writing updates, 10/24/2013

Long story short: I have two novel manuscripts completed. One of them is 113,000 words, and the other (which I did for NaNoWriMo last year) is about 52,000. I wrote three or four new short stories over the summer and submitted them to places like 3LBE and Space Squid, but had no luck. Nothing's new on the nonfiction front.

Short story long: I've hit a snag. Specifically with Novel #3, the second book of my science fiction magnum opus.

It's just not fun anymore.

Don't get me wrong; writing itself is still fun. I'm not renouncing the path of the writer, nor the literary world and all the glory and wonder and pain that's in it. Nope; I just mean to say that writing this book isn't fun anymore. I feel more like I'm beating a dead horse than channeling Calliope or Clio. 

I don't know what happened. Maybe I ran out of steam. Perhaps this happens to all writers in the middle of longish works: you bang out a beginning and you know where the end is, but after all those hours of writing and tweaking and fiddling, things turn sour. You wind up becalmed right around Chapter 15.

It's just become a slog. The words don't come. When they do, they're sluggish, dull, drab, and uninspired. I've never felt more like a hack than I have this past month. There isn't a scrap of meaning (or the second best thing, humor) in my writing anywhere.

That's the crux of the matter, right there: I meant for this to be a serious and thrilling adventure tale filled with witty dialogue and sizzling prose, but the latter two haven't materialized. You'd think if I couldn't make the story harrowing and swashbuckling, I could at least make it amusing to read. Even that seems beyond me these days. Every day (well, every three or four days, whenever I'm able to bite back the ennui long enough to open up Microsoft Word) I turn on my computer and stare down what I've written. The reality of its uninventive heavy-handedness is impossible to escape. Rather like a runaway piano.

It's not writer's block. I know where I'm going and what I'm (supposed to be) doing. I just can't do it. The spark's not there. It's supposed to be fun, but it's not. And if it's not a kick for me, I can tell it won't be for the reader. I'm bored stiff by this crap.

So what I want to ask my fellow writers and bloggers is: how do you deal with this sort of thing? How do you escape the doldrums? Where do you find the cool, refreshing zephyr of inspiration to fill your sails and push you to the white shores and the fair green country beyond? How do you bully your brain cells into dancing a mazurka with the English language, instead of stepping all over its toes? How do you coerce one or two of the Muses into sashaying down from on high and cutting the rug on your writing-desk? How do you get those dang juices flowing again?

Creative juices, you pervert.

Lafcadio Hearn's old house

Day One of Kumamoto:

I don't know why I bothered getting up early and making the first train out of town, both in Tokyo or Kyoto. There was no need. In Kyoto I had to wait around for two hours because I arrived at ten o'clock in the morning and check-in time was at noon. I repeated the mistake in Kumamoto. Even though I slept in and took a late-morning train that took four hours to arrive, I walked into the lobby of the APA Hotel at one o'clock. Check-in wasn't until three.

I paid a few hundred yen to use the Internet workspace and "checked in" with everybody back home. I considered stowing my stuff behind the counter and sauntering outside to see some stuff, but there really wasn't time. I needed to do laundry, too, so I got that started before I'd even checked into my room. The concierge was thoughtful enough to bring me my key at 2:55.

My room at the APA was smaller than the one in the Karasuma Kyoto, a lot smaller. The bed was harder. There was barely enough room for me to turn around in the shower. But I did have a pretty good view out the window and a place to lay my head for two nights (all for the low price of 8,800 yen). I wasn't complaining.

Laundry finished at about four o'clock. Worried about managing to see everything on my to-do list (Lafcadio Hearn's house, the Suizen-ji Gardens, and Kumamoto Castle), I grabbed my camera and my trusty satchel and hit the bricks.

Now, I told you that Kyoto had subway trains and Japan Rail commuter trains as well as charming little trams, right?

Well, Kumamoto is so far south and is such a sleepy little city that all it has are trams. I walked outside Kumamoto Station and saw a tram station outside of the train station. (Trippy.) Cabs and buses, too, but you know me: I go for trams every time. There's a single Y-shaped tram line which runs through greater Kumamoto. For 150 yen ($1.50 per ride) you can go anywhere you want. There are stops every few hundred yards. Best yet, the tram stopped near all three items on my to-do list. So I hopped on after I dumped my stuff off at the hotel. The train rattled and shook. The people aboard blinked sleepily. The brass handles make an even louder cranking noise when the operator turned them. It was like the Keifuku Randen tram turned up to eleven. I loved it.

First stop was Lafcadio Hearn's old house, near the tram stop at Suidocho.

Whoa, wait. You don't know who Lafcadio Hearn was?

It's hard to describe him in one sentence, but I'll do my best: Lafcadio Hearn was a Greek-Irish journalist and writer who moved to Japan in 1890 to be a correspondent for a newspaper and wound up becoming a teacher and a naturalized Japanese citizen.

Boom. There you go.

Aw, rats. I suppose just one sentence isn't going to be enough. Okay, here:

Patrick Lafcadio Hearn was born in 1850 on the Ionian island of Lefkada (hence his middle name) to an Irish-born British Army sergeant major and a Greek noblewoman. With his father he moved to Dublin at age 2, and received "a rather casual education." At age 19 he was sent to the United States, settling in Cincinnati, Ohio, living rough for a while. After befriending some powerful people, however, he started a career in journalism. He lived in New Orleans for ten years and wrote much about that city. However, his short-lived assignment to Japan was the one that changed his life. He liked the place so much (and was in such good graces with local ambassadors) that he managed to snag a teaching position at a middle school. He learned Japanese, took a Japanese name (Koizumi Yakumo), accepted a professorship at a university in Tokyo, married a Japanese woman, and just settled down and lived out the remaining years of his life. He died in 1904 of heart failure. He's best remembered for his writings about Japan, which back in the late nineteenth century was still a black hole as far as most Westerners were concerned: unknown and mysterious. Hearn's 1894 book Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan gained him notoriety and started the Western obsession with Japan and Japanese culture.

My favorite book of Hearn's, however, was the one I read when I was—golly, eight years old or something. It's called Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange Things. It's a book full of Japanese ghost stories. I was just fascinated by it. Here was a group of people, monsters, ghosts and legends that I'd never heard of before. I was (and still am) a huge fan of Greek mythology and was just starting to branch out into others, like Norse and Hindu. Hearn's book was like a bolt from the blue. I loved the simple, straightforward, unpretentious and yet lyrical style of the work, and I adored the vividness of the settings and characters which Hearn coaxed out of the old tales. Kwaidan not only kicked off my long-lived curiosity about Japan and Asia, but also made me idolize Hearn. He became sort of a role model for me: a journalist who didn't do that well in the journalism world, but is best remembered for his travels and the stuff he wrote about the places he saw. I'm also rather awed at how well and naturally he was able to fit into Japanese society, learning the language and marrying a local. It's something to aspire to, you know? That level of linguistic assiduousness and cultural sensitivity.  

Okay, enough of me geeking out. As an homage to Hearn and the impact he had on me at a young age, I decided to seek out his old house and have a look. I didn't feel like stumping up a few bucks to take a peek inside, but I satisfied myself from without. It was a beautiful little house. I was really rather envious.

For my international readers.

There was a lovely little park next to his house, too.

On the whole, I walked away feeling like a better person. I'd completed a successful pilgrimage. Some people go to see Shakespeare's house in Stratford-upon-Avon; others go to see Faulkner's or Twain's. Me, I like to challenge myself a bit. I went to see Hearn's (in Kumamoto on Kyushu Island). Someday I'll see one or two of Hemingway's and some of my other favorite expat writers', too.

Next up: SUIZEN-JI JŌJU-EN. If you want to see me pet a carp, you'd better tune in.

Korean myths and legends

Neither Miss H nor I had ever been to Seoul Tower by night. We decided that, on New Year's Eve (that's Western New Year's Eve, not Korean New Year; the latter is this weekend), we would go and look down upon the ocean of light which is Seoul by night.

