cocktail review no. 71 - Hotaru

Today's a red-letter day, folks: I'm reviewing one of my own creations. Not since the Potion F have I created a cocktail, much less posted a semi-objective review on this here blog. Feel privileged.

To my knowledge, nobody has (officially) crafted anything like this before, nor named it what I've named it. Don't fret, I'll explain the title presently. But before we do anything else, let's have the recipe:

• 1.5 ounces soju
• 1 ounce triple sec
• 1 ounce lime juice
• 1 lime wedge

Pour the soju, the triple sec and the lime juice into a cocktail shaker half-filled with ice cubes. Shake well and strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with the lime wedge.

Does this sound familiar? It should. It's practically identical to a kamikaze. The only difference is that soju stands in for the vodka in the original.

The taste, if I may be so bold, is marvelous. The soju performs the same function as the vodka would, soaking up the flavors of the orange liqueur and the lime juice. However, it is milder and sweeter than vodka, so even great prominence is given to the citrus flavors. And yet, the soju adds just a hint of the exotic to the mélange. You know, right away, that this isn't a vodka drink. The overall flavor was akin to a glass of orange limeade, with a mild kick afforded by the base liquor. It was infinitely refreshing and delightfully tangy. And as always, it's customizable. If you like sweet more than sour, just minimize the lime juice and add more triple sec. If you wanna pucker up, just do the reverse.

The inclusion of soju in this cocktail had a great deal to do with my choice of the name "hotaru." Hotaru is the Japanese word for "firefly." It's also the name of a film about—get this—Korean kamikaze pilots.

Tak Kyung-hyun, a Korean who gave his life as a special attack pilot for the Japanese in WWII.

Yes, they existed. I was shocked, too, believe me. But historical research has shown that a dozen or more ethnic Koreans (taking Japanese names, as per the prewar Soshi-kaimei ordinance which Japan imposed on the Korean peninsula) served as kamikaze pilots in World War II. This news story from 2008 talks about a memorial for one of these fellows, Tak Kyung-hyun, being erected in the city of Sacheon. Naturally, there was quite a bit of controversy. Some Koreans think these dudes were pressured or coerced into flying suicide missions for Japan, and therefore deserve some posthumous sympathy; while others insist that they were collaborators of the worst sort, and their memories should be stricken from the history books.

Anyway, the movie Hotaru, which came out in 2000, is about a Korean kamikaze pilot who dies in combat. His two Japanese buddies survive the war, and one of them winds up marrying his deceased friend's Japanese fiancée, and there's some awkwardness there or something. Sounded like it might be worth checking out.

Anyway, I chose the word hotaru for this beverage because "Korean kamikaze" sounded boring and basic (even if it is alliterative). I wanted something more poetic, and I found it.

Try it, sample it, roll it around your tongue for a while (both the name and the drink) and then tell me what you think. I dare you. Your personal reviews might just save my future bar. Oh, and in case you're wondering, I'm working on a couple of other recipes at the moment. I hope to bring my total of alcoholic creations up to four before the year's out.

Stay put and stay tuned, and you'll get some free samples.

out of the doldrums

I'm reading a book called Race to the Pole by Sir Ranulph Fiennes. It's the last word on Robert F. Scott's ill-fated second expedition to the Antarctic. Scott and four companions made the South Pole, only to find they'd been beaten to the punch by the dastardly and deceitful Roald Amundsen. To add insult to injury, all five of them died on the way back to Ross Island and their ship, the Terra Nova. (That means "new land" in Latin, doncha know.)

Reading about people dying in the middle of a wasteland (and ships getting stuck in ice) has made me think a lot about my own situation. I'd love to be off on my next adventure, giving Indiana Jones a run for his money, plumbing unexplored territory and discovering new lands. But I'm a bit stuck. There's a few things to finish, and some money to save; then I can go. In the meantime, I'm stuck in the pack ice. I'm working my way out of it with patience and tact, but it still seems like I'm in the slump of my life here.

