30 Days to a Better Man, Day 29: conquer a fear

I thought long and hard about what I'd do to meet this challenge. I mean, there's not much that frightens me. In desperation I compiled a list of fears to help narrow the field, and I discovered to my dismay that it was narrow enough to begin with. 

Here are all the things in this world that frighten me:

• Solifugae (or sun spiders, as my family calls 'em)
• stalling or spinning a small airplane
• murky water
• Raiders fans
• tuberculosis
• senility
• progressives
• some schmuck plagiarizing my unborn novel
• starting a novel
• finishing a novel
• not finishing a novel
• having someone read my novel
• having no one read my novel
• submitting a novel to a literary agent
• submitting a novel to a publisher
• submitting a novel to an editor
• querying literary agents
• being turned down by literary agents
• being accepted by literary agents
• having my novel rejected 
• having my novel published

Wow, that turned into a longer list than I thought. Okay then. [cough]

You can easily see the pattern, however. Most of those fears are location-specific. I can't conquer my fear of sun spiders over here in Korea, nor can I stall an airplane and face my fear of falling out of the sky. But maybe those aren't my highest priority. As you can see from the list, most of my fears revolve around writing. Some of them I have already conquered and beaten back; they're still floating around in my soul, but they've been hamstrung and crippled. They're harmless. Some, on the other hand...

My mother once told me that I might be afraid of success. At the time, I had no clue what she was talking about. Afraid of success? What did that even mean? Success is a good thing. It means you've won. Victory is yours. You've hurdled all the obstacles, mowed down the competition, beaten the odds. You've paid your dues and now you're finally being recognized for your hard work. How could that be frightening? 

Now I see what she means. Novel #1 was finished in late 2011 and is only now, in early 2014, ready for publication. I think there may be a reason for that. I was just too chicken to edit and fix it and send it off to someone. I just kept making change after edit after rewrite, spinning my wheels and chasing my tail. On a subconscious level, the thought of some stranger I'd never met sitting in a remote office and gazing down at my poor, puny manuscript with objective, merciless, scrutinizing eyes just made me shrivel up. The looming specter of the publication process — criticism, revision, endless rewrites, discussions of intent and purpose and characterization and prose and style — or worse, rejection — was like a hooded cobra rearing its ugly head at me, and it put the same look on my face that poor ol' Indy has in that photo at the top of this post.

Well, no more. Time to shove a torch in that ugly viper's face. Time to get that monkey off my back. Time to take the bull by the horns and hitch my wagon to a star and all them other syrupy metaphors. It is time, in other words, to chase down my lifelong dream.

So today, I am querying literary agents. I've spent the last nine days painstakingly editing and proofreading Novel #1, making sure that it's polished and ready for an agent's (and editor's) remorseless gaze. As of 1:14 a.m. this morning, it's finished. I trimmed the fat: 2,000 words and seven pages expunged. I tightened the prose. I removed every single discrepancy and inconsistency. I beefed up dialogue, removed unnecessary description, rounded out characters and fleshed out the story. It's ready. It's finally, finally ready.

Now I just need to conquer that fear of success. Off them e-mail queries go, then. I'll let you know how it all turns out.

Start the final countdown for Day 30. 

30 Days to a Better Man, Day 12: create your bucket list

Seems easy, right? Especially since I've already done it. It's down there at the bottom right-hand side of this webpage, and has been for a couple of years now.

But wait a minute. That's not all. According to the directions, you're not just supposed to create the bucket list. You're supposed to pick one item on it and actually do something that gets the ball rolling on it.

I was intrigued by the idea that you should have different categories in your bucket list: travel, relationships, career, finances, education, health, etc. What I've got is basically just travel-oriented stuff. Some hobbies and geek-outs, too.

But most importantly, my old bucket list is waaaaaaaaaay out of date. I threw together in I knocked a few things off of it last year — grow a beard, eat a scorpion, start home brewing and buy a pipe, among others — but there are some items which don't really apply anymore. I've since learned that living in Japan isn't the best way to make money, so that's gone. And there are some things I really must add to the list, too, and other items which I must clarify or refine.

So! New-and-improved bucket list below. Check it out:

TRAVEL: 

 1. go on a long sailing voyage
 2. visit New York City
 3. travel by train across Australia 
 4. traverse Central Asia overland
 5. take the train from Beijing, China to St. Petersburg, Russia
 6. stargaze under a Class 1 sky on the Bortle scale 
 7. stay in a five-star hotel
 8. set foot in Antarctica
 9. view both the aurora borealis and the aurora australis
10. go to a jimjilbang (Korean bathhouse)
11. explore Gangwon Province
12. swim in the Yellow Sea and the Sea of Japan
13. see Pyongyang from the ground and the air
14. safari in Uganda
15. gaze upon the some of the world's most exotic mountain ranges 
16. eat bouillabaisse in Marseilles
17. trek through Patagonia (not all the way, just a picturesque chunk of it)

FINANCES:

 1. pay off my college loans (significantly less than $10,000 remaining)
 2. save enough money for car payments and stateside rent

CAREER:

 1. continue my flight training: tailwheel, high-performance, multi-engine, floatplane, and possibly instrument ratings, plus a commercial pilot's license
 2. conquer my fear of stalls and spins in airplanes
 3. get my first novel published this year
 4. e-publish my 2012 NaNoWriMo project
 5. sell at least ten or twelve more travel articles before I die (enough for an anthology)
 6. write a travelogue or two, in the style of Mark Twain or Paul Theroux
 7. become an established short science fiction writer
 8. find work as a talk radio host back in the U.S.A. 
 9. get a job that keeps me in Scotch, guns, and airplane fuel 
10. own a bar (gastropub) in my declining years, either in Alaska or Chile 

RELATIONSHIPS/FAMILY:

 1. marry the love of my life (Miss H)
 2. honeymoon somewhere tropical
 3. produce two or three children
 4. cultivate a thoroughly weird family with plenty of hobbies, athletic activities, goofy traditions, beloved rituals, and fun customs from overseas, like Burns suppers

MISCELLANY: 

