One question: Where are all the women hobbits? I know that Sam does aquire a she-hobbit by the film's end, but please excuse my American ignorance if I feel there was a wee bit of Hobbit homoeroticism in that film. I especially enjoyed the hobbit reunion on Frodo's bed where Pippin and Murray cavort with gleeful childlike joy about their newly fingerless friend. I think Sam and Frodo probably did everything short of make beautiful hobbit love on their way to destroying the ring, and certainly Pippin and Murray weren't far behind on the love train. Perhaps there's a reason why Pippin is constantly smoking, as he is perpetually seen in a post-coital moments celebrating his hobbit union with Murray. Nonetheless, a fine film despite it's excessive length and constant homosexual innuendo. Of particular righteousness: Legolas and the elephants, Gandalf's eagles, the landscapes and of course Gollum, that green voice of treason.

I feel like Sadaam Hussein looked while the doctors were checking him for fleas yesterday morning.

Only because I have a decent anecdote to relate: After giving a whirlwind tour of San Francisco's famed crackwhore district, (aka grumpy hobo junction, just below the posh Union square plaza) to some out-of-town friends, I stood with my college chum Frank just outside his hotel door, enjoying a cocktail and soaking in the local flavor at arm's length. Frank, vodka and tonic safely tucked into the potted fern to our right, soon grew tired of supping upon the basket of iridescent yellow popcorn he insisted on knicking from the hotel bar. As evidenced by the trail of popcorn kernels underfoot and really all around us, the time for feeding had past, and now was the time for spontaneous acts of generosity. And so, perhaps due to the innumerable requests for spare change we had suffered from pan handlers merely walking around the neighborhood, Frank began to aggressively shop the remaining portion of popped corn to the masses. At first it proved difficult. It seemed the well-to-do people passing by wanted little to do with us, and our cocktail and popcorn party. Frank, however kept concluding his requests by yelling "don't ignore me!" just as people turned heel. Finally Frank spotted a homeless women and grew excited at the prospect of offering her the nutrition-packed meal of stale popcorn. Immediately he thrust out the bucket. Of course the woman then started in with how she needed ten dollars to get her hotel and how the weather was shitty and so on and so forth. Clearly Frank had thought that this transaction would end as soon as the popcorn had been exchanged, and was a bit taken aback when the woman continued to explain how badly her stomach was feeling etcetera etcetera. "Just take the whole basket," exclaimed Frank, thinking that perhaps the plastic container which housed the popcorn might somehow pay her way into a hotel and out of our lives. Nothing doing. Then Frank did something so shady and underhanded and drunk that I can barely conceal a smile when I think about it. He looked inside the hotel at a bellhop who was on the phone doing who knows what. He then pointed out the bellboy to the homeless woman, and says "I think, yup, he's definitely calling the police right now. You should probably get out of here" I think at that point I became so uncomfortable that I made movements to leave, however, the woman reluctantly trudged onward, bucket of popcorn in hand. Ah Francis, you come up to the city, with your countrified backwater ways, and you order our homeless people hither and thither like some C. Montgomery Burnsian plutocrat, high on his own inflated sense of self-worth. Good times. Perhaps later this week I will divulge the secrets of my new fantastic sweating Yoga regimen. We shall see.

I like that whenever I write angsty entries I get lot's of supportive e-mails. That's very cool and I appreciate that. And things really aren't that bad, just disorienting and reminiscent of times past which weren't so great. Anyhoo, that's all I really wanted to say.

Let's see if I still remember how to do this... I won't even start by "apologizing" or "explaining" why I haven't been writing in this thing-- I don't have to justify my lifestyle to anyone! Ah... if only my lifestyle hadn't slowed down to a snail's pace over the last three weeks, then I could fully embrace the non-justifying of it. Alas, this week has been incredibly slow, filled with indecision and lamentations, questions without answers, turkey, video games, basketball, and the occasional bong rip. I will say this much: stress is real. Now I remember just how much I was able to forget about while I was abroad. While I was running hither and thither to simultaneously educate and corrupt the Korean youth, I was blissfully unaware of the multiple stresses in my American life. Fully immersed in them now, in a precarious state of mind and health (which will remain a vague allusion until more is known) I am of two brains (I would have said 'mind', but I used it earlier in the sentence). On one hand I would like to fly away much like the little starling named Clarice (That's a reference to the Silence of the Lambs, which in itself tells you just about all you need to know about my current condition). This need to travel, as well as work, is completely legitimate-- I have the time and means to travel and teach, the economy in America sucks, I'm not ready to find an apartment in San Francisco and I haven't made any effort to find a job here, since I imagined that I would only be here temporarily, I love to travel, I've got people and family in various cool places, yada yada yada. On the other hand, I feel like going away would in large part be because I've returned to a situation at home which is far more complicated and emotionally-involved than I anticipated, or at least the memory faded with the time and distance I put between it, and I simply cannot deal with it any more constructive manner than to bounce (in the parlance of our times). If I am unable to deal with it now, then when will I be? It could be that this isn't a series of problems which is easily solved, or can even be solved by me to begin with...in any event there are surprisingly few people I can talk to about this situation beyond a couple of my friends, and that irks me. The notion of parents acting like parents (giving advice, offering wisdom and support) has in my experience been just that, a notion. And that transformation and transition from mentor and protector to peer and finally to someone dependent on the child is supposed to be gradual and easy, but that's really not the case here. There are all sorts of roles being reversed and twisted and plenty of hot infantile action-- all told it's a veritable Confucian nightmare. Whatever, I don't mean to bitch about these things: not only have I not made clear what the various issues are, but I am just humble enough to realize that it could be worse. And of course what better time than late November than to be thankful for what I have and so on and so forth it being Thanksgiving and what not. On the other hand, just to indulge my self-indulgent lamentations... the Pilgrims did give the double gift set of small pox and cholera to the Red man, truly the gifts that keep on giving, at least until a vaccine is discovered. John Smith at some point had his way with the lithe and nubile Pocahontas (at least in cartoon form) and the white people celebrated this union not only with sweet potatoes, but also with the systematic decimation of the Injun. So there are two sides to every story (three if you're an Extreme fan) and that's just what this entry is about, you see. The dualistic nature of the beast. The twin essence of everything. the Yin and Yang, the Pro-Choicers the Pro-Lifers, the less-filling proponents and the taste-great contigent, all fighting the good fight. Again, whatever. I guess I'll just post old e-mails from now on, because this is just a mess. And Happy birthday to all you fucking November people, I just can't keep up with you people any more.

Yo. Here is the second state of the nation address from Korea. Enjoy. Lot of anti-canadian sentiment, you'll forgive me Fenton, but I was living with a man who was a discredit to his race. Happy birthdays to those people in Korea: Lois, Caleb, Patrick and Simon. And that guy in Marin, Zach.

Seoul Brother #1

Sorry it's been so long, lot's of exciting new things going on, I haven't really had a chance put it all together in writing yet, but I'll try to give you the highlights of the past couple of weeks without too much boring stuff. Thanks also to everyone who has written me, you all rock collectively.

1. So I understand that Republicans have overrun the house and possibly the senate. This means very little to me. All I know is that Canada still sucks. Flapheads is my new slur of choice for our pasty northern brethren.

2. Korea is pretty cool. I like my situation, my job is a little monotonous, but it's different, it pays the bills, and I get to arm wrestle with little kids. Is there any greater pleasure? I think not. Although my school is a breeding ground for germs (and by germs I mean children), I have yet to don the hazardous material suit which was issued to me on my first day, though the thought has crossed my mind. With crazy Asian viruses blowing in from the Chinese desert every minute, precautions must be taken.

3. Had a chance to visit Seoul last weekend to see what all the hype was about (incidentally I am now one of the precious few Caucasians to have ridden the Seoul train). Don't believe it (the hype that is). The city is pretty cool I am sure, but I wouldn't know much about that since I spent most of my time at Lotte World, the destitute man's Disneyland. Copyright infringement is all the rage in Korea. Lotte World features the Disney castle logo, numerous pictures of Disney characters, most notably merchandise showcasing slightly modified versions of Aladdin, Ariel and Snow White. Also there is a store entirely dedicated to bootlegged Snoopy accessories. Charles Schultz is turning over in his grave, and Walt Disney in his cryogenic chamber I am sure. Lotte World was a bust, but it was entirely located indoors, which was pretty crazy. I did enjoy their version of the Disneyland night parade, but only because the dancers representing Spain, who looked suspiciously Korean, actually grabbed a baby from the crowd and passed her around amongst each other. While the audience oohed and ahhed I gasped loudly and demanded that they return the baby to its rightful owner immediately. Also fantastic was a Britney Spears impersonator thrilling the masses with a lip-synched version of Unprotected. Insert your own lip-synching joke here, I’m drawing a blank.

4. Karaoke or Norebong ( as in “dude, let’s go hit the norebong after we eat this squid”)
Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, but it is admittedly much more compelling when you’re plastered. Which I was, and plan to be the next time I subject people to my tone deafery. American songs which bring down the house: Anything really by Backstreet, NSYNC, and Britney. Classic Rock: Anything by Bon Jovi, the Winds of Change by the Scorpions is a tearjerker, old school Guns n Roses. Does anybody remember that Nordic duo Roxette? It could’ve been love, but its over now. Ice, Ice Baby. Timeless. Truly the Koreans have co-opted only the crème-de-la-crème of American Pop.

5. Next time someone chastises you for mocking the alleged stereotype of Asians eating dog, give them a swift judo chop to the ribs. There are canines being consumed here every day. For just 30 cents a month, you can prevent another Rin Tin Tin from being fricasseed and marinated in sweet, sweet soy sauce. They do eat dogs here. Only big ones they assured me, the small ones they dress up and treat like furry children. I’ve seen stores which tailor sweaters to fit your tiny, tiny pet. Also, people dye their dogs’ floppy, floppy ears silly, silly colors like orange and pink, I have seen this first hand. I have never seen animals objectified so gratuitously… except everyday when I look caricatures of happy, happy livestock beckoning me to sup upon their tender, tender flesh. I’m a big, big fan of the double modifiers these days.

