One of those e-mails you never thought you would ever be writing...


Dear Sir

In response to your question: although it would be grammatically correct to say 'I took the chicken', it would be quite awkward to say this to express that you 'ate' or 'chose' the chicken. In general, when we speak of what we ordered or ate at a restaurant, we always say 'I had the chicken, the fish, the lobster, etcetera. I hope this answers your question.

Thank you very much for your valued questions and feedback.

blah

Look who’s come crawling back. That’s right, me.

A recap in bullet points

-The people I work with recently discovered that I have a website and read it one morning this week. Interesting development.

-I started drinking around 3:00 that afternoon.

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-I must remove the name of the company that previously named in my most recent entry, sometime in September (perhaps). It came up in a google search for the company’s website. You know that company with the jazzy name that you just can’t stop thinking about. <>

-They’ve given me business cards, what was I to do? <>

-Did anyone see the brawl between the Detroit Pistons and Indiana Pacers? I saw highlights. It was epic. I will come back to this. It was savage and fascinating for me.

<>-There is a very real possibility that I should close down this ironically nearly defunct blog. <>

-Is this a bad thing? <>

-I have written a lot of good shit over the past nine months (How long have I been here?) I wish you could read some of it. I don’t know how this would be possible however. <>

-I have stepped in a lot of shit over the last 15 months. This is a subject of much discomfort for me. <>

-I am no longer capable of maintaining contact with friends using the medium of e-mail. I am sorry. This is nobody’s fault but my own, I take full responsibility for it. Expect to hear from me in a year or so.

-I am possibly serious about that.

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-Our apartment has no heat as winter draws nigh. For me time is seasonless, as are the days of our lives. <>

-San Francisco. Just for the hell of it. <>

-At any time, my crazy cousin, with whom I share in an apartment with no heat, will walk in…he has just walked in…and begun to talk about n’importe quoi. This just actually happened. <>

- I made him leave, but he broke my flow. <>

-Don’t you hate how French people are really French? <>

-I feel I should compile material for a Catskills style comic monologue in which would simply make broad general statements about the France/ America dialectic. <>

-There’s a real dialectic here, I assure you. <>

-Here’s a good one: don’t you hate it when French people beg you to say something negative about America (which is inevitable), just so they can pile upon your criticism with 37 more well rehearsed and media-induced criticisms of their own? <>

-I should have found a synonym for ‘criticism’ in the last sentence, to avoid using the same word twice. <>

-Can I tell you how many absurd grammar rules and rhetoric about the English language I have dispersed amongst the French users of (insert company product here)? <>

-‘This is not a grammatically valid construction’ is a sentence I am very comfortable writing. <>

-I like to think that Philip and I have indoctrinated a group of people who think it is appropriate to bandy about such catchy phrases as ‘I’m not too keen on telephone negotiations’ or ‘I wear the pants, here’ in tense business situations. <>

-Philip is one of the people I work with. I should have mentioned this earlier. He’s an American, and he is not blood-related to me. <>

- I have to detail my geneology at some point. Family is everywhere. Everywhere... <>

-The French are knee-deep into American pop-culture and generally admirers of most aspects of this pop-culture in an annoying way. This may be the result of the outsourcing of such shows as ‘Airwolf’ (‘Supercopter’), ‘The Dukes of Hazard’ (Sheriff, fais moi peur), ‘Happy Days (Appy Days?) and ‘Starsky and Hutch’ (StarkiUtch’) to French television, which greatly influenced my French generation age-bracket. Culturally and politically, however, it’s fairly safe to say they are categorically opposed to every single facet of American policy. <>

-Korea is an interesting contrast. I’ll have to come back to that. <>

-Cousin alert!!! The P-diddy is back and he’s started yelling to me about poetry and his fantastic adventures of the street directly outside our apartment for the last 10 minutes. He does his best to make sound exciting and dangerous and intense. Nothing doing for me. <>

-He will not stop talking. <>

- Once again he is impossible to stop. He is will not stop, this mad one. <>

-We have switched to English and he just said ‘Crazy Life About’ Ooh. Some of the things that French people say in English kill me. <>

-I can’t remember any of them right now. <>

-‘Why that?’ P diddy asks. <>

-‘That’s for the best’ is one of his favorites, and mine too. <>

- I figure if I’ve named names up until this point (maybe I should use acronyms?), why stop now? I’m not trying to call anyone out, just writing about some personal shit, you know. <>

-Right?

-This kid Boulou is also a ‘sacre personage’. He smelled horrendous tonight, but he really made me think.

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-That literally means “he is a sacred personality” You see how rich is the French language. Beautiful. Confusing, but pleasant when spoken by French people who know how to speak.)

-Boulou’s English favorite catchphrase ‘ is ‘That’s a fucking good soup!’

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-Apparently there’s a story behind it, but I think it stands up for itself, out of context. <>

-Is he going to read this too? I am a little concerned. <>

-This man is drunk or high in statistically every instance in which we encounter each other. His drink of choice is a whiskey coke, but he’s willing to mix it up and drink basically whatever you put in front of him. <>

-Even when I’m sober, I have real problems understanding Boulou. When he’s not sober, forget about it. The guy is totally incomprehensible. You’ve got to meet him to truly not understand him though. One of a kind. <>

-He talks a lot of mess about Sarkozy, the French minister of agriculture (Or is it Justice… they both have equal say in the parliament. <>

-I’ve learned only that the French system is riddled with problems of corruption and racism and bureaucracy and money but is still exponentially better than ours . <>

-I think I can intimidate people by speaking English loudly. P-diddy has fled. <>

-On the other hand I get easily alarmed by sketchy Parisian groups who yell loudly. I am also get rattled by the congregations of certain ethnic groups. This is wrong. <>

<>-I recently attended a circumcision. It’s the second ritual penis cutting I’ve witnessed in in the 3 and half years I’ve lived here. All the prayers and yamurkles (Spelling?) and all food and everything and the crying and the bleeding and all that stuff of whimsy and lore. So much Judaism <>

- Yarmulke is the correct spelling. Thank you Microsoft Word SpellChecker, for bringing that culturally diverse knowledge to the table.. <>

- I work in the software industry in some way. That’s fair to say. <>

-It’s so hard to put a name on what I do. I’ll just assume you understand everything. <>

-Finally went to Spain with one of the cousins. Raphaele. She’s a fun one. Saw some museums, paintings, a particularly verdant (spelling?) train station in Madrid. Very humid. <>

-I took some pictures. Maybe I’ll replace one of the 800 pictures of myself of the ‘bloog’. Not so subtle. <>

-There’s a case to be made for subtlety. <>

-Shouldn’t talk about money or payment issues on the old ‘bloog’. That’ll come back to hurt you. <>

-Generally, I think one is better off avoiding the topic of money in almost every phase of conversation and possibly even in every phase of life. Unfortunately, it’s impossible. There’s a paradox waiting to be written here. <>

-I appreciate the sort of cultural awakenings I experienced in Madrid. For example, did you know that the painter ‘Pablo Picasso’ is actually Spanish? This whole time, I assumed he was American because, well…yeah. <>