And as a very intelligent man once wrote, "un-slumping yourself is not easily done."

But it seems that, after a full year of stagnation, during which I have accomplished practically nothing (except for finishing a novel, becoming a travel writer, acquiring a bartender's certificate and nearly polishing off a pilot's license), things are finally about to pick up.

There've been a few new developments. I'm taking some proactive steps to improve my situation (and hasten my eventual departure from said slump). There've been a few other things that have happened of their own accord, too, which stand to shake things up around here in the coming weeks.

Let's begin with the latest:

Dawg (Boss #3), lately returned from Colombia, has informed us that the Reno Air Races are coming up in mid-September.

And we're all invited.

I'm going to the air races.

Stop a moment and consider what that means to me. You know how plane-crazy I am. I'm not the most die-hard enthusiast you'll meet, and I could be doing a lot more to familiarize myself with the mechanics of engines and the principles of flight. I'm not yet a professional aviator.
But I do like airplanes, as you've probably guessed. I go absolutely nuts when I smell a warbird in the vicinity. And there's a great many civil aircraft that can make me go ga-ga as well. Air races are the province of some of the fastest, most nimble, most sporty airplanes in existence, moreover. And I'll be going to one of the most well-known and prestigious races of them all, the last bastion of the world's fastest motor sport. The Reno Air Races (formally known as the National Championship Air Races) includes the Unlimited class of aircraft, which apparently "consists almost entirely of both modified and stock World War II aircraft [which] routinely reach speeds in excess of 400 miles per hour." Some of these beasts (like September Fury, pictured above) look like they were plucked right from TaleSpin or a comic book about air pirates.

Hot. Diggity. DAMN.

I was about eight years old the last time I was involved with anything resembling a race. The vehicles were seven inches long, 2¾ inches wide, weighed no more than five ounces, and were made of pinewood.

Reno is going to be an absolute blast.

Go ahead and turn green, suckers.

Moving on...

More about what I'm doing to un-slump myself: my father recently informed me (in a nonchalant sort of way) that I have a mutual fund sitting in the pipeline. It was created soon after my birth and has endured nearly 24 years of stock market ups and downs. It's not enough to retire on, certainly, but it'll take care of the urgent things on my to-do-before-I-go-to-Spain-or-Australia list: namely, car repairs and pilot's licensing.
I think I'm going to use it for car repairs. Those could potentially cost more than $700, which is the amount I've budgeted for finishing my pilot's license. I'll knock off new shocks, new tires, new brakes and new coolant with my mutual fund and use my next paycheck to kill off the pilot's license.

And then, ladies and gentlemen...there will be nothing holding me here. I can gallivant off to a far corner of the globe, or procure any decent radio job in the Western United States and finally move out of my parents' house.

I'll let you know what I decide. This should all be resolved within the month. As of September 1, 2010, you shall be privy to the doings of Postman, the pilot (and owner of an upgraded 1995 Jeep Cherokee).

If you want to hear some writing updates, here they are:

My good buddy Nick, whom I met in college, a student of animation and visual design, who is currently working for a private animation studio near Orlando, Florida (and, with any luck, will soon be moving to Blue Sky Animation, the folks who brought you Despicable Me)...

Well, he got in touch with me a few weeks ago. We'd been in and out of contact since graduation, but never routinely. Out of the blue he dropped me a line. Prior to this, I'd talked with him at length about my novel idea, and he was very intrigued. So intrigued, in fact, that he asked me to send him some stuff and he'd draw up some sketches and pictures.

Awesome.

I'd been stressing about finding an artist for my comic book, worrying myself sick over procuring one that I could rely on and work well with. And then BAM, an old friend whom I know and trust offers me his services, which I already know to be top-flight.

Sometimes I get so lucky I feel almost ashamed.

