Why Wordle Matters

I have to admit that I was reluctant to playing the game.

For weeks, I saw the block patterns appearing in my Twitter feed and had no idea what was going on. In fact, I saw my peeps tweeting their Wordle results without even being curious.

How my brain works.

At last, I Googled the word that accompanied the patterns and realized it was an online game, but I still wasn't interested. As soon as I knew what it was, I closed down that Google browser tab and continued with my day.

When DW became hooked, she asked me if I played. "No, I've seen what it is but I'm not really interested." My dismissive comment surprised DW, as she knew that I loved puzzles and word games.

I don't keep many games on my smartphone. At times, I have none. But I do like to play Sudoku and I've recently downloaded one of those puzzles, where you have a bunch of test tubes that have layers of various colours, and you have to sort each colour into their own tube by pouring them onto matching colours.

I like games that are quick and actually use my brain. With the pandemic, I find that I'm constantly in a fog and need to do exercises that provide focus.

"But Wordle does that," DW said. "And the best thing is that it's only one puzzle each day, so you don't get sucked in for hours on end. It takes just a couple of minutes of your day."

For a week, I resisted.

And throughout that week, it seemed that more and more of my Twitter peeps were playing the game. Every morning, there was a steady stream of patterned blocks filling my feed.

And so I tried it.

I was able to solve the word in four attempts, and DW was impressed. For her, four out of six chances to solve the puzzle was her best score: she usually solved the word in five or six attempts.

A couple of days later, I solved the puzzle in three attempts. A couple of times, I did it in two.

I've joined the ranks of Twitterfolk and have posted my results on social media. I saw that a couple of my peeps had voiced their disdain at seeing Wordle scores in their feed; one, who suggested that she would start dropping people who posted their results.

A few days later, I saw that she was no longer following me. Oh well, that's okay.

I don't understand how someone can hate Wordle to a point of complaining about it and cutting off people. Sure, it's a fad that will likely dwindle over time. But for me, it's something that we can share as a community, where we can share the joy of people's results. It's something that can show us that we have something in common.

Sure, I was dismissive of the game and a latecomer. But I never dissed others for playing it.

As a wise person on Twitter noted, "Wordle is the game for these times. It teaches that some problems are solveable [sic] in deductive steps. But more importantly: it reminds others of this."

Yes, the pandemic may be keeping us from each other. But Wordle, free, without ads, without complications, can bring us together in a positive way.

Friday Fiction: Abductions

The following passage is a rough-draft excerpt from my upcoming novel, Gyeosunim, the sequel to Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary. Be warned that there are spoilers and you may be missing some context. Passages are in no particular order and are subject to change.

Photo credit: lanaclassic.com

Though I couldn’t see through the sack, I felt we were moving too fast for the Wartburg. The small, four-door automobile was the last thing I saw as the man slipped the bag over my head and shoved me into the back seat. My hands remained cuffed and I knew it would be a mistake to try to escape, or worse, fight my abductors. No doubt, someone, if not all of the men were armed.

No words were spoken. All I could hear were the high revs of the small engine, the squealing of tires as we negotiated streets, and the occasional horn as the driver warned pedestrians and other cars to get out of our way.

I remained still, focusing on my breathing and maintaining my balance as I fought to remain still around corners. I took stock of what I had on me: a wallet with 50 West German marks and 10 from East Germany. At Checkpoint Charlie, when I had crossed into the east, I was required to convert some cash into East German currency. An admission fee, I told myself. I had a Canadian credit card, driver’s license, and passport, none of which was in my real name. Over my shoulder, I had a Minolta X-700 camera, but that had been confiscated as I was grabbed.

All told, I looked like a tourist. Why would a tourist run?

Charles was in charge. My instructions were clear: maintain a distance from the other men who were similarly dressed but be sure that I was always between them and the road. If any vehicle pulled up, if anyone got out, take a picture of them, make eye contact, and then run.

Gunther was supposed to be about my size, dressed nearly identically to me, even down to the camera. It was going to be a case of mistaken identity. What would I tell the authorities who grabbed me why I had run? I was to say that I had realized that I had photographed someone who wasn't supposed to be photographed and feared that I had broken some law. It was stupid and I knew I should not have run, but I was scared and was not thinking straight.

That was my story. Just focus on that, breathe steady, and everything would be all right.

***

“Gah!” the young man in the glasses barked at the driver as he closed the rear door. Go!

“Eo-di gaya?” Go where?

“I don’t care, just drive,” my abductor ordered, in Hangul.

The driver, dressed for nightclubbing, in a dark suit, put the car into gear and sped out of the alley. We made a right turn, heading away from the Gaeksa and toward the river. The passenger in the front remained silent and still, her head still bowed downward, her hair blocking me from seeing her face. She wasn’t reading anything. It was clear that she didn’t want to be a party to this abduction.

I looked at the young men on each side of me. Neither was bigger than me. With only one of them, I would likely have a chance at fighting, even in my inebriated state. But to fight both of them, from opposing sides, would be a foolhardy gesture. Instead, I took a good look at them, making a mental note.

As we reached the river, the driver took another right turn on the road that ran along the north bank of the river. We were heading west, passing cars as room allowed. The driver, clearly agitated, argued with his partners in crime. Though they spoke quickly and in high-pitched whines, I caught the gist of what they were discussing.

Now that they had me, what were they going to do with me?

I chuckled, softly, to myself: nothing in Korea is organized, I told myself. Least of all, crime.

The abductor to my left saw me smiling and muttering to myself, and raised a hand to me. “Haji-ma!” he exclaimed: Cut it out! He slapped me on my left cheek, but with such little force that I wasn’t sure if he was enacting violence upon me or simply, aggressively, stroking my face.

I laughed harder. “Is that your worst?” I chuckled at him.

Using his right leg, he jabbed at my leg, which felt little more than a nudge. His knee hit my pant leg, making contact with the side pocket of my cargo pants, which held my wallet. “Unh? Geu-gae mwoya? Boyeo-jewuh.” What’s that? Show me.

I stopped laughing.

“Geugyus-eul juh-wae-gae chuseyo.” Give it to me.

Slowly, and with obvious reluctance, I reached into my pocket and retrieved my wallet. My assailant snapped it from me and opened it. I had about 50,000 won, to which he helped himself. When he started thumbing through the rest of the contents—my drivers license, immigration card, and credit card, I started to worry. No Korean would have any use for this ID. An Ontario license with my photo and Canadian address; a Canadian credit card with an English name and a bank that did no consumer business in Korea; and an immigration card with my name and image. At best, he would hand it back to me: at worst, he would take it and throw it away, or keep it as some twisted souvenir of this abduction.

I couldn’t take the chance that the worst-case scenario would occur. Just as he had first snapped the wallet from my fingertips, I snapped it back. The look on my face said “try to take it from me again.”

With my cash firmly in his possession, he didn’t take issue with my action.

The car followed the river as it curved northward and met with Paltal-ro, on the far-west end of the city, where the industrial sector and rice fields separated the main part of the city with Dongsan-dong and other satellite neighbourhoods to the west. Once again, we turned right and headed back toward the downtown core.