-One observation. Lot of pork consumption in that country. Difficult to avoid the tasty pig meat. <>

-That was disgustingly evocative for me. <>

-Recording session tomorrow morning. Going to record some good ones. Recording sessions, wherin some of the elite members of the GG pedagogical squadron go to the studio and lay down some vocals for the hot new GG episodes, are always memorable. <>

-That last sentence would have seemed like a physical impossibility just 37 months ago when I came to France, but there it is, clear as day. It might even be a grammatically valid construction. <>

-When I write about a given topic in a text to help French people learn to speak English through e-mails of 10 minutes a day, I am encouraged to be as stereotypical and caricaturiesque (real word?) as possible. Or maybe I take it upon myself at this point. That line is a bit blurry. <>

-I wrote an episode in which an Irish man (his nationality is completely incidental to this anecdote, mais quand-meme. It’s France) travels to China to determine if the factory which has offered to produce glass bottles for the perfume company for which he works, properly treats their workers. It plays out rather ambiguously as the factory owner, one Mei Tsing Lee, voiced by a French woman of Cambodian origin who does not speak English, assures Kevin that, and I quote, “Everything is OK at this factory”. (In my head I envision her giving Kevin a big thumbs-up sign here) <>

Meanwhile, in the background of the audio file we hear the faint sounds industrial machinery pounding away, while Michelle, a member of the GG power team, yells harshly in Chinese at an unsuspecting worker who was presumably loafing about. There’s a word for this kind of story in French: limite. C’est vraiment limite.

-Here are some additional nuggets from this little vignette in no particular order:

‘You need pencils? We make pencils. How many do you need?’

‘I am delighted you like our traditional Chinese cuisine’

‘Gu-Chen? He is very powerful. Strong hands. Good.’

-I can’t stop laughing right now.

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- I am unquestionably going to hell. But do I really believe in hell? This should be explored. <>

-This episode, affectionately titled ‘China’ in our database, also spawned the infamous ‘Lucky Duck Airline’ debate, which confused and caused consternation amongst GG users and GG team members alike. <>
-I’ll just write that one of the possible responses for a question about Lucky Duck Airlines was, and I quote ‘I am flying through the air like a water fowl’. <>

-Let’s keep in mind that I am a responsible and key member of a budding young enterprise, who has spoken publicly (Remind me to come back to this) and is possibly headed for great success, knock on bois. <>

-I have business cards, yet I write angry e-mails about subjects like ‘Lucky Duck Airlines’. Now there is a paradox. <>

-At this point I am writing primarily so that the previous entry will be archived as quickly as possible. <>

-Seriously, the fight at that basketball game was shocking. The implications… this is an issue of major interest for me. If anyone taped this, I am interested in viewing the footage from different angles repeatedly. The humanity of it astounds me. No words. <>

-Commisioner David Stern. Tough cookie. <>

-I have to make mashed potatoes for 12 for Thursday night’s Thanksgiving celebration. With roasted garlic. Promises to be interesting.

I’ve taken up chess. In revenge, I’ve abandoned every other pastime I have pursued. (Smoking is a notable exception)

-No. I still watch TV and follow American sporting teams, and have recently discovered Curb Your Enthusiasm, a revelation. So inundated with humor and intelligence and Judaism and surprise and celebrity cameos, it’s the best.

Is this thing on?

Well where to begin? It's been 5 months since my last post. Let's see if we can't write a quick summary of the latest developments in my life, while minimizing the requisite apology which usually prefaces my entries.

(I think that's what I used to do).

So, in no particular order, let's get some things out in the open.

I am in fact alive.

I have lived in France nearly half a year, unbeknownst to many, including myself occasionally.

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In that time, I have: <>Lost two wallets, a pair of glasses, three bank cards, a metro pass, my driver's license, my favorite sweater, a Chinese schoolboy shirt (stolen by a Chinese schoolboy), numerous pairs of socks and underpants, and on several occasions, my dignity. Off of the top of my head, that's it for the material losses.

More importantly, I have lost contact with essentially everyone in my pre-French life, with the exception of my mother, who calls me at least twice a week to ask me when I'm coming home.

I wish I had an answer. But the pervasive motif of my life in France is the unknown. All this uncertainty has certainly put a damper on my spirits, but as you can see, it hasn't kept me from keeping in touch with my friends regularly.

I speak French decently. I can't write it all. I think it's almost worse to have a partial command of the language, because it gives people the impression you understand everything that they are saying, which is disastrous because 60% of the time I have no idea what's going on at any given moment. Even when people aren't speaking. What's worse is understanding everything that someone is saying, but being unable to articulate any sort of response beyond 'oui', ' Je comprends' or 'Bien Sur'. Language continues to be a huge issue for me, and while I'm probably not doing justice to the progress I've made in French since I've been here, at any given moment I revert into 'mute American', or 'grunting American' mode. And let me tell you that grunting is not nearly as effective a means of communication as it was in Korea, where profound dialogues are often composed of nothing more than grunts of variable pitches. I remember Koreans deconstructing Confucius using nothing more than clicking and grunting noises. <>

Ahh Korea, I remember it fondly. The food, the friends, the mystifying cultural nuances which somehow seemed 100 times more amusing and 89 times more benign than they do here. Not to say the French can't be funny, but there is a real danger in criticizing the French here, though I'm always being encouraged to express my views on their culture (using my sharp Franco-American-pseudo-outsider perspective). I'll volunteer something, I don't know, something along the lines of 'French people are extremely critical of everyone, but they never criticize themselves...' Those three dots represent the moment when where you are interrupted and pummeled into the bidet for suggesting that the French don't have any sense of self-criticism. Enough about politics, a realm about which I'm questioned every day, and progressively have less and less to say.

'...And what about zis Bushee? Will he win ze next elections?'
'I don't really know. I haven't really followed any news from the U.S. unless it involves Giants baseball or the gigantic Lithuanian stiff that the Warriors just drafted. But I guess it's possible.'

'But how can you let this happen? Don't you care about the rest of the world?'

'Oui, bien sur'

'Et alors?'

'Please pass the wine, it's nearly 1:00 pm, and I'd like to get my buzz on before I have to go back to work.'