Anyway, not much had come of that arrangement, but Nick and I renewed the promise over the phone. That was the purpose of his call, in fact. That, and to catch up. He's a good guy. He's had some hard times out there in Florida. One of the studios he was working for got shut down for want of money, which was a pity, because Nick really enjoyed what he was doing there. He's been getting by with freelancing and semi-regular work for Campus Crusade for Christ. He's been offered a half-year contract with CRU, and he's taken 'em up on it for the time being. But he's sent out applications to a half-dozen other studios, and has his eye on the aforementioned Blue Sky.

In the meantime, he said he had time to illustrate my stuff! So I said, "Heck yes! I'll send you some character bios and outlines right away."

And so I did. Nick and I are meeting every Monday evening now on Skype to exchange ideas and material (and catch up with each other's lives). It's incredible. Feels like the dream is coming alive, seeing my characters and settings leap into vibrant existence, born of Nick's pencils and pens and agile mind. His work is more than I could have hoped for. We have slightly different visions of the world I'm creating, of course, but that's what our meetings are for: to hash out those disparities and come to mutual agreement, exchange thoughts on character and detail, and just build the series from the ground up.

We're just doing it for fun, of course; neither of us is anywhere near being ready to find an outlet for this yet. Heck, I haven't even gotten the novel published (though my novelist cousin is finished reading it, and is sending it to me next week; she wrote in her e-mail "GOOD JOB!" I think she liked it!).

But when we are ready to go public with this...well, shoot. We'll have the groundwork laid already.

One last thing. My first science fiction novelette is pretty much edited. I'm handing it over to a friend tomorrow to proof, and then I'm [gulp] sending it to Fantasy & Science Fiction magazine, double-spaced, formatted and numbered, with a self-addressed stamped envelope and my little fingers crossed.

I should have lots of news for you in two weeks...stay tuned.

P.S. You know, I worry about these posts. Sometimes I think I'm going to bore you guys to tears with all of this crap. The doubts, the obstacles, the struggles, the triumphs, the baby steps forward. Posts like this grate on my nerves sometimes. Jeez, aren't there enough people in the world who are going to make me feel insecure without me making myself feel that way? I'm not a whiner, I'm a winner! C'mon, Postman, buck up!

But remember, I'm reading about Robert F. Scott. And in Race to the Pole, I learned that for all his brilliance, tact, courage, stamina, and fortitude, Scott was about as insecure as I am. He constantly blamed himself for making stupid mistakes, not doing enough to correct his personal flaws, his inherent lack of willpower, his physical frailty (he couldn't stand the sight of blood), and failing to live up to his personal standards. He got on his own case even when others praised him. After he'd accomplished a great deal, Scott still fell into depressed moods, feeling inferior to those around him. Even the fortune-teller could see that this maudlin melancholy was part of Scott's personality.

So now all of a sudden I don't feel so bad about waxing pathetic all the time.

If one of the most famous explorers in history got away with it, what's to stop me?

If I ever buy a boat, I'm calling it Terra Nova.