Everyone had fallen silent, content in letting the driver cruise the darkened streets. Traffic was light and many traffic lights were on a flash cycle, telling the drivers to slow before proceeding through the intersections. I was reminded of my first night in Chŏnju, when the taxi took Linda Bryce and me from the bus station to the apartment in Dongsan-dong. That night, as the taxi driver sped through the intersections, I was terrified that I wouldn’t survive the drive. Tonight, I was confident that I’d be okay but I was feeling perturbed by this inconvenience.

What were my friends at Pappy’s thinking? Were they looking for me? Were they worried?

***

The room in which I was placed had no windows. A single, fourty-watt bulb hung from a wire in the centre of the four-by-four-metre space. Only two simple, wooden chairs occupied the otherwise empty room, and I had been thrust in one of them before they removed the bag from my head, pulling on my hair with the violent yank. The concrete walls were blank, save for the metal door through which we had entered. It had a slim slit of a peephole, at eye level, that could only be opened from the outside.

I was still handcuffed, my arms uncomfortably behind me, the back of the chair digging into my shoulder blades and armpits. Though I still had my jacket on, I was cold in this holding cell. Or was I shivering out of fear?

The men who had sat me in the chair and removed the sack walked out of the room, and I heard a heavy latch lock the door behind them. I was facing the door, on the opposite end of the room, and the vacant chair faced me, about one-and-a-half metres away, waiting for my interrogator.

Stick to the script, I told myself. Everything will be fine if you stick to the script.

***

The Hyundai Elantra weaved its way through the largely empty streets, circling the neighbourhood around city hall. I recognized the building that was once home to the hagwon where the Englishman, Simon, had taught last year. The doors were gated shut and the sign was gone. Like my old hagwon, this language institute had also fallen to the economic downturn.

We turned another corner and I recognized the pink-light district, where Brad and I once walked when leaving Simon’s apartment—also in the building with his hagwon—after a night of poker. As we passed some of the small buildings with the glass display cases, in which young women sat, the man to the left of me spoke to the driver. “Joong-ji,” he said. Stop.

Once at rest, my abductor, clearly the leader of this group, got out of the car and pulled me with him. He pushed me away from the car and spoke, for the first time, in English. “Pappy,” he said, with a warning tone, “don’t go.” With that, he got back into the car and the four drove off.

As they rolled into a darkened part of the street, I looked at the license plate, but because the bulb for the plate was burned out, I could only make out the first part of the plate before the vehicle was consumed in darkness.

“Shit,” I exhaled. I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to two. Pappy’s would be closed and no doubt my friends would be nowhere around the club. On the other hand, I was about a ten-minute walk from the Gaeksa, and would have to go that way to make my way back to the apartment. On the odd chance that anyone was hanging around, looking for me, I should go back.

“Hello,” a faint, female voice said. I looked across the street and saw a young woman, in her mid-twenties, standing in the doorway to the pink-lit shack. She wore a white, tight-fitting blouse that was buttoned only half-way up, her bright-red push-up bra visible through the thin material. Black, shiny short-shorts also tightly held her slim figure. Black high-heeled shoes completed the wardrobe. Her makeup made her face pale, the bright-red lipstick, which seemed to match her bra, the only colour. She beckoned me, using her hands to try to draw me to her. She wasn’t shy, nor repulsed, as some of the women who saw Brad and me, almost a year ago.

“Not tonight, my dear,” I said, my hands opening in apology. “Maybe another time.” I started walking toward city hall, almost wishing someone would be waiting for me at Pappy’s but also hoping that someone wasn’t standing alone in the night.

The Gagnon Sessions

In 1974, my Uncle Don (my step-father's sister's then-husband) was into photography. I didn't know him very well, as he and Leslie lived in Beacon Hill, in Ottawa's east end, while we lived in the Borden Farm area of Parkwood Hills, to the southwest end of the city.

We seemed to only get together when we visited at my step-father's parent's house (also in Parkwood Hills-Borden Farm) or we entertained them at our house, and at that point, the grownups didn't interact very much with the kids. All I really knew about Don Gagnon was that he was a firefighter for the city.

I learned about his interest in photography when my folks packed my younger sister Jen and me up, and we drove out to Beacon Hill for a visit (my older sister, Holly, had other plans that day). Before we left the house, my father (as I've called him for decades now) took the time to blow-dry my hair, which was usually all over the place. He told us that we had to look our best because Uncle Don was going to take our photos.

Don had recently purchased some lighting equipment for his camera. He had an interest in photography and wanted to try capturing portraits as possibly a side business for when he wasn't putting out fires. He wanted to try his hand at family portraits and head shots, and wanted to practice with us.

We were his Guinea pigs.

Not only did Don shoot the photos, he also developed the black-and-white film and printed the images. For the head-shot photos, he dodged around the head to get rid of any distractions or background noise. On that day, I wore a pale-blue t-shirt with Honda printed in red and an image of a motorcycle. At the time, I had a Honda mini-bike and this shirt was one of my faves.

I wasn't told how to dress for this shoot. Neither was my father, as he was dressed in cut-off jeans and a plain, dark t-shirt (possibly navy blue, but my memory may be off and all of the photos were shot in black and white). Jen was dressed casual but looked fine.

Forty-eight years later, I look at these photos and I think that they are really good. The exposure is spot on and the focus is tight. Don used a western-themed backdrop with a horse, with us sitting below it. While I wouldn't have put as much emphasis on the background, myself, I can see what he was trying to do.

For the head shot, again the exposure was really good. It's probably the best photo that I have of my nine-year-old self. Both shots were printed on 8 x 10 sheets of photo paper.

I look at these photos, today, and remember them as the Gagnon Sessions. While I don't think that Don ever made a side business of portrait photography—he and Les eventually split up, and Don died years later from cancer (possibly, work-related)—he did take some great photos that day.

Who knows? Maybe Don's interest in photography rubbed off on me, even though this photo, and the ones he took at later sessions were but brief snapshots of my life.

Happy Thursday!

On a Winter's Morning

On a Frosty Saturday Morning

The more this pandemic drags on, the less I want to go outside.

Saturday morning.

It also doesn't help that the temperature in Ottawa's January doesn't entice me to spend a lot of time in the great outdoors. I just don't like being too cold.

Ottawa is the coldest capital city at this time of year, though, according to Google, Ottawa is the seventh coldest capital in the world. But that accounts for the average temperature throughout the year. For years, when Ottawa has plunged into a deep freeze, I've compared temperatures at the same time in other capital cities, and Ottawa always has a colder temperature.

We get colder than Siberia, colder than Moscow, colder than the Scandinavian countries. And this week, we've had a nasty cold snap that has made it downright unpleasant to be outdoors.

You really have to be prepared if you're going to be outside at this time of year.

Despite the frigid temperatures, I decided to suit up, grab some camera and video gear, and head out before sunrise last Saturday. I had an idea for a video and was going to capture some stills at sunrise.

On the night before, I tried to think of some spots that would present a good backdrop. I thought of the Ottawa River but knew that I'd have to cross over to the Québec side of the river to get any decent view of the sunrise, and I immediately thought of the Canadian Museum of History (Museum of Civilization), directly across from Parliament Hill.

I charged up my Insta360 One R and gathered the equipment that I thought I would need: my Nikon D750 with the 24–70mm lens; the 4K lens module on the video camera; two tripods and remote shutter release; spare batteries.

I couldn't find my camera tripod, which I usually keep packed in a storage compartment in the back of our Niro—in a spot that seems made for it. The last time I remembered using it was in Cuba, when I took some long exposures along our resort beach, and later that evening, to record a synchronized swim/dance show. Did I leave it behind? A thorough search of our house turned up nothing, and so I couldn't take it with me for my morning shoot.