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Ah work. Let me see if I can express the sheer fantasticness (fantastacity?) of this topic. Yes I do work, in the sense that I wake up every morning, take the metro to work and put in a good 12-15 hours of work, often sleep at the office, and work on the weekends. But no, I don’t work in the sense that I am paid regularly. All the magic happens in Paris. I work for a start-up company, started by one of my Cousin Patrick's best friends Ben, and his associate Antoine (each of whom deserve their own paragraph). This company, called A9english, had a dream, slightly less Kingly than Martin's, but a dream nonetheless. Their dream: To deliver daily English lessons by e-mail. I've been working for/with this company since the third or fourth week I arrived in France, and the comedy/tragedy of my daily experience with A9 is the dominant factor of my life. <>

I'll start at the beginning, but with all the time I've been absent from this blog, I'm certain to forget some of the highlights of the unholy marriage between A9 and myself. My cousin Patrick (amazing, unique, insane) introduced me to one Benjamin Levy in early April 2004. Ben had just returned from an epic world tour after selling his first business (which he had started at the age of 22, with his Martian friend Antoine) and had recently begun his second venture at the ripe old age of 27. We drank whiskey and coke and smoked hashish in the same office where I was to dedicate the next half-year and beyond of my life. <>

Ben offered me some part time work writing exercises for the company, which had hired an American PhD named Shannon (stay with me here, this is just the beginning) to literally deconstruct the English language into 1000 concise key concepts. Quite an endeavor to be sure, yet somehow this woman did it, although I think at some point she must have said to herself "I've finished 800 modules and covered everything. How the hell am I going to write 200 more modules? Fuck!" (My words, not hers. She probably would have said 'Curses! Or 'Damnation!' I liken her to the baby from Family Guy, though not nearly as funny, a lot older, female, devoutly Catholic and much more concerned with the plight of third world nations in Africa). This development led to the creation of such highly relevant modules as 'The etymology of Aramaic-based words which made their way into modern English" and "Polysyllabic Adjectives of diminishing positive degree." From these key concepts, which were often three sentences or less, I and a crack team of one other French person, were to write 40 exercises for 7 such baffling key-concepts. <>

I don't wan't to go too much into detail because that was 5 months (or moths, if I were to leave that typo where it was) ago, and at this rate we'll never get to today (September 25th 2004--Happy birthday Yuriko Say and Michael Gast). For this incredibly stimulating work of exercise generation, I was to be paid the handsome sum of 500 Euros. In American currency, that comes out to roughly $3,000 dollars. That's not true, but the American dollar is weak, weak, weak. Needless to say, I never received this generous purse because I never finished the 900 or so exercises I was supposed to write. And this, my friends is where my life changed forever. In a bout of abject laziness between cigarettes and coffee, (by the way, my teeth are bordering on 'British' in terms of discoloration at this point) I decided that I would rather not write 40 exercises on the use of 'much' and another 40 on the uses of 'many', partly because it was mind-numbing and totally ridiculous, and partly because the whole point of 'much' and 'many' is distinguishing when to use which word. So I casually e-mailed Antoine and Ben, (at this point I was working at home, unshaven and primarily clad in pajamas and woolen socks) and mentioned how pointless two sets of separate exercises on these groin-grabbingly interesting topics would be. Suffice to say my main goal in writing this e-mail was to weasel my way out wasting another day in front of the computer, the irony of which will play out as this entry unfolds. My e-mail was received with open-arms. I was invited to the office where an impromptu meeting took place between Ben (short in stature but rich in Judaic fortitude) and Antoine (gangly, Germanic and otherworldly). In this meeting, because of my polite criticism of the nature of the work I was assigned, I was offered a chance to work in a more full-time capacity at A9 (and by this I mean I was offered the opportunity to dedicate the next half-year to the project in quasi-indentured servitude). I was asked, in fact to re-write the structure of this PhD into something less academic and structured and more accessible to the average French student. Seemed simple enough, and I'm usually for things which are described as 'less-structured' and so I agreed, blissfully unaware of the madness which would ensue. Yadda, Yadda Yadda, that's the story of 'Much' and 'Many' the quantifiable adverbs and adjectives which launched my career in the grammar industry.

And yes, I am aware that, in the first piece of writing that most of you have read from me in half a year, I just wrote a page about a grammar exercise. And oh, if you only knew how difficult it was to only write that much, as I am so saturated with half-assed grammatical insights that reflexive pronouns permeate my dreams almost as much as bizarre sexual fantasies involving me, and well, women.

Moving right along, I began working at A9, writing exercises, criticizing other people's work and occasionally doing some myself (in typical French fashion) but never really managing to understand:

1. The complex structure which I inherited

2. The even more complex software which was to deliver the daily e-mail lessons

3. The best way to get home from the metro station

4. How to keep the alarm from going off in my aunt's house, and thus avoid the firemen coming to the house, sirens blaring and

5. What the hell was happening...

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In the mean time, in real life: a cousin (Olivier) was married in the south of France, my Mom and brother (Monique and Alex) came to visit for 10 days, my uncle (Leon) passed away, I met for the first time a groin-grabbingly large contingent of unknown family members (cousins, mostly) who were thrilled to finally meet their long-lost pierced, hirsute, chain-smoking American cousin who has remarkably little to say, lost every piece of identity which proved my existence, and in a related development: lost contact with every single loved one in my life. <>

Oh, and I grew my first moustache, and it didn't look that bad. Maybe pictures later.

More recently, I celebrated my 25th birthday with a slice of a delicious tart filled with an unknown berry interior, possible boysenberry (spelling?), and an archived internet stream of a Giants game (9/7/2004 against the Rockies. A tough 8-7 loss). What a time to be born...

And yes, a quarter century on this earth. I think this birthday loomed large for me simply because I celebrated it under circumstances which were so foreign, for lack of a better word. Last year, in the 'Ko, my birthday came less than a month before I finished my contract and left the country. I was surrounded by all the homies of the greater Daegu area. We had soju. We insulted waiters. We laughed a lot. I avoided the pork. We were Caucasian. Good times.

Bah. Enough with this pointless sentiment. Dostoyevsky hated sentiment. And Jews.

Man I'm hungry.

That was abstract, and only a chosen few will understand it.

Back to A9english. Eventually it was decided that we would abandon the highly-entertaining pedagogical structure of Shannon in favor of a more direct, decidedly more half-assed approach written by Ben and I, which basically explains the rules of English grammar to the French in very accessible language, called 'French'. This is where it doesn't help that I never learned how to read or write French, and most of my French experience consisted of asking my mother to pass me more food. But I get by. By far, (or by fart, if my typo is to be left uncorrected) my most important contribution to the development of the project was the decision to create a fictional story line of texts and audios which would make up the content of the lessons, rather than simply have grammar questions in every lesson, which clearly would have resulted in me killing myself. To be more straightforward: I write every day for a living (which implies that I am paid, but we'll ignore that for now). I and Philip (hilarious, a fan of Proust, grandson of Al Capone's chauffeur, who deserves his own paragraph and more) create episodes involving a fictional Perfume company (I know) run by a French man who has lost his ability to smell (I know). His cast of incompetent, yet lovable employees consists of:

Susan Bliss: the highly professional, Oxford-educated, nymphomaniac director of Public Relations

Philip Cheeter: The Quagmire-esque Don Juan director of Sales who won't take 'no' for an answer

Luna DeLune: The new-agey, aroma-therapy loving director of Human Resources (my personal favorite)

Horatio Olere: The Amazonian Shaman imported from Brazil, who creates the perfumes for the company

Kevin Connors: The drunken, money-hungry production manager of the Delavigne Corporation

Polly Watson: The no-nonsense, also attractive personal assistant to Bruno Delavigne

Terrance Cashman: The primary investor in the company

Harold Warbuckle: The Yosemite Sam-esque rich Texan who runs a chain of department stores which sell Delavigne perfumes

Icarus Quincy: The inhibited Professor Frink-like accountant of the company (also a personal favorite)

Bob Carter: In theory, the incompetent manager of the IT department, although he has developed somehow into an aging hippy with a pony tail

Bruno Delavigne: The grandson of renowned French perfumer Xavier Delavigne, who lost his sense of smell in an unfortunate smelling accident in his early twenties.