champagne and cinnamon rolls

Like a swarm of lemurs fired from a cannon, it hit me suddenly. I haven't told you about Christmas Day or New Year's Eve. Before I get into what's happened so far in 2010, I suppose I had better wrap up 2009 properly. That is if you're interested. Christmas Day was pure-D marvy. The whole family-togetherness thing was splendid in and of itself. I haven't experienced it in two years, you see. Last year I was in South Korea, and though my expatriate posse and I managed to have a pretty good time over there (gathering in A & E's apartment, drinking Buck's Fizz, opening presents and eating fried chicken and beef stew), there's no place like home. More to the point, I got EVERYTHING I wanted. I got a T-shirt with an F4U Corsair emblazoned on it; a leather cigar case, complete with cutter and butane lighter, spotted in the Russell's for Men catalog; an iPod (I got that a little earlier than Christmas Day, though); and a kneeboard. Yes, I've sold my soul. I swore I'd never get an iPod. Compact discs and a Walkman would do me just fine, I said. I can still fit 'em into my pockets when I'm out walking. I can't run with them, and it's a bitch and a half to change CDs in the middle of a six-mile walk in the Mojave Desert, but hey, you can't beat an original. No MP3 players for me, thanks. Ha ha, yeah. Those arguments withstood the test of time. About twelve seconds, roughly. And just to clarify, a kneeboard is not something you kneel on and then get hauled rapidly across the water with. You know me better than that. It's aviation-related. A kneeboard is a portable clipboard that you can strap to your leg for those long cross-country flights. Unless you're in an Airbus or a C-17, you don't really have the benefit of a desk when you're in the cockpit. So kneeboards were invented to provide a flat space for you to jot down important information and figures while in flight. Mine is a premium model, a tri-fold kneeboard (meaning it unfolds in thirds, with lots of groovy pockets and suchlike). I also got a customizable license plate holder, with a bunch of letters and numbers to create your own personal message to whoever's tailgating you (oh, you can bet I'm going to have fun with that); a Hershey's Kiss the size of a doll's head; some monogrammed hankies; a travel game set; a knife for my portable cocktail mixing kit; a new leather belt; an extra X-box controller (I also swore to give up video games in favor of comic books, darn it!); and some other good stuff. Good, I got the loot-litany off my chest. Now we can resume the narrative. For breakfast, Dad made his pumpkin pancakes. These are a relatively new dish in our family, entering Dad's repertoire after he had a delicious batch at IHOP just before Halloween. He downloaded the recipe off the Internet and has been making them for every special occasion this season. They're dynamite, let me assure you. Suitably fueled, Harlan, Dad and I piled into my Jeep and headed across the valley, into the shadow of the Granite Mountains, to fulfill a promise made four years ago: summit the buggers. We'd attempted to climb these huge, rocky hills on New Year's Day a few years ago, and failed due to bad weather. Now we were back to try it again on this beautiful Christmas Day, with weather in the low sixties, sunny, and breezy. Our aim was Feldspar Peak, the Granites' highest point at [NOTE TO SELF: look this number up before you hit that "publish" button]. Well, we made it. It was a perilous journey, full of rocks, loose gravel, treacherous slopes, spiky plants and a surfeit of huffing and puffing. But we climbed a few key ridges and then had a fairly simple push to the summit. We stood up there, the now-cold wind caressing us gently, our water bags considerably lightened, sweat drying on our foreheads, surveying all there was to see. We also phoned Mom to see if she could see us. Feldspar Peak is directly across the valley from our house, and Mom, in theory, should've been able to spot us. Harlan manned the phone, Dad got out his signal mirror and I waved my arms for all I was worth. No dice. Mom's binoculars just weren't powerful enough. We were about six miles away, as the crow flies. She would've been better off with an astronomical telescope. She did spot the flash of Dad's mirror, though, if not the three figures behind it. At least that question has been answered. Then we climbed down (giving our protesting quads another vicious beating), limped to the Jeep, went home, ate a delectable turkey dinner, and didn't move much for the next three days. New Year's Eve was weird. I mean, it's never exactly been normal in my family. When my brother and I were little we'd all sort of cuddle up together on the couch and watch Lawrence Welk (not Dick Clark's Rockin' Eve) until the Big Moment. Mom and Dad would battle to keep us both awake, and stay awake themselves. As we got older, and it became less of a struggle to stay up, we'd have a dominoes tourney until the Big Moment came, when my brother and I would toast with sparkling apple cider and eat finger food while the folks sat, comatose, in the living room in front of the TV. We sort of did that this New Year's Eve. We had finger food, and sparkling cider (which no one but Harlan drank), and a little bit of TV. But for the most part we just played Phase 10 (a kiddie variant of progressive rummy), listened to music, and drank champagne. Well, okay, not real champagne, seeing as how it's not from the Champagne region of France and all, but sparkling wine nonetheless. Oh, and we made cinnamon rolls. That was what was so weird about the night. We never bake anything on New Year's Eve. The whole point is just to be massively lazy and let the old year slither out on its belly like it probably wants to after a hard 365-day shift. The most intricate thing we make on New Year's Eve is the drinks. I busted all the 1.75-liter jugs out of the liquor cabinet and asked the folks to name their poison. And they did. I wound up making Long Island iced teas for Dad and myself, which we sipped as we mixed, rolled, cut, wound, and baked. The remainder of the night is a bit fuzzy, but nothing anywhere near comparing to that embarrassing thing that happened last month. Don't ask. We made the cinnamon rolls because we would be taking off at an ungodly hour the next morning for Benson, Arizona, to visit my great uncle and aunt, Bob and Barb. The cinnamon rolls would be our hi-how-are-you gift. For that same reason, Mom and Dad didn't stay up until midnight, for the first time in 20 years. They hit the sack about eleven, and as a result of this confusion, I actually missed the Big Moment. I looked at my watch as I was getting into bed, just in time to see it turn from 12:00 to 12:01. "Happy New Year," I said to the sparkling lights of the town in the valley below, outside my window.

