Posts
**This is purely my opinion, based on first-hand observations. If anyone has any interesting reading material on this subject, or disagrees, I would absolutely love to hear it!**
Western society (okay, I can really only speak with any authority on American society) does this weird, horrible thing, where it vilifies single mothers, and champions single fathers.
The really disgusting part of it is that I think it's just a symptom of a larger issue: the idea that fathers have the choice to be in the picture or not. So, when a woman has a baby, and the father runs away, she made a bad character judgment on who to have a kid with (which also brings in medieval non-science, like the idea that women have absolute control over when they have a child, what gender of child it will be, etc).
I think we (the societal-we) ought to have some pretty strong negative emotions in that situation-- but they ought to be directed at the father and only the father (well, I say 'father' but what I really mean is 'guy who had sex and then is nothing resembling a father').
To the outside observer, there's no way of knowing who he is. A lone coward shirking responsibilities, on the street, looks the same as any other single dude. Cowards are cowards-- they hide.
Sane and reasonable people don't aggressively campaign against single mothers. No, the discrimination comes on casually: tutting, and behind-the-back 'my, what a mess she's made of her life.'
Most heinous of all, widows (or, functional widows-- I think one has to be married to technically be a widow...) get caught in the judgmental crossfire, and no one seems to notice or care.
This injustice happens largely at the periphery of the mother's social circle-- acquaintances, or estranged relatives, or the guy at the fish market-- since most people won't judge their best friend or daughter so callously. The problem persists on the social circles just too far to offer assistance: it's armchair stuff.
I don't mean to say that we as a society should drag the value we place in a single father's efforts down. Be it a father or a mother, parenting (especially alone) is an awesome effort (which may or may not be the single most obvious thing ever uttered in the English language). I just think that we should pull our collective heads out of our asses and see the nobility in people, even if they don't have a penis.
Sorcery: a Collecting
Requested by my good friend Kris, here's the rundown for my Magic: the Gathering inspired game (yes, I realize exactly how nerdy that sounds), for 5th/6th grade EFL students. I prototyped the game today with my 5th and 6th grade class, and was STAGGERED by how well it worked. They used English-- a LOT of English-- in varying ways: drawing the sentences to show understanding, writing the sentences out to practice forming the letters, and of course reading the sentences aloud. Both classes were disappointed when they had to leave. My 5th graders, I had to force out by picking up the cards, and the 6th graders stayed 20 minutes after to continue playing.
Play isn't a waste of time-- what an absurd medieval idea! Play is just learning married with fun.
This entry is simulcast on my Livejournal: floraldeoderant
The Basic Game Rules:
-Each player starts with 5 cards in his or her hand.
-Each card has a word on it-- mostly nouns and verbs, though there are a few adjectives and adverbs. Articles etc, are not in the game as cards: we will get to that in a moment.
-The objective of the game is to move your piece along a gameboard till the end.
-You move your piece by making sentences with the cards in your hand. After you make a sentence, you roll a 6-sided die. You move that many steps ahead.
-You add 1 additional step for every word beyond two your sentence contains. If you roll a 4, and have a three word sentence, you move your piece 5 steps ahead. Four word sentence is +2, etc.
-Every time you make a sentence, you draw that many cards.
-7 is the most cards a player can have in his or her hand. If a player has more than 7 cards in hand at the end of his or her turn, that player loses cards, down to 7.
-Used or lost cards go into a discard pile face-up.
-If a player can't play on his or her turn, that player loses a card then draws a card (of his or her choice) until he or she can play. Then, that player's turn resumes as normal.
-If the draw pile runs out, shuffle the discard pile and it becomes the new draw pile.
-Roll a die at the start of the game to see who plays first. Then, the game proceeds in a clockwise rotation.
Card Abilities:
-Many cards have different abilities on them.
-Cards with abilities have either an 'and' or an 'or' written on them as well.
-An 'and' card uses the ability whenever you use that word in a sentence. These abilities are relatively weak. As you can see in the examples below, the card names are also related to their abilities. Run makes you go a little faster, sleepy makes someone sleep through their turn, dice uses dice, etc.
-'Or' cards can be used either in a sentence, OR (confusing, I know) for their abilities. Their abilities are usually very strong. Note that unlike making a sentence, a card used for its 'or' ability does not replace itself unless otherwise specified.
Universal Cards:
-There are 3 universal cards in the game: Draw, Write, Act. These cards are in the deck, just like any other.
-When a player draws one of these cards, he or she plays it immediately and draws another card, then proceeds with his or her turn as normal.
-If any of the Universal Cards is in play, then any time any player makes a sentence, they must follow the Universal Card's instructions. Draw-- he or she must draw a picture of his or her sentence (linking words to meaning). Write-- he or she must re-write the sentence (writing practice). Act-- he or she must act out the sentence, somehow (again, linking words to meaning, but via a different strategy).
-Whenever a Universal Card is played, it replaces the last one (replaced Universal Cards go into the discard pile).
-Every time a student makes a sentence, he or she must read it aloud, regardless of which Universal Card is in play.
*****
That is essentially the game. It seems like it'll be great for vocabulary building, as well as word-recognition and basic grammatical structure. My theory is, review only sucks if you know it's review. If it's a cool game, then all that pressure that normally drives things like word recognition out of one's mind, evaporates.