And finally, my true favorite: Mayor Frederick Flimshaw the fourth- Mayor of the city of San Francisco (Where did you think it was all going to happen?! I'm still repping the Sco!)

There's so much I want to tell you about these people, their lives, my life: how we affect one another. But the easiest way is this. If you want to witness first hand the bizarre pseudo-literary twists that my life has taken, e-mail me and I'll sign you up for the Beta test (that's a little technical term I've picked up from working in the grammar/internet industry) of ... 'GG'.

(I'll give you a second to stop laughing)

Yes that's right, I am the editor in chief of a software which is in fact entitled 'GG'.
As you can see my input only carries so much weight with the braintrust of A9. The name is supposed to capture the 'daily workout' approach to learning English. For a long time before they chose the name, I wanted some business cards. This is no longer the case. But 'GG' carries on despite the name, much like Dick Butkus and Dick Harter.

I'm going to take a break here.

...And since I've been away I've lost another Visa and my metro pass. Seriously though, despite what you might have read in my last entry three years ago, life in Paris much more than constantly stepping in shit. It's striking and ridiculous lines, free social security for bums and artists, and DMV-like efficiency in all administrative capacities. It's angry demands for cigarettes from people on the street, random search and seizures by metro cops, expensive museums, frustrated mimes and muzzled german . Unfortunately I have not been able to enjoy all the fruits of the Parisian cornucopia due to my commitment to the fine people of The double G. And while I occasionally lose myself in the writing of bizarre and funny episodes which will be read by hundreds of confused French professionals, I rarely actually enjoy the benefits of being an American in Paris. And how can I explain the irony of sitting at computer 13-15 hours a day and not writing e-mails to people? That one eats me up pretty badly. Anyway, I think I'll be living in Paris for the forseeable future. I have plans to move out from my aunt's house in the suburbs in a few weeks (the epicenter of awkward and annoying things, which deserves its own paragraph) and into the 10th arrondisement of Paris. I hope this will change my life in some magical way, and I invite anyone who feels inclined to visit Paris, and by doing so verify that I am still in fact alive, to come and stay with me. I think that I'm going ride the G train wave as far as it can take me, and that is pretty much unknown for the time being. On the other hand, I am seriously considering fleeing to a nice deserted island as soon as things are more settled or even if they continue to remain as unsettled as they are now.

I wish I could wrap things up more definitively, but I really have no idea what I'm doing here. I do work extremely hard, and sleep very little. I am a big part of a potentially successful company, which also factors in to my decision making.

All this to say I'm still here.

Andrew

"Come on Hitler, I'll buy you a lemonade"

That's my favorite line from a bizarre movie I saw about a month ago. I wrote it down so that I'd be sure to mention if when and if I ever decided to blog again. And here I am, doing just that, without missing a beat. Kidding. I know I've completely lost the readership I worked so hard to win-over in the last year-and-half. But for any of you still down with the soothing sounds of Andrew's life, I will make an effort. So it's a gray Friday afternoon in gay Paris, and I'm at the office, where I spend endless hours writing crazy questions which relate to grammatical concepts in the bizarre and mind-numbing language of English. I'm really not sure how I arrived at this occupation, but I do know that the life of a grammarian is not for me. As for the life of a frog, that remains to be seen. Just as people who have hair (they think they're so perfect, lording over victims of male-pattern baldness with their full heads of hair, their flowing locks and tresses) have good hair days and bad, I have good French days and bad. Lately I've been questioning too much: My raison d'etre, my general coolness, my adultivity, the uses of interrogative pronouns. Questioning is nothing new for me, but I find myself in new situations constantly here, meeting new people who judge me based on the things I say in this language which I'm not so down with, much like dangling prepositions. Then I think, well what would I say, in English, to this guy who seems pretty cool, or this girl who seems pretty hot? Then I realize that I have no idea. I seem to have completely lost the ability, if I ever had it to begin with, to impress upon people just how (insert adjective here: bald, hot, pierced, funny, jewish) I am. I suppose I had these type of issues in the States too, but somehow I drowned out the voices in my head with heavy doses of Sportscenter and pick-up basketball, and occasionally morphine. Here, with my fading interest in the poor start of the San Francisco Giants, and with the increasing number of hours I am working, and the insistence of French people on discussing issues of relative importance including politics, cultural differences, wine, cheese and money, I often find myself at a loss. When I meet people I find it difficult to talk about anything aside from work. And discussing multisyllabic adjectives of comparative degree, while charming at first, doesn't get you to second base quite like it used to in the golden age of grammar, when linguists ruled the earth with the velveteen touch of a dandy fop. That said, I've taken a renewed interest in the audacious musical works of Tenacious D, the super duo of Jack Black on lead vocals and Kyle Gass on lead guitar. For any of you who aren't familiar with their unique brand of acoustic-power-ballad comedy, I suggest you download their work post-haste. 'Sex Supreme' is a good track for starters, followed by 'Tenacious D time' should give you the feel of what they are all about. I nearly forgot to mention that for third time since I've been in Paris I've stepped in a huge pile of shit. If it didn't happen so frequently this would almost be funny, but it has gotten to a point where I am convinced that the dogs of this nation are hell bent on defiling my enormous sneakers with their gifts of stink, and I am fast becoming the guy you can't take anywhere. Man, I'd hate to be him. I'm going end this post here with a somewhat firm commitment of finishing it relatively soon.

High time for blogging, that much is certain. The mood is good. The mood is good because I seem to have found a job. A job which will keep me in Paris for at least six months, or well into the stretch run of the baseball season. Despite my general shyness and on-again-off-again French skills, I have found some work that is pretty damn interesting, which I will be a bastard about, and explain in further detail at a later date. Suffice to say, it requires the English language, that was pretty much a given. What wasn't a given, is that there maybe stock options involved. Other buzzwords which are associated include, start-up, business venture and investors. Concepts with which I'm not too familiar with, but I am looking forward to understanding better in the future. I'm also in a position to recruit English speakers and writers, so I'm hereby extending an informal invitation to all my freinds who are willing to give Paris a shot, and to come taste the unholy power of which I now wield. And so the mood is good. We might even be approaching a moment in time where I re-establish contact with my friends, so that will be fun.