Hand-held photography would have to do.

I dug my winter pants out from the basement. I already had my warm winter coat, ski mittens, and toque pulled up, as well as warm winter boots. The only thing I worried about was how my hands might get cold when I needed to take the mitts off to operate my video camera. I'm pretty good at using my Nikon through mitts, especially if I've pre-set the ISO and f-stop for low-light conditions.

One of our cats, Cece, who loves to sleep either against or on top of my legs, at night, woke me up at about 5:00, and while I didn't get up for nearly an hour later, I lay awake, plotting out how I was going to accomplish various shots.

The main plan was to make a slow-motion recording of myself, throwing boiling water over my head. The frigid air would instantly turn the water into snow, which would lightly fall over me. I wanted the morning light to capture the water as it transformed and I wanted to make sure that the Parliament buildings were framed just behind me. With the video camera on a mini-tripod, all I had to do was press the record button and walk to where I would be in the picture, open a small thermos, and move it in an arc that would go over my head.

There was no traffic on the roads and I had the luck of hitting an intersection just as the light would change to green, before I'd even have to slow down. In less than 25 minutes, I was on a side street near the museum. I found a good place to park and listened to the radio as I waited for the last bits of the morning blue hour to come to a close. With about 15 minutes before sunrise, I left the Niro with my gear and made my way to the museum.

A golden line was growing on the horizon, behind Parliament Hill, as plumes of steam climbed into the air from rooftops. With my smartphone, I captured a couple of photos before I made my way down the set of stairs, between the two buildings that comprised the museum, and headed for the river. I passed three men who greeted me, in French, about how crazy we all were to be outside in this deep freeze.

Not expecting to encounter anyone and deep in my own thoughts, I could only reply, "Oui, bonne chance."

I found a spot, not far from where the museum borders the Kruger paper plant, where the Voyageurs Pathway goes from being machine plowed to where pedestrians have cut out their own path through the snow. I was tempted to get closer to the Portage Bridge, where the open water was releasing fog into the air, but I didn't want my cloud of snow to get lost in that kind of background. I set up the tripod for the Insta360 camera but kept the camera, itself, tucked inside my jacket, keeping it warm until I was ready to shoot. In the meantime, I snapped some stills with my Nikon, hoping that the battery wouldn't die from the cold. I had a spare battery for it but replacing it would mean that I'd have to take my hands out of my mittens, and I didn't want to do that.

Luckily, the battery held out.

Sunrise came at about 7:32, but because I was at the river's edge and Parliament Hill stands about 60 or so metres above the river, it took a bit longer for the sun to reach me. Standing in the snow, I jogged on the spot and did jumping jacks to keep warm, but my toes were starting to get cold and I didn't want to wait much longer, so I retrieved my video camera from within my jacket.

I had to take my mittens off and unzip my jacket, and I could feel the cold rush in. With the camera screwed onto the tripod, I pulled out my smartphone and wirelessly connected it to the camera, which was already set to record in slow motion, at 200 fps. The light balance was also set and I had the camera it in vivid mode, all of this done the night before so that I didn't have to make any adjustments outside. Using my smartphone, all I had to do was compose the frame the way I wanted and tap Record.

I carried the thermos and ran into position. The action of throwing the water into the air took no more than five seconds but the camera stretched it out to about 35.

Stills from the video.

With the video shot complete, I packed up my video gear, took a few more stills, and made it back to my car. Mittens off: warm gloves on. My fingers were chilled from the times when I had them exposed to the cold air but they weren't too bad. I had certainly had far worse while out photographing in bitter weather.

On my way home, I stopped at Bate Island, which was shrouded in fog from the river. I took a few more shots there before I called it a morning. I'll share those photos, tomorrow, for Wordless Wednesday.

I don't care for the cold but it does beat extreme heat and humidity. When I'm bundled appropriately, it really isn't that bad.

Maybe, I just might bundle up once more and enjoy the great outdoors.

Half a Million

First, I'd like to thank all of you.

Next, I'd like to thank you again.

Finally, in case you didn't know, I'm grateful for all of you. Thank you!

I know that 500,000 views of a blog isn't a lot for many people, some of which have been running for less time than The Brown Knowser. Nevertheless, half a million is a lot for me, who wasn't sure that anybody would ever read my blog.

This is a big milestone for me, and I have you to thank.

That's it. That's the post. It's all about you.

Friday Fiction: Pappy's

The following passage is a rough-draft excerpt from my upcoming novel, Gyeosunim, the sequel to Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary. Be warned that there are spoilers and you may be missing some context. Passages are in no particular order and are subject to change.

June 5, 1998

“Budweiser, han byeong, chuseyo.” I was going to regret this, tomorrow, I told myself. I had already consumed three bottles of makgeolli and two quarts of OB Lager, and was feeling drunk. Not raging, fall-down drunk, but certainly feeling near-invincible. I certainly didn’t need more beer. But Pappy’s was serving American beer and, though it wasn’t great beer, it was better than anything the Koreans had to offer.

We were out in full force. Raymond, Ashley, Russell, Cathy, and Nelson, as well as a couple of other ex-pats, Tina May and Mike Benton. I had met Mike last year at a poker game with Brad. Mike was from Toronto and was in his third year in Chŏnju. He taught at a couple of hagwons but when the Korean economy tanked, he opted to teach privately. He was on a tourist visa, meaning that he could only stay in the country for six months at a time. When his first visa came to an end, he headed for a month-long vacation in Thailand, only to return to Chŏnju and resume teaching with his loyal clients.

Tina had been teaching at Iksan University and knew Jody and Jamie, though not very well and not outside of the university. Her contract was set to expire at the end of this month, and she was set to join our ranks at Jeonju Dae. Another Canadian, from Winnipeg.

The eight of us were seated at an oval table that was surrounded by a sofa that seated four on one side, with four cushioned chairs on the opposite side. A heavy bass beat smothered all forms of sound, forcing us to yell into each others’ ears to be heard. My request for the bottle of Bud came at a volume that made my throat hurt.

Chŏnju, now(ish). Photo: Bradley C.

Pappy’s was on the fifth floor of a building that was around the corner from the Gaeksa, down a narrow, closed-in alley. Cars would only venture down the lane to drop off or pick up people who were coming and going from the building. There was no through traffic and no room to park. The taxis that had delivered our group let us out on the main road.

The nightclub was an open space with high ceilings. The walls and ceiling were painted a deep blue with flecks of multi-coloured, glow-in-the-dark paint that resembled the night sky or deep space. Every once and awhile, an alien planet, with or without rings, caught your eye. Black lighting made everything glow an unnatural hue. The seating area was dimly lit, the black light pointing toward the walls and ceiling. Anything white or neon coloured would still emit a glow, but only faintly so. Tables, chairs, and sofas were arranged around the outer limits of the floor space, with the center reserved for a giant, wooden floor that was filled with young dancers. The actual bar and washrooms were hidden behind cinder-block partitions. Servers would appear almost magically from the darkness.

Raymond ordered two bottles of beer, wanting to make sure that he never had to wait. His tongue was still sore and slightly swollen, but the bleeding had stopped. He had made sure that everyone had heard the tale and seen the damage, as we sat in Cathy and Nelson’s apartment, drinking our quarts of beer, waiting for everyone to gather. The decision to go to the Korean nightclub was Raymond’s idea, and everyone was up for it. We now sat down and watched the action on the dance floor.