The other thing is, just in the spirit of M:tG, I can add expansions. I can add cards that change the rules (my idea for conditionals: there are "if" cards and ", then" cards. One by itself is more or less useless, but if you get one of each, you can make one really massive sentence and rack up those bonus points. "If/ the blue/ man/ runs/, then/ we/ kill/ him." = 6 + Die roll. For this lesson, the basic hand-size would have to be expanded to 8, with a max hand of 10 or 11.
Depending on level or lesson, the basic rules can just be modified (flooding the deck with articles, for example, would just be annoying). Instead, every time you make a sentence, you have to say (or write) it with the correct articles, or you get -2 on your dice roll.
The rules of the game change with the cards, and are infinitely modifiable for any lesson.
***
If anyone who stumbles across this would like to try it, just post a comment request for my supplies. I can email the cards I have created in microsoft publisher (the prototype cards look different from the pictures above) or excel formats. You have to provide your own gameboard, pieces, and 1 six-sided die.
I can also email you a blank template, so you can make your own cards, for your own lessons. As you can see, I keep them color-coded for ease of use (nouns are blue, verbs red, adjectives yellow) but if that's too easy for your class, you can print the cards all in white. Please share any new cards, rule ideas, or success/failure stories!
*One pitfall this game runs into: Obviously it's complicated right at the start (much more complicated to explain than to play, actually). You basically need a coteacher with you to translate, the very first time. Then, once the students get the hang of it you won't need teh translator.
**As with most lessons, your students will need your help-- more at the start, and less as things go along (yay! progress!). On days without my coteacher, I open two tabs in Google's translator (I like google translator because it's decent and it translates as you type)-- one tab for English->Korean, and the other Korean->English. My students can ask questions, and I can answer them effectively. If my sentence is complex, I also like to translate English->Korean, and then back again to make sure it's meaning was preserved.
Cheers,
Christian
Play isn't a waste of time-- what an absurd medieval idea! Play is just learning married with fun.
This entry is simulcast on my Livejournal: floraldeoderant
The Basic Game Rules:
-Each player starts with 5 cards in his or her hand.
-Each card has a word on it-- mostly nouns and verbs, though there are a few adjectives and adverbs. Articles etc, are not in the game as cards: we will get to that in a moment.
-The objective of the game is to move your piece along a gameboard till the end.
-You move your piece by making sentences with the cards in your hand. After you make a sentence, you roll a 6-sided die. You move that many steps ahead.
-You add 1 additional step for every word beyond two your sentence contains. If you roll a 4, and have a three word sentence, you move your piece 5 steps ahead. Four word sentence is +2, etc.
-Every time you make a sentence, you draw that many cards.
-7 is the most cards a player can have in his or her hand. If a player has more than 7 cards in hand at the end of his or her turn, that player loses cards, down to 7.
-Used or lost cards go into a discard pile face-up.
-If a player can't play on his or her turn, that player loses a card then draws a card (of his or her choice) until he or she can play. Then, that player's turn resumes as normal.
-If the draw pile runs out, shuffle the discard pile and it becomes the new draw pile.
-Roll a die at the start of the game to see who plays first. Then, the game proceeds in a clockwise rotation.
Card Abilities:
-Many cards have different abilities on them.
-Cards with abilities have either an 'and' or an 'or' written on them as well.
-An 'and' card uses the ability whenever you use that word in a sentence. These abilities are relatively weak. As you can see in the examples below, the card names are also related to their abilities. Run makes you go a little faster, sleepy makes someone sleep through their turn, dice uses dice, etc.
-'Or' cards can be used either in a sentence, OR (confusing, I know) for their abilities. Their abilities are usually very strong. Note that unlike making a sentence, a card used for its 'or' ability does not replace itself unless otherwise specified.
Universal Cards:
-There are 3 universal cards in the game: Draw, Write, Act. These cards are in the deck, just like any other.
-When a player draws one of these cards, he or she plays it immediately and draws another card, then proceeds with his or her turn as normal.
-If any of the Universal Cards is in play, then any time any player makes a sentence, they must follow the Universal Card's instructions. Draw-- he or she must draw a picture of his or her sentence (linking words to meaning). Write-- he or she must re-write the sentence (writing practice). Act-- he or she must act out the sentence, somehow (again, linking words to meaning, but via a different strategy).
-Whenever a Universal Card is played, it replaces the last one (replaced Universal Cards go into the discard pile).
-Every time a student makes a sentence, he or she must read it aloud, regardless of which Universal Card is in play.
*****
That is essentially the game. It seems like it'll be great for vocabulary building, as well as word-recognition and basic grammatical structure. My theory is, review only sucks if you know it's review. If it's a cool game, then all that pressure that normally drives things like word recognition out of one's mind, evaporates.
The other thing is, just in the spirit of M:tG, I can add expansions. I can add cards that change the rules (my idea for conditionals: there are "if" cards and ", then" cards. One by itself is more or less useless, but if you get one of each, you can make one really massive sentence and rack up those bonus points. "If/ the blue/ man/ runs/, then/ we/ kill/ him." = 6 + Die roll. For this lesson, the basic hand-size would have to be expanded to 8, with a max hand of 10 or 11.