This post, and all the nonsense contained therein, is dedicated to all the people who e-mail me and get no reply, because I'm a jack-ass who has time to download cartoons and check sports scores, but doesn't have time to concentrate for five minutes to write a pithy, witty and grateful e-mail to the people who love (and possibly worship) me. In particular: Al, Zach, Robin, Maebh, Eileen, Erica and various Korean adolescents, this one's for you. I got a cell-phone today, for some reason I find them to be more useful in foreign countries. I hope I'll be able to bring it back to the states with me, though. It works on those Sim cards that you can buy here in tobacco stores and bakeries (of course), so I don't even know if it will work other places in Europe. Another well-researched investment by Andrew. At least this one has an option for English, so it's already 10 times more advanced than the antique phone I rocked in Korea. Speaking of Korea, I got a job offer in Taiwan by e-mail today. Don't know how they got my information, but apparently word travels fast via the interweb. I gave it short-shrift as I am committed for at least a month to a new job in Paris. This one is much like the internship I outlined earlier with one glaring difference: I am to be paid. Not very well of course, but a pittance nonetheless. I'll be a content-writer for a company launching a web-site with an interactive interface for users to personalize their study of languages, i.e. I'll be writing funny questions for French people trying to learn English. Still slanging the same EFL dope, this time in front of a computer. Again, most of this work can be done from home, which leaves me in dangerous proximity to the delicious cheeses. Must wrench myself away from this decadent country with its midday glasses of wine and sweet sweet pastries. Shaved my head on a whim, and apparently left some attractive patches just behind the apex of my scalp where I couldn't see what I was doing. "You shouldn't have done it alone," my cousin scolded me. Like most things in life, I quipped (In English, in my head, five minutes later). Trying to improve my French the traditional way--by reading comic books and mouthing the words aloud. There's one series in particular that I find to be awesome and for the most part understandable called Aquablue. It is set in an underwater universe with an Aquaman-esque protagonist who is able to communicate with various sea-creatures. This more than satisfies my whimsy for marine mammals, which I just can't get enough of, in the news or in a comic book form. It's actually not fair to call them comic-books, because really these are bound, hardcover graphic novels called bandes desanimes(sic) which are quite expensive in France, but are an uber-popular sub-culture, enjoyed by little kids to adults. I don't remember if I ever mentioned the Korean comic-book that depicts the teachings of the Talmud, but here there's a b.d. titled The Rabbi's Cat. I would read that. Then again I read the USA Today because they have bright pictures and pie charts. I would go so far as to say that the comic culture in France rivals the Asian Manga culture to a certain extent, though the anime in Asia is far superior. Also I find that the French truly enjoy cinema as a general rule. The theaters are always packed, and if you start a conversation about movies with a French person they are likely to be well-versed in all aspects of cinematic genres and histories. Good work Frenchies, though I'll remind you that your unabashed appreciation for the work of Jerry Lewis, Buster Keaton and Laurel and Hardy will only get you so far.

The parade of long-lost cousins continues for me, I seem to meet a new one once or twice a week. This has been an amazing aspect of my trip here, I'm now surrounded by family that I never had a chance to really know, and I'm definitely digging it. Its kind of surreal to be here without my mom, who grew up with these people, who have welcomed me almost as an extension of her. It's more surreal and actually quite sad to be living in the house of my uncle, my mom's brother, who past away 3 years ago, and be surrounded by reminders of him everywhere. His paintings, his writings, his clothes, his friends and memories are everywhere, as are his children. No, there's only four of them. My goal for the next entry is to have some pictures.

Really, if I don't e-mail you, it just means that I'm a bad person, it's not a reflection of you at all, but you already knew that.

While I was thinking about terrorism and carefully planning my entry, I was also eating a chocolate pudding. I pulled the lid too hard and now I have chocolate splotches on my face, on my prized yellow sweatshirt and worstly on the lenses of my glasses. I was about to read some articles about the Spain bombings--remember that I'm striving to be more informed of stuff, so that I might cultivate an opinion, which would then allow me to discuss things with people in a particular language, which theoretically would lead to several positive outcomes. But then came the chocolate, then an article about sea lions which intrigued me more than photos of wreckage, gatherings and speeches. Perhaps it just wasn't meant to be. Here's the sea lion article though. It had the word abduction in conjunction with a marine mammal: you can't blame me for my curiosity. The country of Spain did figure prominently in my day, as well as the rest of the world's, I suppose. I scored a little internship with an British website which advertises events in Europe. I wrote up a super corny article about a Paul McCartney concert in Paris (I'll link it if it gets published, which they promised me it would) and voila, meet your new "Profit-sharing freelancer" for some website (I'll link it later, because I actually do know the name). I cover Spain, writing up concerts, exhibits and cultural hoop-lahs in the hopes that customers (largely in the UK) will purchase their tickets directly from the site rather than through another web company. The "profit" lies therein, meaning that I would get a tiny commission from all the sales of events that I have written up, though truly the "profit" lies in the fact that I'm getting some experience in writing and getting published. That said, I'm one of only two people covering Spain, which is a popular destination, much cheaper than France or England, which is promising. On the other hand, Madrid was just bombed by some fringy (or mainstream, I didn't click the link, remember?) terrorist group, killing over 200 people. So there's really a lot going on in Spain. I'm sure the Spaniards just can't stop talking about the Norah Jones concert in May. I am admittedly excited even if I don't really know the nuts-and-bolts of the site, I'm sure I'll learn quickly. I don't know yet whether it's a good thing or a bad thing, but I'll be working from home, or from wherever I have an internet connection, because all this stuff is done from afar, and each writer is in fact an administrator on the website. It is a shame because the office is in fact an incredible apartment of a British lady near Odeon, whose assistant is a looker. But this in fact might be a good thing, as this is definitely not full-time work, and I do have a few prospects for such work elsewhere. This would allow me to write at my own leisure whenever I'm home.

Tonight I went to the premier of a film from New Zealand at a woman's international film festival outside of Paris, not far from where I'm staying (my aunt's house, lest you get delusions of grand Parisian apartments). Enjoyed that. My dream of playing basketball with a bunch of French amateurs who played so poorly that I would seem a Harlem globetrotter in comparison died (or at least became deferred) shortly after it was hatched. I attended one practice session of the local club Wednesday night, and found myself unable to breathe, in a state of near-vomiting after an hour and a half of humiliating drills and poor play by me. I blame jet-lag and terrorists, anything but cigarettes. Speaking of, my cousin Patrick, who has the unenviable task of shepherding me around on the weekends with he and his friends, has nearly completed his short third short film, an unapologetic, defiant tribute to smoking. I saw it for the second time today, and it remains baffling. It's dark and bizarre and allegedly touches upon issues of freedom, (la liberte!) conformity and sanity, but I really don't know what to say about it (a phenomenon I am not unfamiliar with). There's one point in the movie where the patient, played by Patrick, who has been committed to a sort of detox center for smokers, confronts a group of people dressed as cigarettes and pummels one into the ground and kicks it several times for good measure. The noises the cigarette makes while being kicked are brilliant. In any case, I must say that I find all my cousins, but Patrick in particular, to be quite unique characters. As I am still getting used to being here, and not speaking French as well as I like, I realize that hanging out with me is as probably not fun as it is in English, as any of my English speaking friends can attest to. I'm ending all kinds of sentences with prepositions now, not great form for an up-and-coming profit-sharing freelancer like myself.