Our server arrived with two trays, effortlessly negotiating the surrounding tables and roaming patrons. The first tray held our drinks; the second, a fruit platter, ornately decorated as a giant swan of pineapple, grapes, cantaloupe, and cherry tomatoes. We looked at each other as our server placed the fruit platter in the centre of the table and distributed the bottles among us.

“Who ordered this?” asked Ashley, looking around the table, his voice in a near yell. We all shook our heads. As our server placed a slip of paper next to the platter, Ashley picked it up and read it in the dim light. “We didn’t order this,” he said in perfect Korean to our server. I envied his fluency in the language.

The server responded, also in Hangul. His voice was calm, at first, but as the back-and-forth exchange continued, both he and Ashley seemed to grow agitated. Reluctantly, the server took the platter away and stormed off.

“What was that about?” asked Russell.

“He said that patrons always order food with their drinks. Because we failed to mention food, he thought we forgot and assumed we would like the fruit. He charged us 29,000 won for it.”

“That’s insane,” said Mike.

“He wasn’t too happy that I refused it. He asked me what I expected him to do with it. He said the kitchen wouldn’t take it back. I told him that wasn’t our problem.”

“You’d think he would have asked when he took our drinks,” said Cathy.

“Koreans think we wae-guks are rich,” answered Raymond. “I’ve seen this shit pulled before. With what they charge for admission and the drinks, the food is pure profit.”

“Well, I don’t think we’ve made best friends with our server,” I said, “I don’t expect to see him again.” It was just as well, I thought. It wasn’t as though I was going to need more alcohol.

“Let’s dance,” said Tina, taking Mike by the arm. Looking at Cathy and Nelson, she said, “Come on!”

Nelson gestured to the rest of us. “Let’s go, boys. Everyone on the floor.”

“I’m going to sit back,” said Raymond, holding up a bottle of Budweiser. “I’m in good company. Medicine for my tongue.”

Russell, Ashley, and I made our way to the dance floor and joined the couples, who opened up so that we could form a large circle. The rhythm orchestrated our motion, and we could feel that all eyes on the floor were upon us. Were we the first foreigners to visit Pappy’s? Were we added entertainment? We didn’t care: we were here to have fun.

Another song started, and Ashley looked around the room. With a motion of his head, his eyes looking past me, he said, “Check that out.”

I followed his eyes and saw that four Korean women were dancing together nearby. They looked to be in their early 20s, dressed in mini skirts and skin-tight blouses, their makeup perfectly applied. They were gorgeous. They were watching us, smiling, and would chat amongst each other before returning their stares.

“Let’s go,” said Ashley, who broke from our group and danced his way to the young women. Russell and I followed suit.

We moved into the girls’ circle, each of us getting in between the women. We managed to dance for about five seconds before the women emitted shrieks and dashed away. Almost immediately moving to replace them, four Korean men jumped into our circle and started dancing.

“Hello,” said a bespectacled young man. His thick, black hair fell in waves down his forehead, getting between his glasses and his eyes. “What is your name?”

I looked around the dance floor and suddenly realized the dynamics in this space. Men were dancing with men. Women were dancing with women. The only couples that were together were Mike and Tina, and Cathy and Nelson. I looked at this young man, dressed in a navy suit with a black turtleneck, his feet shuffling in tan shoes. “Roland,” I answered, “what’s yours?”

“Kim Il-Sun. Where are you from?”

“Hyoja-dong,” I replied.

A hesitation, just as I anticipated. I looked at Ashley and Russell. Ashley shook his head and said “Fuck this,” and moved toward our table. Russell followed.

“Chal ga,” I said, and moved toward my friends. I could hear Il-Sun and his friends voicing their complaints as we moved away from the dance floor, but I didn’t look back.

First the server, then the women, and now some dancing guys. We were definitely not making new friends tonight.

***

Everything moved slowly, as though I was in a dream. I was drunk but still functioning. The music thumped in my head, seeming to control my pulse. I could feel the blood coursing near my ears—whoosh… whoosh… whoosh…—in sync with the thump… thump… thump… of the beat. How many bottles had I consumed? All I knew was that I had to pee, and sitting on the sofa, I felt I had doubled my weight. Getting up was a challenge.

Ashley and Raymond were talking to each other. Each had to lean to each other so that mouth and ears were close enough to comprehend what they were saying. I caught a couple of words: the club would be closing within the half hour and we should leave before the crowds tied up the elevators.

Tina, Mike, Cathy, Nelson, and Russell were on the dance floor. They had been on the floor for most of the night, but they still had drinks that were unfinished. Surely, they would return to the table soon.

“I’ll go tell them,” yelled Ashley, who made his way to our dancing friends. Raymond, who had remained at our table all night, got up.

“I’ve got to take a piss,” he said. “Someone should stay so that the server doesn’t clear the table before our drinks are done.”

“Go,” I said, “but hurry. I’ve got to go, too.” My words were slurred, my East Lothian accent heavy.

“Aye, matey.” Raymond tried a Scottish brogue but his Southern drawl just came out stronger. He was just as drunk as I was.

As Raymond turned around the wall that separated the bathroom with the club space, Russell and Ashley returned to our table. “I’m ready to go,” said Russell, picking up his warm bottle and draining the last drops.

Our server arrived and inspected the bottles that were strewn on the table. He picked up the empties and asked if we wanted any more. Despite the first impressions, he appeared to hold no grudges, though the smile that he had when we first arrived had never returned.

Ashley told him that we were done for the evening, that we were going to finish what drinks remained and then leave. Without a word, the server turned and walked away. “I don’t think we’re welcome back,” Ashley said.

“Considering the price of drinks and the fact that we can’t mingle on the dancefloor with the fairer sex,” I said, “I don’t think I want to come back.”

Raymond hadn’t returned yet but with Ashley and Russell at the table, I pulled myself up from the sofa and made sure I had my balance before making my way to the washroom. As I reached the cinderblock wall, I almost walked straight into Raymond.

“Whoa, fella, watch yourself,” he said.

“Russell and Ashley are at the table,” I said. “As soon as the others get off the dance floor, let’s go.”

Raymond pat me on the shoulder. “Go drain your lizard and we can go. We don’t need to wait for the others, we’re going to need a few taxis anyway.”

“True,” I admitted, “I’ll be right back.”

The bathroom was painted a lemon yellow with grassy-green accents. The urinal was a stainless-steel trough that ran on the floor, along one long wall, with no partitions to separate its users. If there was room, you stood and pissed against the wall. Your fluids ran down the wall and into the trough, which sloped down to a corner, where a drain collected everything.

Yellow was an appropriate colour.

I struggled to maintain my balance. Aiming wasn’t a challenge, though it mattered which angle you sprayed. You didn’t want any backsplash hitting my pants or shoes. Point downward. Take one step backward. Don’t fall.

There was no soap at the sinks. The water was cold. I gave my hands a thorough rinse and patted my face, hoping that the frigid water would perk me up. It didn’t.

I looked at myself in the mirror. I was beginning to get some of my weight back. My weight had gone down and up over the past few years. I lost nearly sixteen pounds in the months following the loss of my family members but gained some of it back in the months in which I searched for teaching jobs in Korea, thanks to the help of my mother and sister. I lost weight over the first few months in this country, as I ate healthier, relying more on vegetables than meat and going without dairy.