hats off to (Roy) Harper

I woke for the first time at 2:30 a.m. I know this because I rolled over sluggishly and flipped open my cell phone to check. There was a sort of half-light in the tent. After a moment I realized it was due to the waning moon on the rise overhead. The next time I woke up was 3:30 a.m. The next was probably 4:30, or thereabouts. And so on, and so on. At 6:30 I reckoned I'd about reached my limit. It wasn't that I was uncomfortable, goodness knows. For the first time in my life, I'd actually done a fair job of blowing up my air mattress. It was firm and well-seated. I wasn't cold; between the sweats and the down sleeping bag, I was pretty toasty, even though the night had gotten down to 32 degrees Fahrenheit. This was merely my morning custom: as the sleep chemicals in my brain slowly exhausted themselves, I woke up, dropped back to sleep, woke up, dropped back to sleep, woke up, dropped back to sleep...ad infinitum, sometimes through a dozen cycles. At 6:30 I finally quit on the business and stayed awake, listening to the cars beginning to roll down Center Road a few hundred yards away, the ravens cackling in the trees overhead, and the elderly folks next door (up insanely early, like most elderly folks I know). John was like a rock. He was sleeping on his right side; but neither sound nor movement could I detect. I couldn't even hear him breathe. I'd shared tents with a few people in my time, cabins with a few more, and rooms with a multitude. None of them slept as silently as John did. He's going to make some woman very happy someday, that guy. He also brags that he never needs a midnight glass of water...unless, he adds with a devilish grin, he's doing something that results in a loss of bodily fluids. Right around 7:30, John woke up. By now, the rising sun was lighting the tent with a tender glow. Both of us laid there a moment longer, debating whether it was better to wait 'til things warmed up outside the sleeping bags and then decamp, or simply grin and bear it. Unsurprisingly, I planted my flag in the latter camp. I'm a cryophile, you know. I prefer cooler temperatures. And when I say that I prefer cooler temperatures, I of course mean that, while all of the North Dakotans and Minnesotans were huddling in their warm dorm rooms at North Dakota State University in Fargo, watching the slow-laden blizzard howl past the windows at -44 degrees, I was out taking a stroll through the hip-deep drifts. My ideal temperature range is somewhere between 50 and 65 degrees. Seventies are usually okay, though, 's long as it's breezy. The 40s and 30s are pretty peachy, too. It was only, like, forty-something outside now that the sun was up and coming. So, John and I manned up (or as John prefers to say, we "cowboyed the f___ up"). John got the fire going while I performed a few emergency ablutions: thanks to the condensation inside the tent, my hair had been bent up into the most fantastic shapes imaginable. I could've given Stygimoloch a run for its money. I washed up in the restroom, plastered my hair down, and went back outside to help John. I cut up some canned potatoes while my friend fried sausage and eggs together in a pan. The remainder of our cedar was burning in the fire pit, and that bright yellow ball in the sky was climbing slowly through the pine trees. I made myself some hot chocolate while John sipped some cold orange juice. Then we sat down to our hearty camp breakfast. It was sinfully delicious. As we'd observed the previous night, everything tastes better when it's cooked outdoors. The potatoes may have been canned, but Jimmy Dean has never flunked a sausage yet. I couldn't have asked for a better pick-me-up while out on the road. Except, perhaps, for a gorgeous female hiker who'd somehow misplaced all of her clothes stumbling out of the bushes nearby. Can't win 'em all... All around us, Mather Campsite was coming to life. A dog was barking somewhere to the south. The elderly folks were already packed and ready to go. People were filtering in from nearby campsites to use the restroom. The zoological caucus was out in force, too. As we were cleaning up, John spotted a family of deer poking their way unconcernedly along Juniper Loop, just across the lane from our campsite, nibbling on