By the way, my spell-checker suggests that I should replace "McCartney" with "myocardium," which under most cirsumstances I would do without a second thought, but tonight the surname remains, as the erstwhile Beatle indirectly secured me a job.

Paris. To be brutally honest, my first week in France has been frustrating, mostly linguistically, but also in terms of cheese consumption. The French language is complex, and really requires my full concentration just to maintain an accent that passes muster. I try to absorb as much as I can simply by listening, but remaining silent amongst all the word play and punning that goes on leaves me equally vexed since I feel like I have things to contribute. The difficulty for me is to express thoughts in a way that isn't completely moronic and glib. You see, I understand for the most part everything that is being said, or at least the general feeling behind it, but to keep up in these exchanges that are layered and nuanced and typically French is at times overwhelming, especially for someone who doesn't know feminine articles from masculine, and rarely can get the subject and verbs to agree with one another. Why won't you agree with each other?!?!? Occasionally I give up and just say shit in English, but this unchecked aggression cannot stand, as George Bush Senior once said. Which brings me to politics, the other pressing issue of late. The French, young and old, are interested in American politics moreso than any group of Americans that I spent time with in the States, including myself, with whom I spend a great deal of time regularly. They want to know how the electoral college works, the merits of the bipartisan system, whether or not Bush junior will be re-elected, why the American people are so apathetic politically, and what the deal is with Michael Jackson. Sadly, their interest in the politics of my mother country has exposed my own ignorance on a number of fronts. Granted, I spent a year in South Korea, but if anything that should have made me more aware of US policy and practice, since the 'Ko is enormously influenced directly or indirectly by almost every action the US takes. I just have to admit that I'm not a very politically attuned person, despite the fact that in the last two years I've been traveling extensively and talking to people who want to know what living in the US is like, and in fact I have allegedly been teaching some of them. Interesting that the burden of justifying or condemning the actions of one's country falls on those who are not living there. So then to try to explain a system of which I know little, which has recently defied both conventional logic and legal precedent, in a language which I am still learning, to a group people who know me not, is quite the task. Imagine too, that the French are equally or more aware of their own politics and problems, which are complicated and baffling in their own right, and you get the impression that in general the French have a rather keen political consciousness. If their (perceived) disdain of Yanks is based even somewhat on our (perceived) lack of political awareness, then I am certainly doing nothing for the cause. I would much rather watch old basketball games in French on the NBA channel than watch the news. Is that wrong? From the little bit that I did gather(when my cousin made my change the channel, after remarking that the t.v. room was becoming more American everyday), some Frenchman cooked his father and then ate him in a stew with rabbit meat and rice. Isn't that what all sons dream of doing, though? Actually, there is some ill shit going on in Paris and in France as far as terrorism, police brutality and racism is concerned, and I'm learning more by the day. Everyone here also seems to be of the opinion that Bin Laden has been captured already, and that the Bush administration is waiting for the right opportunity to release the details. Wouldn't surprise me. What would surprise me is if I joined a local basketball club, which I just might. We'll find out next week. Truly this is where the intersection of where sports and politics lies. If I had dedicated even a fraction of the time I spent watching sporting events immersing myself in the politics of the day, than I'd be a better man. But what are you going to do? I've seen some nasty dunks in my lifetime, anyway, including a few this afternoon when I visited the local gym. I've also eaten some wild cheeses of late, and I must say that I'm delighted but wary. Even the cheapest, most foul-smelling, lactose-rich piece of curdled goat's milk that I've tasted here seems to be suspiciously delicious, and I'm thinking it's time to ease up. I suppose that too, might play out in the next week.

"What time do the trains stop running?"

And then there was New York, big city full of trash, great museums, expensive cigarettes and good food. I spent a great week there, attending book parties with the hiperatti, riding the metro with the smelleratti, haggling over perogis with Polacks, and conducting an informal survey on the birthplace of hip-hop and graff writing. It's crazy just how much you absorb about New York geography through music, television and film without any actual knowledge of the city. And then you find yourself riding through Bed-Stuy, Brownsville, Red Hook, South Bronx and Queensbridge (actually I tried to stay away from all of those places because I'm afraid the perception might be the reality) and you're knee deep in the amniotic fluids of hip-hop. Then you watch a Woody Allen movie or two, catch the season finale of Sex and the City, and all of sudden you feel like you've been there when you cross 5th avenue for the first time, or walk along Central Park and wonder what the hell the goats are doing there in the middle of the winter. Ah, to be a product of this media-saturated generation is truly a blessing. It's like I've already been everywhere I've always wanted to go before I've actually gone, and then when I actually go, it's a little disappointing, because I feel like it's not as exciting as the first time I went, which wasn't actually a real trip at all. No, I exaggerate a little, because it was still quite the adventure, and Manhattan is quite the island, and our forefathers did well to liberate it from those shiftless Native Americans who weren't using it to it's full capacity. Well done, America. I daresay New York is one of those cities that I could easily live in, should the housing market completely collapse and usher in a new era of prosperity for entry level English teachers with bachelor's degrees. Here's to wishful thinking. In the meantime, I suppose I must be content to visit my friends there, who all deserve major kudos and props for their hospitality. And especially to Cia, who I promised would figure prominently in any subsequent blog entries which may arise. Cia has a great place (though one soon learns that any place in Manhattan is great) in one of the villages (the one that has gay people, but isn't famous for it) in which I slept for several days, and even folded up the bed afterwards, I might add. Through her I caught up with Colin, whom I haven't seen since high school, who one day met an old lady on a tennis court soon after parlayed his way into a job as an investment banker which requires that he carry a card with security clearance on it. I found that remarkable. Almost as remarkable as the Greek restaurant in Queens which doesn't have menus. You simply ask a Greek lady for delicious fish, and then she obliges you. I'm a big fan of these ethnic pockets even moreso than hotpockets. Sure we have a few in San Francisco, but nothing like New York, where the smells wafting through the streets signal not only the marked lack of sanitation but also your arrival into a micro-universe. I stayed a few days in Little Krakow, where the Polish people make jokes about other people in an attempt to take back the dignity they are denied in old jokebooks everywhere. I had a chance to visit the Indian neighborhood as well (in Queens), and a little Czech outpost in Astoria, but sadly I missed little Italy and even worse, Chinatown. But hey, forget about it, it's Chinatown. We have one of those too, and if I want to see inside-out ducks suspended from metal hooks in a shop window, I know where to go. I also missed the Statue of Liberty, but apparently there's one in France in a river somewhere, so I'll get to it eventually. And speaking of ethnic pockets, I did get a chance to visit the United Nations, courtesy of my friend Emily, who secured me a day pass which allowed me enough clearance to eat at the cafeteria. I think the UN is the only place in New York where you can smoke inside, unlike Paris, where you can probably smoke in hospitals. I wouldn't be surprised to find ash trays at gas stations here. The UN was definitely cool, and I even got to use those bizarre earpieces that translate the speaker's words automatically when I sat in on a meeting. To be honest, I kind of wanted to buzz in and ask a question, but as the meeting was some sort discussion on gender equity and AIDS education, I decided that it wasn't the time for my unique brand of brazen social ineptitude and impertinence; there would be time for that later. I managed to catch up with some college friends as well, David, Susan and Vince, who drove up from Philadelphia for a couple of hours just to hang. Greatly appreciated that. Also had my hair cut by a non-native speaker, who spent a good hour perfecting my coif, which is quite a task considering how little hair I actually have (on my head. I'm well aware of how hairy I am). This provided me with a good opportunity to speak a little Spanish, which he seemed to understand, which was encouraging. I only mention this incident because the situation was a little funny. I was mentally conjugating the verb to cut, meanwhile concentrating on not dropping my I-pod and at the same time answering Cia's cell phone, all the while wondering just how long this interminable haircut would last. Finally he let me go, and I think he wanted to shake my hand afterwards, or even give me dap (in the parlance of our times) but I ignored his noble gesture, gave him his money and went on my merry way. Finally I said goodbye to New York with one last trip on the subway, an epic journey that took me from Greenpoint in Brooklyn all the way to Far Rockaway and JFK international, and this was to say the least, apart from a prop plane I once took from Bangkok to Krabi, the sketchiest voyage that I have ever taken. I had to transfer trains four times with two suitcases, my precious I-pod and numerous hand-written instructions on how to get to the airport. Thankfully, a gruff New Yorker told me in his inimitable accent where to get out before laughing at me in a Soprano-like manner. I made it in New York without either chuds or pimps chasing me, which puts me one up on Homer Simpson, which is, in the end, the only thing I care about. So in answer to the question at the top of this post, which I posed naively on my first day in NYC, the trains don't stop running.
Cheers to New York. Had a great time, hope to be back, etc. Now we attempt to better understand Paris, about which I've seen far fewer films, so it will be a bit more difficult.