Depending on level or lesson, the basic rules can just be modified (flooding the deck with articles, for example, would just be annoying). Instead, every time you make a sentence, you have to say (or write) it with the correct articles, or you get -2 on your dice roll.
The rules of the game change with the cards, and are infinitely modifiable for any lesson.
***
If anyone who stumbles across this would like to try it, just post a comment request for my supplies. I can email the cards I have created in microsoft publisher (the prototype cards look different from the pictures above) or excel formats. You have to provide your own gameboard, pieces, and 1 six-sided die.
I can also email you a blank template, so you can make your own cards, for your own lessons. As you can see, I keep them color-coded for ease of use (nouns are blue, verbs red, adjectives yellow) but if that's too easy for your class, you can print the cards all in white. Please share any new cards, rule ideas, or success/failure stories!
*One pitfall this game runs into: Obviously it's complicated right at the start (much more complicated to explain than to play, actually). You basically need a coteacher with you to translate, the very first time. Then, once the students get the hang of it you won't need teh translator.
**As with most lessons, your students will need your help-- more at the start, and less as things go along (yay! progress!). On days without my coteacher, I open two tabs in Google's translator (I like google translator because it's decent and it translates as you type)-- one tab for English->Korean, and the other Korean->English. My students can ask questions, and I can answer them effectively. If my sentence is complex, I also like to translate English->Korean, and then back again to make sure it's meaning was preserved.
Cheers,
Christian
Authoritarianism and group-think are two of the biggest obstacles to justice and human compassion, today.
Here's a great example of mob mentality fueled by the dangerously unstable and possibly syphilitic minds at Fox.
(found at huffpo)
Yeah. Fuck that.
I just watched a somewhat convincing TED talk on games as a positive force in the world (http://www.ted.com/talks/jane_mcgonigal_gaming_can_make_a_better_world.html) and now want to write a game about the morality and mob mentality vs. cooperation. Alas I have no computer skillz. Games seem the ideal platform for such a tale, since it's all about the decisions a person has the courage to make in the face of everyone else saying they're wrong: if someone reads a mob-mentality story, it's easier to say, "I wouldn't react that way if *I* were there." Then, when an actual situation arises, they just go along with the group.
The same is true for games, but if someone is actually making the decisions, the lesson is much more influential.
Also, I like games.
Here's a great example of mob mentality fueled by the dangerously unstable and possibly syphilitic minds at Fox.
(found at huffpo)
Yeah. Fuck that.
I just watched a somewhat convincing TED talk on games as a positive force in the world (http://www.ted.com/talks/jane_mcgonigal_gaming_can_make_a_better_world.html) and now want to write a game about the morality and mob mentality vs. cooperation. Alas I have no computer skillz. Games seem the ideal platform for such a tale, since it's all about the decisions a person has the courage to make in the face of everyone else saying they're wrong: if someone reads a mob-mentality story, it's easier to say, "I wouldn't react that way if *I* were there." Then, when an actual situation arises, they just go along with the group.
The same is true for games, but if someone is actually making the decisions, the lesson is much more influential.
Also, I like games.
Some Stuff I've Learned
Some Stuff I've Learned:
Don't take yourself too seriously is good advice. But there's a reason the 'too' is there. If you don't take yourself seriously, no one else will either and all your hard work will just be you treading water.
You don't need anybody's permission to do things, especially not be an artist. If anyone tells you not to make art or not to be you, you tell them to go fuck themselves as part of Newton's First Law of Telling Small-Minded Douchebags What's What. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction: in this case, someone telling you to restrict your art to their tastes is answered by a sturdy and aloft middle finger.
One of the things you need no permission for is taking yourself seriously. Take OkGo, a band whose fame came from just doing some interesting art and putting it up themselves. They didn't have anyone in "the biz's" approval, they just did it. And when they got said biz person's greenlight (signing to EMI's record label), their contract forbade them from making weird videos and putting them online at youtube-- which is exactly why they were so beloved in the first place. They didn't seek permission and they did something cool; they got permission and couldn't do the cool things anymore.
(OkGo recently stepped out of their contract with EMI, to form their own label).
Knowledgeable people always have a specific area or knowledge. If they're on the business end of the spectrum, then they will tailor how they respond towards the end of making money. Even if a knowledgeable person is simply trying to assist you, and has nothing but the most altruistic intentions, they will tailor their responses so that they can be maximally helpful, which will generally limit the solutions they advise.
All this means is that you have to help yourself, and that in a sense, everyone is an amateur. Some amateurs are more well versed than others in specific areas, but everyone without exception is just pawing around in the dark, trying to find a path that'll work for them too.
Don't seek approval; just go for it.
Don't take yourself too seriously is good advice. But there's a reason the 'too' is there. If you don't take yourself seriously, no one else will either and all your hard work will just be you treading water.
You don't need anybody's permission to do things, especially not be an artist. If anyone tells you not to make art or not to be you, you tell them to go fuck themselves as part of Newton's First Law of Telling Small-Minded Douchebags What's What. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction: in this case, someone telling you to restrict your art to their tastes is answered by a sturdy and aloft middle finger.