Sharing living space with my fellow teachers and having brought a toaster oven and western baking ingredients from Scotland, I started to put on more weight. I had also learned how to order pizza over the phone, and would call for delivery at least once a week.

Drinking as much alcohol as I had this evening didn’t help, either.

Still, I hadn’t gained more weight than my frame could handle. I looked fine. I removed the remaining drops of water from my hands by running my fingers through my hair, putting a few errant strands back in place. It would almost be time for another haircut. Time to pay my respects to Kim’s Hair.

Making sure I had my balance, I turned to leave the men’s room. I was looking forward to making it to my bed. I was going to enjoy a good night’s rest.

I passed two young Korean men who were standing at the doorway to the washroom. One reminded me of the bespectacled dancer, with long hair in the front and thick-rimmed glasses. He wore a white and plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled, and denim jeans. His friend wore a snug-fitting suit, dark grey or black, with what looked like a white t-shirt. His dark hair was slicked straight back and was short.

As I got between them, I supposed that they were talking to each other, but it was the way that one of them said “chingu,” friend, that made me look toward him. I was right: he was talking to me.

Our eyes met, and he gestured toward the exit. He continued to speak, repeating “chingu,” and I understood that he was telling me that my friends had headed to the exit.

Exiting the washroom, I was faced by the wall that separated this area from the club area. To return to the table where I had left my friends, I would need to head to the right, but these Korean lads were gesturing toward the left, where we could clearly see the way out.

The Korean who was speaking to me gesture with his arms that he would escort me out. His friend, standing to my left, accompanied us.

Stepping out of the club, the light was brighter, forcing me to squint. Already, there were lines for the elevators. Bouncers were directing patrons to awaiting cars. I searched for Raymond and the others but couldn’t see them. It’s possible that they took advantage of an available lift down, not wanting to continue waiting in the queue for me.

My escorts gestured toward the stairwell. Judging by the line, it seemed much faster to descend the stairs than to stand. Though I was sure that Raymond and the others would wait for me to take a cab, I didn’t want them to wait any longer than necessary. I followed the advice of the Koreans and started toward the stairs. To my surprise, the Koreans followed.

As we reached the top of the stairs, each man supported an arm. How nice, I thought, these young lads were making sure that this drunken wae-guk wasn’t going to slip, fall, and break his neck. It was five floors and concrete all the way down, after all.

I was hungry again. We should have ordered food. But judging by the price of the food platter, even the price of each bottle of Budweiser, other bites would have cost more than they were worth. I didn’t like throwing money away. Too late to think about food now, anyway: it was just after 1:00 and nothing would be open.

I was grateful for the help of my new friends. My head was becoming foggy and I wasn’t sure on my feet. Though these young men were about my size, they seemed strong, their footsteps sure as we made our way down the stairs. At about the second floor, the lights went out and we stopped our descent, finding ourselves immersed in total darkness. As the Koreans expressed surprise, strong but isolated emergency lights snapped on. Had the power gone out? It sounded quiet as the ventilation system hushed. Was this how Pappy’s got their patrons to leave when closing time was reached? Doubtful: as a business on the top floor of a building, you’d want your elevators running. Perhaps this was just the stairwell conserving electricity.

We reached the main floor and walked out into the foyer of the building. No one was standing around. I didn’t see my friends, though they might be standing in the alley. As we headed to the doors, I could see a Hyundai pulled right up. It was idling and the rear passenger-side door was open. I could see a woman in the front passenger seat, her long, straight dark hair masking her profile. Her head was tilted downward, as though she were reading.

I looked around for signs of Raymond and the others. We were just coming through the front doors, which were wide open, and I was just about to thank my Korean helpers when they both twisted my arms behind my back and tightened their grip. The Korean to my left swung in front of me, still holding on, and pulled me as he stepped into the back seat of the Hyundai. The fellow to my right put a hand on my head and pushed me down as he followed us into the car.

Just focus on breathing, I told myself.

My Second-Last Grad

A couple of years ago, for a Throwback Thursday post, I had found a photo of myself, ready to head off for my Grade 12 graduation ceremony. It was a night to celebrate and say farewell to friends who were heading off to college or university, or who were leaving school to start a full-time job.

Other friends at the party, like me, would return to high school in the fall, to complete Grade 13.

In that Throwback Thursday post, I described my outfit: a navy suit. I loved that suit and would continue to wear it for years to come, at special occasions.

Only, I didn't wear that suit for my Grade 12 grad. I wouldn't have that suit for nearly a year later, when I wore it to my Grade 13 grad.

Besides the difference in suits for the two graduation celebrations I attended, there were differences in those evenings. In Grade 13, I joined three other friends in a limousine that we rented, when we rode around the city in luxury. Our driver would pull over, every once in a while, to refill our champagne glasses or to stop at a place where we could take photos.

That was my Grade 13 grad suit and experience.

In Grade 12, I had a girlfriend, Sue, who I was taking to the grad. I remember that evening, because when I arrived at her house to pick her up, Sue's parents had just surprised her with her graduation present: a brand new Mustang GT. Two-door. Convertible. Red.

And here I was, in my parents' 1980 Pontiac Phoenix. Four-door. Hatchback. Beige.

A few days later, Sue and I broke up. She had met someone else, a guy that I worked with at the paint and wallpaper store but who went to a different high school.

Meh, water under the bridge. We remained friends for years later.

I didn't have my blue suit for that grad party. I still wore navy slacks (polyester, if I remember) but had a grey tweed jacket with suede patches on the elbows. Again, I wore a light blue shirt but this one had a white collar that was held at the lapels by a gold-plated pin. My tie was of a knitted wool that ended in a blunt cut, rather than a point.

Corsage in hand, ready for my date.

I don't remember the shoes. They may have been black, though I seem to remember a dark-brown suede pair with gummed soles that I used to wear a lot around that time. They would have matched the brown elbow patches on the jacket.

And my parents' Phoenix.

But not the blue pants. Oh well.

Maybe that's why Sue left me for another guy. I did see him driving her Mustang one time, shortly after Sue and I broke up. And he was always well-dressed.

So you can forget what I said a couple of years ago, on another Throwback Thursday. That wasn't 1983, it was 1984. The photo was shot as I was waiting for the limo to pull up. I was better-dressed a year later and had a better car. And I didn't need a date because I had a bunch of friends.

Happy Thursday!

The Big Apple of Colborne

Virtually Back to Scotland

The last time that I was in Scotland, in real life, was in 2010, when I went with my best buddy, Stu, to find Roland Axam's home and to do some research for my novel, Gyeosunim.

Man... to think I've been working on the sequel to Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary for nearly 12 years is depressing. Then again, I hadn't yet finished Songsaengnim and that trip really helped me put the final details on it. That novel took me a decade to complete.

I'm a procrastinator extraordinaire and a very slow writer.

Last year, I took a virtual journey and made my way from Land's End, in the Cornwall region of England, to the northern tip of mainland Scotland by cycling, walking, and kayaking in Ontario, and plugging my distances in to The Conqueror Virtual Challenges app.

I've spoken about this app at length over 2021 and hope I haven't bored you.