6. For the most part, I fluctuate between two trains of thought while walking the streets. Either I get really freaked out about the way people are staring at me, especially on the subway, or I embrace how different I appear to the native peoples. When I am feeling the latter, I often smile and wave at people who are incredibly indiscreet in their rubbernecking. In my neighborhood, many of my students often yell out “Teacher! Teacher!” when they see me. This is kind of fun. One day, drunk on my own inflated sense of local celebrity, I waved to small child staring at me from a bus window. He seemed enthused and motioned for his friends to look at the window and see this friendly, bearded Migukan (“American” in Korean. How ironic that their word for us involves the word gook). I waved again. This time the children smiled and in unison flicked me off, all the while grinning contentedly. What a country.

7. Finally, I was taken against my will to an all male nude sauna by my boss. I do not know how I can fully articulate the profound oddity of this experience, but surely I will try. I know, I know: Squirrelmaster ain’t always going to be around to protect me, and why do my misadventures always take a turn for the homoerotic? A question for another time, I suppose. Anyway, after climbing the tallest peak of the Apsan mountains with my portly, portly roommate and my friendly, friendly boss and his two children, and after enjoying a steaming bowl of Oxbone soup (which is much better than it sounds), it was decided that the “mogotan” (sauna) was in order. Immediately upon entering the nudity began. There was no escaping it. I can still see it: small hairless bodies mentally undressing me with every step I took, until I physically undressed, and then the staring began in earnest. I sat at my locker, debating the final transition from boxers to shameful, shameful nudity, when my boss popped out in front of me, wearing nothing but his thick, thick bifocals. “Is anything wrong, Andy-roo?” He inquired kindly. “Nothing, nothing at all Mr. Cho,” Except that everybody seems to be naked, including me! For the love of god, maintain eye contact. All of a sudden, sons 1 and 2 appeared alongside their father, flanking their progenitor in some sort of pagan celebration of the human form. I have to teach these children, I screamed inside my head, and now I’ve seen their lithe, nubile young frames cavorting willy-nilly amongst the sweaty masses of Asian elders. I needed that memory erasing ray from Men In Black more than ever. Fresh Prince, Tommy Lee, why have you forsaken me?!

I must admit, the only thing keeping me comfortable was how uncomfortable my roommate was acting. He stammered that he wanted to keep his underwear on, and that he just wanted to use the steam room and then take a nap. “Stupid Flapheads,” I laughed inwardly, in a blatant attempt to project my insecurities upon him, “totally unprepared for hardcore male nudity. Typical” Anyway, being in the sauna was like giving carte blanche to the Koreans to stare at me. There were no awkward turned heads when I looked up here, people just set up shop and found a good spot to observe me. I’d like to think it was because of my generous proportions, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it was my hairy exterior which invited the most attention. What do you Koreans want from me? I’m just like you except completely different. Can you really reproach me because of my hirsute build? The answer is unequivocally yes. The aesthetics of this country are extremely rigid: physical beauty need be beardless, hairless, alarmingly thin and unpierced if you are a boy. I think I fit in just fine. The last image of the sauna that I will relate is truly awesome. There are individual showering stations alongside the steambaths. Here one can lather themselves up, shave, brush their teeth, shampoo all while sitting down and staring at hairy Americans. Occasionally the Koreans will line up back to back and scrub each other’s backs and lather up those hard to reach areas for each other. Not to compare this scene to nature video, but here I go: This is almost identical to footage of chimpanzees grooming each other in the wild. The only difference is that the Koreans don’t eat the bugs they find on each other’s backs. Or do they? Unfortunately, I don’t think I will research this any further, but who knows: anything for the sake of science.

A homeless woman offered to service my friend and I for some spare change this afternoon. Then I was like, "hey, I like my prostitutes in glass cages wearing pink dresses and being pimped out by old teethless women, what's with all these free-range hookers I'm running into?" Forget about it man, it's Americatown.

There's not really much new to report here. I think there's a frog living in my neighbor's garden, which is exciting. I distinctly witnessed some croaking action this afternoon. I was trying to free up some space in my e-mail inbox and I started reading the e-mails I was writing to all my friends at home just after I arrived in Korea. It's a little bit magical because these were really my first impressions of Korea and I distilled them into non-sensical narratives which are fun to re-read now. At least for me. I wrote these before I had this website, but I have always wanted to post them at some point, so I'll do that now, starting with the post-plane ride recap.

So None of you speak English?


Hence the need for English teachers, supply and demand. Quid Pro Quo, Clarice. Oh, and hello, from Daegu, South Korea. Nestled in the cozy mountains of East Asia, Daegu boasts a multitude of happy squid restaurants. You can tell by the smiling animal on the front of each restaurant what is served there. For example, a happy octopus means seafood inside, but does not necessarily reflect the contentment of the animals who are about to be slaughtered. The same goes for the happy pig and happy cow signs. These animals are being blatantly misrepresented as being jolly, when we all know that animals have no feelings. It's a bit reminiscent of the Osaka fish concern from the Simpsons episode in Japan. In fact, much of the knowledge I have gleaned from this particular episode is proving quite accurate about South Korea (Or SoKo). It's all here: the talking toilets, the battling seizure robots, and especially Americatown, which in SoKo is called McDonalds. You know what they call a big Mac in SoKo? You'll never guess...it's called a big Mac. Man it's crazy over here, but you (collectively) would dig it the most. Well, I'm getting ahead of myself, after all it is tomorrow over here, so let me back track. Super Lucky Best Flight? Not even close. More like Super Unfortunate Hell Trip. After being assessed an astronomical fee for checking in too much luggage (who knew five suitcases was too much?), I proceeded to bid an emotional farewell to my lovely French mother and my lovely French American brother. Ok so far, a little bit misty, but everything's good. Then I am grabbed by a security guard. I can still see my family just twenty yards away, while this guy is giving me the cavity search of a lifetime. After opening every pocket of my backpack and leaving all my stuff out on the table for me to put away, I finally get him to explain why I'm over here. This guy speaks very little English but tells me I've agreed to a random search. I don't remember agreeing to any such search, but ok, I'm not trying to hide anything. Meanwhile this guy is looking through my camera bag and smiling. "Oh! Digital camera! Firewire cable! Firewire cable!" The man is violating my civil rights right and left, barely speaks a word of English, but he sure knows his firewire cables. I'm still in fucking San Francisco, this bizarre miscommunication crap is supposed to be twelve hours away! Anyway, I moved on, but as one of two white people on my flight, I suspect racial profiling. Da Plane, Da Plane! Da Plane sucked even more. My late check-in was rewarded with a middle bulkhead seat next to the smelliest Malaysian man ever (Are these two details related? Only a trip to Malaysia might provide answers) Plus, this guy was reading the USA today (He liked the pretty pictures inside, I'm sure) and jerking each page into my face after he was done reading. Even baboons fold their newspapers, sir! I read it in a folded copy of the USA today (I like the pretty pictures) Thankfully, a pretty Korean stewardess, nay, flight attendant, attended to me nicely and moved me to a blissfully cramped seat behind, guess who? Why my odiferous Malaysian friend of course. Then I made the crucial mistake of eating one of the "special" brownies that my friend Alex prepared for me (big shout out to Al for being the first non-Arnon to e-mail me). This made a very uncomfortable and confusing flight, well, exponentially more uncomfortable and confusing. Then a Balance bar melted in my pocket. Then we landed. But then all of a sudden the most incredible thing happened. On every one of the individual screens on the back of every seat, a Korean couple appeared and led the entire group of passengers in guided stretching exercises that everyone could do while seated. Then they started clapping in unison. The passengers followed suit, each one grinning ear to ear. It was like that scene in Hoosiers when Gene Hackman starts clapping, and all the little Hoosiers follow his lead, desperately eager to appease their coach/god. If only you could see these stretches, because Pilates they were not. They were like finger stretches and neck twitches, but my god, they loved it! Ok. I have to stop here because I'm in a "P.C room" (sounds a lot like 'pissy room' when said by the locals, but that's another room entirely) with chain-smoking Korean kids playing Doom on a network, and I can't take it anymore. If any of you have phone cards or rich parents or both, or you are independently wealthy, I expect you to call me at the following number or write to me at the following address.
(editors note: information not available at this time)

I should be online at my apartment soon, too. Love you all. E-mail me your address if you would like to start a good old-fashioned pen-palling. Next Time: Andrew loves the kids, the magical Mr.Cho, The bling-bling effect, The Eminem factor and more.



Precious Mammaries Indeed. Or should I say memories? it matters little, for now I shall sleep. Next time another one.

Rowdy Roddy makes the list. Good night sweet prince. First Andre the Giant (A fellow French-Romanian with a Ptituary problem. It's all about the glandular disorders, people, how many times must I tell you) and now the piper. Sleep well, you fake burly Scotsman.

