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.