One of the things you need no permission for is taking yourself seriously. Take OkGo, a band whose fame came from just doing some interesting art and putting it up themselves. They didn't have anyone in "the biz's" approval, they just did it. And when they got said biz person's greenlight (signing to EMI's record label), their contract forbade them from making weird videos and putting them online at youtube-- which is exactly why they were so beloved in the first place. They didn't seek permission and they did something cool; they got permission and couldn't do the cool things anymore.
(OkGo recently stepped out of their contract with EMI, to form their own label).
Knowledgeable people always have a specific area or knowledge. If they're on the business end of the spectrum, then they will tailor how they respond towards the end of making money. Even if a knowledgeable person is simply trying to assist you, and has nothing but the most altruistic intentions, they will tailor their responses so that they can be maximally helpful, which will generally limit the solutions they advise.
All this means is that you have to help yourself, and that in a sense, everyone is an amateur. Some amateurs are more well versed than others in specific areas, but everyone without exception is just pawing around in the dark, trying to find a path that'll work for them too.
Don't seek approval; just go for it.
Buddha Lite (Now with 0g of substance!)
It's everything a tourist trap needs. It's full of beautiful ornate stuff, and spectacle, and bursting with tradition, and the implication of purpose.
Old robed men drone in languages the tourists don't understand, into a microphone hooked up to speakers strategically designed to resonate. Gilt dragons wind around the columns, gripping perfect orb light fixtures, ripped from streetlamps somewhere. You wear pink traditional clothes that look, in the dying light, like pajamas for an enlightenment-themed slumber party.
That's what it is, after all. A slumber party for you and 39 strangers. Two days of photo-opping-- "Hey! Look! I'm doing what real monks do! I'm bowing when he bangs a block of wood! I'm sitting cross-legged and rigid through the entire meal! THIS WILL MAKE FOR ONE AWESOME FACEBOOK PROFILE PIC! *click!*"
It's the tradeoff. The monks work with the slimeball from the tourism board who point-blank tells them he's using them for his numbers. They have to babysit 40-odd foreigners with cameras and a keen eye for "What's neat." They pass out pamphlets that bury their lives and their temple in the past as "a living museum." And in exchange, they get to keep their temple. They get to eat well and add new wings to their buildings anad never worry about Lotte Co. Inc. weaseling their land out from under them.
It all feels familiar: standing and bowing to the golden pantheonic paintings that stretch to the stratosphere ceiling. Listening to old robed men speak words I don't understand. It's just like every other church I've been in (only this time, ASIAN THEMED!) Knowing that I'm supposed to be feeling something spiritual, something transcendent, tethering me to God-- but I don't.
I just spot the calculations; the eight thousand tiny decisions to sell you on an idea: You are in the presence of divinity. The robes-- there's no real REASON for them, not in terms of the religion-- but they do sell us on tradition. The multi-tiered corners-up architecture-- sure it's a symbol of... whatever; but it also looks super-neat and HEY! We should go THERE. And look at the bell and that huge drum, and how about all those tiny Buddha statues behind the glass cases. All that detail work, they MUST be on to something.
They weren't designed to snag tourists and make money. They were designed to snag non-believers and maybe hook them in long enough to get to some actual philosophical or spiritual case. The robes aren't an integral part of the faith, they're a social tool-- at first, they were not that much more outlandish than the other garb of the times, but just a new layer onto the symbolism of a fledgling religion. But that layer froze, and time moved on. Styles adapted, but not the monk-robes. Those stayed the same. They are not for the monks-- a way of bringing them closer to the divine. They are for us-- a way of separating them from the rest of us: "Why's that guy dress the way he does? Oh, he's devoutly Buddhist? Oh, well I'm picking up on so many social cues right now that influence my superficial perception of him and Buddhism."
And that's what this whole experience was: We weekend Buddhists only get the trial version, with ads made of grave men and big echoey rooms, and the implication of grand, arcane wisdom.
Old robed men drone in languages the tourists don't understand, into a microphone hooked up to speakers strategically designed to resonate. Gilt dragons wind around the columns, gripping perfect orb light fixtures, ripped from streetlamps somewhere. You wear pink traditional clothes that look, in the dying light, like pajamas for an enlightenment-themed slumber party.
That's what it is, after all. A slumber party for you and 39 strangers. Two days of photo-opping-- "Hey! Look! I'm doing what real monks do! I'm bowing when he bangs a block of wood! I'm sitting cross-legged and rigid through the entire meal! THIS WILL MAKE FOR ONE AWESOME FACEBOOK PROFILE PIC! *click!*"
It's the tradeoff. The monks work with the slimeball from the tourism board who point-blank tells them he's using them for his numbers. They have to babysit 40-odd foreigners with cameras and a keen eye for "What's neat." They pass out pamphlets that bury their lives and their temple in the past as "a living museum." And in exchange, they get to keep their temple. They get to eat well and add new wings to their buildings anad never worry about Lotte Co. Inc. weaseling their land out from under them.
It all feels familiar: standing and bowing to the golden pantheonic paintings that stretch to the stratosphere ceiling. Listening to old robed men speak words I don't understand. It's just like every other church I've been in (only this time, ASIAN THEMED!) Knowing that I'm supposed to be feeling something spiritual, something transcendent, tethering me to God-- but I don't.