The doctor says I'm not 'sposed to drink for a month cause of my condition, but I don't listen to no fancy doctor with no fancy labcoat with the stethoscope and the thermo-meter, so I got hammered tonight. 'Plastered,' in the parlance of our times. It was all okay cause it was Pete's birthday and Andy was there, and Zach, and Dan. And Al brought me some jumper cables, and Mike's mom made cookies, and gave us a ride to Justin's place in a mini-van. And earlier Craig called from Oakland, and yesterday I talked to Frank who's coming up for Thanksgiving and also I vacuumed (two 'u's, are you kidding?) the shit out of my room and this is what it's like when I yap about inane bullshit on my blog, and it doesn't feel quite right, does it? First of all there are all sorts of holes in my story. For example I haven't mentioned any girls that were present at the plastering, when in all fairness Maia came through, with her boyfriend. And that was the only girl I've seen for awhile, which seems odd when compared to the veritable menagerie of women who surrounded me during my time in Daegu. I swear it was like a freaking Lollapalooza plus Woodstock (plus what's the one where all the hippies got beaten by the Hell's Angels? Altamont!) and I was like Tom Jones or Englebert Humperdink or even (Ok, I'm gonna come right out and say it) Air Supply. I was bigger than Jesus and the Beatles combined in the Land of Morning Calm. What is that anyway, the slogan of Korea? New Jersey is the Garden State and Georgia is the Peach state. New York is the Empire State. Where was I? That's right, drunk at the computer in the Golden State. Is it sad when you go home alone to computer and blog till your speeling (sic you fucking alphabet Nazi, whoever you are...Patrick) makes no sense and you blatantly misrepresent Maude Flanders by adding the surname of Simpson to her still freshly decaying animated corpse? No, I think that's pretty healthy. By the by, Craig demands that the flatulent wife play a recurring role in the fictional misadventures of Andrew, and I can't see why she shouldn't rear her gassy head (that's truly non-sensical, but I hope you'll catch my drift) every now and again. The farting wife plays an important role in all of our lives, doesn't she? I was thinking that she'd be a wonderful addition to the latest edition of Canterbury Tale: first the Millner, then the parishioner, and finally the flatulent wife arrive at Canterbury to make her pilgrimage. The Socratic method is certainly establishing it's presence in today's blog as well, isn't it? And that wraps up an eventful post-Korea life in the day. I hope tomorrow treats me kindly enough to appreciate the state of mind I'm in right now.

It's three am and I'm slightly tired, why not blog a bit? Couldn't hurt. Today was nice, and it provided a valuable message. That message was: America is a media cannon, ready to assault the eyes, ears, and basically every orifice of the American consumer in an all out effort to win their heart, soul, money, time and attention. And I say that not only because I smoked a bowl and watched t.v. for a couple of hours which included possibly the best soundbite ever from some guy on 'Cribs', but also because I went to the Warriors game tonight (with my boy Zach props for the courtside seats). The Warriors, for those who don't know, are occasionally considered an American basketball team. Five African-American competitors or "ballers" from their squadron oppose five African-American "ballers" from the rival squadron, in tonight's case the Phoenix Suns. They then engage in a generally riveting tete-a-tete which can really only be appreciated if you keep your eyes on the game, thus disregarding the 10 million other ridiculous distractions at the stadium which include a remote-controlled miniature propeller zepplin (if you will), milling about around the cheap seats, 20 trashy Warrior girls dancing their hearts out to the booty bass sounds of contemporary Miami club music, and a mascot in a blue rubber suit (the aptly-named Thunder) exhorting the fans by rhythmically clapping his massive rubber hands and then launching t-shirts from an air gun at unsuspecting heart-attack candidates (RIP Maude Simpson). A hidden camera man uses a fishbowl lens and films people in the arena, whose images are then projected on the bigscreen, where they are distorted and engorged by the lens, much to the delight of the crowd. As is usually the case with putting fans on camera at sporting events, fat people are the victim of choice, and really who can blame the cameramen? The people know what they like, and they like dehumanizing fat people. There is also a live house band, who are allotted 1 and half minutes every timeout to belt out some awful bastardized tune or another. It's great when the game starts back up again after a commercial break or something and they just cut all the power to the band's microphones and equipment. Of course there is also the airport pricing, and the fact that you can't bring your own food and drink into the stadium, as well the whiney (spelling?) children who come to the game to eat rather than watch these magnificent African-Americans at work. All in all a good game despite this bizarre external phenomena, and although the good guys lost I did manage to shock and awe my neighbor by chiding Jason Richardson (the shooting guard of our squadron) about his girlfriend-beating tendencies off the court. Hey you might as well heckle while you watch. If he hadn't thrown his girlfriend through a wall, there would be no problem lady. It was his own doing. Anyway, I enjoyed my adventure, gave me some distance from my own "Crib" which is not nearly as posh as the one I saw right before the Britney Spears programming began on MTV, but it's charming enough. Tomorrow we celebrate my mom's birthday which, if everything goes well, should be awkward and foreign. Possibly fun, depending on the alcohol situation. Speaking of posh cribs, I visited my father in his new apartment yesterday afternoon, and it is nothing short of bling-blinging out of control. He lives in Pacific Heights (The name says it all doesn't it?), the neighborhood that demands to be egged on Halloweens when nobody is having a party there. The neighborhood that you love to hate when you grow up anywhere else. The neighborhood that Michael Douglass made a movie about (The aptly named "Pacific Heights'). After the years of living in slightly dilapidated apartments way out in the avenues with my dad, I never thought I would see it happen, but more power to him and his meteoric, George Jeffersonian moving-on-up-to-the-East-side rise to prominence in the new neighborhood. And I'll stop there. But who is a fan of my prolific blogging? I know I am.

I've never smoked crack before, (I've had neither the opportunity nor the inclination), but this is what I imagine it would feel like if I were. I can't sleep at all. I'm wide awake during hours which I should be dreaming about Pokemon or Digimon or some Korean monster or other. But instead I'm in San Francisco, trapped in my house by a dead car battery, shitty weather and crappy public transportation, and trapped in my room by my newly insane brother, who has taken to locking his door so that I can't walk through it to get to my own. I know he reads the site, but something has to be said because he is a little bit ridiculous. The only other entrance to my room is through my mom's and I don't feel great about stumbling through her bedroom at all hours trying to make it to the bathroom without kicking something with my enormous feet (You know what they say, ladies). Who know jetlag was a real problem? I thought it was one of those made-up diseases like Attention Deficit Disorder or cancer. It's interesting that this blog was created, and was written almost exclusively, while I was in Korea, and now here I am in San Francisco, the city that I named the site for, writing about my reactions to being absent from Korea. I suppose I'll get the hang of blogging from this new locale, although I suspect the tone of the writing (if there even was one before) will change from tongue-in-cheek cultural observations and good-natured mockery to something a little more personal. Tomorrow will be the end of my first full week here and I still feel absurd. Physically I'm backwards, that much is clear. My zest in consuming the first burrito I came into contact with was likely a miscalculation on my part-- a pinto bean and guacamole laden mistake. Other western foods have been kinder: the sourdough bread and I can't get enough of each other right now, and then there was my flirtation with the Camembert and other assorted cheeses at my mother's bougie (that's short for bourgeoise, in the parlance of our times) function on Wednesday. A smashing success by the way, thanks for asking. I've not seen as many young, gay interior decorators in such a small space since well... there's no real right way to end that sentence. I served wine like a good little monkey and made small talk with the upper-crust plutocrats who can afford to buy art right now. Mostly they just wanted to drink wine, shmooze a bit and move on down the street, though. I must say a few of the younger people who I met who have an eye for art and are collecting already were kind of intriguing. It was also nice that more people were speaking French inside the shop than English, something I haven't been around in over a year, having only spoken to my Mom while in Korea. Most people were interested in my stories and impressions of Korea, which was also welcome. It was almost as if the interest of total strangers somehow compensates for my own family's lack of interest about my year. Don't mean to whine though. I must say I imagined that all the crap I hated about my family had somehow disappeared while I was away, and now it comes as a shock that it's all still here, even much worse in some cases. 'Crap' is such an evocative label, don't you think? I would get specific, but this whole confessional/emotionally vulnerable angle is virgin territory for me when it comes to blogging, it's really more of a Caleb thing. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I am a veteran of this type of writing in other forums, most notably the Penthouse forum, which has published several of my angst-ridden but ultra-erotic letters in the past. I'll admit it seems premature and a bit distasteful to embrace this 'disappointed and slighted' persona, because really there was so much positivity related to my trip, the opportunities and experiences it provided, and it would seem essential for me to keep that in mind and not give in to the annoyances and flaws of being back at home. Although it's so easy to generate a list of my various discontentments right now! Now more than ever I appreciate the difficulty of Darth Vader's decision to go with the Emperor and the Dark side of the force. This much is true and very important to remind myself: most of these problems, perceived or otherwise, would not be solved if I were in South Korea, or anywhere else, right now. They would only be postponed, and in some cases ameliorated by relative freedoms Korea allowed me. Also the friends, the liberal drunkenness, the sleeping-in and the "pants-optional" rule I enforced strictly at my apartment would help out a bit. I'll ask again, does anyone have any jumper cables?

Well, despite my reluctance to get metaphysical on that ass, or at least pseudo-pschological and effusive in my writing, I have done just that, and it was relatively painless. I do believe my manhood is still in tact, but it'll take a few minutes, er hours, to check. So, until then.....