 1. build a fire on a rainy day
 2. fly upside-down
 3. buy my very own seaplane
 4. take up black powder shooting
 5. acquire an impressive gun collection: I'd say a Stoeger coach gun, a Remington 870, a CZ P-07 Duty, a pair of Uberti-built Colt .36-caliber Navy revolvers, and a Springfield M1903 will do for starters
 6. finish learning Korean, brush up on Spanish, and dabble in Japanese, German and Swahili
 7. familiarize myself with physics
 8. ride an elephant
 9. compete on an episode of Jeopardy!
10. get in shape and stay in shape
11. try my hand at boxing

And there you have it! That's all I could think of. Believe it or not, the list you just read is the inside of my head: the dreams that have been bouncing off the inside of my skull since I was ten years old and younger. It's different from the "master to-do list" which you'll find at the top of the page; a lot of that stuff isn't imperative. I'm not sure I want to fly for money anymore. But you can thank Mark Twain, Lafcadio Hearn, Paul Theroux, Steve Irwin, Chris and Martin Kratt, Marty Stouffer, David Attenborough, Steven Spielberg, Frederick Townsend Ward, Wiley Post, Mort Mason, and every other TV host, film director, writer, adventurer, pilot, traveler or mercenary whose work I read or watched and admired for putting all these fancy ideas into my head.

We shall continue tomorrow with Day 13. I still haven't memorized that dang poem yet, but I figure as long as I do it before the month's out, nobody will be the wiser. Except you. 'Cause I just told you.

Postie out.

30 Days to a Better Man, Day 10: memorize "If"

There's a splendid poem, which I pride myself on having been familiar with before I took up this challenge. 

“If”
By: Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream–and not make dreams your master,
If you can think–and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings–nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And–which is more–you’ll be a Man, my son!

My task for Day 10 was to memorize this 'ere poem. Commit it to memory in its entirety. Which was just as well, as I had a touch of food poisoning today — either raw oysters or expired mayonnaise, I'll warrant — and there was precious little else to do. So I got straight to the memorizin', thank you very much. The website says it's okay if it takes you one or two days to complete this challenge, so I'll let you know how it went tomorrow.

All aboard for Day 11!

Dostoevsky revisited

As none of you are currently aware, I just finished rereading Fyodor Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground. It is and shall remain one of my favorite books of any genre. For the longest time I was never able to say exactly why. It resonated with me, certainly; I could relate to the corrosive, self-deprecating tailspin of insecurity and the crippling, isolating lack of self-confidence. (It was the hallmark of my school years—where, like Dostoevsky's unnamed protagonist, I looked upon my ant-brained classmates and their crude ambitions with disgust.) But thanks to Dostoevsky's evocative style, and the quality translation which preserved it, Notes from Underground interested me—compelled me—far more than any other work I read in school. The exact reason eluded me.

Then, on this third reading, more than six years after I first laid eyes on the novel, it hit me.

Dostoevsky hit the nail on the head.

He exposed a universal but uncomfortable truth.

With the jolting truthfulness which no other work has achieved so bluntly and plainly, Notes from Underground lays bare a portion of the human psyche which absolutely rules human interaction and individual ego. And yet, it is the most secretive, skulking, shameful part of us. It imparts a need unto our consciousness which we staunchly deny in public, but furtively—even subconsciously—seek to assuage.

And that need is, simply, the need to be recognized as a worthwhile human being. No, not even recognized—simply acknowledged. 

This is not the weirdest thing I want to tell you about tonight, though. It does have something to do with acknowledgement, rest assured. Listen to this:

I have not yet met the director of the academy where I work.

Weird, right? I've been there four months and I've only seen the guy in the corridors, or ensconced in his office. Mr. Rah is his name. At my first hagwon, the director, Mr. Hwang, met me at the airport, introduced himself, and did everything in his power to make my stay more comfortable. In the present day, Mr. Rah can't even be bothered to introduce himself or ask me how I'm doing. It makes a person feel mighty insignificant, let me tell you. I mean, I realize I'm not much more than chattel as far as he's concerned. I'm a warm body. A brain that know English. A mouth that can teach Korean children. A foreign name Mr. Rah can slap on a newsletter and send to potential customers.

Still, being reminded of that fact is unpleasant. Nay, cankerous.

Two weeks ago at work, Mr. Rah and I had...an encounter. You can't really label it as anything else. It was not a conversation, or even an exchange. The bell had rung for third period. I got up from my desk, grabbed my teaching materials, and sauntered into the hallway. Approaching me down this hallway was Mr. Rah himself, strolling along as though he owned the place. His mouth was set in a firm line. His thick body dominated the narrow space. His idle gaze swept the corridor. Our eyes met. There was no one behind me. We were alone in that passageway. The squeals of bleating children, the thunderous beat of their sneakers and sandals as they charged in through the main entrance, submerged into a pool of silence. The moment stretched into infinity.

With an internal monologue that would've made Notes from Underground's protagonist proud, I wondered what to do. I had been told that it was respectful to bow to Mr. Rah (in the Korean fashion, with a swift jerk of the head) upon seeing him. He was the Great and Beneficent Director and all. My mind and spirit rebelled against the idea. Why should I pay him his due as my employer, when he had done nothing to formally accept me as his employee? What did I owe him? "One good turn deserves another," they'd readily cry at me, but what if the inception of that goodwill is lacking altogether?

And, of course, I decided to comply. I lowered my head to him. I gave an almost spastic yank of my neck. My reluctance must have been painfully obvious. But I did it. Why not? After all, it couldn't hurt. It would force him to acknowledge me. He'd see my show of respect, the extension of goodwill, a selfless act of international cooperation. He'd be compelled—no, forced—to reciprocate. I knew the Koreans by now. They were bound by such laws as these. A cockroach living in Mr. Rah's pantry, eating his rice, could've jerked its head at him, and he would have been forced to bow back, just to calcify the relationship between benefactor and beneficiary. To have left such a gesture unanswered would have been unthinkable, anathema, contrary to millennia of cultural norms.

He didn't bow back.

Far from it. When my head came back up, his eyes had slid away from me, and were pointing purposefully down the hall, already forgetful of my presence. I might have been a dust mote wafting through the air. I was reminded, jarringly, of Aesop's story of the gnat and the bull. But then came the crowning humiliation. Without once looking over at me, Mr. Rah lifted his index finger and made a sort of twirling, hurry-up motion with it, indicating that I was loitering in the hallways and needed to get to class. The bell had rung mere seconds before. I was in the hallway, in the very act of stepping toward Room 203, materials in hand. And yet I received the "get to class, thou sluggard" treatment.  