various herbage as they went. I didn't get very good pictures of this amazing sight (there were two bucks, a doe, and a little fawn) because the batteries in my camera conveniently chose that moment to peter out. As stealthily as possible, I went rifling through my duffel bag for the replacements we'd purchased in Yuma. I managed to find them in time to get a few shots. Following this wildlife encounter, we finished cleaning up; disassembled and repacked the tent; stuffed the sleeping bags into their sacks; and rolled up the pads (not in that order). We loaded everything back into the car, made sure the fire was out (John had used up the last of the lighter fluid earlier by nonchalantly flinging squirts of it onto the hot coals), and took off. We drove back out to Center Road and headed right. After a short distance we came upon the Yavapai Lookout, on the south rim of the Grand Canyon. Anticipation built by the second as we got out of the car, readied our cameras and slowly approached the lookout point. I suddenly realized that I'd never been to the Grand Canyon before. I began to fully appreciate that I was standing just a few yards from a rather impressive crack in the ground. I began to get an idea of what I was in for. Nevertheless, the two of us somehow managed to keep our gait sedate as we approached. And then the thing opened up beneath us like the gaping jaws of some planet-spawned Titan. We gazed in silent, elemental wonder. Or at least, I did. John was taking a couple of deep breaths a few feet behind me. Poor chap's acrophobic. I'm not really sure if I could muster the poetry to describe just what a full-body experience viewing the Grand Canyon truly is. I was and still am gobsmacked. I felt as if the fluid in my eyes had been replaced with electrolysis gel, and my guts had been turned to empty air. It was a religious moment. The sheer size of the canyon, the majesty of its contours, the subtle mysteries of its recesses, the utter incredibility of the sight...all combined to form a tangible blow to the solar plexus. Unable to do much of anything else, we stood behind the short rock wall marking the canyon rim, staring out and down. John, at least, retained enough of his rational mind to do so in silence. I kept up a steady stream of inane and fatuous commentary. After a few seconds of looking over the massive, primordial formation of rock, sand and sediment, I turned to face John and said, in a voice of faux portent: "Now that, John, is a grand canyon." After a quick tour of the actual lookout station, where the impressive geologic history of the canyon was delineated... ...we took to wandering along the canyon rim, trying to toe the fine line between actually appreciating the miraculous vista with our eyes and taking a suitably large number of photographs. We also toed the line between capturing some heroic poses at the edge of the precipice and falling hundreds of feet to our deaths. This involved much pushing of camera timer buttons and scampering like drunken mountain goats along narrow ridge lines and uneven rocks before the ten seconds were up. Finally, though far from exhausted with our surroundings, we sensed it was time to hit the road. We meandered back to the parking lot and swiftly exited the park, finding ourselves once more among the rolling, scrubby hills of Arizona. After a mere twenty miles, however, we arrived in Valle for the second time. And that was when I finally got my chance to check out that air museum. I may not have mentioned this, but I am an absolute fiend for vintage aircraft. Any old prop-driven airplane, from the Wright Flyer to the Ford Trimotor to the F7F Tigercat, gets me all excited inside, like a kid in a candy store. I especially love World War II-era fighters and bombers. So of course, when we'd passed the museum the day before and I'd seen this sitting out front... ...I knew I had to take a look inside. It was absolutely marvelous, second only to the Grand Canyon. There was a gift shop full of the most magical assortment of books, baseball caps, T-shirts, posters, models, coffee mugs, bumper stickers and badges imaginable; a hangar floor with a gang of my old favorites inside, some of which I'd never seen in person; and outside, some giant classics shining gloriously