photos are up.

What a fortnight!
So much traveling… it’s a little tough to process the whirlwind tour that began but two weeks ago, but let me to try to summarize. It began with a jaunt down the I-5 to Redlands, site of so many of my undergraduate triumphs--including a memorable evening in the local jail (counterfeit operation gone horribly awry), a citation for trespassing in some apricot orchards (it’s a small town) and countless sleepless nights spent silently cursing the housing director for pairing me with a meth addict for my senior year. But to begin that story, the one that started 6 short years ago, at the tender age of 18, is too much to attempt. Instead I will tell you about my recent desert homecoming, which I suppose provided some closure to the Redlands experience. Before I went to New York, which I’ll get to, I read the Sunday Times and practiced my fist shaking and ethnic slurs in order to better fit in. Before I left for Paris, where I am now, I tried to watch a few Jerry Lewis movies, brush up on my miming techniques and perfect some deep-throated frog laughs. Whenever I go back to Redlands, I always watch a few episodes of COPS just so I know what I’m getting into. Call me what you will, I simply feel that my people weren’t meant for Southern California. The drive alone provided all the familiar warning signs. Flatbed trucks, mullets, “Jesus is Da Bomb” bumper stickers, American flags embossed over tinted windows super-imposed over the Virgin of Guadalupe, slaughter houses (five of them), church marquees threatening fire and brimstone to the non-believers, gigantic billboards alternately inviting you to classy desert strip clubs (Spearmint Rhino, Flesh) and noble Indian casinos. Luckily, Dave Chapelle offered some relief with his racially-tinged comedy routines, and Josh’s homemade lamb schwarma added multiculturalism as well as some interesting smells to the landscape. My crew was in fact a tight-knit unit, hailing from northern California, ready to turn around at a moment’s notice should anything overly-Redlands occur, so unsure were we of our decision to revisit the red earth of our youth. I don’t mean to paint such a cynical picture, so I won’t elaborate on the suicide pact we discussed around Bakersfield. At any rate-- we came, we drank. We reconnected with some great people, and skillfully dodged some sketchy ones, and sampled all the cultural fruits that San Bernardino County has to offer: tasty Mexican food, tragically misplaced English pubs, discounted strip malls full of irregular and oversized merchandise, where the shoppers meet the same criteria. More importantly, we made peace with our past. Whether we achieved this by throwing bottles off the roof of our old dormitories, berating underclassmen, hugging a large skunk promoting a President’s day sale outside of the grocery store, or simply by leaving, I think we accomplished something that weekend in the dessert. I did make some outstanding friends during my stint at the old U of R, and I am truly happy to have seen them before undertaking another questionable trip overseas.

Incidentally, another thing that makes me warm and fuzzy is my I-pod, which I have begun taking to the bathroom with me, just in case.

So special thanks to the people who welcomed us back to Redlands and were cool to see. I hardly ever do this but (but I hardly even write these days so)… Frank, Dustin, Lily, Benton, Jess, Katie, Colleen, you guys are very cool, and it was great to see you. Also these older people David and Anna, they are unquestionably hip. They not only let us watch the Simpsons at their home, but are also former members of the Mexico City Opera, and own numerous chickens and cats, a chihuahua, a wolf dog, and a chameleon named Giuseppe.

Also to the people at Apple, keep up the good work, but you not only need to fix the I-Tunes Software for Windows, but you need to resolve this battery-life issue as well.

To be continued from a less baffling keyboard…

Stepped in some shit today, presumably dog. That and the current storm pelting my windows can only bode for tomorrow's trip to NYC.

Hi... Andy

This is Hansol...

Do you remamber?

I couldn't send a e-mail to you for a long time, so I'm so sorry.

But, Now I got a internet and repaired a computer

I got a second in the classroom at the test.

By the way, I finished LIKE.

I have practiced listening English until 2 monthes ago,

Because, l think I can not listen English.

My bowels are open,I have to end this e-mail.. Just kidding

Can you answer a e-mail to me?

Good bye~

My bowels, too, are open and so I have to end this post.

Telemundo is the best channel ever. And it's not just because of their liberal showcasing of ample framed women in close proximity to midgets, it's because of their surprisingly awesome sports coverage, as well as their Saturday night movie selection, which tonight includes The Fly II (or el fly dos) among others classics that get even better when dubbed. Though perhaps Telemundo will never overcome the stigma that the Bumblebee man has imparted upon them by his sheer hilariousness, they certainly are taking steps in the right direction with their weekend programming. Not that I'm staying home this Saturday night. Ay, que lastima.