Last Thursday, I finally wrapped up a nearly 3,670-kilometre virtual journey along America's famous Route 66. By working out on my spin bike, I covered the final 20.7 kms from Hollywood to the Santa Monica pier. It took me 147 days to complete that challenge and I'm very happy to put that long trek behind me.

But no sooner had I crossed the virtual finish line than I set up my next challenge, connecting my smart watch to automatically apply a workout to the next route. And once again, I find myself--virtually--back in Scotland.

The North Coast 500 Virtual Challenge is a 500-mile (805.5 kms) circuit that starts and ends in Inverness, cuts through the Scottish Highlands, and follows the northern coastline in a clockwise fashion. Once again, I'm back in one of my favourite countries (virtually).

The final 20-percent stretch will be along familiar roads, as I head down from John o'Groats (the finish line for the LEJOG challenge) back to Inverness.

And I would walk 500 miles... and spin.

I've calculated that it will take me five weeks to complete this trek but it'll likely take me less time than that. (I like to buffer in a few days, just in case I get sick or have an injury and need to rest.)

Before I went to bed on the day that I completed the Route 66 virtual challenge, I tallied up the distances that I had accrued through a walk, moving around the house, and shovelling the driveway, and I applied them to the North Coast 500 challenge. On the same day that I found myself (virtually) on the Santa Monica pier, I had then completed more than 15 kms, on foot, in Scotland.

I need to cover about 23 kms, each day, to meet my target for completing my new challenge. Considering that I was covering at least 30 kms along Route 66, this shouldn't be a problem.

Wish me luck.

Birthday Girl

A very wise man once told me, "Don't imagine whether you can live the rest of your life with someone; think about whether you could live the rest of your life without them."

It's very easy to see someone around you all the time. But to imagine that person as not a part of your life gives you insight into just how much you value them.

We've been together for nearly 33 years and I can clearly see her with me for many more. But I could never imagine her not in my life. At the very least, that life would be miserable.

Happy Birthday to DW.

Friday Fiction: Makgeolli with Raymond

The following passage is a rough-draft excerpt from my upcoming novel, Gyeosunim, the sequel to Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary. Be warned that there are spoilers and you may be missing some context. Passages are in no particular order and are subject to change.

Friday, June 5, 1998

I was already drunk when we arrived. I didn’t need any more alcohol, but it was a Friday and this was our thing.

Raymond and I left the university together, deciding to split a taxi back to our apartment building. Typically, I would have left the campus alone, taking a taxi to Eun-joon’s apartment, for our private lesson, but because this was the Memorial Day weekend, Eun-joon and his family were heading to Cheju, to visit his parents and siblings. I had no plans until later this evening, when Ray and I would meet with the rest of the teachers, likely heading out to TwoBeOne.

“Hang on a second,” Raymond said, as we passed a corn dog stand, “I’m starving. I need one of these.”

This particular stand, along the road that led from the campus to the main road, was one of my achilles heels. The hot dogs were large and plump. Placed on a stick, they were dipped in a thick batter and deep fried to a light, golden brown, before being dipped into a second batter, which also contained small cubes of potato, and placed back into the deep fryer. When it was finally removed from its second oil bath, the corn dog was perfectly browned, the potato pieces crispy and fully cooked.

It was one of the least-healthy snacks on campus, but the flavour was addictive. With a bit of sweet mustard drizzled over it, I found it hard to resist. But today, I was going to behave. Only Raymond would give into temptation.

We continued along the half-developed street, full of restaurants, bars, pool halls, school-supply stores, and print shops, originally planning to take the bus.

“I’m in the mood for makgeolli,” said Raymond, in between bites, “there’s a traditional bar that opened around the corner from our building earlier this week.”

“Is that the building that looks like a mud hut with the thatched rooftop?” I asked.

“More like twigs, but yeah. Want to go there for a drink?”

Makgeolli is a cloudy type of rice wine. It’s milky with a slightly sweet-and-sour flavour, and leaves a chalky taste in the mouth. Served in a small bowl, the bottle in which it is held must be shaken vigorously before it is poured. You must also swirl the liquid in your bowl to keep the sediment from separating between sips. Having a low alcohol content, compared with wine, it was a good choice of beverage if you didn’t want to get drunk.

Assuming, of course, you didn’t consume more than a 700 millilitre bottle.

“I suppose I could have my arm twisted,” I said. Raymond was a good egg. He was a friend to anyone and everyone. And he liked to do the talking, so there was never a shortage of conversation.

“Good.” He pointed ahead to a taxi that was pulled over in front of a pool hall. Two young men getting out. “Let’s grab this cab. We can get to our neighbourhood faster.”

I was the closest to the cab so I took the opened door from one of the men. I climbed in the back and told the driver our destination. Raymond had one leg in the car, his body still stepping off the sidewalk. One hand was on the headrest of the front-passenger seat, the other on the door. His half-eaten corn dog was in his mouth. It was at this moment that the driver started to pull away.

Raymond fell backwards, settling hard in the seat. His right leg, still outside the cab, was struck by the door as it swung, closing by the car’s acceleration. He pulled his leg in and pulled the door closed.

“Jung-ji!” I shouted at the driver. Stop!

The driver hit the brakes, and we lurched forward in our seats. As we put our arms forward to brace ourselves, I wondered if I had only made things worse. The driver turned his head to try and look at me, and it was only then that he realized that I wasn’t his only passenger. He had pulled away when he saw that I had sat myself behind him, not knowing that not only had I not closed the door, but that I wasn’t alone.

Raymond, for his part, had his eyes closed tight and was moaning, the corn dog still in his mouth.

“Is your leg okay?” I asked, fearing that the swinging door had injured it. Raymond shook his head and then opened his mouth. He looked straight at me as he stuck his tongue out, revealing the pointed end of the stick protruding from the top. He had fully pierced his tongue.

“Ah-ah,” he complained, turning to face the driver, whose eyes went wide.

“Aye-go!” exclaimed the driver, watching in horror as Raymond pulled the stick out. Blood oozed from the small hole before Raymond closed his mouth and swallowed.

“Shit,” I said, “we should get you to a hospital.” The driver voiced similar remarks, as I heard the Korean word for it, byeong-won.

“Uh-uh,” said Raymond, moving his tongue around inside his mouth, assessing the damage, before speaking. “What are they going to do? Put a Band-Aid on it? Let’s go soak it in alcohol.”

The driver offered apologies and, from what we could interpret, was offering a free ride. We continued on our way.

“How’s your leg?” I asked again.

“It’s fine,” Raymond slurred. “The door didn’t hit it too hard, but the ol’ shin is going to have a bruise.” He swallowed again before continuing, “It’s a good thing that the tongue heals quickly. I’ll live.”

“I shouldn’t have ordered the driver to stop. I’m so sorry.”

“My tongue was pierced when I fell into the taxi, not when we stopped. It’s not your fault at all.”

As the taxi approached our apartment building, we instructed the driver to pull over a block short, closer to our destination. The driver muttered more apologies as Raymond and I stepped out. Just before the cabbie pulled away, Raymond spat out onto the rear door, near the handle, spraying his blood down the side of the car.

“That’ll maybe cause his next fare to think twice before opening the door,” he said, pitching the corn dog stick onto the pavement. “Let’s get that drink.”