I stood there for perhaps 5-10 seconds, stunned beyond belief. My mind had caved in. I could not conceive of it. The nerve! The impoliteness! The callousness! How rude! How crass! How impolitic!

And here is where I really channeled Dostoevsky's underground man again. Outwardly, I remained calm. Inwardly, I gnashed my teeth, foaming at the mouth in fury. I squirmed like a worm stuck with a pin. It was too much to bear. I hadn't been insulted; I had been ignored, which was a million times worse. If he'd stuck out his tongue at me as he'd passed, I'd have branded him a loony and contentedly passed the remainder of the day. But being ignored was indigestible, insoluble. I felt like hurling my books at him. Mentally, I stuck out my foot and tripped him as he walked past. I spat on him, hurled invectives at him, plotted the sweetest and vilest of revenges. I even went so far as to ask my coworkers in the staffroom whether intensive courses were voluntary or not. (Intensives, which will take place in August, mean an extra round of morning classes for us, as we metamorphose for a time into a full-blown cram school.) Upon learning that they were, I thought "Hang them! And hang Mr. Rah! I'll take a vacation that week!"

Later, over beers with my friends that night (again channeling the underground man) I calmed down. I mellowed out. In fact, I felt as though I had overreacted (and later regretted feeling this way, and gnashed my teeth again). I was persuaded to believe that Mr. Rah was an odd duck, who took funny turns, and liked to twirl his hands and snap his fingers when the mood took him. Perhaps he was strolling the halls with a sort of restrained but barely-containable jollity about him. I must have tweaked his sensibilities, triggered a reaction, loosened a brick in the emotive dike, and coaxed some strange gesture of gaiety from him. Later, when the beer had worn off, I saw that this was hogwash. One doesn't twirl his fingers with a deadpan expression on his face. Innocuous his gesture may have been, but it made me mad. It wasn't just a personal slight. I sensed some monstrous injustice in his actions, a base incorrectness, a gross discrepancy between zeitgeist and reality. With a wave of his hand, the director had epitomized the callous Korean (nay, Asian) corporate mindset, which holds that people on the lowest rung are mere bugs compared with the executives. They can be bullied, coerced, taken advantage of, and ignored in equal measure.

Miss H and I took a night cruise along the Han River last evening. As the ferryboat slid under bridges and past the twinkling lights of Seoul (one of the most intentional cities on Earth, as Dostoevsky might have written), we had occasion to meet an American couple. I'll call them Betty and George. They lived in Daegu, and taught at the U.S. military base. Betty had run a half-marathon in Seoul that morning, and George was part of a jazz ensemble, and played concerts and gigs around Korea. Still stung from my encounter with Mr. Rah, I asked George for his opinion of his employers and managers. Did they treat him like a commodity, or like a person? His answer gave me food for thought. He said that the greatest obstacle to proper business relations was the language barrier. The more English the Korean speaks—or the more Korean the foreigner speaks—the more human the relationship. Frostiness becomes friendliness, impersonality fades away, familiarity breeds cooperation and harmony and companionship. Learning the languages, he said, did wonders to improve the interrelation between employer and employee.

To that end, I have resolved to learn Korean to the very best of my ability. I'll lay in wait. I'll let Mr. Rah cruise along, master of his domain, comfortable in his position and his superiority. Then I'll rattle his cage. I'll knock the foundations out from under his castle. I'll be Dostoevsky's underground man, dressed in his finest clothing, going to slap Zverkov and challenge him to a duel. I'll invite myself into Mr. Rah's office, plonk myself down in a chair (maybe even his chair) and say, in flawless Korean, "Howdy boss-man, what's the good word today? You don't know me, because you've never bothered to meet me, but I'm one of your employees. Don't you think it's about time we had a confab and got to know each other?"

And, just like the underground man, I will probably never do it.

That's why I like Notes from Underground.

le grande update

As you may have noticed, my last two posts were exceedingly brief. And as you're aware, I'm a long-winded bugger who can't abide sparing the slightest detail. So I think it's about time I gave you a full update on where I stand, before things get crazy.

First, I'm going back to Korea. It's official. It's genuine. It's true. I don't want to jinx it (this will be my fifth attempt, and every previous job offer has gone south due to unexpected delays and unforeseen obstacles), but nothing short of an Act of God can stop me now. I'm Asia-bound, so help me.

I sure didn't see this coming. I loved Korea, rest assured. It was a blast. A kick in the pants. The cat's pajamas. The elephant's instep. Despite the complete and abject lack of limes, turkey, single-malt Scotch, sausage, real cheese and decent hamburgers, the place was alright. I had a ball. I crammed my existence into a tiny studio apartment, took frequent walks, wrote in my journal, blogged, scribbled a novel, taught hyperactive children the rudiments of the English language, tried to learn Korean, lost 20 pounds, became addicted to bulgogi and kimchi, acquainted myself intimately with debauchery, danced, raved, sang, drank, ate, and was merry. Oh, and I made myself a ton of cherished friends, with whom I remain in contact to this day (and many of which I will see again come February).

But I didn't think I'd go back. I thought I was done with living overseas and making money there. I figured I'd return to the States, get some stuff done (like my pilot's license) and then find a job and get busy. I really had no ruttin' idea that things were so bad here. Now I look back at the day in 2009 when I stepped off the jetliner and into the warm, moist, smoggy air of the Inland Empire, and I giggle at how naïve I was. I thought I was set for life. I had a year of international job experience under my belt and a wad of cash in my pocket. I thought I was sitting pretty. Boy, was I whistling Dixie. What I should've done was move someplace with low rent and cheap gas (like, I don't know, Kansas perhaps?), get a crummy job and work for five years until I had a suitable sum of money saved and a modicum of job experience. Then I could've looked about me, gauged my options, moved to Alaska, gotten my pilot's license, whatever.

But I jumped the gun. Drunk on prosperity and globetrotting confidence, I decided to get my pilot's license right away. Hang the job, hang security, hang responsibility. You know what came of that. I got myself stuck in this goddamn desert pest-hole for two and a half years.

They say hindsight is 20/20. My hindsight should've been a lot clearer, though, considering how far up my ass my head was.