I just spot the calculations; the eight thousand tiny decisions to sell you on an idea: You are in the presence of divinity. The robes-- there's no real REASON for them, not in terms of the religion-- but they do sell us on tradition. The multi-tiered corners-up architecture-- sure it's a symbol of... whatever; but it also looks super-neat and HEY! We should go THERE. And look at the bell and that huge drum, and how about all those tiny Buddha statues behind the glass cases. All that detail work, they MUST be on to something.
They weren't designed to snag tourists and make money. They were designed to snag non-believers and maybe hook them in long enough to get to some actual philosophical or spiritual case. The robes aren't an integral part of the faith, they're a social tool-- at first, they were not that much more outlandish than the other garb of the times, but just a new layer onto the symbolism of a fledgling religion. But that layer froze, and time moved on. Styles adapted, but not the monk-robes. Those stayed the same. They are not for the monks-- a way of bringing them closer to the divine. They are for us-- a way of separating them from the rest of us: "Why's that guy dress the way he does? Oh, he's devoutly Buddhist? Oh, well I'm picking up on so many social cues right now that influence my superficial perception of him and Buddhism."
And that's what this whole experience was: We weekend Buddhists only get the trial version, with ads made of grave men and big echoey rooms, and the implication of grand, arcane wisdom.
My student
I wanted to blog this before I forgot all the weird little details.
So I have this student. He roams around the school, and my class, looking perpetually pissed off. His eyebrows are furrowed, he doesn't smile, he hates talking to the other students. His hair is buzzed-short. He never takes his coat off in class, and he doesn't participate (he didn't even want to go trick-or-treating, so my coteacher sat in the classroom with him).
The other teachers talk about him as a problem student. The other students avoid him.
But he's a good kid. He loves to come into the classroom when I'm lesson planning, and listen to my mp3 player. He tries to fit the wrap-around earphone on the wrong ear, every day, stands around and pokes at my player for 10-15 seconds, and then runs off.
Yesterday, he came in with another one of my students. I showed them my new player, and he grabbed the earphones off my desk and slapped them onto the wrong ears. The song turned over from the indie music it was playing, and into Take the Power Back by Rage Against the Machines (courtesy of KP). The kid stopped. His head started bobbing, little hands went up around the earphones, and he vibed until his friend got bored and pulled him away.
Today, he came in alone. He pulled the headphones on, and I showed him how to change songs (yay good UI), and off he went. He listened to The Kill by 30 Seconds to Mars, and I showed him where the player displayed the title and artist; he practiced writing it on the board.
It's just so terminally stupid how this kid is labeled a 'bad' kid by the other teachers and the other students. He's not bad. He's an audiophile.
So I have this student. He roams around the school, and my class, looking perpetually pissed off. His eyebrows are furrowed, he doesn't smile, he hates talking to the other students. His hair is buzzed-short. He never takes his coat off in class, and he doesn't participate (he didn't even want to go trick-or-treating, so my coteacher sat in the classroom with him).
The other teachers talk about him as a problem student. The other students avoid him.
But he's a good kid. He loves to come into the classroom when I'm lesson planning, and listen to my mp3 player. He tries to fit the wrap-around earphone on the wrong ear, every day, stands around and pokes at my player for 10-15 seconds, and then runs off.
Yesterday, he came in with another one of my students. I showed them my new player, and he grabbed the earphones off my desk and slapped them onto the wrong ears. The song turned over from the indie music it was playing, and into Take the Power Back by Rage Against the Machines (courtesy of KP). The kid stopped. His head started bobbing, little hands went up around the earphones, and he vibed until his friend got bored and pulled him away.
Today, he came in alone. He pulled the headphones on, and I showed him how to change songs (yay good UI), and off he went. He listened to The Kill by 30 Seconds to Mars, and I showed him where the player displayed the title and artist; he practiced writing it on the board.
It's just so terminally stupid how this kid is labeled a 'bad' kid by the other teachers and the other students. He's not bad. He's an audiophile.
Highlights aka I'm A Bearded White Guy in South Korea-- FEAR ME, PUNY MORTALS
Here are some things that have happened to me recently:
While walking into Seogwipo, I passed by a gaggle of middle school-to-early high school girls. I had my head down and was thinking, as you do, so at first, I didn't really notice how tightly they clung to each other.
Then, one of them-- the one in the middle with the sky blue Flu Paranoia mask said, "Hi!" Such bravado! Such boldness! She dares to speak to the bearded white guy, the breather of fire and the consumer of souls!
Her friends screamed, and clung harder. The one closest to me started slapping her shoulder, and screaming something-- "Why would you do that? I can't believe you did that! You're crazy, Soo Eun! You're crazy!" etc. etc, I imagine.
So, I said, "Hi there!" and their screams got louder.
As soon as we passed each other, her friends started pushing Fearless sky blue Flu Paranoia masked girl down the street (her, being fearless, leaned back, willing to remain in my presence a little longer).
#
About half (no hyperbole there. HALF) the people living in rural Seogwipo own tangerine groves. At school the other day, a couple of the teachers said, "Orangee?"
"Oh, no. Someone already gave me 3 of them," I say, and then I round the corner.
There are two massive crates of tangerines, stacked on top of each other.
I don't think you understand when I say massive crates. I mean MASSIVE. 4 feet x 2 feet x 1.5 feet massive. Two of them. Completely full.