The view was spectacular, and if I wasn't a cruddy journalist who keeps forgetting his camera, I'd post a picture or two here. But I am, and I can't. So there.

That's not what I want to talk to you about, though. I found this book in the gift shop:

EUREKA! Do you know long I've been trying to find something like this? I've wanted to read about Korean mythology for ages. I used to quiz my Korean friends and students whenever I got the chance, trying to find out more about the ancient legends. I met with varied success. But finally, just when I was least expecting it, a book appeared (in a gift shop, no less!) that enabled me to delve into the diverse pageant of peninsular fairy stories.

This is the best book I could have possibly found on the subject, too. It was written and published in 1952 by In-seop Jeong, a professor of Korean culture and history. He copiously collected these stories from all corners of the country, gleaning them from aged storytellers and childhood friends who remembered the old days of the Korean kingdom. Professor Jeong taught a course in Korean studies at Oxford University for many years, and was the first Korean man to make a deliberate effort to share his nation's culture with the world. He cleverly divided this book into sections: myths (which deal in the creation of the world and its pantheon of deities); legends (stories about human heroes which contain some historical facts); fairy tales (innocent stories for children); fables (which contain a moral); and old novels, which were autobiographies written by venerable ancient Koreans, and have become almost legendary in their own right.

What I have found within this book is most incredible, and it has answered many of the questions I had about Korea in general—and even cleared up some of the mysteries of their culture.

The reason they like fart jokes so much, for example.

Seriously. Anything involving poop or passing gas sends Koreans, old or young, into paroxysms of mirth. (They were like this before the American cinematic juggernaut inundated the world with fatuous bathroom comedies, too.)

I just read one legend called "General Pumpkin" about a boy who loved pumpkins so much that he bankrupted his parents trying to feed him. Not only that, but he broke so much wind that they kicked him out of the house. He traveled the peninsula for many years, working odd jobs (for pumpkins) until he happened upon a prosperous Buddhist temple. The monks saw how big he was and figured he'd be a good guy to have around, for this temple was always getting robbed by bandits. The boy (now a man) agreed to help in exchange for all the pumpkins he could eat. When the bandits attacked that night, "General Pumpkin" bade all the monks hide in the corners of the compound with drums. The bandits swarmed over the walls, and then the monks started beating the drums. General Pumpkin passed gas for all he was worth. The noise and the stench threw the bandits into a panic, and the wall collapsed and killed them all as they tried to swarm back over it. Pumpkin lived the rest of his life at the temple, and eventually died by crapping himself to death.

This is actually one of the least disgusting stories I've read in this book.

In general, I've found that the tone of Korean folk tales is not so different from the Japanese or Chinese myths that I've read. (Some of them were even inspired by Chinese or Japanese tales, just as Korean tales inspired theirs; there was a lot of cross-pollination.) There's just more of an emphasis on, um, gross bodily functions. Generally speaking.

That's not what I wanted to tell you about, though. I'd like to reveal the most momentous discovery I've made by reading Korean Folk Tales. Are you ready?

Ever since I came to this land, something's been bugging me. It's the word "Seoul." Seoul is, of course, the name of Korea's capital city. But the name is different from any other Korean city name I've seen. It just sounds weird. Seo-ul. Very few Korean municipalities end with the -ul suffix. Common suffixes are -cheon, which means "river" (Bucheon, Incheon, Gwacheon); -san, which means "mountain" (Busan, Ulsan, Ilsan); -ju, which means "province" (Gyeongju, Gwangju, Jinju); or -won, which I'm guessing means "valley" (Suwon, Namwon, Changwon).

But what was "Seoul"? The meaning was a mystery. I knew the word "seo" in Korean meant "west." So maybe the meaning of Seoul's name was "Western" something? Wikipedia and the Internet proved unhelpful. They vaguely stated that "Seoul" was derived from a Chinese word (as many Korean words are) which meant "capital city." I was forced to swallow this half-baked explanation until a better one came along.

Well, a better one did. Right after the fart-heavy "General Pumpkin" story, I read a little tale called "The Castle of Seoul." And it told me everything I wanted to know. Listen to this:

Apparently there was this Buddhist monk called Doseon, from the Silla Kingdom. He had prophesied that "the king of Korea shall be Yi," and that the "capital will be moved to Hanyang."

There were two problems with this prophecy. First, the king was not named Yi. Second, the capital was in a town called Gaeseong (which now lies just north of the DMZ, and is the site of an industrial complex jointly administered by North and South). "Hanyang," just in case you're wondering, was Seoul's original name. It wasn't officially known as Seoul until 1882, near the end of the Joseon Dynasty. It was called Hanyang during Joseon times.

But lo and behold, the prophecy came to pass. A man named Yi deposed the king. However, the old king's loyalists made it warm for Yi in Gaeseong, so he enlisted the help of a Buddhist monk called Muhak to find a location to build a new capital.

Eventually Muhak found the perfect spot, with mountains on three sides and a broad river to the south. King Yi was delighted and moved his court and ministers there at once, and built a city. They couldn't decide where they wanted to build the king's castle, however.

Then it snowed one night. In the morning, the king's men found a perfect circle of snow ringing the area marked out for the castle, and decided to built the wall along this line. And so the capital was nicknamed Seoul, which is derived from two ancient Sino-Korean characters: seol, the Chinese word for snow, and ul, an original Korean word, meaning "fence."

I sat back when I finished reading this story, and stared out the window. I felt like Indiana Jones holding the Holy Grail. Finally. I'd finally found the answer I was looking for. Now I understood why Seoul's name was so different from every other Korean city. It was a nickname from an ancient legend. The word meant "snow-fence"! That's why it ended in "ul," because ul means "fence"! All the other Korean cities ended with "province" or "valley" or "mountain" or "river"! But only Seoul ended with "fence"!

I had a serious geek-out right then. And now I'm sharing it with you. Enjoy. To heck with you, Internet! You let me down. The True Way is to be found in books: real, tree-paper books. Thank you, King Yi. Thank you, Muhak. One mystery solved.

the 8 p.m. epiphany

That I may remain innocent of plagiarism, that title is a pun on a book called The 3 A.M. Epiphany, by Brian Kiteley. Basically it's a writing book. Its pages are littered with unusual but simple exercises (in the form of prompts) designed to work your writing muscles, stretch the literary tendons, push and shove your gray matter into nooks and crannies heretofore uncharted. I rather with I'd brought it with me to Korea, in fact. I've only ever given it perfunctory glances. Bought it new off Amazon and have hardly touched it, even though it looked like a kick in the pants. I intend to rectify that on my return to the U.S.

But in the meantime, I've been having some epiphanies of my own. Namely, how to ensure that my debut novel doesn't suck.

In hindsight, I'm almost glad I've let the novel sit around so long without trying to publish it. It's let me give it a good solid think. Inexorably, I've noticed inadequacies and imperfections. I'm ever so glad I didn't rush into publication and let those strident shortcomings slip under the radar. I'd like this dang thing to be perfect.

So, in idly thinking about what would make the book better—I've gotten to the point where the book is constantly simmering away on the back burner, and I can contemplate it and critique it almost subconsciously—I came to a realization. The book is boring. Flat. Dull. Thanks to my last rewrite, completed shortly before I left for Korea (late 2011 or something), the manuscript is no longer do disgustingly puerile. But it's still missing something. Oomph, I guess you'd call it. There's nothing in it that would hold interest. It's still somewhat shallower than I'd like. I must have subconsciously grasped this, and the matter must have been turning itself over in my head subliminally for months, ethereal and intangible, like the ghost of a rotisserie chicken.

Because, at 8 p.m. yesterday evening, I figured out what was wrong, and how to fix it. Was the book dull? Okay, spice things up a bit. I didn't have to think long about how to accomplish this. I'd bring in some of the characters I was saving for the sequels.

