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.

The weather in Daegu has taken a turn towards slightly unbearable-- especially at night. The perpetual motion machine which was my fan is no longer functional. The airconditioning is noisy and expensive. And outside my window someone has been screaming intensely for over two hours. It honestly sounds excruciating, like a narrow-hipped waif giving birth to a mule. I'm running out of ways to distract myself. I still loathe my roommate. Nightly I pray for his motorcycle wheels to skid off the poorly-paved streets of the city and rid this nation of his portly Canadian-bacon filled antics. He's been getting into trouble at work lately, angering the natives with his tardiness and stupidity, chances are nothing will come of it, but it gives me an evil, Mr.Burns-like pleasure to consider the possibilities. Sometimes it seems that the only true stress I have in my life in Korea is this nitwit I live with. It's hard to accept a post-college, "real-world" experience being marred by crappy roommate-- I thought those days ended in College. The last few weekends I've been out, I keep running into the same British chick and she is always plastered. She always comes right up to my ear and starts belting out these bizarre soccer chants from her limey nation. The first one is something to the effect of, "I'd rather be Bin Laden than your mum (repeat 6-8 times). The second one is exaclty the same but she replaces Bin Laden with Hussein. Why does she do this? The one time we actually spoke, I was kind of interested in her, but all she was saying was that her dad was Irish and he's kicked a lot of lad's arses. I figured it was a lost cause halfway through and started jive-talking her in a cockney accent, though most of the things I said where based on my fragmented recollection of "Oliver!"
Thank you, San Francisco Day School.

It appears that much like Stella, the Giants have gotten their groove back, let's hope it lasts. Also, The Dave Chappelle Show is fantastic.