My shoulder ached when I got home, from where the strap cut in.
#
I ate 23 tangerines the next day. The day after that, I had horrible acid in the back of my throat, all day long.
But it was so good while it lasted!
#
I want to do bobbing for apples with my students.
I bought 2 decently sized basins (as I am not sure the school has any clean enough to eat out of, of that size), and a whole bunch of apples.
This is just to say-- APPLES ARE DAMNED EXPENSIVE HERE.
Not that I won't be reimbursed by my school, but STILL.
#
There's an old farmer-man who drives a tractor at a crawl through the streets of my town. This evening, as I was going out to get plastic bags (for the clothes-protecting during the apple-dunking), and I saw him drive by.
In the back of the tractor-- in the trailer portion-- there were about 7 other old people, all scowling and looking generally fed up with the world.
Ahh yes! The Jungmun Disapproving Old People harvest! It comes but once a year!
#
The man who runs (and perhaps owns?) Espresso and Yogurt (the best Jungmun coffee shop) is very nice. His lattes are pretty damn good, and the chairs are comfortable.
Alas, I've gotten into this funk where I can't write in my apartment-- only when I'm elsewhere. Needless to say, I've been drinking a lot of lattes in comfortable chairs, around nice men.
There are worse restrictions on when/where I can write...
#
I'm trying to figure out a way to play a Zombie-tag variant with my students (FOR HALLOWEEN... WHAT!! It's THEMATIC and thus, APPROPRIATE).
#
Throat aches in that "You're gonna be sick in a weekish" way. Voice may be going away. I may be Very Sick for the language festival (where I am meant to be serving chili).
Which will be bad...
#
I was trying to find the post office in Jungmun, and had NO IDEA where it was. So I stopped into a bank.
The teller I talked to spoke no English (doh). I tried to mimic mailing a letter. I had a sheet of paper, which I folded in 3. I stuffed an imaginary envelope. I licked said imaginary envelope, and put it in an imaginary mailbox. The woman looked at me like I was a moron.
Gah...
That's okay-- the bank teller next to her, looked at her as if she were a moron for not understanding, and after a minute of moron-glances, Bank Teller 2 said, "Post office?" and pointed the way out to me.
So, I went to the post office, and was in the process of mailing my things, when Bank Teller 2 walks in, carrying my phone.
I had left it there, and he had chased me down the street to give it back.
This is in no way an isolated incident-- Koreans are very staggeringly nice people when they're not cowering in fear from my awesome bearded Caucasian might.
#
Another story of Korea's awesomely helpful people/policies.
So I went in to the local pharmacist (strike that, one of the 10 local pharmacists). The guy there is very kind, and speaks English fairly well to boot.
There's a basket of the tangerines out, free to take, which is nice.
As I pay for my medication, the guy says, "Drink?"
I, thinking he means, 'You should take these pills with something to drink, to make swallowing their giant form possible' say, "Yes."
He turns round to the little gas station fridge behind him, and flips back with a two-shot bottle of Concentrated Vitamin Beverage, and hands it to me free of charge.
Which is very cool-- the pharmacies here don't just get you what you pay for, and send you on your way. They see their jobs as keeping people healthy. So they try to.
I dig it.
While walking into Seogwipo, I passed by a gaggle of middle school-to-early high school girls. I had my head down and was thinking, as you do, so at first, I didn't really notice how tightly they clung to each other.
Then, one of them-- the one in the middle with the sky blue Flu Paranoia mask said, "Hi!" Such bravado! Such boldness! She dares to speak to the bearded white guy, the breather of fire and the consumer of souls!
Her friends screamed, and clung harder. The one closest to me started slapping her shoulder, and screaming something-- "Why would you do that? I can't believe you did that! You're crazy, Soo Eun! You're crazy!" etc. etc, I imagine.
So, I said, "Hi there!" and their screams got louder.
As soon as we passed each other, her friends started pushing Fearless sky blue Flu Paranoia masked girl down the street (her, being fearless, leaned back, willing to remain in my presence a little longer).
#
About half (no hyperbole there. HALF) the people living in rural Seogwipo own tangerine groves. At school the other day, a couple of the teachers said, "Orangee?"
"Oh, no. Someone already gave me 3 of them," I say, and then I round the corner.
There are two massive crates of tangerines, stacked on top of each other.
I don't think you understand when I say massive crates. I mean MASSIVE. 4 feet x 2 feet x 1.5 feet massive. Two of them. Completely full.
My shoulder ached when I got home, from where the strap cut in.
#
I ate 23 tangerines the next day. The day after that, I had horrible acid in the back of my throat, all day long.
But it was so good while it lasted!
#
I want to do bobbing for apples with my students.
I bought 2 decently sized basins (as I am not sure the school has any clean enough to eat out of, of that size), and a whole bunch of apples.
This is just to say-- APPLES ARE DAMNED EXPENSIVE HERE.
Not that I won't be reimbursed by my school, but STILL.
#
There's an old farmer-man who drives a tractor at a crawl through the streets of my town. This evening, as I was going out to get plastic bags (for the clothes-protecting during the apple-dunking), and I saw him drive by.
In the back of the tractor-- in the trailer portion-- there were about 7 other old people, all scowling and looking generally fed up with the world.