I cracked open my laptop during one of my free periods at work, and commenced a staff meeting with myself. These are the stenographer's notes:

Okay. How to integrate [Unnamed Major Characters #1, #2 and #3] into the story I've already got?

Excellent question. Are we including their backstories as well?

Whoof, I hadn't even thought about it. Seems logical to include Number One's cover story, and of course most of Number Two's tragic history, excluding the part she doesn't know about (that she's actually from the other universe). As for Number Three's...

I'm thinking we'd best leave his (and Number One's) for later. Drama bombs, good sir, drama bombs. Like Dresden in '44. Or was it '45?

No matter. Just enough to set up character. Now, are we confident that we've included enough? Are [the three aforementioned characters] going to be enough to sustain this story properly? Or are they too much? Character overload, so to speak?

Well, as Spartan as this story is right now (a protagonist, a deuteragonist, two antagonists, a few slavering beasts and and a boatload of war-crazed tribesmen), a few vivid characters couldn't hurt. They'd really help flesh it out.

We can at least give it a shot. If it doesn't work, we'll know it.

Glad we got that cleared up. Now the question is...how now, brown cow?

Now let's see...I'm thinking of pulling in some of the story elements from what I had planned for later books. Enrichening the story.

Is "enrichening" actually a word?

It is now. So. The story. We were originally planning the setting (after the cataclysm) in a fairly pastoral setting, with a few Babylonian and Akkadian cities scattered around, right? And the Babylonians and Akkadians running amok?

That sounds about right, yes. And our heroes caught up in the middle of it.

I should have listened to my gut from the beginning. That setting always struck me as somewhat...pedestrian. Bland. Unexciting. Static.

No need for reproaches, friend. What's happened has happened. Just be glad you're fixing it before you publish it. So, we need to spice up the setting a bit?

Right. Instead of leaving the place a wilderness, I think I'm going to make the landscape more recognizable. Really pull the audience into the story. Make them realize just what this story's about, and what actually happened during the apocalypse.

That sounds sound.

So...let's see here. What were the milestone civilizations after Mesopotamia? The Egyptians, right?

Yeah, them. And the Greeks, and the Romans, and the Arabs, the Carthaginians, and all the barbarian tribes up in Europe and whatnot.

Are the Etruscans in there somewhere?

Who the hell were the Etruscans?

No idea. Anyway, I think that's enough to go on. The chronological order of things isn't going to matter much, given the context of the story. Nor, really, will historical accuracy. We can play with this timeline as much as we like.

It's nice when you leave yourself an out like that, isn't it? Perhaps you were cut out to be a sci-fi writer after all. If you can learn to ignore the thunderous sound of Isaac Asimov spinning in his grave, that is.

It's getting easier by the day. All right, so we've got historical context taken care of. But I want to be sure of something. Whenever people write alternate histories, or even history-based science fiction (A.E. van Vogt was a whiz at it) there's a certain risk involved. I'm talking about clichés.

What, you mean like, whenever people write about savage backward Bronze Age cultures, or the Roman Empire, or some fictitious blend of the two, there's always some big fight scene in the grand arena? Against wild beasts and monstrous sword-wielding gladiators?

Yeah, that. Happens all the time. Star Wars (like, two or three times); John Carter; Riverworld; Gladiator (I suppose that was a given, though); and a whole bunch of other historical and sci-fi stuff. It's a lead-pipe cinch. Whenever you talk about ancient cultures, real or imagined, some mention of The Games always pops up.

Sure does. You want to avoid that?

Yes. I want to avoid it. And somehow, avoid it WITHOUT avoiding it.

Come again?

I would like to work a nice big gladiatorial fight scene in there. Preferably with the hand of the love interest at stake.

Okay. We can do it. We just have to make it new and fresh. Or make it SEEM new and fresh.

At that moment, unfortunately, I noticed that I had three minutes to get ready for my next lesson. I hastily shut down the computer, snatched my textbooks and lesson plan, and hoofed it to class.

I think I got enough done. I was starting to digress, anyway. I didn't make any concrete steps toward figuring out where I was going to spread my hands and divide the plot—like Moses parting the Red Sea—and stick all this extra stuff in, but I've got all night to think about that. And tomorrow night. And possibly the three free periods I've got on Wednesday, too.

I'm tremendously excited. My manuscript, as it stands now, is a mere 58,000 words or so. That makes it pretty short for a novel. I'm not one to subscribe to the whole "longer is better" school of authorship which Douglas Adams poked fun at in So Long and Thanks for All the Fish, but I am rather pleased that this new material will double (perhaps triple) the overall length of this work. Makes it seem a little more legit, you know?

But beyond that, I'm excited to see the changes this will wreak on my manuscript. I think it'll really jazz it up. It'll transmute from bland sterility into explosive vivaciousness. It'll be punchy, hard-hitting, evocative, emotional, and just plain ol' fun. I'm looking forward to ushering it into that golden light.

I'll let you know how it all goes. And about my plans to publish it. I think I might be ready to try putting on the Kindle™...

the porcelain gods

It's Thursday, a long week is nearly done, too many long weeks preceded it, and I'm feeling quite brisk for having consumed three beers, a piña colada and a bottle of hard cider last night. So I'm in the mood for a lighthearted, cheery, goofy sort of post today. And if it involves John Barleycorn, so much the better.

Step up, step up, it's time for Theology of Alcohol 101.

There are two cultural benchmarks you can always count on finding amongst any group of humans, from the most technologically advanced city to the most primitive tribe. Small or large, urban or pastoral, superstitious or pragmatic, violent or peaceful, black or white: whoever they are, they'll have invented two things, right from the get-go.

...religion and booze.

They're universal. It's impossible to have any kind of organized society without them. Any culture, no matter where it stands on the spectrum of cultural achievement, will unfailingly possess a way of explaining the world they live in, and a way of coping with said explanation.

...religion and booze, respectively.

Moreover, each of these separate cultural institutions supports the other with near-perfect synergy. Booze provides a welcome escape from the constant worry involved in toeing the line between vengeful gods and bloodthirsty demons, and the maddening dichotomy of good and evil. Religion is fueled by the battle against temptation, overindulgence and immodesty. The preachers preach, the lushes drink, and everyone stays happy. God claps His hands and Satan sharpens his knives.

But far from justifying each other's existence, religion and booze have gone as far as to cross the demarcation line and merge as one. Booze has become so integral to some cultures that it has elevated itself to divine status. Many of the world's peoples possess, or once possessed, a "drink of the gods" or "divine liquor" available only priests or chieftains, and which was used only during the most holy of liturgical practices. Thereby the drinking of liquors became not only sanctified, but sacred.

Some cultures took this even farther and worshiped a god or goddess devoted solely to the creation, promulgation and enjoyment of liquor.

W.C. Fields, eat your heart out.

I've listed a few of these deities here in this post. For your consideration...

DIONYSUS & SILENUS (Greece)

Probably the most well-known pair in the Boozer Pantheon. Dionysus was widely acknowledged in Ancient Greece as the god of the grape harvest, wine, wine-making, and (some accounts have it) "ritual madness and ecstasy." (Indeed, a number of old carvings have him and his followers engaging in drunken orgies.)

If wine and craziness seem like trivial things for a god to watch over, think again. Wine was so important to the Ancient Greeks that Dionysus is often listed as one of the Twelve Gods of Mount Olympus, who were basically in charge of the entire universe.

The Greeks liked their booze.

Dionysus was the most well-traveled god after Hermes. After growing up amongst the rain-nymphs of Mount Nysa, Dionysus discovered the science of wine-making, but Hera struck him with madness and forced him to wander the world. Dionysus knocked around for a bit until he bumped into Rhea (Zeus's mother), who cured him. Then Dionysus went gallivanting all over Asia teaching people how to make wine. He brought these teachings with him upon his triumphant return to Greece. Most people embraced them and worshiped Dionysus as a god. Some princes opposed him, however, and the "madness and ecstasy" that wine brought upon humanity. Today we call it such madness "drunkenness," ecstasy "drunk sex," and people like the princes "temperance societies."