in the desert sun. Like this MiG, for example... Or this C-54... Or this Grumman Duck, which I'd never seen without amphibious floats... Or the sexiest beast on the lot, the B-26K Invader, which I'd only ever encountered in books and pictures... Or the crown jewel of the museum, this little honey, this shining triumph of aerospace engineering, General Douglas MacArthur's personal transport during the Korean War, a Lockheed C-121 Constellation (coincidentally the same type of aircraft whose engines can be seen flaring to life at the top of this page)... ...the legendary Bataan! Being inside was like a dream. The interior had been lovingly restored to its original form, as MacArthur had actually used it. An old Canadian sailor, Trevor, who'd fought aboard a destroyer during the Allied invasion of Incheon during the Korean War (in which my grandfather, an infantryman, had also participated), showed us through it. Inside were two lavatories; a closet with real uniforms from the period, flight suits and dress uniforms, hanging up for review; a spacious office-cum-living area where MacArthur sat and reviewed ground deployments of his troops from on high; a surprisingly roomy kitchen replete with coffee pots and an electric range, which was an utterly novel concept at the time; a large navigator's compartment, which even had a sectional chart laid out on the desk; and, of course, a knob- and dial-ridden cockpit, which I drooled over. Trevor explained some fascinating trivia to us about the aircraft, and even took some pictures of us: John and myself, in the navigator's compartment... ...and me, standing right by the general's desk. Note the phone, the radio, and the clock with Roman numerals. (We couldn't find his corncob pipe anywhere, though.) All too soon, we were climbing back out of the Connie and back into the sun. We stepped inside the museum again to do a little shopping. I couldn't resist. Planes of Fame was a world-renowned vintage aircraft restoring (and flying) organization, and they had some souvenirs to die for. I managed to limit myself to a deck of cards printed like WWII-era plane-spotter aircraft recognition cards, a Hawaiian shirt coated with fighters and bombers and palm trees, and a ribald bumper sticker for a pilot friend of mine (which read "PILOTS MAKE SMOOTHER APPROACHES"). I paid up, slipped two dollars inside a clear plastic jar labeled "Aircraft Maintenance Fund" and then, after a last goodbye to the lovely old lady behind the counter, we vacated the premises. John, who had acted pretty blasé as we'd toured the museum (except for that MiG), took a few minutes to drool over a Corvette ZR6 in the parking lot. We made a quick stop at the classic car museum right next door (which had everything from Model Ts to old Honda power scooters from the 1960s), and then took off down the highway, bound for home. To say that the remainder of the trip was uneventful would be a gross understatement, even though it consisted of nothing more than us refueling in Williams and driving home on Interstate 40. Between Valle and Williams, we put on Led Zeppelin III, which I'd purchased in Flagstaff. Picture me, in the driver's seat, aviator shades on, my face straight, my insides bouncing up and down like Christmas morning with new music and airplane goodies, my fingers tapping on the steering wheel, the car flying through the sunlight and breeze and golden-green hills; John, in the passenger seat, the log on his lap, baring his soul on paper, the subliminal voice of Robert Plant on "Hats off to (Roy) Harper" ululating out of the Chrysler's speakers. So we traversed AZ-64, refueled in Williams (where John switched again to the driver's seat), got on I-40, and rolled on. Pensive and preoccupied, neither of us said much as we drove by Kingman... ...crossed the border, passed the celestially beautiful Mojave National Preserve... ...and arrived in Barstow just as the sun set. We exited the 40, reunited with our old friend 247 for the drive to my house, and got home right as the last pink light was fading out of the star-lined evening sky. John and I got my stuff out of his car, carried it inside, shook hands, and parted. And that was the end of that road trip. How I felt afterward might best be described by this picture: