silent Night" when you turn a crank. The letters are no less precious to me. I finally did crack up (like I was predicting I would) that final evening after work, when I opened young William's letter and read it. I got as far as "I will miss you" and almost broke down right there. Even now, writing it, I'm feeling the tears welling up...it doesn't help that I'm such a sentimental ham. Classes were a bit more subdued than usual (they were a bit shy around Kevin) but for the most part they were still their old selves. Little John kept playing with paper instead of listening when we were reviewing for the test (when Kevin was reviewing; that class I just sat back and let him do his thing). As a result his scores were quite bad. That boy's never going to get his head out of the clouds at this rate. But the rest went along just fine. Kevin and I did a joint review and then administered the tests, and (helping me out marvelously) he corrected some tests as well. TRP2-1 was a bit of a trick, since nobody had done their homework (as usual), but Kevin stepped up once again and put the fear of God into 'em. In a very authoritative way, totally unlike my usual thrashing and comically indignant manner, he informed them that starting next week homework would be done, and done well. Incomplete homework was unacceptable, he stated quite clearly. The message got through. Even Ken, a rather surly reprobate at most times, sat up and said "Yes, teacher." XT2 was fun, as the two of us coached Albert though creative sentence construction (compound-complex sentences, no less). Debate class was a shambles, as nearly everyone was out studying for school tests and only Sarah, Albert, Catherine and Lisa showed up. But we still split them up into teams to marshal their arguments for the great debate. The topic that night was "Is it better to spend the money you earn or save it for a later date?" Not too hard, right? Uh-huh. The actual debate itself was unstructured and desultory. Everyone sort of stood up, gave a few disjointed statements, then sat back down again and goofed around. It was fun, though. All in all it was rather a confused sort of day, not without its rays of hope for the future and a glut of poignant moments. The goodbyes were the most difficult. It was even harder after the last bell rang, when I gathered all my belongings, took one last look around the teacher's room and the lobby, and walked out. It was perhaps fortunate that I wouldn't be spending the evening alone. I was slated to meet Brian at the Local at 10:30. I invited Adam, Elaine and Jeff along, and Julia and Gaia came too. I called up Tonya (the new South African girl) and she promised to come as well. YES! I'd sworn to introduce Brian to an eligible young foreigner and now I finally managed to come through. We all had a splendid party at the Local, talking and laughing and even having a rock-paper-scissors tournament (same stakes as Mary's game, in fact). Then we went to WaBar for a bit, but that's where the exhaustion kicked in, and in the end I had to call it. I fell back into bed and slept until ten, when I awoke and began writing this. And now I'm just sitting here, waiting to move my stuff out of my little studio apartment to Adam and Elaine's (who have kindly offered to look after it for me while I'm roaming around Korea), thinking to myself... Did I really do all that? Yes. Was that real? I hope so. Will I ever see any of those kids again? Of course. I have to come back and buy more snacks for Bella. 나는 모든 나의 좋은 학생을 사랑해요.

writing updates, 3/22/2009

I have, to date, submitted a grand total of two articles for publication since my graduation from college in December 2007 (and none before that): a 1,500-word list of handy tips to know when you move to South Korea to live for an extended length of time, to Transitions Abroad; and a short essay about Geoje Island, to the newly-formed publication Verge Magazine.

I've got one article half-finished, about Geoje's unknown attractions (thus far it's turned out disgustingly like a travel brochure) and one article drafted about that rabbit I found. Oh, didn't I tell you about that? Well, I'll have to...sometime. I've got about five or so other articles finished or drafted; most of them concern traveling, and one of them's an extremely condensed version of this Seoul holiday that I'm in the midst of telling you about.

I'm a coward. That's my problem. I'm afraid to submit things because I'm afraid of failure. If I could just...get...accepted...once...then I'd be okay. I'd know what I was doing wrong, I'd know how to improve, I'd know what it feels like to get published, and I could just relax and get on with it. But I don't know, and it's killing me. I wish I could just buckle down, write a bunch of stuff, and fearlessly submit it. But I seem to be getting in my own way. Oh, I've drafted an article for today, I can stop there... Darn, it's so hard to find publications that accept the kind of material I've got socked away... Well, I think I'll leave this one until I get a tourist map for reference...

I'll get back to you as soon as I get some sense into my head. No matter how many pep talks I get from my friends or my family I just can't seem to bestir myself to action. I find it baffling and frustrating. On a lighter note, my umpteenth and thus far most successful attempt at writing a novel is going well! Just started the seventh chapter last week. I'm over the shoal water now; the introductory chapters were unexpectedly difficult, and looking back at them now I believe they're pretty crappy, but unlike the 59 other attempts before this one, I'm not compelled to delete or rip up what I've got so far. Things are getting easier, but they're still difficult. I've managed to establish the setting pretty well and introduce the antagonists, but I'm having some problems with the action. The first part of the book's damnably slow. Half of Act I, if not more, is just dialogue. There's not enough action, not enough intrigue, not enough punch. I'm just now getting to the action bits (and Lordie, it's going to be glorious), but I've got to do something about the doldrums that precede them. Oh well. I'm just happy this current attempt is proceeding at all. This is going to get a lot more fun once I finish fleshing out the protagonists and introduce all the important secondary characters I've got in mind...but I intend to keep plugging away at it with all I've got.

Now if I could just translate that fervor over to the professional side of my writing...