His sidekick, tutor, mentor and drinking buddy was a fellow named Silenus. There are conflicting stories about his appearance. Some sources describe him as a demigod with the ears and tail (and in some cases, legs) of a horse; some say he was a full-blown satyr. Some say he was just a man, or perhaps a minor deity, a foster father to Dionysus who tutored him in the ways of wine. All the reports agree on one thing, however: Silenus was a roaring, red-faced, falling-down, grass-eating drunk. He was always blitzed. In fact, he needed hooch like most people need food, water, or air: none of his godly powers would work when he wasn't off his gourd. Only when intoxicated, it was said, did Silenus possess the powers of prophecy and divination. Routinely, he would get so schnockered that he couldn't even walk. He had to be carried by his satyr subalterns, or thrown onto the back of a donkey. C.S. Lewis's representation of Silenus in The Chronicles of Narnia has him doing just that, sitting on the back of a donkey in Pan's cavalcade, ceaselessly calling for "Refreshments! Time for refreshments!"

Now if he don't qualify to be the god of drunks, I don't know who would. There's a god I could get behind, folks. At least he had fun and didn't worry about all that existential crap.

MAYAHUEL (Mexico)

She's the most versatile goddess you never heard of. Mayahuel was the goddess of maguey among several Mesoamerican cultures in Central Mexico during the Postclassic pre-Columbian era.

What's maguey, you ask?

It's a plant. Agave, as luck would have it. Agave americana, also known as American aloe. Today it's cultivated worldwide as an ornament for window or table, but it's more than just a pretty plant. Today it's used to make agave syrup, a sugar substitute with a low glycemic index (which I've used many times in my cocktails, to great effect).

The Mesoamericans, the Aztecs among them, cultivated maguey for its fibers (which were useful in embroidering cloth) and to (what else?) make booze.

By cutting the stems of the maguey plant and fermenting the liquid that oozed out (called agua miel, or "honey water"), the Mesoamericans created a drink called pulque, a thick, milky beverage vital to the heritage and history of Mexico. Though today it's been outclassed by beer, pulque is still consumed by all sorts of people. Back in pre-Columbian times, however, pulque was so sacred that it could only be drunk by special, privileged folk, and was only used in ceremonial rituals.

So where does Mayahuel fit into this?

Well, she's the goddess of the maguey plant. Pulque is thought to be her blood. Just in case you thought Mayahuel might be a hot Latina whom you'd love to get drunk with, hold your horses. As the personification of the plant and all that it represents (nourishment, drunkenness, and fertility) Mayahuel therefore had dozens of breasts with which to suckle her children, the Centzon Totochtin (400 Rabbits). 

That's right, I said rabbits. Four hundred of 'em. You know how rabbits breed. And Mayahuel is a fertility goddess. Rabbits must represent mischief in Mesoamerican culture, too, because the Centzon Tonochtin were thought to be the bringers of drunkenness. Some people see pink elephants when they get smashed; if you were an Aztec weaving your way home from the bloodletting and you saw a rabbit in the street, you'd know who was responsible. And who to thank for your hangover in the morning.

ÆGIR (Scandinavia)

His name means "sea" in the Old Norse language. He was a sea giant, the god of the ocean in Norse mythology, and king of the sea beasts (including the ferocious Kraken).

He also hosted the best parties. Seriously.

Like most sea-gods, he was feared by all, particularly sailors. Norsemen believed that Ægir occasionally rose up from the depths to take ships, sailors and their cargo down to replenish his halls on the bottom of the ocean. Sacrifices were made to appease him before voyages (and when I say "sacrifices" I mean that prisoners-of-war were tied up and thrown overboard).

He's also the god most associated with booze in the Norse pantheon, because one of the other things he was known for was throwing the craziest parties this side of Valhalla. The man was an immaculate host and was always cooking up lavish galas for his fellow Æsir. On top of this, he was a home-brewer. The old engravings show Ægir and his nine daughters brewing ale in a pot the size of an Abrams tank. (Well, I take that back: they show his daughters making the beer, buck naked, while Ægir just sits around in a toga and looks contemplative. The old pervert.)

Ægir's origins are unclear, as is his demise, but it can be presumed that he and his wife Ran (the rain goddess) died in the apocalyptic war known as Ragnarök. At least we can be sure that he had a few drinks in him when he kicked.

OSIRIS (Egypt)

Osiris has a...complicated history. He's the Egyptian god of the underworld, and how he got the job is an epic in itself.

It seems Osiris had a jealous brother named Set who murdered him, stuffed him into a chest, and threw him into the River Nile. The chest drifted downriver for some days, washed ashore and (somehow) got lodged in a tree trunk. Isis, Osiris's wife (and the goddess of the sky) found the chest and retrieved the body. Accounts vary, but some say that Isis used a secret spell to bring Osiris back to life so he could impregnate her. (The Egyptians were okay with necrophilia as long as it produced results, I guess.) Then Osiris died again. Set, the persistent cuss, located Osiris's body and chopped it up into pieces. He scattered these nasty bits all around Egypt. Iris, bless her, wouldn't stand for it. She and her sister Nephthys found the pieces and stuck 'em back together. The gods were so impressed by the women's devotion that they resurrected Osiris. But they could only resurrect his spirit, which could not remain in the land of the living, so they sent Osiris down to be god of the underworld. 

Isis later gave birth to Horus, the falcon-headed god of the sky, warfare, and divine protection. (Seems like the only negative side-effect of necrophilia is that your offspring might have animal parts.)

The Egyptians invented zombies before the Haitians institutionalized them. In the ancient carvings, Osiris is invariably depicted as a green-skinned, partially mummified man with a pharaoh's beard and the symbolic crook and flail in his hands. Osiris, Isis and Horus became great and noble gods, loved by Egyptians. Set was eventually demonized, going from the god of deserts, storms and foreigners to the god of evil and chaos. He was given the head of some strange animal with a curved snout, angular ears, a forked tail, and a big mouth. Years later Robert E. Howard would cast Set as the driving force behind many evil sorcerers and dastardly plots in his Conan mythos, making him an inhuman monster of a god, associated with snakes, worshiped with sick, gory rituals by depraved and bestial humans in temples with unspeakable names.

Osiris became a (merciful) judge of the dead, and was also responsible for all that went on underneath the Earth, including ground water, the flooding of the Nile, and growing crops. Among those crops was barley, which was used to make beer.

Beer was fundamental to Egyptian society, even more so than it was for the Aztecs and other Mesoamerican cultures. It was used as currency. The workers who built the pyramids at Giza were paid two jugs of beer a day. Critics have considered this to be a most base tactic: get your slaves hooked on a controlled substance (which simultaneously nourishes them and puts them to sleep at night) and you can control their actions, prevent uprisings, etc. From what I heard, the pyramids were built voluntarily, people. The Egyptians deified their rulers, so anybody who built a pyramid felt honored to be involved in the construction of a god's final resting-place.

NINKASI (Sumeria)

The fact that Ninkasi is the only key player in Sumerian mythology to have her name given to a brewery (in Eugene, Oregon) should tell you something right off the bat. Defined by Wikipedia as "the Sumerian matron goddess of the intoxicating beverage" (i.e., beer; they didn't exactly have any Chablis back then), Ninkasi was depicted as a die-hard home brewer and a rather important personage. She was one of the eight deities born to Enki, the god of crafts. Each of those eight deities represented a part of the human body; Ninkasi, unsurprisingly, represented the mouth.