The makgeolli bar was small and dimly lit, with traditional oil lamps burning at each table. Wallpaper that resembled rice paper, with black-ink illustrations of bamboo and magpies, water lilies and storks running in repeating patterns. The bar only had two other patrons, old men who stopped whatever it was that they were saying and doing to watch the wae-guks enter, cross the floor, and sit at the table at the back of the room. Apart from soft pansori emanating from hidden speakers in the ceiling, the bar was silent.

Until Raymond spoke up toward the proprietor, who also watched us make ourselves comfortable. “Makgeolli du byeong, chuseyo.” Two bottles of makgeolli, please.

“Do you think we can each handle a bottle?” I asked Raymond, gesturing toward the elderly gentlemen’s table, where a white, plastic bottle lay on its side, next to the drinking bowls.

“Hell ya, at least one. I’m in no rush, are you?”

It had been close to a year since I had tried makgeolli and I had all but forgotten how it tasted. I had been invited to a restaurant by one of my adult classes at the hagwon and four of us had shared one bottle. All I remembered was that I didn’t dislike it but I never found myself craving more. I would make a go of this bottle, since Raymond had ordered one for each of us. If I really found it too much to drink on my own, I was sure that Raymond would help me finish it.

“How does your tongue feel?”

“Hurts like a son of a bitch, but I’m tasting less and less blood.” He opened his mouth, and I could see a thin line of blood that didn’t seem to be flowing. Raymond was right: the tongue did heal quickly.

“Just wait until your next spicy meal,” I said.

“Good thing I’m between girlfriends,” he joked.

Our server, a middle-aged woman whose permed curls were only just beginning to show some grey, arrived with a tray that held two bottles, two small bowls, and a plate of ojinga—dried, shredded squid. She placed each on our table with what seemed like deliberate force, as though she was adding percussion to the piped music. “Oh cheon won, chuseyo,” she said. Because Raymond’s hangul had come out perfectly, she refrained from holding up five fingers to indicate the price.

“I’ve got this,” I said, handing our server a 5,000 won note with a supported right hand. “Komap-subnida,” I said to her with a quick bow of the head.

Raymond shook a bottle and unscrewed the plastic cap. He poured the milky-white liquid into my bowl, forcing me to hold it with my right hand in a gesture of respect. When my bowl was filled, I reached for the bottle and returned the favour, holding the bottle with my right hand, supporting my wrist with my left hand. In my peripheral vision, I could see the old men still watching us. One was muttering to the other, as though he was a commentator for this spectacle. With each of our vessels filled, we raised our bowls to one another and in unison said “gombei!” Cheers! This caused the men to audibly verbalize their delight with a resounding “ah” that rose and fell. On cue, Raymond and I turned toward the men and repeated the cheer, before taking a sip.

We were accepted into the fold, the men displaying their approval by resuming their conversation.

“I wish I had some hanbok to wear,” I said to Raymond, “then I would really fit in here.” Both men were dressed in well-worn Korean shirts and pants. I had a couple of light jackets that I had purchased last autumn, in Beijing, and while I had worn them a few times to work, I had never gone out with them in public. Not for any fear of being accused of cultural appropriation—hell, Koreans were always wearing jeans and t-shirts, and nobody said anything—but because I almost felt self-conscious wearing them in Korea, wondering what Koreans would think of me wearing Chinese garments.

“There’s a hanbok store just down the street from the Gaeksa,” said Raymond. “Brian has a couple of ensembles. He wears them on Korean holidays and at special events. I’ve also seen his wedding photos. He did a couple of wardrobe changes, moving from a lavish getup to a dinner suit, to a Western business suit.”

“Having lived here so long, I’m sure he feels as comfortable in hanbok as he does in a business suit. Maybe I’ll talk to him, see what he thinks about us wae-guks wearing hanbok.”

The makgeolli went down surprisingly easy. There was no strong taste of alcohol, as with soju. It was only mildly sour, which made it almost taste like a cheap white wine that was slightly corked.

“So, you and Tara are over?” I asked, remembering his comment about being between girlfriends. Tara, a Canadian, taught English at Chonbuk National University. She and Raymond met at SE, in April, and seemed to hit it off. Every Friday, they seemed connected at the hips at every ex-pat social gathering, until a couple of weeks ago, when Raymond limited his outings and opted to gather Jeonju University teachers at the apartment building. He stopped going to SE, which is where Tara and her colleagues tended to go on Fridays.

“Tara’s great,” he said, “but she became too needy. She wanted to be with me all the time. I mean, I enjoyed her company, especially in the sack. But it was getting so that I couldn’t have time to myself.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s better for her. I wasn’t serious and the sooner she found out, the better.”

I raised my bowl. “Here’s to moving forward.” We touched bowls and downed the remaining contents. Raymond grabbed the bottle and we refilled each other’s bowl.

Though it had been almost six months since Tanya and I had broken up, I still felt the sting of being dumped. After my personal tragedy, she was the first person to show me that I could find love again. I was alone, once again. Could I find love, again, here in Korea?

Raymond almost seemed to read my thoughts. He had met me on a trip to Cheju Island, when Tanya and I were just friends, and Brad and Wilma were newly dating. He had seen us, in Beijing, as a hot-and-heavy couple, and he had seen me, at the beginning of this year, shortly after Tanya had left me. “We’ve got to introduce you to some women, Roland, get you back on that horse.”

“I’m in no rush. It’ll happen when it happens.” Raymond didn’t know that I had been married in a past life, complete with a child, and I wasn’t about to bring it up. That story always led to sadness and I had fought hard to escape that pit of darkness.

“We should find you a hot Korean woman. Not necessarily a Mrs. Right but maybe she could be your Mrs. Right Now. You know, keep your little man below happy.”

“Who says my man down there is little?” I laughed, raising my bowl and taking another swig.

“I get you,” he replied. “That’s why Tara took our breakup so hard. Once you’ve had Close cock, you can’t get enough.”

“Bet’cha can’t eat just once?” I suggested, playing with the Lays Potato Chip slogan.

“You got it, Roland, you got it.”

***

The first two bottles went down quickly. Same with the next two. As the makgeolli house proprietor didn’t offer food beyond snacks—she served us a plate of cherry tomatoes with our third and fourth bottles—she allowed us to order in delivery. Raymond called the small restaurant that was close to our apartment building and placed orders for dwenjang-djiggae and bokum-bap. We used bottles five and six to wash our meals down.

The elderly gentlemen, well-liquored up after countless bottles of their own, bid us good night as they stumbled out into the night.

“We had better get to the apartment,” said Raymond, “most of our friends should be done for the day. It’s time to party.”

Though I felt light-headed, I wasn’t as drunk as I would have been, had Raymond and I consumed the equivalent in regular wine. “What are our plans?”

“You know what? I want to hit up a Korean night club. Not some ex-pat bar filled with folks like us. I want to see what the young Koreans get up to.”

“I’m up for it if everyone else is.”

“And who knows, my Scottish friend, maybe we’ll find someone to keep you warm tonight.”

The Unforgotten

I lost a friend to alcohol.

And when I think of him, I can't think of very many times when we didn't get together over a few drinks. His funniest moments were when he had had several drinks in him. Usually, beer.

By the time anyone realized he had a drinking problem, it was too late to save his marriage. Despite counselling, despite losing his marriage, despite the pleas from his two wonderful daughters, despite a few visits to the hospital for alcohol poisoning, my friend couldn't get sober.