Ahh yes! The Jungmun Disapproving Old People harvest! It comes but once a year!
#
The man who runs (and perhaps owns?) Espresso and Yogurt (the best Jungmun coffee shop) is very nice. His lattes are pretty damn good, and the chairs are comfortable.
Alas, I've gotten into this funk where I can't write in my apartment-- only when I'm elsewhere. Needless to say, I've been drinking a lot of lattes in comfortable chairs, around nice men.
There are worse restrictions on when/where I can write...
#
I'm trying to figure out a way to play a Zombie-tag variant with my students (FOR HALLOWEEN... WHAT!! It's THEMATIC and thus, APPROPRIATE).
#
Throat aches in that "You're gonna be sick in a weekish" way. Voice may be going away. I may be Very Sick for the language festival (where I am meant to be serving chili).
Which will be bad...
#
I was trying to find the post office in Jungmun, and had NO IDEA where it was. So I stopped into a bank.
The teller I talked to spoke no English (doh). I tried to mimic mailing a letter. I had a sheet of paper, which I folded in 3. I stuffed an imaginary envelope. I licked said imaginary envelope, and put it in an imaginary mailbox. The woman looked at me like I was a moron.
Gah...
That's okay-- the bank teller next to her, looked at her as if she were a moron for not understanding, and after a minute of moron-glances, Bank Teller 2 said, "Post office?" and pointed the way out to me.
So, I went to the post office, and was in the process of mailing my things, when Bank Teller 2 walks in, carrying my phone.
I had left it there, and he had chased me down the street to give it back.
This is in no way an isolated incident-- Koreans are very staggeringly nice people when they're not cowering in fear from my awesome bearded Caucasian might.
#
Another story of Korea's awesomely helpful people/policies.
So I went in to the local pharmacist (strike that, one of the 10 local pharmacists). The guy there is very kind, and speaks English fairly well to boot.
There's a basket of the tangerines out, free to take, which is nice.
As I pay for my medication, the guy says, "Drink?"
I, thinking he means, 'You should take these pills with something to drink, to make swallowing their giant form possible' say, "Yes."
He turns round to the little gas station fridge behind him, and flips back with a two-shot bottle of Concentrated Vitamin Beverage, and hands it to me free of charge.
Which is very cool-- the pharmacies here don't just get you what you pay for, and send you on your way. They see their jobs as keeping people healthy. So they try to.
I dig it.
Mayor Forever!
So, on Thursday, I have to miss teaching my class because of a work-related mandatory meeting on the other side of the island. The meeting is to plan for a Language and Culture Festival next Saturday.
My coteacher is supposed to go to the meeting too, so she doesn't have to cover the class by herself (like she will do on Friday, when Jei, Tom, and myself fly to Seoul. She, however, won't be able to attend the language festival, so I said,
"You could just play hookey."
"Play hookey?" She asked.
"Do you know what playing hookey is? Oh man! Playing hookey has a long and illustrious career in American culture. It's what we do," I said. I started to write 'Play Hookey' on the board.
"Ah! Aah! Play Hookey! Yes, I know this!" Then a pause as the thought turned over in her mind. "You mean skip? I could skip?"
I shrugged. "Sure, why not? You can't go to the festival anyway."
What followed, I can only describe as a laugh of pure revelation and joy. It was more than a little goofy, and given the circumstances, adorable. It came out of her like, "Ahoohoohohaha!"
It is very strange to me, that skipping out on a meaningless activity could be seen as a novel idea. Even stranger that I think she sees it as a rebel activity. A harmless rebellion, like dying your hair purple at age 12 or listening to rap music in the 90s-- trivial in its risk, and yet bold and exciting.
It reminded me--indulge this nerdiness for a moment-- of when my parents and I had a theoretical discussion on the corruption of Hobbits by The One Ring (Yes, this post got that nerdy that fast-- you've met me before. You should have seen this coming).
"The One Ring could have corrupted any of the Hobbits, but they could only have been as powerful as their wisdom allowed them to be," my Dad said.
"Why? That doesn't make sense," I'd said.
"Look," my mom entered the conversation, strange in that she rarely indulges in arguments of this genre. "Sure, they would have been corrupted, but if all a Hobbit knows is Hobbiton, then he or she would think, 'You mean, with this ring, I can have unlimited power? You mean like... I can be Mayor? FOREVER?!'"
I know someone who got teargassed and peppersprayed when she charged a blockade in DC, during an anti-war protest. My coteacher gets excited over not attending a meeting that has no bearing on her.
Mayor forever indeed!
My coteacher is supposed to go to the meeting too, so she doesn't have to cover the class by herself (like she will do on Friday, when Jei, Tom, and myself fly to Seoul. She, however, won't be able to attend the language festival, so I said,
"You could just play hookey."
"Play hookey?" She asked.
"Do you know what playing hookey is? Oh man! Playing hookey has a long and illustrious career in American culture. It's what we do," I said. I started to write 'Play Hookey' on the board.
"Ah! Aah! Play Hookey! Yes, I know this!" Then a pause as the thought turned over in her mind. "You mean skip? I could skip?"
I shrugged. "Sure, why not? You can't go to the festival anyway."