She, and the beverage she brewed daily, were great friends to the little guy. Ninkasi and her sudsy creation sated the hearts and soothed the souls of humankind. You could always count on her to sling you a brew and help you forget about your hard day. And in Ancient Sumeria, there were plenty of hard days; the task of inventing writing, agriculture, religion, and art and thereby kick-starting civilization as we know it weighed heavy upon the average Sumerian's shoulders.

MBABA MWANA WARESA (Southern Africa)

Somehow it seems like most gods in pantheistic religions must always do double-duty. Mbaba Mwana Waresa (hereafter referred to as Mbaba) was the Zulu goddess of fertility. "Fertility" in the old days meant a lot of things: not just sex and childbearing, but also farming, weather, crops, harvests, and whatnot. Mbaba governed rainbows, rain, agriculture, and...beer. Without her, rain did not fall, crops did not grow, beer did not get brewed, and (coincidentally) kids did not get born. She was very important in Zulu culture, and probably had some mighty good festivals thrown in her honor during both planting and harvesting seasons.

The link the Zulus made between crops, beer, and childbirth is intriguing, to say the least. Do you suppose that the tribesmen of South Africa discovered the concept of beer goggles thousands of years before Europeans did...?

RADEGAST (Czechoslovakia)

Early writings name him as a god worshipped by the Lutician culture, but his influence grew until he came to be considered the Slavic god of hospitality.

And what's an essential part of any kind of hospitality?

Booze.

Indispensably, booze.

You offer your guests a drink when they come in the door. You serve wine with dinner. You have a beer around the barbecue with the guys. You get crazy tropical cocktails with corny names when you're at the beach. You even offer your enemies a martini (shaken, not stirred). In business terms, "hospitality" means restaurants, hotels and bars, all of which serve liquor. Unless you're a health nut, a teetotaler or a Mormon, someone's going to offer your an alcoholic beverage by way of welcome or thanks.

That's where Radegast comes in. His name can be liberally translated to mean "Dear Guest." He became emblematic of the rural European idea of hospitality: you usher your visitors in out of the cold, plonk 'em down by the fire, start cooking dinner, and (in the meantime), shove a beer in their direction.

"Radegast" is now a brand of Czech-made beer, in fact.

For being the god of hospitality and having the coolest effing name on this list, Radegast scores way up there on the booze-god spectrum.

RAUGUPATIS & RAGUTIENE (Lithuania)

Not quite as universal as Radegast but still Slavic in origin are this husband-and-wife pair from Eastern Europe. They weren't major gods in the pantheon, but they were still divine. Raugupatis (sometimes simply Ragutis) and Ragutiene are, simply put, the god and goddess of beer. Ragutis, bless his heart, is sometimes named as the god of beer, vodka, and mead, all in one. If that doesn't make him a straight-up, hands-down booze god, I don't know what does.

I don't really know how important R & R really were, however. The Lithuanians, it seems, had gods and goddess for everything back in their pagan days. Austheja was the goddess of bees; Sznejbrato was the god of birds and hunting; Polengabia was the goddess of fireplaces; Usparinia watched over land borders; and so on, and so on. The Lithuanians are the only culture I know who retained both a god of war and a god of thunder (both of whom were still only minor deities, mind you). They even had one goddess, Budintoja, who was responsible for waking up sleeping people. The Lithuanians must've taken a flipping age and a half to say grace before dinner.

Raugupatis and Ragutiene get sort of lost in the shuffle. Nonetheless I'll bet many a bearded Lithuanian raised a mug to them as he took his first draught after a hard day of doing whatever the hell Lithuanians do.

INARI (Japan)

This person has the same nebulous connection to hooch that Osiris does. Inari was a Shinto kami ("kami" being Japanese for "god/deity/spirit"). Somewhat androgynous, he/she/it has been represented as male/female/hermaphroditic, depending on who you talk to. He/she/it may even be a combination of four or five kami who were in charge of similar stuff. Inari was in charge of fertility, rice, agriculture, foxes, industry, and worldly success.

What is it with booze gods having really strange animals in their entourage? First Mayahuel and her four hundred rabbits, and now Inari and foxes.

Now, hold on a moment. Let me explain something here. Foxes (kitsune in Japanese) are special beings in Shinto. They are intelligent creatures, clever, able to assume human form, renowned for their trickery and cunning, which manifests itself in everything from harmless pranks to downright evil. Most often, though, they are portrayed as faithful guardians, friends, lovers, and wives. Having one on your side can bring you good luck, which explains their inclusion on a list like the one above. Industry and a good kitsune can bring you worldly success.

And rice, as you'll remember, is the main ingredient in brewing saké. So, indirectly, Inari became a poster boy for the Shinto take on alcohol and its trammels. If you overindulge on the rice wine, some of Inari's foxy servants might come to you and play some jokes on you.

Inari is very popular in Japan and his/her/its shrines can be found all over the place. Offerings of rice and saké are left on the altars to appease the kitsune who might be waiting to jump unsuspecting pilgrims.

And now, I shall leave you with a joke. One of Martin Luther's friends stopped him in the street and asked him if he wanted to go have a few beers. Luther said "No thanks, I'm on the Diet of Worms."

You might want to click here.

cocktail review no. 43 - Golden Apple

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand it's Friday!

And that means it's time for yet another cocktail review, courtesy of your humble bartender. Correspondent, I mean. Yes, correspondent.

Yeah, okay. I know. I haven't done a cocktail review since December. Cry your pardon. Things have been mad around here. I promise that, even if I don't keep up with the other crap, I'll put a cocktail review up every Friday, at least. Does that suit you?

And you're in luck. You've happily stumbled across the second of my rarer-than-political-accountability SHOT REVIEWS!

Today's is the Golden Apple, discovered in The Professional Bartender's Handbook, a semi-recent acquisition and a fine supplement to The Bartender's Bible. Fifteen hundred drink recipes listed in plain English. If the book has a flaw, it's that the drinks are not organized by spirit (whiskey, rum, vodka, etc.); they're alphabetical. Good luck trying to find a shot or a good tequila cocktail with TPBH.

Anyway, I happened to spot this recipe in there and, captivated by the mythological reference, I decided to—

Oh, don't tell me you don't get the mythological reference.

Well, that just means I'll have to educate you bums a bit. Let the digression begin!

Atalanta was a minor figure in Greek mythology. As the story goes, her father, King Misogynist, wanted a son. When his daughter was born, he left her on a mountaintop to die. Rumor has it that a she-bear found her and nursed her, and she grew up wild and fierce and furry as most bears do. (Presumably, she ate a lot of fish and beat the shit out of any male bears she came across.)

She was independent, though. When she grew up she decided she didn't need men and took an oath of virginity to the goddess Artemis, another forest-dwelling lady who had taken the same oath. And unlike Miley Cyrus, Atalanta stuck to her vow. When two centaurs tried to rape her, she killed them. That may not have anything to do with her oath, though. I don't think even Aphrodite was into the whole centaur-rape thing. Hermes, maybe. But not Aphrodite.

After Atalanta had made a name for herself with some rousing adventures, King Misogynist finally found her again. Suddenly proud, he wanted to marry her off. Atalanta agreed to marry, but only if her suitor could outrun her, fully armed and armored. A lotta men tried, and a lotta men died (heat stroke, cardiac arrest, and jealousy being the main contributors).

One day an enterprising young man appeared on the horizon. His name was Hippomenes (or Melanion, depending on which embarrassing nickname you prefer: "Hippo" or "Melonhead"). He fell hopelessly in love with Atalanta at first sight. In desperation, he asked the love goddess Aphrodite to help him win the race. Aphrodite, already irked at Atalanta for eschewing love and sex, agreed to help Hippo despite his embarrassing moniker. She gave the kid three golden apples.
"Here, Hip," she said. "Take these. They're irresistible. Every time Atalanta draws even with you, chuck one of 'em in front of her. That'll slow her down."
"Irresistible?" asked Hippo. "Does Atalanta like apples that much?"
"No, Hippo. Girls like shiny things. Everybody knows it. Give a woman something shiny and she suddenly forgets everything. You know the song "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend"? Of course you don't, because Marilyn Monroe won't be born for another two thousand years. Never mind who she is. Bitch'll have a better body than mine. But the rule applies, and has ever since Day One. Trust me. Toss one of these babies into her path and she'll go ga-ga over it. Should buy you some time."
"Oh," Hippo said. He hesitated.
"Should I wash them first?"
"Get going, Melonhead."