Back in the U.S.S.A

You don't know how lucky you may be, eh. My flight was manky, in the parlance of our times. Lot's of turbulence, which scares me more and more these days. I also counted three people crying on the plane, and none of them were children. In fact the kids on the plane were all pretty cool, I heard several 'assas' during the rough patches and a heartfelt 'Chemita" ("It's fun/interesting") once we landed. One Korean chick screamed "Help me!" just before the plane took off. A flight attendant came running over to her. It turns out she wanted to stick something in the overhead bin but couldn't reach. It was quite a scene, as she stood up, yelled, then retreated a few steps and finally sat down once her bag was packed securely in the overhead bin. I can only imagine her horrified reaction when she opened the bin afterward and discovered that her items may have shifted during the flight. Some army dude had to comfort his girlfriend when she started bawling uncontrollably as the plane began its descent. I think it was because her ears were popping and she didn't have any gum. I ended up staring at her for a good 5 minutes wishing she would move her head because there was apparently an amazing view of the Golden Gate Bridge just beyond her convulsing melon. I'm quite the sympathetic traveler, I know. Speaking of bawling, or balling as it were, I played some hoops at my alma mater tonight, and despite the frequent cramping in my calves and the enormous rip in my shorts, which I failed to notice in an entire year in South Korea, was great fun. Saw a few people I haven't seen in years, many of whom are gainfully unemployed with outstanding beer bellies. But in general they're good men, and thorough (In the parlance of our times). Monday, the day I arrived, was a spectacular day in San Francisco, which eased the transition a bit. Another thing that helped was sleeping, which I was able to do only after staying up all day, making sweet, sweet love to my new playstation 2. My room here is a mess, filled with the remnants of my former life here, but mostly with crap that I've been ordering from e-bay for the past year. One of my students from my school e-mailed me already. Though I'm plagiarizing liberally, I will retransmit it in its entirety: "hi andy im daegyung. nice meet you. be happy." Excuse me as I wax sentimental, but you know Dae Gyoung, it's nice meet you too, buddy. And I'm doing my best to be happy, little man, but it's a hell of a lot harder without you and your tiny yellow compatriots keeping me bemused and infuriated. And so on and so forth. Another thing that would make me happy is if Eileen teacher hadn't so callously knicked (in the parlance of our times) my black hat. Can't say I'm pleased with that development, that hat survived 2 angst-riddled years of high school, four marijuana-addled years of University and a wild one year sojourn in South Korea (It had one-day to retirement!) only to meet its apparent end at the hands of black hearted (and now black-hatted) Irene teacher. And after I gave her the most precious gift of all, my firstborn Jewish child, male heir to the Empire of Andrew (which is now short one stunning black hat). And by that I of course mean my cell-phone, that jewish child of advanced Korean technology. The humanity, Eileen, the humanity. All is forgiven, I suppose, but in my heart I don't really mean that. One thing that my room is lacking is an adequate source of light, as only one of the six lamps I keep in my room currently has a light bulb, and this I find frustrating. My mom told me she has some at her antique shop, but apparently they're lying in a drawer in an 19th century French armoire, underneath a ming-dynasty Chinese elephant that shakes when the drawer is opened, so I must keep on hand on the elephant while gingerly remove the lightbulbs, yada yada yada. I have to buy some lighbulbs tomorrow. Otherwise, living in the frigid converted porch at my mom's gaff (in the parlance of our times) is fucking awesome man. And I don't mean that at all, though I love my mommy very much, and I wish all my friends in South Korea could meet her one day because she is really cute and her accent rocks, and then I could do my impression of her all the time, increasing my funniness seven-fold. Actually I don't think she should meet any Korean people, because the misunderstandings in that conversation would be epic, but still the idea is strangely compelling, I must admit. Also apparently there was some sort of Mayoral election today that I was meant to vote in today, but I think I'm still too jetlagged to involve myself in politics right now/ ever. Plus I'm confident that Governor Shwarzenneger will handle all the duties that the mayor is meant to handle with tact, grace, ass-kicking flare and an indecipherable accent to boot. Otherwise, I'm happy to be home, though I do have a regrets about leaving so many good people (and thorough) in my South Korean wake. Dae Gyoung's grammatically potent, lower case, two-word overture for my contentment seems to be coming to fruition, at least for the 48 hours I've been here. My car battery is dead, and my mom left the registration renewal letter unopened and unpaid for a year, but that's hardly tragic. Tomorrow I'll be thrust once again into the high-stake bourgeois circus that is the art and antique scene for a soiree at my mom's shop, and though it will assuredly suck, there's sure to be plenty of white wine to be had. California white wine that is. Also I see my father for the first time in months, to be followed by some blood tests at the hospital. Jealous? Come on, speak up. You're just lying to yourself if you don't want to be screened for syphilis, and yellow fever, that compliant, subservient killer of white men. So enough, that is the state of things right now, for whatever it's worth. I miss everyone I left behind, but Buddha willing, I'll see you all soon.

I go America now. Bye bye.

As I watch Southern California burn to the ground from my cold one room apartment in South Korea, it strikes me how lucky I am to live, well, in Northern California. What a week it continues to be, lots of goodbyes, lot's of frantic packing, lots of half-assed mask-making at school, and what else? A lot of freaking cuteness at school. Frequent hugs, and some unprecedented moments of tender insanity, like this bizarre exchange.

Andrew teacher: Children this will be my last day at school, will you cry when I'm gone? (finger trailing down my cheek, where tears would be if I could still cry--botched facelift, 1999)

Korean Child: Why are you leaving?

Andrew teacher: I want to see my family.

Korean Child: But, teacher, we are your family now.

Andrew teacher: (Sickening shudder) Let's move on to the lesson, then

And who could forget this?

Andrew teacher: Sang-Ho, how are you?

Sang-Ho: I'm terribum

Andrew teacher: You mean terrible?

Sang-Ho: No. I'm terror bomb. New York City, you know?

Andrew teacher: I know. I don't live there. Sang-Ho your ears are very big. (wide arm movements indicating massive proportions of ears)

Sang-Ho: I am Buddha ears.

Andrew teacher: You certainly are, my friend. Good night sweet prince.

One of my favorite students, a delightful deviant named Gwak Hae Jin, who always asks me about my sexual practices and various methods of birth control, asked me to sing some Eagles' songs in class yesterday. I could only think about the scene in the Big Lebowski where the Dude asks the cab driver to turn off the music. ("It's been a long day, man, and I really hate the Eagles") Then he told me I had an erection. I was pretty sure I didn't, because this class hardly turns me on as some of my others do, but I looked down anyway. Nothing doing. What to say? I told him that this is what it looks like in a normal homeostatic state. He looked at me and said, "so this is what it sounds like when doves cry." Not the Eagles, but this kid knows his stuff.

The last precious moment which I must share was a letter from one of my private students, who Patrick used to teach. The first line reads, "Actually, I like you better than Patrick". Man, I can't wait to show that letter to Patrick.

Okay, on to my last day of teaching!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

really, really no time. Large blog in the works. Send money.

Andrew

I have a date...with a big piece of flying steel that I'll call an airplane, and it's Monday November 3rd, so maybe I'll be home in time to play hoops at Urban on Tuesday, wouldn't that be loverly? I think so. All the same I will miss this crazy peninsula more than I let on sometimes, and in all likliehood I'll be back eventually. I'm beginning to pass of my private lessons to a new teacher, and seriously it's like entrusting a part of my life for the past year to him, as ridiculous as that is to say. I had a going away party in my honor from a family last night. They prepared quite a spread for me, and then we drank our faces off for a solid hour and half. Then the most remarkable thing happened, the father of one of the students, with whom I had not exchanged more than a friendly subservient bow with in a year, stumbled home, already drunk from... wherever it is that he works/drinks. He sidled right up next to me and started yammering at me in the thickest Daegu dialect (which is thicker and more incomprehensible than most Korean dialects) for a good 15 minutes. I took one look into his bloodshot eyes and fell in love (he had his hand on my inner thigh, what was I supposed to do?) I didn't understand a word, and so I drank, then his wife farted. I pretended I didn't notice, because she gave me a bottle of fragrant shower wash, but I caught it. Diplomacy at all costs. Speaking of, there was more absurd talk of negroes last night which always spices up the lessons. As we were saying goodbye near the elevator, the father started gyrating in a bizarre circular motion and grinning maniacly, as if to suggest that this farewell needn't be so somber. It was truly an indelible image. This morning I went to the last of the LIKE teaching workshops that I will ever be attending, and as per usual it was mind-numbing and horrifying to see the collection of people that I work with, and the company which I work for. Kim In-Hwan, the major-domo of the Mickey-Mouse operation known as LIKE, kept the stupidity to a minimum today, although he did find time to pantomime the hand motions to the "Itsy-Bitsy Spider" which he mistakenly sang as the "Eensy-Weensy spider" which was a spectacular acheivement--that man has some pipes, he lent some deep emotion to the spider's unfortunate accident. Also, he invited all the foreign teachers to a traditional American Thanksgiving dinner at one of the local Army bases, but then he excused himself because he and his wife would be taking a $1000 trip to Hawaii instead. We were all wondering where he would be and how much it would cost him, so I'm glad he cleared that up. And that's about it.

"I want to befriend a negro"

Don't we all? It is statements like these that make me never want to leave this enlightened nation, but nevertheless, leave I must. Around the first of next month, if my employers are to be believed. The aforementioned declaration was delivered quite sincerely by a student of mine named Sung-Wook, who leaves for Australia next month, with a vast array of multicultural and diplomatic skills at his disposal. When asked why he wanted to befriend said negro, he replied that they have big muscles, are good at basketball, and do interesting handshakes with each other. I tought him how to give a pound, the unofficial negro handshake, should the occasion arise. My legacy will be the seed of diversity I've planted deep into the Korean subconcious. Undoubtedly all the negroes in Australia will flock to Sung-Wook, with his newfound knowledge of traditional handshaking and open-minded gregariousness. On a sadder note, Fenton burned my hair yesterday on purpose, an incident I can ill afford repeated.

No news is good news? A two hour window to make a decision, then nothing... strange. Leaning toward coming home for at least a month then making a decision. I like the Pirates of the Carribean.

After a solid two months of twisting in the dirty Korean wind waiting for my boss to approach me about extending my contract (at which time I was to throw a shoe at him, yelp and run to the airport), I finally received a call. A call not from my boss, but from one of the many LIKE minions, the aptly named Scott Kim. Not sure why his name is apt, but it is. Scott effectively destroyed my months of indeciscive flip-flopping by giving me two hours to decide my immediate future. Incentives, you ask? How about an $80 pay raise and all the canned tuna one can eat? As compelling as these nuggets are, I was still leaning towards the shoe scenario. Despite this I think a mumbled something to Scott about considering returning for 6 months under the right circumstances (i.e. $200, the tuna, and all the tea in China. That's right, all the tea.) So possibly I'm committed to that. Also, I am to take a Korean bride at once. So much for negotiations. I like to think I play hardball. I have to run to work, still mulling things over.

I'm having way to much fun with this Friendster site. It's the coolest. Reconnecting with all my peeps from the bay and beyond. So much fun in fact that I still haven't found a new job, which might be helpful now that I'm 20 days away from freedom, horrible freedom. It's getting cold outside and the Giants loss still eating away at me. No warmth. I think I finally properly distinguished one of my students from her twin sister tonight, nearly 9 months into our lessons. Then their mother cooked me dinner. Score.