He died, alone, on the Thanksgiving weekend of 2015. When he didn't show up at his wife's house, where she was hosting a dinner to which he had been invited, his wife walked a few doors down to where he was living, to see what was keeping him, only to find him no longer living.

I heard the horrible news that evening and I was shaken. Such a good guy—smart, funny, a gentle soul—who loved his kids more than anything, and yet couldn't get that monkey off his back.

I awoke early the next morning, before the sun got up, and went for a drive with my camera. The whole time, my friend was on my mind. I would never see him again, never laugh at his wit and jokes. His family would never share precious time at the holidays. He would never see his girls grow to adulthood.

I took many photographs while I waited for the sun to come up, but I can't look at this one without thinking of my friend. Perhaps because, for me, I got to see another sunrise.

The first time that I took a break from drinking, I did it with him in mind. Though I knew I didn't have a problem with alcohol, I wanted to prove to myself that I didn't need to have a drink to have a good time. I've taken a break from drinking several times over the past few years and each time, my friend comes to mind.

I miss him dearly. I wish there was something I could have done. Living in different cities from one another, there was little I could do but lend a voice.

I've taken a break from drinking, yet again, after realizing that I had been drinking steadily for more than three weeks. Since I've stopped drinking, my friend is once again in my thoughts. "I'm doing this for me," I tell myself, "but I'm also doing it for you because you couldn't stop."

I initially decided to pause my drinking for a week. That week ends today.

But I have no desire to start up, just yet, and so I'll continue my dry spell, remembering the unforgotten.

Flowers and Filters

Avoiding Negative TV

During the pandemic, I've spent more than my fair share of time in front of the television, binge-watching movies and shows through the myriad streaming services that DW and I picked up over the nearly two years of being homebodies. I've looked on social media to see what shows are trending and have even taken up some of the recommendations that Netflix has offered (even though the vast majority of Netflix recommendations are as far from my tastes as is the very end of this pandemic).

One of the first series that DW and I started watching was the British show "Detectorists," which follows two friends, Lance and Andy, who share the hobby of metal detection and search the fields in their town, hoping to find a cache of hidden treasure.

It's a brilliant show. Well-written, brilliantly performed by a cracking cast, "Detectorists" is heart-warming. DW and I enjoyed it so much that we started re-watching, from the beginning, shortly after we finished the last episode of the series.

What we enjoyed about the series was that it made us feel good, and it was a welcome escape from the pandemic and all the bullshit that was going on south of the border.

Another series that we've loved and can't wait for the third season is the Apple TV+ series, "Ted Lasso." I have to admit that when it first came out, I wasn't particularly interested in watching it. I'm not much of a sports fan (though, I do like soccer and often watch FIFA matches) and I don't usually care for TV shows or movies that centre around a sports team.

But as the first season grew in popularity, I was seeing more and more of my Twitter friends raving about the show, so DW, Kid 2, and I decided to watch the first episode. That evening, we binge-watched every aired episode and got caught up for the first season. We found it hard to wait for the next episode to air. When Season 2 came out, we were ready to watch it right away and eagerly waited a week for the next episode to air (remember when all shows were watched this way?).

When it was safe to invite my parents over to our house, we suggested that they watch "Ted Lasso" (they don't have Apple TV). DW and I were happy to watch the series again. That evening, my parents were hooked and we watched the first half of the first season, and over the course of the next couple of weeks, we watched both seasons.

Like DW and me, my folks can't wait for the third season.

While I sit on my spin bike, I like to watch shows that DW doesn't seem to be interested in watching, and so I look for new shows to fill the hour that I'm working out. I had seen ads for a show that's on Prime Video, "Yellowstone," and I put the first episode on during a ride.

That first episode was the last one that I'll ever watch.

I found that there was not one single character that I liked. The main character, John Dutton, played by Kevin Costner, was utterly detestable. It didn't help that I've never felt that Costner is a particularly good actor, but his character is particularly loathsome, seemingly living on greed and having no regard for the lives of others.

The first episode was full of violence and left me feeling stressed. "No thanks," I said aloud as the episode ended and the countdown started for the next one.

I don't mind conflict in my TV shows but I find that I don't have an appetite for violence, especially when the violence is driven by selfishness and over a battle for territory.

There's enough of that in the real world.

At a time when I can't go out with my friends, when the pandemic is limiting what I can do, I need to be lifted up by what I see on the TV screen. Two years into this pandemic, I want to avoid any more negativity in my life. Especially when I'm trying to escape what's going on in real life.

Which shows do you like to watch? Leave your TV recommendations in the Comments section.

Positive shows only, please.

A Dry Week in January

Last Thursday, as I finished a pint of a sweet, chocolate-raspberry stout, it occurred to me that I couldn't remember the last day that I hadn't had an alcoholic beverage, and that gave me pause. Was it sometime before DW and I had gone to Cuba?

In 2019, when DW and I had celebrated our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in Mexico, I decided that, just for fun, I would count how many margaritas I would drink over the week that we were on the Mayan Riviera.

I had 48. Don't judge me.

The perfect Cubata.

In Cuba, I decided that I would count every alcoholic drink that I consumed. All of the beer, wine, Cuba Libres, Cubatas, margaritas, piña coladas, and lemon-lime slushies with rum.

I had 64. I said don't judge me.

When DW and I returned home, we had 2.4 litres of dark rum in tow. And because we were still on vacation until January 4, we spared no time in cracking the bottles open.

Wait a second... I now remember the last day that I had gone without a drink. It was Friday, December 17. It was the day that we left Cuba. It was too early to have a drink when we gathered in the lobby to get aboard our shuttle bus to the airport, and I didn't have any alcohol on our flight. By the time we got home and unpacked, I was too tired to do anything other than climb into bed.

We opened our first rum bottle on December 18. We made Cubatas (like a Cuba Libre but with dark rum, instead of white rum), Dark and Stormies, and Brownfoot Mulatas. Because Kid 1 was home for the holidays and also likes rum, we went through our first bottle by Christmas.

Don't judge us.

While I didn't particularly get into the holiday spirit, this Christmas, I certainly got into the spirits over the holidays. And even when I returned to work—albeit, still at home—I found that I would have a pint of beer with lunch and would enjoy a cocktail in the evening.

Before we left for Cuba, I limited my drinking to Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. And when I did drink on these evenings, I would have no more than two drinks (usually, I would only have one pint of beer in a sitting; with wine, I'd often have a second glass).

What bothered me was that I wouldn't think twice about having a drink in the evening. I would pull out a bottle of rum and a can of cola, or a bottle of ginger beer, or a jug of lemonade, and mix myself a treat.

But the holidays are over, my vacation time has been used up, and it's time to get back on track.

Back to last Thursday, when I had finished a pint and realized that I had been drinking every day while at our Cuban resort and every day after we had returned, I found myself disturbed by this revelation. While I'm not participating in Dry January (I did a Dry July last summer), I decided at that moment that I needed to stop, to take a break.

I have planned to stop drinking for a week, at least. So far, it's been no issue. Although, on Friday, after work, I opened my beer fridge and reached for a can of beer without thinking. Luckily, I stopped myself and grabbed a can of sparkling water, instead. Without regret. The rest of the weekend was no problem.

I do believe that I don't have a drinking problem, that I can stop whenever I want. And time after time, I've proven that to myself. I'm lucky. But every once and awhile, it doesn't hurt to re-evaluate that claim and reassure myself.