So, poor economic decisions aside, I got my pilot's license. I worked two low-paying jobs (a temp job at the local newspaper, which lasted about a month, and that flying job I've been talking about for ages). I lived in my parents' house. That was godawful. I felt rotten, like I was a kid again, not a forward-striding, self-sufficient man's man as I'd imagined. My folks were sweet as pie, and did everything to make things as comfortable as they could for me, giving me loads of excellent advice (most of which I didn't listen to until it was too late). They salvaged my pride at several pivotal junctures, too, bless them. But the malaise, the ennui, and the remorseless hindsight gnawed at me day and night. And worse yet, I had no escape route. Jobs there were none. Prospects there were none. Money was running out. It seemed I was doomed to remain in the doldrums forever.

It's difficult to believe that Miss H and I started looking for jobs in Korea back in June. June! Thanks to delays and unguessable disasters, we've endured one of the roughest, bleakest times of our lives. The ennui was ten times worse for her; she couldn't find any jobs at all. She worked a seasonal stint at Target last year during the holidays, and that was it. There's nothing in this damn desert. Zilch. Squat. Nada. The desperate downward spiral took a heavy toll on us.

Our hand had been forced. We decided to go to Korea. But couple's positions were thin on the ground, and the delays and backups just kept mounting. We had to make some tough calls. Ultimately, Miss H decided to stay behind. She would not accompany me to Korea. We would separate temporarily, she to seek her fortunes, I to seek mine farther afield. And lo and behold—snap—the pieces began to click together. I got a job offer from a hagwon in Bucheon (somewhere between Seoul and Incheon) the very same day I told my recruiter to find me a singles' position. And things bloomed at Heather's end, too: she got several bites from a social work agency in the same town she'd gone to college in. She knows the area, and rent and gas are very reasonable. Boom: just like that, things are looking up for us. Seems like an impossible dream after the long hard slog we've had for the past two years.

And in other news, I finished my novel. No, I mean finished: it's written, it's edited, it's proofed, everything. Of course there are few tweaks to be made, and it has to be peer-reviewed, but the thing is largely done.

That feels good.

No, really. You remember how scared, nervous, self-conscious and maudlin I've been? For three years it's been like this. I started the dang novel in Korea. Finished it not long after I returned, in late 2009. Ever since I began I've had the feeling that it was crap, and that I was a the world's largest hack, and that the whole thing was a waste of time. Normally I'm a secure and confident bloke and don't entertain thoughts like these. But I did. And they bedeviled me and my writing efforts for three long years, before I finally wised up, gained perspective, achieved Nirvana or whatever, and buckled down and finished.

The second rewrite was much easier than the first, because I felt no insecurity. I felt fine, in fact. The novel felt like a novel. The author felt like an author. The work felt like work, but more than that, it was fun. For the first time, it was actually fun. Hallelujah for that!

So I spent about a fortnight just blasting through my entire manuscript, line-editing, spell-checking, rearranging syntax for mellifluousness, and making some major revisions and rewrites. And you know what I came out with? A novel. An honest-to-Gawd debut science fiction novel. It's got plot. It's got theme. It's got premise. It's got character. It's got conflict. It's got action. It's got a climax, a denouement, and all the rest. It may be a bit amateurish (after all, it's my first book) but everything's there.

Now I just need somebody to read it. And a publisher to send it to.

This is tremendously exciting.

So, in summary, I'd just like to say that after thirty months of waiting, worrying, striving and stagnating, things are looking up. The novel's done, and I'm going to Korea. And Miss H and I are doing better than ever. 

Thanks for sticking with us.

and in other news...

The novel is finished.

Of course I'll have to read back over the manuscript again for continuity and historical accuracy. And then I'll throw it to the beta readers and let them claw it to ribbons. But for all intents and purposes, the story is finished. The manuscript is complete. My edits have been implemented. I'm DONE.

YAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Sounds impossible, but I busted through this edit. Miss H called me a workaholic, which is something no one has ever accused me of in all twenty-five years of my freeloading existence. It was mad. I found, for the first time, that I wasn't scared of the damn thing. I loved it. I wanted to perfect it. I wanted to put the finishing touches on it. I wanted to work on it (wow!). Next thing you know I'll actually be eager to submit it to a publisher. That'll be the day.

Thanks to everyone who stuck with me and believed in me. Miss H, Beth, Chris, Johnnie, Jane, Olivia, Donna, Polly, Marilisa...all you guys. You're wonderful.

Next we delve into the wonders of publication...

P.S. My recruiter in Korea has received my immigration documents, and passed them onto my school; I should have my visa by next week. I am going to Korea in February. Cue another Big "YES!" here.  

crime and publishment

Saturday was my twenty-fourth birthday. I had a marvelous time, despite working an eleven-hour shift at the airport café during the airshow. No matter. Somehow I managed to get home, recuperate, and host a grand cocktail party which lasted until the wee hours of the morning.

Having finally subdued the hangover, I now reflect on what I've accomplished in life so far.

It looks as though I've done nearly everything I wanted to do before the age of twenty-five. I've acquired a college degree, lived in a foreign country, gotten drunk on absinthe, published some travel articles, learned how to tend bar, and (as of last Monday) earned a private pilot's certificate.

(Miss H and I are going to Disneyland sometime in October, so that will soon be off the to-do list as well.) 

Only one accomplishment remains. I still need to get published.

I don't need to publish my novel before I'm 25. I'm cool with that. But I would like to land on Planet Fiction before I'm a quarter of a century old. Just to prove to myself that I can do it, you know. Get in there while I'm still young. Make my mark. Publish a short story or three.

So I'm writing sci-fi stories like mad, and have already submitted one to Fantasy & Science Fiction magazine, as you'll recall. Some of these stories are pretty long: ten thousand words or more, well into novelette range. 

Fortunately, there are still plenty of magazines out there that publish works of that length.

I'm going to pick up the pace over the next few days. I've decided I need to try harder at this, even despite working six days a week and entertaining a lady friend. There's no reason not to. I can easily set aside an hour or so every day for this. The only thing that separates me from all those sci-fi authors I admire so much (Robert A. Heinlein, L. Sprague de Camp, Isaac Asmiov, John W. Campbell, Jr., H.G. Wells, and many more) is persistence.

The way I see it, writing is a lot like acting. Most of the work is done before you become famous. You have to lay the groundwork before you attain any kind of notoriety, or even success: writing dozens, hundreds of stories and sending them to every publication and periodical you can find. It's exhausting work, costs a mint in postage, and requires diligence, patience, and determination.