It's with a heavy heart that I blog now that my Giants have been eliminated from contention. My sleeplessness knows no bounds as my boys wasted one of the most dominant seasons in recent memory in four close-fought games with the fake-ass expansion Marlins. Boo. Otherwise my last three day weekend before my contract expires was one of revelry and drunkenness. Initially I had no plans for these days except to find a new job online, e-mail friends and family and pick up the new Outkast record, but shamefully, none of those things happened. What did happen was drinking, and lot's of it. Scrabble too, happened. It was for lack of a more potent word, fun. With a dry, cool vocabulary like that you better believe I won with help from Eileen. Also, I slept with a stinky cat. His name is Wally, because Fenton found him near a wall. Then more drinking. I ate at TGI Fridays which ideally I will never do again, though I enjoyed my three-hour, $90 meal of various fried unpleasantness surrounded by artificial veneers, boundless flair and stocking clad waitresses. We didn't get balloons though. What's next for me? I really don't know yet, which is why I don't blog so much these days. I've left things to the last minute, and now I begin to worry a bit about the prospect of getting a plan together over the next three weeks. Let me know if you have any advice. I'm taking a vacation for sure, but where that happens and what will follow is still yet to be determined. So my friend Robin invited me to the site called Friendster and wouldn't you know it about 15 of my best friends from the city are members and very funny people at that. It was good to think about them again and the site is pretty damn cool as well. It's actually right up there with Illmitch.com, which I've supported from day 1. To bed with me.



You're not the only one but you're the best, Wally

My Deplorable Blogging Habits

I have 15 minutes before class so don't expect much. The last two weeks have pretty much sucked. I suppose that's a positive because its the first time that I've actually felt that things were going poorly and that I wasn't spending my time wisely. The weather has been erratic, I haven't been to the gym in ages and my sleeping habits have been for a lack of a better word, deplorable. Sorry to the community of Korean bloggers that expect a daily account of my bizarre misadventures. I'll admit that it would be nice to blog a little every day, and there certainly is at least one thing worth mentioning on the daily, but shit, sometimes I just can't bring myself to do it. So, while you won't be reading the lyrics to a DMX opus on my blog, you will have to settle for brief updates as I see fit. So there. And the honeymoon is over. I'm sick of Korean kids, cute or not, some of these rugrats are downright mean. Yesterday I told one spoiled little brat to leave the class after she threw a book at me. She stood up screamed in an ungodly pitch, sat down again, then a minute later stalked out of the room. She came back for the next class and then lied to the Korean teacher, then the school's boss about what had happened, like I knew she would, and that was that. I'm over it. It's going to take a whole lot of convincing to get me to come back to my particular school, and it's going to have to start with a bigger bed, premium cable and warmer blanket. I want Sportscenter, I want a bed where my legs don't dangle off the edge, and I don't want to wear woolen caps at night to keep me toasty. You hear me Mr.Jo? I'm blogging to you. It's not too much to ask. Right now I'm not looking forward to much but Halloween, which also happens to be the last day of my contract, draw your own conclusions.

Happy birthdays Mike, Hayden and Robin.

Peace

Happy birthday to my brother Alex!

Now will someone please bring me the head of Cedric Wilson? Come on man, what were you thinking? Wait don't answer that. "I was thinking endzone all the way" Then why were you running laterally for god's sake? I stayed up until 5:00 in the morning to watch that game and this is what I'm left with. Just for that devastating week two loss I'm being extra grumpy to Korean children today Cedric. I hope you can live with that on your conscience Mr. I-was-trying-to-take-it-to-the-house-from-the-thirty-yard-line-as-time-expires. Boo.
Go Giants, at least they seem to know what they're doing in crunchtime.

Oh my god. Forget the typhoon for one minute and look at these brilliant pictures Rob and or Sara took:

1. Cake!

2. Hoes beware!

#1 is self explanatory and shows the type of cake-eating monster this country has made me. #2 is much more subtle. It features drunken Kevin hauling drunken Andrew through the Red Light district in a wheel barrow on the holiest of Korean holidays Chusok. Kevin is screaming in Japanese, which is only natural given the circumstances. This is taken just before I fall into a puddle of mud and asbestos.

Hallelujah-- It's raining men. Rather it's raining men-size chunks of water, hail and debris. The typhoon is upon us, and I for one feel lucky to have survived this night with little more than soaked clothes, bag and and partially drenched notebook. I know I'm prone to hyperbole, but tonight's weather was absurdly intense. Getting home from downtown was like the freaking Poseidon Adventure. I'm not slight of frame by any means, but I was nearly blown into ditches, walls and poles on several occasions. My umbrella reversed itself not once but twice before it was rendered useless by Jah's mighty wrath, and I actually found myself considering how it would feel to be struck by lightening in Korea (would it be spicier? More efficient? Shorter than an American bolt?) and then have my lifeless corpse float down the rivers that had once been streets but are now rivers because of a lack of proper irrigation and sewage systems. I ushered an old lady across a crowded intersection, and though she was screaming when the thunder clapped she found time to thank me in English once we had reached the other side of the street. Now I've never been in this sort of inclement weather before and certainly it was an awesome display of God's displeasure with North Korea, but there were so many women screaming tonight, it was as if a bunch of foreign men had marched into the collective girl's locker room of Korea. Come on ladies, has Alien 2 taught you nothing? In space, which is much like a typhoon I imagine, no one can hear you scream. Or whimper, for that matter. Although I heard them, so none of that makes sense. Anyway it was scary, you get the picture.

For the rest-of-us, there's Festivus

Alright so I have some vacation time, and I can no longer forsake my blogging responsabilities for such cinematic gems as PCU and Jerry Maguire, so I will try to complete this entry in much the same way as Dorothy Boyd completes Jerry Maguire. As many of you know last Sunday was my 24th birthday, which was spent largely with me curled in the fetal position in my tiny bed warding off phone calls from loved ones in a desparate effort to sleep for five minutes more. It would have been quite the wasted day had not I partied like it was 1999 the night before. I had a great time on my birthday and I can safely say that no vomiting was involved, at least on my part, which always makes it a truly special occasion. This despite the consumption of Tequila, massive amounts of beer, kiwi soju, and a mystery drink tasting like something akin boxed wine mixed with Champale. Best Birthday ever. The day was unfortunately marred by a day of work, which was made a great deal easier by three, count them three class parties at school. In which Shrimp chips, Choco pies and napkins were distributed by me to my loving students. Some of these students gave me tokens of their appreciation ranging from pens and notebooks to a chocolate cake and three sticks of Odeng (A fish skin byproduct). These parties made me happy, although it left the secretary sad, as she had much to clean that weekend, but alas you only celebrate your birthday in Korea once, at least that's the plan. On to downtown, where I shared a predinner pitcher of beer with Rob, Sara and Fenton at a place called Festival American, which recalled the episode of Seinfeld where Kramer revives George's childhood holiday of Festivus. Christmas is for the masses, but for the rest-of-us there's a Festivus. Well said. From there we met Caleb at the Japanese seafood restaurant Yu-Me, where he handed me and ice-cream cake, a bouquet of plastic roses, and a deck of America's Most Wanted playing cards inside a Matzoball soup box. It was quite a collection. Eventually the rest of the guests filed in, I think there were around 15 or 16 of us in all, and then we gorged ourselves on fish, both raw and cooked, for the next hour in half. It was fantastic. Never have I supped on such tender fish flesh and had my personage celebrated at the same time, and it was tremendous. Lois also gave me a half-pound of cheddar cheese there. The night could never really top the pleasure of dining upon the fish, or "fishee" in Korean, but we drank our hearts out afterwards just to show that we had the eye of the tiger. We headed for a place called the Titanic, modeled not after the ill-fated ship but rather the crappy movie, to drink Soju and beer, and to consume the first of about five cakes which were eventually bequeathed to me. It was also here that I was feted Korean style and showered with whipped cream, fire and champale while a techno remix of "Happy Birthday" blares in the background, and strobelights pan the room. It was then that I wanted to puke most, and I hadn't even had the tequilla yet. After the Titanic, we went to a very dark place, in so many ways. The Commune is sort of a rock and roll dive with great music and style, but very little ventillation. Here the Irish girls that we had acquired at the Titanic forced me into new levels of drunken stupor, and it was here that Rob gave me the gift that keeps on giving, a shot of tequilla. While I received impromptu lessons if IRA toasts in Gaelic from Simon and the girls from Cork, I nearly past out several times. People kept on filling my cup, to the point where it runneth over and over. People I don't even know were liquoring me up, including one fellow dressed like Jesus. (Pre last supper, Romantic conception of him). I resorted to emptying glasses of beer in the toilet, which Fenton called me on right away. It was here that I though I would die, but surprisingly I didn't (Thank you Jesus. For the beer I mean) and somehow I stumbled to the Gypsy Rock where I got my arse spanked in pool, but, playing pool implies maintining verticality, and that much I did, and even begain to drink again. From there I went home, after losing most of the people in attendence at an undetermined point. Still I was quite happy with the night, and it was one for the ages. Good times. I think Caleb's photos are better than mine, so check out his gallery, near the bottom, but also I have updated my own, feel free to check that out as well. Also, here is a picture of a Dung Beetle. Enjoy.

The birthday blog arriveth anon, this much I promise. Photos are currently being edited, airbrushed and digitally altered in order to provide more aesthetically pleasing images to corroborate the fabrications which will soon ensue. All I can say in the mean time is thank you for all the birthday love from everybody who showered me with it. And those who didn't shower me... well that's a hollow threat if ever I've heard one.

I feel kind of embarrassed when I see someone talking with a piece of food in their teeth, don't you? I mean I'm sure it's happened to me on countless occasions, but still I can't help but feel an overwhelming sense of pity when it happens to someone else. I'm quite the humanitarian, I know.
Until tomorrow, perhaps?