So the day of the race arrived. Hippo did what Aphrodite said. Every time Atalanta was about to pull ahead of him, he rolled a golden apple in front of her. Every time, she stopped to pick it up. Soon Hippo got the idea and was throwing the golden fruit as far as he could. He won the race while Atalanta was hunting around under the bleachers for the third apple. A & H got married and had some heroic sons. Eventually Zeus turned the married couple into lions, allegedly because they'd done the dirty deed in one of his temples. (The belief at the time was that lions could not mate with their own species, only with leopards; and so Zeus believed he was biologically exiling A & H from one another. Boy, was he barking up the wrong Doric column.)

And so, this story proves beyond a shadow of a doubt, once and for all, that girls just can't resist shiny things.

But I digress. Here's the recipe for a Golden Apple shot:

• ½ ounce Goldschläger
• ½ ounce Sour Apple Pucker

Pour the ingredients into a shot glass.

As you might expect, Goldschläger being cinnamon schnapps and Sour Apple Pucker being (what else?) sour apple schnapps, this shooter tastes remarkably like...

...APPLE CINNAMON!

For real and for true. While imbibing, one is given the impression that one is sucking down an rather runny, spicy apple pie. Very spicy. It packs a punch. Goldschläger burns. And Sour Apple Pucker is pretty sour stuff, as you might expect. So, after a quick draw and a quicker gulp, one finds oneself simultaneously puckering up and coughing. The spice sticks to the back of the throat, the sourness pervades the palate, and the finish is a glorious combination of cinnamon and apple, working as much magic on the memory as it does upon the gustatory calyculi. All in all, a challenging, flavorful, and remarkably simple shooter.

Just don't let the gold flakes get stuck in your teeth.

waiters, vampires and booze

Otherwise known as "Edinburgh, Day Two."

(To recap, Canuck friend Jeff and I are in the capital of Scotland, taking a three-day side trip from a visit with our English friends down in Newcastle in June 2010. Let's see now, it's...June 20, to be exact. All this happened a while ago.)

CHAPTER ONE: A FEW WORDS ABOUT WHISKY

Now I suppose you're thinking "Hey, wait a minute. This is the Postman we're talking about. That erstwhile blogging bartender. And he's in Scotland. What the heck? Where's the booze? He's been tipsy most of the time he's been in the U.K., for Pete's sake. He spent the first two days in Newcastle soaked in beer (watching the World Cup in the pubs), and then greased his gears with whiskey and Guinness when he went to Ireland. So now he's in Edinburgh, swimming in Scotch and Scotch ale, and there's been no action. Sure, yeah, he had a little Ardbeg yesterday afternoon with his haggis, but that's the lot. What's the deal here?"

Well may you ask. Don't worry, I'm getting there.

I'd crossed Islay off my list. So far I hadn't tried any Campbeltown or Lowlands whiskies.

Oh, goodness me. Have I told you about the Scotch-distilling regions of Scotland yet?

Ahem...

As you can see, there are five: Highland, Lowland, Speyside, Campbeltown, and Islay. (The Islands is not an officially recognized Scotch-brewing region, and is lumped in with Highlands.)

Now, before I went to the British Isles, I'd had both Highland and Speyside whiskies. Thought they were dang good, though. The first step to becoming a connoisseur, however, is to familiarize yourself with the many different incarnations of your oeuvre.

If you're reading this from an American standpoint, you've probably only ever had Speyside or Highland whisky. Those seem to be the most popular over here. Glenmorangie and Glenlivet are from the highlands, for example; Glenfiddich and Speyburn are both Speyside whiskies.

I'd never tried Lowland, Campbeltown or Islay whiskies. Thanks to the Ardbeg I'd sampled the previous day, I could knock Islay off the list. There are hundreds more Islay whiskies to sample, and someday I'll get to them, but at least I can say I've at least tried an Islay whisky now.

But I still needed to assay Lowland and Campbeltown, see?

And Jeff and I still needed to climb Calton Hill.

So we decided to get that stuff done on June 20, our second full day in Edinburgh.

CHAPTER TWO: IN WHICH I MEET A VAMPIRE ROMANIAN WAITER

Sometime during the night (during which my mysterious bug disappeared completely) our roommate came back. I had no clues as to the man's nationality, race, or even age: it was pretty dark in the church. I might've been more curious about the matter if I hadn't been concentrating so hard on getting back to sleep...hard enough when you're feeling sick and there are 18 people nearby sawing logs.

I got a better look at him when the new day dawned, and the sky turned from black to purple to blue outside the big window. He was a balding man, stubble ringing his head from ear to ear, dressed in a white polo shirt and black slacks. Yes, those were his pajamas. He looked to be in his thirties, and quite exhausted.

I bumped into him again on the front stoop of the church. (If there's a fancy word for "front stoop" in church lingo, I don't know what it could be. I don't even know what a "nave" is, for crying out loud.) He was smoking a desperate cigarette. Or rather, the cigarette itself wasn't desperate, but the way in which he was smoking it seemed to be. He smoked silently, with quick, furtive, darting movements of his lips, hands and arms, like a nervous bird taking a drink. It looked as though he was accustomed to rushing the action.

"Cold," he said. "It is always so cold here."

He rubbed his arms.

Noticing his thick accent, I asked him where he was from. (Of course I couldn't tell. I'm an American.)

As it happened, he was Romanian.

You'll never believe this, but guess which part of Romania he was from?

You guessed it, folks. Transylvania. (That was the only part of Romania you knew the name of anyway, right? Besides Pennsylvania, obviously.) And to make it even more awesome, the guy pronounced the word "Transylvania" exactly like Count Dracula. Turan-seel-VAY-nee-ah.

Not for the first time, I thought to myself:
The folks back home are never going to believe this.

I wasn't the least bit concerned that I'd been sharing a room with Nosferatu all night. I was intensely curious, rather. What the hell was a Romanian doing in Edinburgh, anyway?

I put the question to him, omitting certain key phrases.

"I am a waiter," he said. "I have been here for months. The money is good here."

I felt like giving him a black cape and saying "Here, whirl this about yourself whenever you speak. I'll stand over here and get goosebumps."

But I didn't have a black cape.

Foolish cinematic fantasies aside, I was amazed. Months! Months living in that tiny bunk in that cramped room with no ceiling, no lock on the door, and a communal bathroom down the hall. Why? Why would this man subject himself to that? Why would he come all the way from Romania (which he had earlier described as green, beautiful, muggy and warm this time of year) to Scotland, to work late nights as a waiter, and come home to a lumpy bunk and unfamiliar roommates and tourists blowing chunks into their wastebaskets half the night?

(Make no mistake: by this point, I wanted to live in Edinburgh too. I'd have preferred something more comfortable than a hostel, though.)

Yeah, sure, he'd said the money was good in Scotland. But Scotland is part of the U.K., and the British pound ain't that far ahead of the euro, or at least it wasn't when I was there. I was still stumped. Seemed a damned difficult way to get a little extra cash.

After I got home, I related the story to my parents. Dad took a swig of his martini and then a guess: "He was probably an illegal immigrant."

I was bewildered. It was an angle I hadn't considered before. It made sense, though. Service job. Cheap, low-profile, low-impact accommodations. Night work. Nervous habits. I didn't really understand how a European could be an illegal immigrant in Europe, though. The U.K. is part of the E.U., and so's Romania, as far as I'm aware. But maybe there was some paperwork or visa that this Transylvanian maître d' had skipped out on.