You have to have the determination (and the stamina) to write those hundreds of stories and revise them until they're suitable for publication. If your schedule is busy, then you need to set aside time to write and submit, too, just like you would to exercise or play fetch with the dog. No excuses. I don't care if you have to cut your teatime short by five minutes. Make sure you're writing and submitting at least an hour a day. You can find that much time, no matter who you are or how frenetic your day is. I know a lot of writers who work nine-to-five jobs and come home exhausted every evening. When do they write? On their lunch breaks. It's getting yourself into the proper state of mind, that's all. It's not a matter of whether you can do it. It's a matter of when. 

You have to have the diligence to package your submissions the way the magazine wants you to: typically, Courier font, double spacing, numbered pages and word counts. Trust me, this is worth your time. The worst thing you can do when submitting a story is fail to format your submission correctly, especially when the submission guidelines are often readily available on the publication's web page. The guidelines are there for a reason. They make your submission more professional in appearance, as well as render it easier for an editor to read. This just might help you find out whether you're being published sooner—not to mention give you a better shot at being published, period. No editor's going to have the time or the willpower to try and decipher a single-spaced, thirty-page manuscript written in an undecipherable font in the colors of the rainbow.

Finally, you must have the patience to wait the requisite 4-8 weeks to find out whether your submission is suitable for publication. Many editors are swamped these days, thanks to an ever-growing population of wannabe writers. They're not going to look more charitably upon your work if you badger them all the time querying the status of your story. Working tirelessly on stories (every day, folks, every day: you want to keep your hand in, don't you?) and shotgunning them across the fiction universe (making sure, however, that you follow individual publications' respective submission requirements to the letter) also takes patience. Just remember, you're not going to be an overnight success. Most latter-day critics agree that Herman Melville wrote some of the best stories in the English language, and yet he was highly unappreciated in his time. Most of the stuff he wrote, which today is venerated by literati, was a flash in the pan back in the 19th century. Melville himself worked as a customs inspector most of his life, just to make ends meet. He never made enough to support himself on his writing alone. Chances are, neither will you. There's no harm in trying, though. You have to write a lot, submit a lot, and wait a lot in this game. Write, submit, and wait. Make sure you do a little of all three, every single day. Slacking is a crime punishable by death—or worse, life in obscurity. Slackers never get published (unless they write for IGN).

Remember, if you keep up the fight and don't let your writing slide, and keep up a steady stream of submissions, publishment will be yours. It may take a while, yes. The process may be tedious, yes. The flood of rejection slips will be heartbreaking, yes. But persistence is key. I heard that Sylvia Plath submitted one story to the New Yorker at least 30 times before they finally published it. If she'd quit after 29 tries, would she ever have succeeded?

Like former Vice President Dan Quayle once said, "If we don't succeed, we run the risk of failure."

Persist and you will find what you seek. Such is true of every literary hero, no matter what side of the page they're on, no?

And when you do get published...celebrate. Do a happy dance. Eat something unhealthy. Watch a fatuous TV show. Buy 582 Slim Jims. Reward yourself for your persistence. Go ahead and relax. You earned it.

introducing Postman, the pilot

I ain't a baby bird anymore, people.

I've passed my test.

I'm a pilot.

I'm really not coming off as all that excited, but I assure you, I am.

In fact, in between every one of these sentences (all of which begin with an "I") I'm leaping out of my chair, smashing into the ceiling, and slamming back down into my chair again.

I'm still this pumped, even the day after.

Okay, I'll stop starting sentences with "I." I can't think of any more anyways.

It happened like this:

I woke up at about 8:00 on Monday, the day of my long-awaited checkride. This would be just like a driver's test, only I'd be, you know, flying. Plus there was an oral quiz. I was feeling pretty sanguine, considering. I don't get test anxiety, but the "I-have-to-pass-this-thing-or-my-life-will-be-ruined-and-I'll-be-out-on-$500-and-I'll-be-living-in-my-parents'-house-in-this-godawful-desert-until-I'm-80-years-old" anxiety was nipping at my heels. I crammed for an hour or so (after a brain-building egg sandwich), got my pilot bag, my headset, my logbook, my flight computer, my plotter, my textbooks, my Federal Aviation Regulations guide, and my oral exam preparation booklet, as well as the usual wallet, cell phone, keys and handkerchief, and went off to meet my destiny.

I got to the airport about 10:30. My exam was at noon. My coworker and current instructor, JM-1, met me in the planning room. (This is the room with the big desk and the computer and the charts on the walls where pilots plan their flights.)

J and I immediately discovered four things:

(A) I'd forgotten the certificate of completion for my written test, taken months earlier; (B) I needed $400 cash to pay the examiner's fee, and I didn't have it on me; (C) my Federal Aviation Regulations guide was three years out of date; and (D) I needed to have weight and balance computed for the airplane we'd be flying, a cross-country flight planned, and my total logbook hours added up and written out.

Scrambling around trying to do/fetch/prepare all this pretty much put a bung in our cram session. But in the end, we got it sorted out. I called Mom and she kindly read me the exam ID number off my form (and promised to bring the form to me in person that afternoon); I ran down to the bank and made a withdrawal; I borrowed a Federal Aviation Regulations guide and Aeronautical Information Manual (FAR/AIM) from Louise over at the flight school; and J and I filled out the weight and balance chart and planned a cross-country flight from Apple Valley to Pasa Robles. 

Whew.

It was just as well that, due to a prior commitment in Temecula, the examiner didn't land until about 1:00. That was A-OK by me. Gave me time to ask J some pertinent things, like how much flaps to use during a short-field takeoff, and what exactly a mountain wave was (and believe me, they're nasty).

Then the examiner (G) arrived, and after he took a look at my IACRA (the official form you need to fill out to become a pilot) and I coincidentally discovered that my driver's license expired in five days, we sat down in the conference room and had us a little oral examination.

I didn't do too badly. I was a bit nervous and shaky, and stumbled a bit on some answers, but I owned up to not knowing the ones I didn't know, and looked 'em up in the legends and glossaries. G wasn't confrontational or derogatory. He was an excellent examiner. He wasn't too hard and he wasn't too easy. He was fair: he didn't sit me under bright lights and grill me until I was brown and well-seasoned. He asked me questions, asked for clarification when needed, and nodded when I got an answer right, moving on to the next.