Such is Rife

All is well with the universe these days, my own at least. I am now a white man with a bicycle. Though riding around my neighborhood invites more attention, I have gained some mobility and this is good. In fact, I would go so far as to say that me rikey. One of the brakes is squeaky, and I've already lost the key to the lock, but I'm pleased nontheless. Teaching continues to be interesting. My responsibilities have been expanded from repeating asinine and obscure sentences involving hamburgers and basketballs to administering tests and quizzes, and even grading them should the occasion arise. I'm climbing up the rungs of the hagwon hierarchy from token foreign commodity to pseudo-legitimate teaching-entity, which is novel. A minuses for everyone!
We are only allowed to grade as low as a "C," so no one's feelings get hurt, but only those receiving "A's" actually pass the tests. Not surprisingly, those who don't pass sit in the lobby after class and take it until they do pass. So in order to minimize hurt feelings, and reduce congestion in the high traffic area of the lobby, a lot of A-minuses are being distributed by this bicylce-riding foreigner.

Why is it that hangman so clearly reveals the ugly homogeny of Korean culture? On Sunday one of my students drew three consecutive dashes indicating a three letter word. I grew tired of haphazardly guessing at vowels and so I asked for a hint. He replied that there was only one in Daegu, and that there was one in the room. The two boys and I scanned the room for rare artifacts, looking at the china closet, the bookshelf, anywhere. We were at a loss, and then I remembered a conversation I had had with this student many months earlier. I decided to end this mystery and the lesson at the same time. "Jew" I said quietly, and then I waited for him to explain to his dim colleagues the origin of the seed of Abraham and Sarah, and the sad plight of the chosen people in Korea. I took my $25 and left, I had a bicycle to pick up.

I had my first, marginally-successful house warming party on Sunday, for some of my students and their parents, and despite my profuse sweating and a lot of embarrassingly dirty dishes, it went rather well. 14 people in a room with no chairs and an overworked airconditioner, with only beer, soju and grapes to amelliorate their growing claustrophobia. It was fun.

T-minus 5 days til the birthday.

Squid Wars

Teaching provides occasional insight into the complex inner workings of the Korean child, the exploration of which was my primary mission in coming to Korea. Yesterday some of my students and I engaged in an impromptu battle of dried-squid throwing. We wasted nothing, in the style of the great Native-Americans. We tossed squid eyes, legs and torsos at each other, culminating in a squid leg to the cheek launched by one brave lass. She thought the last laugh would be hers, as she threw it and quickly ran to the bathroom, but she underestimated my guile and grit. To my delight, I heard an awkward hiss from the teacher's lounge when she discovered the surprise I left in her pencil case. I tell you, it really doesn't get any better than squid wars. Today it rains heavily, and I blog from the PC bang, because my computer is on the brink of destruction. In a desperate effort to outdo Michelle, my friend Asma has gone and broken her arm, although in fairness she was hit by a car, while Michelle was merely clinging to pole in a nightclub, in true stripper fashion. Alright, I wasn't supposed to know that, but the secret is out. What's she going to do, she's in Jacksonville for God's sake. Booyah.

SUPER IMPACT EMERGENCY!!!!!!!!!!

One week in my new apartment has come and gone, and I am pleased with my new digs. This weekend, however, was a bit of a bust with nothing too interesting to report, so I won't. I will say that wearing a soccer jersey downtown is an open invitation for attention, both good and bad. Living in soccer-worshipping nations is good fun, and it's something you miss out on when you live in the states, although I'll take a pass on the hooliganism. One incident worthy of note for it's abject patheticness (is that a word?) on Saturday was a sad exchange between myself and a balding Canadian named Marciel, who upon recognizing me immediately began discussing his underactive thyroid gland and his waning libido. I sure know how to pick 'em. I quickly left him after encouraging him not to die in Korea. Sunday's highlight was an e-mail from one of my students with a heading which read "SUPER IMPACT EMERGENCY!!!!!!!!" In it, he offered me the use of a bicycle for the duration of my stay in Korea. I think that the message merited such a title, don't you? Transportation is important, yo. In other news, I think that my computer has contracted the worms and viruses that are currently plaguing the states, so I apologize if people are receiving infected e-mails from my account. Also I ate some delicious fish this weekend, which deserves a mention. I did manage to check out a couple of basketball games at the Universiade games which are currently being held in Daegu, and that was a good fun. Took a few pictures and I'll post them soon. Otherwise the countdown to my birthday commences: 2 weeks and counting.

Mr. Arnon Goes to Daegok

No phone, no hotwater and no internet make Andrew something something...

Go Crazy?

Don't mind if I do....

So the move has happened, and it's a mixed bag.

Pro: Building was built this decade-- hardwood floors, airconditioning, cable tv, internet conection possible.

Con: Truly in the sticks of a city that is relatively in the sticks of the country anyway. My apartment borders a creek, acres of farmland, and that's about it.

Pro: Four, count them four, foreigners live in the same building as me! That's four times the amount I'm accustomed to seeing on the streets of Sangin. The new apartment mates could all be pedophiles for all I know, but the fact remains that their pigmentation is caucasian rather than asian, and we all know how important it is to put the cauc in front of the asians sometimes.

Con: There were so many things wrong with the statement above, we'll just leave it that.

Pro: The days of walking through the courtyard and dodging naked children are over, people--I can't emphasize that enough. The family that once lived below me is now, well, behind me.

Con: My new apartment is really small. My bed is inches away from my refrigerator, and it's soothing white noise comforts me as I drift into slumber with images of naked korean children dancing in my head.

I must end with the Con of all Cons-- Somehow in the mad rush to move all my crap, I misplaced my Precious. (And by that I of course mean my Mach 3 razor, the only thing that effectively seperates men from monkeys. Tails and opposable thumbs aside) Assshhhiiiiii!


For the truly inspired:

Andrew Arnon
1420-4 Do Won Dong apt.#301
Dalseo-gu, Daegu, South Korea
704-802

Speaking of I'll be back. . .

3.Who is your daddy and what does he do?

Arnold for governer? C'mon now buddy really. All I can think about is him pulling a Kindergarden Cop on the senate floor and yelling "You congressmen are driving me crazy" or even better, "Senator Feinstein, "Get your ass back to Mars!" Seriously, California is apparently in a sorry state of affairs. Don't you wish you were in South Korea right now? All we fear is Nuclear attacks and outbreaks of deadly airborne viruses.

4. Why do I have to move?

I have less than 3 months left on my contract, yet my school is moving my out of my spacious stone-age house and into a more modest 1-room studio for the duration of my contract. So I guess people in Korea should call me on my cell-phone for the next couple of days, and those of you outside the nation who call me--so pretty much my mom and Frank (you rule), should wait till I have a new phone number.

5. Blogging

So I've killed the links to other people's blogs because things are getting bizarre. It's getting to the point where I'm afraid to look in my comments section, so sorry if you found them interesting or bizarre some combination thereof. You have to understand that Daegu is a tiny city where all the foreigners know each other or at least of each other, and wierd things ensue when some of them are given internet access. I don't mean my friends, but the wierdos who are fixated by them. Mine's the only blog you need, anyway.

night.

Perhaps I spoke too soon, and all this talk of merriment, drunkery and nostalgia was a bit premature. I should preface this entry by mentioning that I, one of my students, his mother and a friend devoured a roast duck in about twenty minutes today, and that was just weird and delicious, and wierdly delicious. So between the waterfowl in my gullet, the booze in my system and the odd hours I've been keeping lately, things seem strangely amiss. Now I know what you're thinking--"strangely amiss" is fairly status quo in the land of mysteriously dissapearing canines and mallards, and you're right. Still, I thought I had arrived at a mental state of reasonable comfort with Korea's various eccentricities, unpleasantries and it's economically advantageous luxuries. Recently however, as is bound to happen when one goes out carrousing four nights in a row, the strange, the odd and the negative have begun to surface and give the good, the serendipitious and the positive a run for it's money. Yes, it's the same epic struggle between yin and yang so artfully depicted in Tombraider 2, (Hanz Moleman says, "You took two hours of my life and I want them back! Oh, I probably would have just wasted them anyway.") Not to make short-shrift of these developments, but they need to be condensed in list form for a lot of reasons, sleep deprivation formost among them (Worry not, parents. I am strong like Ox). So here goes--

1. Who knew that the Eastern seaport and more was powerless for a spell? Certainly not I, who grew suspicious only when checking on the Giants game, found that their game against the Mets had been postponed because of...a massive power failure? I tell you: only in America, parts of Canada, and countries that don't have power to begin with. And then to add insult to injury, the Giants go on to lose two games to the lowly 'Spos. Tragic.

2. My @)($$#(%^@$#% computer is a piece of crap (No offense Natasha)

Several crucial keys on my computer keyboard, including but not limited to, the i,k, and the comma keys, are no longer functioning. Which makes it pretty goddamn difficult to type. Currently I am cutting and pasting those particular letters (and signs in the case of the one they call comma), from earlier entries. It's not very fun. And Caleb's suggestion to write without using those letters was just Unsane with a capital "U".

Ahhhhhhh I'll be back

Blog Interupted
This weekend should be commended for its sheer, Leaving Las Vegas style drunkery, which made for some choice moments, both good (all kinds of spontaneous wacky shennanigans, including some rare nostalgic instances) and bad (Yesterday afternoon shall henceforth be known as Black Saturday, a.k.a The Day The Music Died). Hangover aside, the first order of business: The One they call Fen-Ton.