What a profound effect it had on me. It was possible that we were wrong, of course; the fellow might just have been a good honest immigrant living as cheaply as possible, sending all his hard-earned moolah to his little Romanian grandmother back home in the castle (uh, I mean, cottage).

But if it was true, and my tall-pale-and-mysterious friend was illegal, it shifted my worldview around a little. I knew there existed poverty, hunger, strife, and deprivation in Europe, as anywhere else. But being completely ignorant of Romania in all respects (except fangs), I was shocked by the notion that things might be bad enough there for some folks to emigrate. To be forced to emigrate.

Some things do not change, no matter where you go.

It wasn't the first time I'd had that thought. Nor will it be the last.

We passed the time of day, the chelner and I. He smoked in his twitchy fashion, staring up the street; I rocked back and forth on the balls of my feet and soaked it all up. The people you meet, I thought to myself. The people you meet.

The operative word here being "people."

CHAPTER THREE: CLIMBIN' DA HILLZ

So then, after my encounter with the Romanian Alien, Jeff and I—

Oh, hell.

This post is getting kind of long.

I'll tell you about Calton Hill some other time. You'll have to content yourself with the deluxe transient vampire and my little whisky refresher. Hope it was didactic.

Good night, and good luck.

I can dream, can't I?

It's just as well that I haven't been wailing and moaning about the "death of journalism" or the "lack of openings in my field."

My dad sent me an article the other day from U.S. News & World Report.

Written by experienced journalist and blogger Lynn O'Shaughnessy, the piece categorically states that journalism is not dead, and that the popular sentiment (which holds that journalism is going down the tubes, eclipsed by the Internet and whatnot) is just maudlin seepage originating from old-timers in the biz.

By networking, adjusting to new markets and media, and exploring every avenue now available to us (for there are so many more now than there used to be), we whippersnappers can ride high above the economic downturn and the supposedly-disastrous job market.

That was good news for me. I was feeling rather blue.

Sometimes I wish I hadn't been born in the 20th century.

I figure I'd have been better off living in the 17th, 18th or 19th centuries, when vast tracts of the world were still unexplored. When legends like El Dorado and Atlantis and Ultima Thule might just as easily have been true. When the maps were lumpy agglomerations of continents, oceans and half-dreamt islands. When the map-makers still drew sea monsters lunging out of unknown seas.

It doesn't seem like there's any romance in the world anymore. Every inch of land has been mapped and scanned into the satellites orbiting overhead. There are no more lost cities, no more uncharted islands, no more savage tribes, no more hidden valleys teeming with dinosaurs and cavemen. There's no underwater metropolis filled with fish-men at the bottom of the sea. There are no evil wizards to battle, mutants to destroy, dragons to slay, ogres to wrestle, flying horses to tame, zombies to flee, monsters to fear.

The days of adventure and mystery are long gone, they say. Indiana Jones and Saint George have polished off all the monsters and myths. Gone are the times when you could just board a flying boat for South America and trip your merry way through the jungle, linen suit, aviator shades, flask of brandy and all, dark-skinned porters toting your dancing shoes and swimming trunks. No more do Nazi agents stalk the globe, waiting to tangle the unsuspecting tourist in a web of espionage. Never again will Cthulhu rise from the watery ruins of R'lyeh and drive poor honest sailors crazy with fear. Edward Prendick has done his time on Dr. Moreau's island; he's back at home, out on the streets, suspicious and leery of his fellow human beings.

All the records have been broken; all the races have been run. Lindbergh, Balbo and Earhart have flown across the ocean; Barton and Beebe have gone to the bottom; Cottee has sailed around it without stopping. We've been to the darkest jungles, the harshest deserts, the highest mountains, the coldest tundra, the deepest oceans, even the heavens themselves. Attaining the impossible is no longer a job for Everyman. Pushing the boundaries is the office of scientists, engineers and millionaires now. The Wright Brothers built their airplane in their bike shop and flew it on a public beach; SpaceShipOne was developed as a joint venture between commercial interests, was piloted by a 70-year-old astronaut, flew from the fancifully-named Mojave Spaceport, and required licensing from the U.S. Department of Commercial Space Flight. (And it won the coveted $10 million X Prize.)

The good old days are gone, they tell me. In their place, I have to choke down reality, truth, practicality, rationality, pragmatism, tangibility, fact. I can just forget about roaming the world with my trusty plane and notebook, flying high and low and writing about it, living the dusty, muddy life of a pilot-cum-journalist.

To heck with that.

I can dream, can't I?

Most of you already know what I want to do with my life. For a good chunk of my finite existence, I expect to wake up in the morning in some far-flung place, climb into my battered airplane, deliver a shipment (or even a single package) to a deserving recipient, land in some other far-flung place, take out a notebook and pencil, and pen the day's adventures for posterity. Then I'll mix myself a drink and scribble a few more pages of my novel, and turn in for the night.

When you hear the phrase "a day in the life" what comes to mind? Coffee in the morning? Lazy afternoons with the newspaper and some crackers? The nine-to-five? Brushing the dog? Mowing the lawn? Taking the kids out for ice cream?

Probably, yeah. And there's nothing wrong with that. But I'm weird, remember? I seek adventure. Plus I'm a hopeless romantic. And I'm a little too obsessed with comic books.

So, when somebody asks me what MY idea of a "day in the life" would be, I immediately think of THIS:

(Just so you don't get confused, the guy in the red vest with the stretchy arms is me, your humble correspondent. The ugly dude in the fur coat and buckled shoes is the bad guy, trying to steal my cargo or assassinate my crew or block my novel from publication or whatever. Think of what a cool travel article this would make.)

I can dream, all right. Who says I can't? Who says I can't be a globe-trotting drink-mixing book-writing plane-flying travel journalist with his own airline (and novel series)?

If I'm lucky, maybe I'll have a big plane, capable of taking me to all sorts of amazing locales and exotic destinations. And if I'm really, really lucky, I'll have a crew of like-minded misfits with me.

And how happy we'll be, going wherever the trade winds take us, making deliveries, fighting pirates and thieves and raiders, singing in bars and saloons, lying on beaches, exploring the jungles and caves and valleys. And whenever I get a free moment I'll scribble, scribble, scribble. Travel articles, opinion pieces, blog entries, journals, whichever bits of mercurial effluence drop out of my brain.

But no, they tell me. That ship has sailed. Journalism is dead. Gonzo journalism is long dead. The time of the quick-witted, hard-drinking, hotshot cargo pilot is over. There's no way National Geographic's going to let you in. You'll be flying on a grueling schedule. There's a million wannabe travel writers out there, buddy, and you're competing with every single one of 'em. Travel and excitement? You'll never see anything but the inside of your airplane (and the stale white pages of delivery forms). You won't sleep. You'll hardly eat. The weather will be uniformly nasty. You'll work for peanuts. There's no money for travel budgets anymore. The most exciting thing you'll do is talk to air traffic control. You'll be lucky if you don't get kidnapped and crucified. Your existence will be soul-crushing, sedentary, stuffy. We're a bit short on romance around here, kid. You think you'll discover El Dorado while you're delivering 3200 Playstation controllers to Uruguay (and taking notes for your submission to Budget Travel)? Hah!

Oh, get stuffed. I've got a plan. And I'm taking the steps necessary to execute it. I don't care what gets in my way. Bad economy, hefty competition, ugly dudes in fur coats, whatever. I know where I'm going and I'm going to get there. I've got my bachelor's degree in journalism, don't I? And my bartender's safety certificate? And my private pilot's license? And my first novel written?

That's a start. 

I can dream, can't I?

Here's hoping your dreams come true. On December 25 and in 2011, both.

Merry Christmas, everybody, and a Happy New Year.