It was over far sooner than I would've believed. G told me to get my stuff together and go preflight our airplane; he'd be out in a minute. So I (with shaking hands) gathered up the requisite materials and walked out into the warm sun. N42126 was sitting there, its red-and-black stripes still grinning at me amiably from across the apron. There wasn't a thing wrong with it that I could detect. We had full fuel, seven quarts of oil, inflated tires, an un-scuffed propeller, and all the requisite nuts and bolts. It was time [gulp] to fly.

I won't tell you too much about the examination, mainly because (a) it's sort of fused itself into a single chunk of sensation in my memory, in which the component parts are virtually indistinguishable from one another; and (b) I'd like to make it warm for you if you ever decide to become a pilot.

Oh, all right, I'll tell you a little.

We did some touch-and-goes first: soft-field landings and takeoffs, as well as slips. I did pretty well. The slip was kind of a curve ball. I wasn't expecting to be tested on it, but I improvised, and despite making a rather high approach, made the runway.

[A slip, just so you know, is the maneuver you pull when you're landing in a crosswind. It involves putting in full left or right rudder (depending on the direction the wind's coming from) and applying full opposite aileron. You're cross-controlling, in other words. This tilts the ship at a crazy angle, and will freak your passengers out something righteous, but as long as you keep the nose down, your rate of descent will be fantastic and you'll stay right on the runway heading. Slips basically turn the entire airplane into a giant air-brake. They're the easiest way to lose a lot of altitude on approach and stay aligned with the runway in the process.]

Then we flew out east over the dry lakebed and did our maneuvers: turns, stalls, emergency procedures, the lot.

The only questionable thing I could tell I did was that, on a go-around (where you abort a landing, fire up the plane, climb, and go around for another try), I was putting the flaps up before I shoved in full throttle. That's a no-no. You want full power right away, before you do anything to change the aerodynamic characteristics of the airplane. Otherwise you could fall right out of the sky.

Hey, the instructor only said I was going to kill myself twice. Twice, okay? That ain't nothin'.

We returned, did another go-around at Apple Valley Airport (this time I did it properly) and then landed. It was a short-field landing (remember those?). I had to land on a precise spot on the runway (between the thousand-foot markers, big white stripes painted on the runway surface) and stop as soon as possible.

I missed. I landed just a hair beyond them.

My heart shriveled. My brain melted. My bones turned to rubber. My eyes, nose, ears, and chin threatened to sag and fall right off my face.

I was doomed. There was no way I'd pass now.

"Taxi off the runway at the terminal," G instructed.

My flaccid soul seemed to droop even lower. The checkride was done. There was no chance for redemption. It was all over.

We crept down the runway, the engine running at 1,000 revolutions per minute.

I was feeling mighty glum. I figured that the throttle-and-flap mix-up and the almost short-field landing, combined with a few other tiny imperfections I'd noticed in my performance, had doomed me to failure. With a heavy heart (still running at 150 beats per minute) I taxied off the runway, back to the terminal, parked and shut down. G was already on the phone with his next client, and couldn't tell me the bad news. I got out of the plane and set about securing it. G climbed out, met J (with whom he was very good friends) and the two of them walked over to G's airplane and stood there talking. From afar I thought I heard G say "He did okay..."

My heart leaped, and then crashed to earth again. "Okay" wasn't necessarily "passing." Armoring myself against the worst again, I finished tying down N42126 and sloped into the terminal building to pay Louise for the rental.

I was kicking myself. Five hundred dollars, shot. Three years of training, and I'd choked like a dog. Oh, I could take the test again, but I shouldn't have to. I knew this stuff. I'd passed the written exam with flying colors, and the oral as well. Two out of three. And I'd failed the practical just because I couldn't get my act together and remember which levers I was supposed to push, dammit. I clenched my teeth. Mom, Dad, Dawg, Spud, Mr. Mooney, JMs One and Two, all my friends...and especially Grandpa and Grandma, because Grandma had worked for the longest time at the little airport up in Grass Valley, and knew the names of a lot of the small airplanes I'd been flying, and was especially supportive of me in my quest to become a certified pilot. I'd let 'em all down. That was just swell. The humongous cocktail party I was planning for the weekend seemed pointless now. What was there to celebrate?

I finished paying and packing up my things. Louise and Donna, the owners of the flight school, were both there, and anxiously awaiting to hear how I'd done. I told them (with a face like thunder) that I didn't know yet, but didn't have a very good feeling. As Louise was handing my debit card back to me, J came in. I looked up and met his eyes.

And he winked.

I didn't know what to make of it. I knew he was on very good terms with the examiner, and that he'd gone to talk to G right after G got out of the plane. Presumably J had asked how I'd done. Did this mean that I...could it possibly mean that I had...

...passed?

I shoved the thought aside. I couldn't do this to myself. I couldn't get my hopes up and have them crash to the ground once more. I couldn't have passed, I just couldn't have. The first go-around was less than ideal. The carburetor heat lever and I weren't the best of friends. That slip had really thrown me off my game. There was no way I'd passed.

I remembered that I'd left the certificate of completion for my written exam (which Mom had faithfully delivered at 2:30, since she was in town anyway) in the airplane, so I slouched back outside to get it. G was on the phone again. I got the form, put the sunshade up in the windscreen, put the gust lock and pitot tube cover on, and went back inside.

As soon as I walked in the door, J handed me my T-shirt, a wide grin on his face.

There's a tradition at the Apple Valley flight school which holds that, when you do your first solo, you take off the shirt you're wearing, sign it with your name, the date, the name of your instructor, and the runway you were using, and then hang it up on the classroom wall. I'd done this. That shirt had been hanging up there for months. All the while, as I patiently hacked away at the requirements for a private pilot's license.

There's another tradition at the flight school which holds that when you pass your checkride—

"—you get your T-shirt back," Donna was saying.

I looked down. The T-shirt was in J's hands. He was holding it out to me.

What the—

I'd passed.

It was true.

I'd done it.

I'd passed.

I couldn't believe it. They were giving me my T-shirt. There it was, worn white cotton, with my name and a crude drawing of a Cessna 172 on it, drawn in black marker.

I'd passed the test. I was a pilot.

"You mean I PASSED it?" I asked, incredulously.