Now this is just between me and you, gigantic hat. Blogging from my new computer--very exciting. Drank a lot of beer tonight, slightly less exciting. It's cool, I went to a museum today. That counterbalances my beer intake with culture. Did I mention I read a whole book this week? Granted it was crappy, (the DaVinci code by Dan Brown), but it was a New York Times best seller, and you know how I feel about the New York Times: Best crossword puzzle ever. Nothing new, leaving the country soon, hate my life, kill my self etc. Hey, wouldn't it be funny/morbid/nerdy if someone left a suicide note on a web log? Methinks me smells a new John Grisham novel or even a Sue Grafton piece-- She could call it "B is Blogger" or "G is for Geeks." She must have gone through the entire alphabet by now, don't you think? She's into hieroglyphic murder myseteries at this point, I imagine. "Giant eye is for erotic." Somehow I made the transition into erotic literature, but I think it's a natural segue. Lot's of questions in this post. Feel free to answer any of them, imaginary audience who may or may not be there. Very brisk tonight within my chambers, but we've established that the space heater in my room is responsible for the rolling blackouts in the house which come frequently these days, and so no heat for the wicked. And I am wicked! A pagan godless heathen heretic (wow there certainly are an abundant amount of synonyms for non-believers!) who surfs the internet all day and plans imaginary voyages on my invisible spaceship at night. Well now I'm just talking crazy, so I'll stop this madness.

I have decided that I am fortunate that I do not have a phobia of large boats, like the chick in the new Real World. Having spent the past 5 hours at my computer, doing anything but e-mailing or blogging, I have uncovered one treasure that bears forwarding. It was in the "missed connections" section of Craiglist, which basically gives people a chance to connect with people that they saw or talked to once or twice.

True Love at Bartlett and 24th, Fri., 5PM - m4w - 28

I SAW YOU: Homeless. Chronic Acne. Smeared in own excrement. I saw you outside the library on 1/16/04. I have that quarter now, and a lot more...

Precious.

I have also updated my photo gallery. Look for more changes coming in the new year, including showering and shaving.

As Mark Twain said upon reading his erroneous obituary, 'the rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated'. My death (from the written word) is also that, though I did experience a brief period of brain death during the week preceding Christmas wherein the sacred triad of my existence consisted of couch, bed, and toilet. Um yes. Well Happy New Year and the like. As you can see my resolution to maintain and update my blog regularly has crashed and burned like the hijacked airplanes of yore. You'll be happy to know that another resolution of mine, to be stuck in a dark hallway chest to chest with people I didn't know on the stroke of midnight was accomplished, with gusto. What reminded me of New Years, seeing as how it is the 11th of January, was an incident that typifies my sojourn in the 'Sco. This afternoon, en route to an impromptu pick-up basketball game, my mother accompanied me to my sporty rendevous. As we were exiting, we noticed our Asian neighbors involved in some sort of hubbub to our right. "That's right," my mother said to me knowingly, "it is the Chinese New Year." Now I may not have learned all that I could have about Asian customs, holidays and traditions during my year in Korea and its outlying nations, but I am fairly certain that not every group of noisy Asians signals the Lunar New Year. I could be wrong, but I think that the moon is somehow involved in the New Year celebration, and in the middle of the day, no moon in sight. Plus, no firecrackers, no firedrills and no fingertraps equals no Chinese Year. This is the nature of the past two months though: despite my relative lack of movement I seem to be inundated by cultural generalizations and biases that range from innocuous and amusing to baffling. This is where I would normally point my well-manicured but underworked finger at society, followed closely by the liberal Jew-run media, but on this one, I'm going to have to bite my lip and point to a source that is somewhat less vague and obscure (but just slightly), my family. And since I've seen my father four times since November, and only occasionally exchange pleasantries with my brother, despite the three feet that separate our living quarters...well, Monique, I'm looking at you. Don't get me wrong, I didn't break my month long vow of blog-celibacy to bitch about my mommy, but I'm just now coming to grips with the huge generational and cultural gaps between her world and mine. I've always thought my mom's thick, indecipherable accent was frustrating but endearing, and her pronunciation of 'salmon' (Sal-Mon) quite novel. Her linguistic foibles have provided a limitless supply of finely-honed impersonations and improvisational comedy that has been my "A" material for years and years. In fact who could deny the humor in efforts such as these: In an attempt to call someone a 'neat freak,' my mother actually said that she was a 'freak of cleanliness'. No question, it's funny, but only in small doses. When the time comes for her to interact in within this city, liberal, diverse and open-minded as it is, things prove to be a little more difficult. People have no patience for people with accents, and maybe the effort of understanding what this little french lady is saying is too much for them. Incidentally she also drives very poorly, often with the door to the trunk open, and with parking tickets visible in between the driver's and passenger seats. Not surprisingly, my mother surrounds herself with other foreign people, primarily sephardic jews and francophiles. She has little empathy for the "Americans" in whose country she has chosen to live, and says things to this effect all the time. Moreover, she is shocked by homosexuality, says backward things about Arabs constantly, demonstrates a pronounced difference in body posture when black people are present, and basically if you name a country or a people, she's got a blanket generalization with which to label them. This is more obvious to people like me I suppose, a product of liberal private education, who suckled upon the collective teat of gentle hippies and peaceniks throughout my youth. Does she want to move? Not really, but in the meantime the disparity between the culture in which she was raised and the culture in which she lives and has lived for the past 28 years, continues to become more and more of an issue. Whenever I come back here, I'm shocked at her inability to do the things that even I've learned to do in my few years of living independently. More than that, I worry about her health and future, which she interprets as selfish concern for my own happiness. On the other hand, she's had very little help, she works every day, and her business basically succeeds or fails based on the whims of people who can afford to buy art. So she raised two kids in this country that she simultaneously bad mouths but refuses to leave, and is clearly at least marginally comfortable with her life here. So where does this leave young Andrew? Well, Andrew spent a good year of his life in Korea ("Which Korea are you in Andrew? North or South? I hear bad things happen in the North") Weirdly, it is my friends and other people's parents that find this to be the least bit interesting. I think I am losing interest in that experience too now, positive and unique as it was, because I handled my return home so poorly. I am so sick of wasting time in a city that I love, and like an idiot I made neither plans nor provisions for coming back--I knew only that I wanted to eat burritos with alarming frequency. So I'm not sure where all this raving about my mom was heading... oh yes, my painful/ gleeful decision to leave home once more. Although there is still some confusion as to where I'll be headed next month (Chile? Argentina? Paris? Daegu? Perhaps Hoboken, New Jersey...no probably not there) there is no uncertainty that I'm going somewhere, physically if not metaphorically, and I'd very much like that somewhere to be warm. (Sorry Hoboken, that's two strikes against you) To this end, I've acquired a second passport, to further obscure my true identity, and perhaps to capitalize on the cultural confusion that is my inheritance. Merci, maman. Next we work on acquiring an I-pod and a new laptop. Phase two is not so clear, much like the three phase plan of the Underpants Gnomes in South Park (Phase 1: collect the underpants. Phase 2: ??????? Phase 3: Profit!), yet eventually phase 3 will arrive, then the profit-taking can begin in earnest. Until then I shall try to keep the thumb-twiddling to a minimum, and the correspondence and the blogging to a happy medium, taking into account my pathological laziness of course. So to those I neglected, and I know you are numerous, I'm sorry. Sometimes I just feel like, hey, you know, I'm doing so little already, why stop now? Break the cycle! Peace and Love!

(Stupid Hippy education)