Korean History 101

Keep in mind that what I've reproduced here is gleaned from what my teacher, Charles hyeongnim, has told me, as well as a few videos I've caught on YouTube and some articles on the Encyclopedia Mythica and (though it pains me to admit it) Wikipedia. Long story short, any factual errors are my own moronic fault.

The Founding of Korea
Korean world creation myths are long and varied, and I won't summarize them all here. I will, however, treat the myth of the creation of Korea.

It seems there was once a god named Hwanin. Hwanin is an alias of Indra, who happens to be a Buddhist god worshipped in India and elsewhere. Anyway, Hwanin had a son, Hwanung. Hwanung was desperately worried about mortals on Earth. His father was so touched by this that he let his son go down there and keep an eye on things. Hwanin went to the top of Mount Taebaek and founded a city he called Shinshin (the City of the Gods) and from it monitored all 360 human affairs (agriculture, trade, industry, good and evil, and what-have-you).

Not long after he founded the city, a tiger and a bear approached him and asked to be made human. Well, you know how mythology goes. You ask the gods for something and they never just give it to you. You have to pass a test or three. Hwanung gave this bear and tiger a handful of mugwort and some garlic cloves, and told them to eat them and wait in a cave, hidden from the sun, for 100 days. The tiger didn't even make it three weeks. The bear, however, stuck it out and turned into a beautiful woman. She was named Ungnyeo, and not long after her transformation she began to wish for a child. Unfortunately there wasn't a husband to be had in those parts for love or money. She prayed beneath a sandalwood tree to be blessed with a child; Hwanung took pity on her and married her. (Yeah, I imagine that was a tough decision for ol' Hwanung.) She gave birth to a son called Dangun.

In case you're wondering where all this is going, Dangun went on to found the first Korean kingdom, Gojoseon, and became Korea's first king. The rest (literally) is history.

The Gojoseon Kingdom
What follows now is widely regarded as fact. Please don't misconstrue that ostentatious statement; I don't wish to cast doubt on the veracity of the Korean myths. Au contraire, I adore mythology in most of its forms, and have nothing but respect for this country and its culture (as I've stated elsewhere).

Scientific research, or whatever some dope put up on Wikipedia, indicates that the Gojoseon (or Old Joseon) Kingdom was established in "approximately" 2333 B.C. In the beginning, it included all of present-day North Korea and a fair whack of Manchuria, and eventually came to incorporate the rest of the peninsula. Settlement of the area goes back far beyond the founding of Gojoseon (as far back as 8,000 years, past the Bronze Age into the Lower Paleolithic), but Gojoseon was the first recognizable civilized kingdom to arise on the peninsula. "Civilized" is an apt term: part of the government of the principality included "The Eight Prohibitions," supposedly set down by Dangun himself, which demonstrated a high-mindedness surprising for the period. Some examples are:

He who kills another shall be put to death. He who causes bodily injury to another shall pay compensation in grain. He who steals another's possessions shall either be made a slave of his victim or pay a fine of 500,000 coins to be exonerated.

Not only does this demonstrate that Gojoseon used currency and recognized and protected private property, but also that there was such a thing as a tort in ancient Korea. Who'd a' thunk it?

There's more. Apparently, Korea beat a couple of major ancient civilizations to the punch as far as scientific and architectural achievements are concerned. That's according to one video I watched, created by the Voluntary Agency Network of Korea. It said that the Koreans built larger pyramids about two thousand years before the Egyptians raised theirs, and were inscribing detailed astronomical charts on their dolmens about twelve hundred years before the Mesopotamians drew any up. Such achievements are hard to believe, and I found little verification of them elsewhere; I'd like to believe it wasn't propaganda. I must admit the video, as well as all the others I've watched that were put out by the VANK, smacked of propagandist grandstanding.

In any case, the Gojoseon Kingdom lasted quite a long time, and had an exemplary social structure and military force by all accounts. But then there was a series of rather devastating wars with China, during which the once-mighty Korean kingdom lost several thousand kilometers of territory. Wudi invaded in 109 B.C., and that was the last straw: Gojoseon finally fell a year later. The remnants of its fiefdoms split into many conflicting kingdoms, of which three would eventually come to dominate, commencing the Three Kingdoms era of Korea: Goguryeo, Silla, and Baekje.

Okay, that's enough for today. Any more and you guys will go to sleep on me. Straighten up there! I'll see you this same time next week. Don't forget to do your reading homework, and make notes on the foundation mythology and Dangun's Eight Prohibitions, and never dive into murky water while you're at it. Dismissed.

a Korean folktale

I took the hagwon's head teacher, Charles, out to dinner last Friday to thank him for giving me Korean lessons. We went to Chaban, a so-called "Korean fusion restaurant" which combines elements of Eastern and Western dining. You sit on the floor (an ondol, or heated floor, after the Korean style) at a low table, and are brought banchan, or sidedishes, which you snack on while you cook your meat at the grill in the center of the table. These side dishes include things like pickled cabbage, moistened seaweed, oysters, octopus tentacles and vegetables in a spicy red sauce, some form of devilled eggs, and two species of the ubiquitous and inherently Korean kimchi, which is fermented cabbage. At all the good restaurants you get two varieties: regular kimchi, which is liberally doused in pepper sauce, and white kimchi, which is simply steeped in water. Both have distinct and excellent flavors. The most popular variety of meat is samgyupsal, which is sliced pork belly.

The variety we tried that night was hangjeongsal, which was less fatty, but also less flavorful. With the meal, we drank soju, Korean firewater, a colorless liquor usually distilled from rice, although anything up to tapioca can be used. This drink is mild, only 20 percent alcohol, and is usually compared to sweet vodka in terms of taste. I don't much care for it, myself.

However, over drinks, I begged Charles to share with me some Korean folklore, a subject I am desperately behind in, as I am with most things Korean. Sometimes during our sessions in the library we'd take a break and Charles would share with me a Korean proverb or tell me a folktale. I am entranced by mythology of any kind, no less so by that from a country I knew next to nothing about before arriving. Charles agreed heartily, and with his usual mastery of English and his deft mental translation, related to me the following story.

Once upon a time, a long time ago when Korea was still wild and people slept in walled-in houses, there was once a married couple whose young child would not go to sleep. It lay awake, crying and crying ceaselessly. The parents were trying all sorts of persuasion, but the child would not relent. Outside the wall, in the dark woods, a tiger was walking by. He heard the crying and licked his lips.

"Mmm," he said to himself, "sounds like a delicious, tender young child! I think I'll have it for dinner."

He put his ear to the wall and listened, waiting for the right opportunity.

"If you don't go to sleep," he heard the parents threaten the child, "a nasty, horrid tiger will come and eat you up!"

This threat did no good. The child continued to wail. The parents tried a new tactic.

"If you go to sleep," they said sweetly, "we'll give you all the dried persimmons you can eat in the morning."

The child immediately clammed up, and presently dropped off to sleep. This bothered the tiger immensely.

"Why," he said to himself, "the child refused to stop crying when threatened with horrible death in my jaws, but when offered dried persimmons, he quieted right down! This is awful! Persimmons are scarier than I am!"

The tiger began to feel very afraid of persimmons. Unknown to all of them, on the roof of the house at that moment, there was a cattle rustler. He'd come to steal the family's livestock, and he heard the tiger moving about down below at the base of the wall.

"Ah-hah," he said to himself, "it's a nice big fat cow!"

He leaped off of the roof and landed full on the tiger's back. The foolish tiger automatically assumed the dried persimmons had his number and were attacking him. In a blind panic he raced into the woods as fast as he could go, the thief clinging to his neck.

"HELP!" the tiger screamed. "THE PERSIMMONS HAVE ME!"

"Hmmm," the thief mused, "this is a fast cow."

And so they went off into the night, the family went to sleep and everything turned out hunky-dory.

The moral of this story is that dried persimmons are stronger than tigers. Kindness is better than force. That sounds familiar...