Fenton is likely the best thing to come out of Canada, since-- well, ever (special consideration goes Wolverine and The Band). I don't say this because he danced in a cage to some seriously awful music, but largely because he was slam dancing to Who Let The Dogs Out, and throwing diminuitive Koreans about willy-nilly with his tree-trunk like limbs. Also he pointed to Caleb and told me not to believe his lies, much as the man from Memento reminded himself via a prominent tattoo. Later he revealed some of his sophisticated philsophy on Korean culture. Did you notice the perplexed but intrigued Korean man in the background? No? Look again. He is important because minutes after this photo was taken, unbeknownst to any of us, Fenton made his way over to his table and started regaling them with some crazy talk. Once we realized where he was, I felt the need to document the moment, so I stood to snap a photo. Alas I was out of range, but Simon, Michelle's distinguished Irish (English?) boyfriend, kindly offered to take a closer shot. In doing so he leaned on an unstable table and nearly broke it in two. He fell and the entire restaurant burst into unabashed laughter. Even my concern for my camera could not mitigate the moment's hilarity, so I too, laughed. Once the laughter died down, Simon did manage to get a good photo...but at what cost? You'll notice that the people at the table are still in the throes of laughing, especially Asma, who has apparently been sold into marriage in exchange for the fine desert beast in the picture. The price was steep, yes, but camels come and go, only Asma is forever. Kidding.

On Christmas he gave me aftershave

Saturday was also Patrick's last night on the town, and we sent him off in good fashion, drinking prodigious amounts of soju and beer. Patrick was my first guy friend in Korea and he taught me much about the crack game. And by crack game, I of course mean Korean culture. He was my neighbor and fellow baseball nut, and he was a true homie. Take your place of honor amongst the 300 pictures of me on the top of the site. You'll be missed you penny-pinching bastard, I hope you have a safe flight home. This is where I get a little weepy-eyed. My other dear friend Michelle leaves next Saturday, so it seems that we are destined to drink ourselves into another nostalgic stupor again this weekend. Such is Mango. Despite these farewells, the past weekend has actually been ridiculously fun (and drunk) and has led me to think about extending me contract in Korea for a little while longer, under the right circumstances. I have to say that my circle of friends can be quite delightful (big shout out to Asma and Fenton) and I look forward to my final three months with them.

I will try to finish that Japan entry next time.

So the time has come to talk, not of cabbages and kings (which one might well do if asked to talk about Korea), but instead to talk of Wasabi and Raw fish, and all of the things which make Japan the mighty island nation which it is today. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I and my mighty crew (Megan and Michelle) had as much success in Japan as these fellows , nor would I say that it was as disastrous as some previous visits by Americans to Japan . So, to summarize, not quite a full fledged Nagasaki, but closer to a mere Hiroshima. I kid, I kid. I kid because I love to laugh. Seriously Japan, (Il bon to the Koreans, and Nippon to the Japanese) is a fun place... when it's not monsoon season. In fact I would go so far as to say it's fantastic...when you have reservations for a hotel room. Really it's wonderful...when you speak Japanese. Friday was a fine day, if not for the pouring rain which greeted us after stepping off the boat- wait let me back up. We took a hydrofoil to from Korea to Japan, which takes only 3 1/2 hours to cross the Sea of Japan--oh I'm sorry, the South Sea, Korea does not recognize that slave name any longer. Smooth ride it was not. An elderly woman to my left vomited several times and later we found her sleeping in the Muster Station, a gathering spot at the back of the ship which displayed several non-sensical signs. One of them showed a family lined up from tallest to smallest, indicating this was indeed the spot where a family should establish once and for all the respective heights of its members. Another sign, marked Exit showed a man running, rather desperately. It was placed atop a door leading directly off of the ship and ostensibly into the water. This was our first indication that our trip to Japan was to be confusing at the very least. I felt I should take a picture of the sleeping lady, as she was laying atop some sort of makeshift tinfoil bed, but I thought it might be a little inappropriate, and besides the aluminum was interfering with my flash. The boat arrived safely enough and we set foot in Japan and took a bus to the downtown area, where the monsoon began in earnest. We decided that finding a hotel should be our first priority and so we began walking. These would prove to be the most pervasive and lingering themes of our brief visit: walking and finding a hotel. Soon enough, and a mere two hours later, we had found one. So, drenched but undeterred, we rested briefly and set out to see what Fukuoka had to offer. We really didn't know where to start, but luckily our map was sponsored by McDonalds, 7-11 and Seattle's Best coffee shop, so we made sure to pay each of these traditionally Japanese institutions at least a passing visit. In our wanderings we discovered the mighty Starbucks had also spread it's insidious corporate seed to the city. In fact there were three shops within 5 blocks of each other. Starbucks was to become our impromptu base of operations in the 2 days to follow, and had any of the stores had beds or even couches, we would have likely spent Saturday night there, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Eventually we happened upon an Indian restaurant. There we supped upon some of the most delicious food that any of us had tasted since coming to Asia, almost a year ago. Who knew you had to come to Japan to eat quality Indian food? After this we looked for some foreign-friendly watering holes. The first was called the "Happy Cock" (I can think of at least two things wrong with that title) which was kind of the "girls gone wild" bar of Fukuoka. There you can pay $30 (3,600 yen) and drink as much as you can for the night. We opted against this and settled for a couple of drinks and a complimentary shot of tequilla. Nothing too eventful here, though some table dancing ensued--guess who wasn't involved? Then we went to a foreign owned establishment called "The White Room" or maybe it was "The Dark Room," I don't remember which. I'd opt for the latter because it was poorly lit and didn't wasn't playing the classic Cream tune. This place featured some interesting designs, but few interesting people. We sat in an area which had a Roman bachanallia reproduction on one wall and a Dali reproduction on the other. Although there were plenty of places in Fukuoka that were stylistically Japanese, we seemed to be finding mostly places of Western design and influence. We hoped that Saturday's trip to the mall would prove more culturally insightful--our 7-11 map suggested it might. Little did we know that Saturday, which began promisingly with an Iced Latte from Starbucks would end tragically with blistered feet and wet socks and shattered dreams.

to be continued

not dead yet. promise to blog anew wednesday or thursday. waiting for some pictures and some free time.
go giants

Hours from Japan where I will continue my misadventures for my three day vacation. If it sucks, then upon leaving I can actually say 'Sayonara Suckers' with some conviction.

I've finally hit the big time. I'll have you know that I've finally penetrated the subconcious of my peers, and I am now making cameos in other people's dreams. Catch me in Caleb's latest adventures in rapid eye movement under this Saturday's entry. For some reason I'm arguing with his ex-wife, incidently also a chosen person, and I'm accessorizing. What can be said about this? Perhaps Caleb, like me, should avoid the spicy foods before bedtime. I might take this advice myself, as my recent insomnia has coincided suspiciously with my newfound affinity for Kim Chi, the staple dish of this tiny, fiesty nation. I'm also featured briefly in Asma's recent entry (July 7th) recalling her disturbingly aggresive confrontation of a dim San Luis Obispo native. Not suprisingly, my sexual orientation was once again being called into question. This is unfortunately a frequent occurance for this San Francisco native. It's not rare to encounter ridiculousness and ignorance within the community of ex-pats in Korea. Army related personnel and English teachers from all different backgrounds ranging from dirty old men to ex-convicts, deadbeat dads, and massive debtors all the way to adventurous and interesting peeps (like my clique). However much I try to brush off the haters, just like Master P taught me to, I can't say that I'm not affected by these repeated, startling allegations. It's like just from because you're from the Sco, and you're hairy and articulate and you wrote poetry in high school (admittedly poetics is the 'gay art', but they meant 'happy' in the case, I think), then you must partake in the love that dare not speak it's name. Whatever. I'll try to keep the swishiness to a minimum, but know that I enjoy sex with women as much as the next latent homosexual. Kidding. Anyway I apologize to anyone who was offended by that rant.

Otherwise, hard as it is to believe, I've been in Korea for nearly 8 1/2 months. If you click on no other link in this entry, click on that one. I am very funny. Not gay. I think that Gabe might be, though. Not my homie Gabriel from the Sco, but the short one who teaches English in Daegu. See what happens when you piss me off, buddy? Cyberspace infamy, biotch. Gay Gabe did tell me about a funny page that pops up when you do a google search for 'weapons of mass destruction' and hit the 'I'm feeling lucky' button.

So I've been having trouble sleeping lately, but certainly my razor sharp wit has not been affected. You like that confidence ladies? It's the kind that only emerges in a dark room at three am when valium proves ineffective. Also, I love when people e-mail me, even though I suck at returning them. Oftentimes the Comments link loads extremely slowly, so e-mail me. There is a link to my address at the bottom of the page (Listen You) even though it's hard to find. So, good night, and my arbitrary Simpsons quote is this, said with utter disdain:

Yes, my son is also named Bort

I thought of a great a band name if ever the occasion arises. Confiscating Hampsters. Enough said. It's not so much an absurd non-sequitor as it is part of my job description. Yes when I'm not calling my students "dog-babies", tossing smelly toddler socks out of four-story windows or throwing erasers into children's mouths, then in all likliehood I'm depriving preteens of disease-carrying rodents and incurring their hissing Korean wrath. It happened yesterday, when a little girl refused to put her tiny, frantic hamster into her shoulder bag like I asked her too, and instead put it in the pouch of my sweatshirt. Ignoring my abject terror of being pooped upon, I removed the beast from my paunch pocket and placed it back in the panty-like kercheif she was using to transport the vermin-turned-pet.

This lesbian bar has no fire escape

And what I mean by that is Happy Independence Day. And Happy Birthday Ezra, wherever the hell you are. Eight months of rice and and references to dog eating have made my fingers grow weary. but I feel my strength growing anew, and the blogging shall resume in earnest.

Enjoy your death trap, ladies.