"Yes, you passed!" Donna said, laughing.

"Why?" asked G, sitting at the computer and printing out some forms for me to sign. "Did you feel you were unsafe or unqualified?"

"W-well..." I fumbled. My mind was like a fortress of building blocks which some two-year-old had just knocked the supports out from under. Everything was tumbling and collapsing in on itself. Shock waves were coming out of my ears, no doubt. I remembered that J had told me what FAA examiners look for during a private pilot's checkride:

"Remember, he won't be looking for precision, he'll be looking for safety. If you're a safe pilot..."

"No," I answered. "I just didn't like that last soft-field landing, is all. Or short-field, or whatever it was."

(As I mentioned before, my mind was busy collapsing.)

"Hey," G said, his eyes still on his computer screen. "You're a safe pilot. Tell me, when was the last time you had a perfect day?"

"We all have landings we don't like," added J—a pilot with thousands of hours under his belt. "I had one the other day..."

Only now did it start to sink in. G was printing out my provisional pilot's license (a paper copy I'd use until I got my license card in the mail). J was holding out his hand to congratulate me.

I'd passed the test. I WAS A PILOT.

"Congratulations," J said, smiling.

I took his hand, and shook it.

Somehow I mustered the coherency to shake the hands of Louise and Donna as well.

G had me sign my provisional license, and told me, "That's a license to learn. You've only just begun. Don't get rusty, keep flying."

"Well...thank you," I stammered, not knowing what else to say. I was almost afraid to say anything else. Irrational fears welled up in my heart. One wrong word and G would snatch the license away and rip it to shreds.

Then G walked out of the door and was gone.

"How do you feel?" Donna asked me.

By way of reply, I collapsed full-length upon the carpet.

Louise and Donna burst out laughing. G and J (who were standing over by the restaurant entrance, talking), called over and asked if I was okay.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said, getting back up. "Just got a little light-headed."

"Could I have some water?" I asked Donna.

Burdened considerably by the textbooks and materials I'd brought (as well as the extra pieces of paper and the T-shirt I had suddenly received), I awkwardly gathered up my stuff and prepared to leave.

Louise held out a hand.

"Can I have my FAR/AIM back now?"

J caught me just outside the airport doors.

"Congratulations, young master," he said, in the manner of Master Po from Kung Fu.

We talked for a few minutes. He reiterated what G had said about my pilot's certificate being a "license to learn." But he also said something else.

"Remember," he said, "the biggest critic of your flying is going to be you. Don't be too hard on yourself. Be proud of what you did. Keep flying, don't get rusty, and learn."

My cell phone started leaping and buzzing as soon as I got to my car. Text messages came winging in from interested friends, wanting to know if I'd passed. I texted my folks and told them I made it, and not even five minutes later my grandparents were calling to congratulate me. JM-2, my other coworker, also rang. Mr. Mooney phoned in when I was on my way home, and the text messages just kept coming.

I was, as you may imagine, over the moon. The work of three years had come to successful completion. All the long hours (and short dollars) I'd spent, all the sweating and bouncing and thundering in airplanes, scrimping and saving for lessons, thinking and hoping and dreaming and studying...all of it had paid off.

I'd passed the test.

I WAS A PILOT.

Dad brought home champagne and steaks for dinner that night, and we had a fine little celebration. I don't think I've slept that well in a long time, either.

I'm all uphill from here, people. Instrument rating, commercial license, seaplane and multi-engine and high-performance ratings will follow. (I've already got enough time to get a complex endorsement, J says...yippee!) I am now eagerly awaiting the arrival of that little green card in the mail (in 60-90 days) and have already begun to think and hope and dream about what lies ahead of me. Or rather, what lies above me, in the limitless, sun-washed sky.

Only now it isn't so far away anymore.

School of Hooch (last call)

I'm done with bartender's school.

That's right, folks. I have successfully mixed, poured, shaken, stirred, blended, and garnished my way through the School of Hooch. Passed the final practical exam today. Phase I of my Tripartite Plan for Total World Domination is complete.

It was relatively simple. I drove down to Riverside this morning, studied up on a few drinks I was uncertain about (the kir royale, champagne cocktail and blow job foremost among them). Then Tanya gave me the test, and I passed it. Perfectly. Not a single mistake.

I didn't call out the cherry garnish for the Mai Tai, but that was because Tanya had already ordered the next drink, and she didn't dock me for it.

This was my third try, but what the heck? I'm finished, and that's what matters, right?

Then I got me some training on the POS system, using the school's computer in the corner of the room. I familiarized myself with the intricacies of charging people money for their poison, and then suddenly I was done. Tanya printed me out my certificate of completion, and I left the school with my head spinning and my heart singing.

Next Monday, I'll be going in at 9:30 with my résumé in hand to see about getting placed with a job at a bar somewhere. Needless to say, I sang along with Van Halen's "Everybody Wants Some" especially loudly on the way back up the I-15 this evening. There remains but to finish getting my pilot's license, and get my novel published. Then I'll have accomplished almost everything I wanted to do in my lower twenties. ...well, except for obtaining my commercial pilot's license, that is. And going to Antarctica. And singing in a barbershop quartet. And getting laid in the back of a Camaro.
But I'll get around to those eventually.

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.

School of Hooch (the second round)

