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.

have katzenjammer, will travel

It seemed poetically just that we should enter the city of Dublin with a hangover.

Remember how I said we made a jolly night of it on the evening of the 14th? The Cumberland Arms? Every beer and cider on tap?

Well, we sure did a number on ourselves. For A & E it wasn't such a big deal, but for Jeff and I, well...we had to get up early, heft some luggage into a cab, endure the swift, swerving ride to Newcastle Airport, and board a plane for a flight across the sea.

As previously mentioned, we were hung over.

I've traveled hung over before—by land, sea, and air—and it ain't pretty.

The morning of June 15th was calm, cool, moist, and blessedly sunny. As harmful as sunlight is to bloodshot eyes, I welcome the sun on the morning after a bender. The last thing I need after staying out all night, lapsing into a chemically-induced coma, and waking up feeling like hammered shit is gray skies and drizzle outside my window. Then I'll never snap out of it. I'll spend the whole day stumbling about the house like a reanimated corpse, head pounding, mouth cottony, body resisting the bacon, eggs, beans, toast, ibuprofen, and six gallons of cold water I've poured into myself.

The sun didn't help much that morning, though. We groggily paid the cabbie and stumped across the parking lot. Not much was said between us. Our appearance was undoubtedly ghastly. George Romero would've run screaming. Somehow Jeff had the presence of mind to remember to get our boarding passes stamped by Ryanair authorities, 'cause we were foreign nationals. I love being a foreigner. Everyone's suspicious of you, and for good reason. To justify the transportation officials' worst fears I should take to wearing an eyepatch and a wooden leg and growling at fellow passengers, "Arrr! Have ye seen a hand grenade lyin' around anywhere? I have the pin in me pocket."

Then we had to sit around the terminal for about 30 minutes to find out what gate we'd board at. Apparently the cheapo airlines like Ryanair and EasyJet are so low down on the totem pole that they don't even have appointed gates for their arrivals and departures; they have to sneak in like thieves in the night. Gates aren't announced until moments before boarding begins. And if you miss the last boarding call, you're SOL. We were assiduous in listening to the PA system, rest assured.

We boarded and the plane took off on schedule. Jeff promptly passed out. I had the window seat, and felt somehow obligated to look out the window, even in spite of my condition. When would I get a chance to see England, Ireland and the Irish Sea again? And it was quite a good view, even despite that monstrous engine.
 


We touched down and got off the plane, feeling, if possible, even worse than when we left. Air travel does little to improve physical maladies. Solid ground and fresh air helped a great deal, however. The first thing we noticed were the signs, and the unpronounceable words (festooned with accent marks) which covered them.

It was a long, long, long walk to Irish customs. The bloody concourse seemed to go on forever. When we finally did pass (and got our passports stamped—in green) it was already afternoon. We boarded the bus to Dublin proper and were soon debarking at Westmoreland Street, just south of the River Liffey. 

Now, don't laugh, but it took Jeff and me a little while to find our hostel...400 feet from the bus stop. All we had to do was go south down Westmoreland, hang a left on College Street, and walk a few paces down the curving sidewalks ('scuse me, pavement), stopping just before Doyle's Pub.

What we wound up doing was going south down Westmoreland, passing College Street, and wandering aimlessly around down Grafton and Nassau Streets south of Trinity College.

I shouldn't attempt to cast blame on anyone but ourselves. We were, after all, attempting to navigate our way through a city we'd never been to with some piece-of-shit souvenir map we couldn't read—while zombified and squinting in the bright sunlight. And I certainly don't wish to express displeasure with anything Irish, either. There can't be much wrong with a country that came up with Jameson whiskey, Maureen O'Hara, Irish whistles, Connemara ponies, and (in an indirect sort of way) Bill O'Reilly. Not to mention an airline that sounds like some kind of perverted-but-awesome sexual practice. 

But all that aside, the roadsigns in Dublin (and in most cities in England and Scotland, too) are DANGED hard to find, let alone see.

After a half hour or so, Jeff and I finally located the College Street sign at the corner of College and Westmoreland (how were we to tell, coming from the Liffey like that, standing outside the Bank of Ireland, which street was which? We could only see the sign approaching from the south, on the Trinity College side) and found our hostel without further delay.

We were rather hot and bothered by our long stroll through crowded streets. The weather was quite clement: high 70s, with a brilliant sun and slightly muggy air. I wasn't complaining at all. Dublin was chock full of pretty girls. Everywhere you looked there were stunners, jaw-droppers, lookers, eye-candy, babes, hotties, goddesses, all of the most delightedly Celtic persuasion. I mean, like, everywhere. Herds of them, all decked out in their summer clothes: short skirts, charming shoes and even a long, slinky dress or two.  

I began to be somewhat enthused about the 48 hours we'd be in town.

Any notions that I had about learning Irish culture (as in "meeting Irish chicks") in Dublin began to dissolve as soon as I stepped over the threshold of our hostel, however.

The concierge was an Australian girl.

So was our roommate. Well, he wasn't a girl, but he was Australian, I mean. We met him upon getting our room keys and heading up to the fourth floor. Harry, he called himself. Our rooms, by the way, were immaculate:

So was Harry. Well, he wasn't a room, but he was immaculate. Pressed shirt, waistcoat, dress pants, black socks, the works. If he'd put his leather shoes back on and grabbed a bowtie and some rimless spectacles, he could've passed for a college don on his day off. He had a bit of black stubble on his cheeks, a tanned complexion, and a sort of refined Australian accent. He said he was a backpacker.

For a moment Jeff and I attempted to picture Harry hacking his way through the Brazilian jungle with a machete, sweat pouring down his face and neck, his pressed shirt and waistcoat slowly turning to sodden rags, and then gave up. We couldn't do it. We let ourselves toy with the idea that he was so dandily dressed just because he was back in civilization. That seemed to work better. Our rough-and-ready North American minds would not coutenance the notion of an "urban backpacker." This dapper lad didn't fit into our backpacking paradigm, so to speak. And so we assumed he must merely be taking a few days' furlough before hitting the trail again. Neither of us even considered that he might just be traveling through Europe with stuff in a backpack, and calling it "backpacking." That was impossible.

Whatever his occupation or his motives, Harry was an apt roommate. He was quiet, mostly working on his computer (yes, he called it "work"). That left Jeff and I to our own devices. We threw down our heavy loads gratefully (why had I bothered to bring my computer? Why? The hostel didn't even have wi-fi), showered, and changed clothes. Then it was time to head out and see what we could see of Dublin before we lost the light—which, at this latitude, wasn't going to be an issue for a good few hours yet.

I'll tell you about that later, though.

Don't miss the next installment, where've all the Irish gone? a.k.a. "THE FIRST EVENING IN DUBLIN," coming up soon on the Sententious Vaunter!