Well continuing the trend of writing backwards, blog my to welcome. Not funny, I know. But I think it was almost two months ago that I did a whirlwind tour of Thailand, or more specifically Railay Beach, just off the coast of Krabi. Amazingly enough it was a ten minute walk from the beach that I visited two years ago on a University trip. You'd think I could plan better. It's also a short terror-filled boat ride away from the actual beach of that cinematic masterpiece known only as The Beach. There I met my partner Zach, fresh off his own travels to Italy, Amsterdam, India and other such places. Zach had already been at the resort for awhile, just chilling out in a bungalow, smoking opium, bootlegging dvd's, and beating away ladyboys and manwhores with a stick-- so he was well adjusted. I, however got burnt considerably by man's ancient enemy, the sun, and was also eaten by nature's cruel step-daughter, the mosquito, or skeeter. We dodged some monsoons, threw around the frisbee, caught up on old times and did some light rock-scrambling in some crazy caves that smelled like pee. In the mornings Zach cleared his head the Indian way, while I quieted my hangovers by crocheting a new shawl for myself. I'll let you decide which one of those statements is true....all in all a good trip, and not a SAR in sight, though plenty of precautions were taken (those photos at the top of the site were taken in the Bangkok airport). This month, possibly Fukuoka will be visited, and I'm taking a hydrofoil to get there. So if any of you will be in the area, let me know. I plan to sleep in a cylinder, buy panties in a vending machine, wear a paper suit, buy some outrageously-priced fruit, smack a few memoires out of a geisha, and in general delight in Japan's expensive cultural splendor. I'm stoked.

Well, I don't think anybody will be wondering who's blog it is that they're viewing, but thanks all the same to Caleb for all his time, effort and good will. He's quite crazy about the fooseball these days, nearly coming to blows with jarheads and whatnot. Anyway, the site is a little self indulgent right now, not quite the subtle masterpiece that screams humility, but I'll work on toning it down. The new design in the gallery page is part of a painting that my cousin Patrick recently finished and sold to a hospital in Paris. I think it's pretty amazing, and he is awesome, and I will try to capture the entire image. later more.

It's funny that the story of my fugitive roomate has to unfold like a Tarantino flic, starting backwards and working forward in non-linear fashion until we arrive at the anti-climactic beginning, but hey what are you gonna do? Pulp Fiction was alright, and single handedly resurrected John Travoltas's career after Look Who's Talking 1-5. Anyway, Wednesday proved relatively uneventful, until Nick was asked to teach an extra class (something which routinely happens to the foreign teachers), which he interpreted as some sort of plot to punish him for the Monday and Tuesday's awkwardness. Perhaps this was the straw which broke the canuck's back, because this was to be young Nic's final day at our fine institute. I went out carousing that night in Seong-so, one of Daegu's more upscale neighborhood, which I enjoy because it is one of the city's more foreign-friendly districts. Possibly this is because there is a large University there and a fairly open-minded student population. In any case, I came home to Nick and a few buddies taking turns smelling up the bathroom. They left their respective stenches and moved on, leaving only the fleeting aroma of nature's course to soothe me into a drunken slumber. In the morning I awoke and hopped on the subway to meet one of the coaches of my gym, who invited me to see the new Matrix movie with him at the absurd hour of 11:00 am. I noted the presence of Nic's shoes just inside the door as I departed. I saw the film and enjoyed a leisurely meal at Burger King, which I had managed to avoid for the better part of three years until that day. I came home to change my clothes just before work and quickly rushed to school. I didn't notice that by then almost everything of value had been cleared out from Nic's section of the apartment. When I arrived at school, Nic wasn't there. I tought my first class and still there was no sign of him. By the third class, Mr. Jo asked me for my keys so that he could check our apartment. I gave them to him and continued my labor of love. He returned my keys to me a few hours later, and told me that there was no sign of Nic, and that maybe he had gone back to his country. Better his than mine, I thought. Later when I went home, I confirmed that he was really gone. It was true. Than I began to feel guilty, as if I had somehow made him vanish by focusing my mighty mental powers on his dissapearence. His room was bare except for a bunch of dirty dishes and several ashtrays. He had cleared the refrigerater of his precious imported sausages and parmesan cheeses, leaving only rotten vegetables and fungus laden potatoes. to be continued...

Shazam, perhaps Shaquille O'Neals most subtle performence in a feature film, is on tv right now. Thought that was worth mentioning.

That all went down last Monday. The next day, Tuesday, was payday. As a rule, payday is a fine day and one worth looking forward to after Monday's stress. I received my empty yellow envelope with humble gratitude, as the money was deposited directly in my Korean bank account. Nick however, (who always recieves his pay in cash money or monet due to laziness or forsight, I'm not sure which), had an envelope which was a bit lighter than usual. Now, a good two hundred dollars had been deducted based on the ridiculous amount of international calls Nick had made from our home (largely to Canada and Thailand) --our academy will pay any bill that we incur and then take it from our salary. But, Nick had been sick three days in the past month, and two of those days he was not paid for, despite the fact that our contract promises us seven sick days for the year. Furthermore that crazy bastard Nick had made a few international calls from the secretary's desk in between classes, so neatly attached to his envelope was a phone bill from the academy, and scrawled at the bottom were these profound words, "P.S. Mr. Jo and I know the fact". Now I'm no rocket scientist, in fact I am barely an English Teacher, but buried deep within that elegant, well-researched phrase, I detected some animosity, and so did my portly pal Nicolas. Immediately he objected to the sick days being unpaid, right then and there in the teacher's lounge. This led to another lengthy, ugly exchange which involved no less than five people to translate each other's pointed words. I slunk off to class gratefully, for once looking forward to the fecophiles and nitwits who awaited me.

After work, Nic and I talked about how unhappy Mrs. Song was making us both. He had talked to Mr. Jo (Mrs. Song's husband, right? Married women in Korea keep their maiden names, although it is only selectively enforced) and he had told him that even though he had seven sick days available to him in his contract, Mrs. Song had decided to change his contract. Now, I learned early on in the game, possibly when I contracted the Chinese yellow dust disease known as conjunctivitis, that it's best not to miss a day of work even if you have a highly contagious ailment and frequently rub your eyes and then touch children (which is essentially how I pass the time at work). I had to come in despite the fact that I was this was my one chance to truly live like a leper, but instead I was thrust callously into the midst of Korean children (our most precious resource). Still, changing Nic's contract on a whim, simply because he sucks, strikes me as somewhat wrong. Anyway, the talk between Nic and I was probably the most empathetic conversation we have ever had...little did I know it would be our second-to-last (or penultimate).

I'm back. Anyhow, the crazy boss's tirade continued for awhile, and clearly Nick was upset, so was I truth be told. I began to mull the possibility of changing academies or quitting all together. So I called one of the teachers at the central offices of my school's parent company, who reassured me that quitting or changing to a different school would be a bad idea and an expensive proposition because (surprise) my academy is an individually owned franchise which is only loosely affiliated with the parent company, (in that they use the same ridiculous textbooks and benefit from the reputation of the school's name). In fact, it turns out that my contract was notarized and my visa was sponsored by the aforementioned treacherous snakewoman, not by anyone at the parent company. Food for thought. I decided against any rash actions and spoke with Snakewoman's husband, who is considerably less reptillian, and is the same man who used to give me friendly ass-pats not so long ago. I apologized for the dog-baby incident, and asked him why his wife is such a bitch, though not in those words. He told me that he thought I was a good teacher and that most of the problems they were having were entirely concerned with Nick. Then he pinched my bottom and whispered that his marriage was in shambles and he would not be opposed to commisioning a hit on Mrs. Song. I winked at him and we both understood that she would be the next to die. I stood and turned my back to him suggestively, and went on my merry way. I'll let you determine how much of that is true, but know that sometimes I still think of his sweet kim-chi breath brushing against my ear-drum.

The saga continues, a little later.

Well really that last entry was strange. I no longer feel any connection to it. Anyway today was a rather crazy day because (drumroll please): My roommate ran away! Or rode his motorcycle off into the Daegu sunset as the case may be. Where to start? This story is so rich and complex, but the bottom line is that, aside from a ton of empty beer bottles and a sink full of dirty dishes, I am for the time being, Nick-free for the forseeable future. This past week has been highly stressfull at the academy, with my freakish boss at one point running in to the teacher's room breathlessly to criticize both Nick and I for a wide variety of miscues. She couldn't explain all this in English of course, so she had to have the Korean teachers translate for her, which proved an embarassment to everyone involved. Turns out that a number of parents have been calling in to complain about the foreign teachers, notably Nick, but I am not completely innocent myself. Apparently I called one of the kids a "son of a bitch" in Korean. Which is news to me, but it's certainly not outside the realm of possibility, beacause a lot of crazy shit goes down in my classes. For the record, I thought that "Ke-Seki" (son of a bitch) meant dog-baby, though now that I think about it, I should have put two and two together, though that's sometimes hard to do in the heat of an insane classroom. Anyway, the kid quit and the mom called the school in a fit of rage and wanted to yell at me. I'm certainly not proud of this incident, I'm quite sure it didn't happen as the kid told it to his mother, even though I can't remember it at all. Anyways a bunch of parents called in to complain that Nick was always late to class, drinking coffee in class, reading the newspaper in class, playing games throughout class, using his cell-phone. They had a point. Nick really was a crappy teacher. He was always the first in the teacher's lounge after a class and the last to leave to start his next class. He would always ask the secretary to order him food and then eat it leisurely while the other teachers were in class already. Meanwhile, the diplomatic thing to do is to have the Korean teachers order the food for you, and then shovel it down in four minutes or less then run to your class with sauce dripping down your chin, which is my preferred method.

I love all you bitches. And by bitches I mean loved ones. Words cannot express how much I care. I think Shaggy said it best: "Closer than my peeps you are to me." Whatever that means. Point being I am here for you my friends, and don't let my absolute drunkeness be a detriment to my sincere expressions of affection. I played basketball, pool, and fooseball today, and I'm riding the orgasmic wave of meaningless victory, and so I must share my sense of personal accomplishment with you all. Ae-Ryoung is a trooper, don't let anyone tell you differently. She accompanied Caleb and I on our binge drinking mission for a good portion of tonight, and for that she deserves Kudos. She's getting married in November, and I need to be at that wedding... I'm still lobbying for best man, but I think my beligerence is hurting my chances. I'm qualified though, I swear. I watched Four Weddings and a Funeral, and I've seen the previews for The Best Man, you know I should be there.

Pieces, as my boy Josh would say.