You might be wondering exactly how bartender's school is going. I haven't blogged about it in a while, because, frankly, I only go two days out of the week, and not much happens. I go, I listen to a lesson or two, I practice for a while, take the time-test that I've studied for, and then go home. If I'm lucky enough to get out by 3:30, I can beat the traffic home on the 15. (I run the gauntlet on my way back north: I have to pass the interchanges at the CA-60, Interstate 10, and the 210. Traffic never fails to stack up around these interchanges during rush hour; when it gets really bad, I can spend an extra 30-45 minutes getting home. If I get out before 3:30, though, traffic usually isn't heavy enough to cause problems.) I'd like to share some more details about this school, the people there, what my routine is, and what my progress has been. That is if you're interested. The first thing you see when you come inside the Riverside Bartender's School is the job placement center, which consists of a room with a table and a phone. You can see what's inside this room because there's a plate-glass window in the wall. To the right is the instructor's office. To the left is a big overstuffed couch, facing away from you. Looking further to the left, you see the schoolroom itself; stepping down from the entryway onto a red and black tile floor, you enter it. It's a long, semicircular bar, shaped like a backwards L with a serif at the tip. Ranged behind this bar, at intervals, are several intoxicating (pun intended) collections of bottles, all shapes and sizes, filled with colored water. Behind the bar is what you'd normally expect to find there: sinks, faucets, ice boxes (known as "jockey boxes"), wells with standard liquors, mixers next to the jockey boxes, drain boards, coffeepots, blenders, and a whole bunch of neat stuff. On top of the bar are the tools of the trade: shakers, jiggers, mixing spoons, mixing glasses, strainers, garnishes (plastic, of course, for teaching purposes), and other implements. All are arranged cleanly and neatly. There's even a computer with a POS program running, so you can practice with that. Students sign in when they walk in the door, to keep track of how many hours they've studied. Generally it takes about 100 hours to complete the course. I don't know how many it's taken me so far, but I'm probably in the 40-50 hour range, because I've done with 4 out of 10 time-tests. That is to say, I've sat for the lessons; made flashcards out of the drink recipes; practiced with these flashcards at home until I've memorized the drinks; come to school and practiced making the drinks in under six minutes; and then had one of the instructors time me and sign me off for the lesson. I was startled, thoroughly startled, by the variety of people who are interested in being bartenders. I've seen gray-haired ladies studying flashcards at the desks; tattooed fellows with untucked shirts beyond count; glamor girls with perfect hair, a surfeit of makeup, and nails that would frighten small children; clean-cut collegiate-looking young men; sweatshirt-clad girls in tennis shoes, looking for something exciting; and many others. I've talked with a few of these folks. Some of them were born as far away as South Dakota or Long Island. Lots of them had dreams that didn't quite work out the way they'd planned. So here they are, in Southern California, the glitz capital of America, learning the ways of hooch. Must be a world away from what they're familiar with. I only wish I had the time to sit down and interview them all. I'll bet there's a really good novel in it somewhere. I started out on Lesson 4, two-liquor drinks (rusty nails, godfathers, sombreros, and so forth). It was pretty easy. I actually was able to mix all twelve drinks on the time-test in under four minutes. Then I moved to Lesson 1, cream drinks. That was harder. You don't just pour cream drinks. You actually have to shake and strain them, and chill a stemmed glass while you do. It takes a bit of practice to get the motions right. But I passed that lesson with little trouble. The most recent tests I took (Monday) were from Lesson 2, highballs and mixed drinks. Yes, I said tests, plural. Lesson 2 is a big one. There are 39 drinks to memorize, so many that the time-test is actually split into two sets. You have to make one set of twelve drinks in under six minutes; and then mix the second set of twelve drinks in under six minutes, too. You don't have to do the tests back-to-back, but you must pass both to pass Lesson 2. That's why I went to school on Monday instead of my usual Friday or Saturday. Monday through Thursday the school is open from 10-10. I figured that would give me enough time to practice for and take both tests. I was right. After about three hours I took Set 1. I made sure the orange juice (a storm pourer filled with orange-tinted water) and my ice box were both filled up, and called an instructor over. She sat across the bar from me, looking amicable enough. She hit the "start" button on the timer and said, "Melon ball." I snatched the collins glass, bent down, and scooped a precise amount of ice cubes into it (as I'd practiced endlessly). Straightening in a flash, I grabbed the vodka bottle from the well, counting to four as I poured (thus adding a precise ounce of vodka to the drink). I deftly replaced the vodka, snatched the orange juice, and filled the glass almost to the top. I turned 'round, laid hold of the Midori, picked up the mixing spoon, and prepared to float a half-ounce of melon liqueur. Tanya gently lifted the spoon out of my hands. "Just pour in a circle," she reminded me. A little red-faced, I did as ordered. And there was the melon ball, orange and green, looking ready-to-imbibe. I saw Tanya make a little note on the test sheet in front of her: 28 seconds. I was two seconds ahead of schedule already. Yes! "Salty dog," Tanya said. Rocks glass, salt on the rim (pretend; we don't actually have salt at school), ice, an ounce of vodka, fill with grapefruit juice. Fifty seconds. "Bacardi Dark and Coke." Highball glass, ice, an ounce of rum, fill with Coke (again, pretend Coke; it's just dark-colored water that comes out of the speed gun). One minute nine seconds. "Old-fashioned." Ah, this one had been especially tricky to memorize. Old-fashioned glass, orange wedge, sugar cube, cherry (again, all plastic), splash of tonic, two dashes bitters, mash. Add ice, one ounce of bourbon, cherry on top. Minute thirty-nine. And so it went: a baybreeze, a slow comfortable screw, a tequila sunset, a Bloody Mary, an Absolut madras, a C.C. Presbyterian, a Freddy Fudpucker, and finally a Californian. Final time? Five minutes and two seconds. I'd beaten the time limit by nearly a minute, even with such nightmarishly complex drinks as old-fashioneds and Bloody Marys. I was euphoric, and glad I'd taken the time to hit the flashcards so hard, and practice for a few hours before taking the test. That allowed me to memorize not only the drink recipes but also the different glasses necessary for each. "Good job," Tanya said, signing me off. Okay, one down, one to go. I immediately got out the flashcards for the second set and began to practice it. I was relieved to discover that it was a lot easier than the first set. Mostly highballs. It took me barely half an hour to get to where I felt comfortable taking the test. Wade, the school's owner, came over to test me this time. One fuzzy navel, tequila sunrise, seven and seven, Harvey Wallbanger, Stoli screwdriver, Crown Royal and water, Beefeater and tonic, Cuba Libre, sex on the beach, Cutty Sark and soda, Cape Cod, and Gold Driver later, I had passed Lesson 2. Final time: four minutes and one second. Feel free to bask in my awesomeness. The only lesson I haven't sat for is Lesson 3 (the triumvirate of the martini, Manhattan, and Rob Roy). It's widely acknowledged as the hardest lesson, too, I hear. Lessons 5 and 7 are both two-parters like Lesson 2; I might leave them for now and let my brain recuperate. So I think I'll start memorizing Lesson 6, coffee and wine drinks. Then when I go in next on the 20th (to sit for Lesson 3) I can also get the time test for Lesson 6 knocked off, and be exactly halfway done with bartender's school. Wish me luck.

Look, Ma! I got another one!

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

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

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

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

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

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.