What followed, I can only describe as a laugh of pure revelation and joy. It was more than a little goofy, and given the circumstances, adorable. It came out of her like, "Ahoohoohohaha!"
It is very strange to me, that skipping out on a meaningless activity could be seen as a novel idea. Even stranger that I think she sees it as a rebel activity. A harmless rebellion, like dying your hair purple at age 12 or listening to rap music in the 90s-- trivial in its risk, and yet bold and exciting.
It reminded me--indulge this nerdiness for a moment-- of when my parents and I had a theoretical discussion on the corruption of Hobbits by The One Ring (Yes, this post got that nerdy that fast-- you've met me before. You should have seen this coming).
"The One Ring could have corrupted any of the Hobbits, but they could only have been as powerful as their wisdom allowed them to be," my Dad said.
"Why? That doesn't make sense," I'd said.
"Look," my mom entered the conversation, strange in that she rarely indulges in arguments of this genre. "Sure, they would have been corrupted, but if all a Hobbit knows is Hobbiton, then he or she would think, 'You mean, with this ring, I can have unlimited power? You mean like... I can be Mayor? FOREVER?!'"
I know someone who got teargassed and peppersprayed when she charged a blockade in DC, during an anti-war protest. My coteacher gets excited over not attending a meeting that has no bearing on her.
Mayor forever indeed!
The following is simulcast on Livejournal and Blogger.
Brought to you by Copy and Paste.
Copy and Paste: Making Computers Cool since 1968.
Writing time today was cool. We hung out in the neato privately owned (being non-chain is a big deal here for cafes) coffee shop in my town. The music I don't dig so much, but the guy is Started a new project in a completely different style than I normally operate in, which is cool. Hoping to finish it tonight, actually.
Afterwards, Jei and I went to Mangdu Heaven. I got Bulgogi soup (which was awesome-- I will be experiencing it again upon our next visit to Mangdu heaven (mangdu being 'dumpling', though I'm not sure I'm transliterating it right). Jei just got massive amounts of mangdu, which was also a very good choice.
Hung out with Jei, waiting for the bus, then walked home.
On the way home, this happened:
Walking across the street where The Bar (a very chill expat hangout) and the PCBang where I lived for my first few weeks are, a 40 year old man (exact age) with a stark white shirt and glasses came running across the street, grinning with his hand held high.
"Hello! Hello!" he said, gripping my hand and shaking warmly, with a bow.
"Anyonghaseio," I said and bowed back.
Still shaking my hand, he gently held my forearm with his other hand, and guided me backwards to the edge of the street.
"Have you heard Jesus Christ? Heard, Jesus Christ?" He echoed his words, as if trying to if he'd pronounced them correctly.
"Yes. I've heard of Jesus Christ. He and I have the same birthday." Which, of course isn't true, but whatever. He was a weird guy on the street-- I don't think specifics of changed-calenders really matter to the conversation.
"Birthday?"
"Yes. December 25th? Christmas?"
"Christmas..? Ah! Christmas!"
"Yeah."
"Have you heard Jesus Christ?"
"Yes."
"You believe-- you believe-- go to heaven. You no believe-- no believe-- you go... You go to hell."
Now, I'm not the sort of guy to blow off a good theology discussion, or run away because the guy's fundamentalism (who actually wasn't drunk, believe it or not) puts me off. I guess what I'm trying to say is: I'll play ball.
So I said, "Tell me. Are things good because God says they're good, or are things good, and God just follows the rules?"
I guess no one had ever brought the Euthyphro dilemma to a streetside preaching. Especially not in English.
"No. Earlier. Earlier, there was Adam and Eve. Adam sin? He sin. Then, the bad."
Doh. Philosophical dilemma, meet language barrier. Language barrier? Philosophical dilemma.
"That's not what I... Okay," I said.
"How old? How old are you?"
"I am 24."
"Ohhh! 24! American age?"
"No. Korean Age."
"Ah! I ammm... 40. I am 40. In America? 39."
"Nice."
It occurred to me, at this moment, that he had positioned me to be facing a rather specific direction. Not that I don't trust strange 40 year old men who accost me in the middle of the night, but... I pulled my bag round to the front of me, dropped my iPod (which is ancient and broken in 4 different ways, any one of which would have most people replace it) into a zippered compartment, zipped it shut, and put my hands in my pockets.
"So you? What is your name?"
"My name is Christian."
Hey, if he can't find the one white guy in Jungmun...
"You... Oh! Your name is Christian?"
"Yes."
"Okay! Okay! I believe in Jesus! And you believe in Jesus! And we go to heaven!"
"Um. Uh huh."
And with that, he shook my hand again, and tottered away.
So... THAT was weird.
(and no, I didn't have anything stolen. Which is cool too).
Brought to you by Copy and Paste.
Copy and Paste: Making Computers Cool since 1968.
Writing time today was cool. We hung out in the neato privately owned (being non-chain is a big deal here for cafes) coffee shop in my town. The music I don't dig so much, but the guy is Started a new project in a completely different style than I normally operate in, which is cool. Hoping to finish it tonight, actually.
Afterwards, Jei and I went to Mangdu Heaven. I got Bulgogi soup (which was awesome-- I will be experiencing it again upon our next visit to Mangdu heaven (mangdu being 'dumpling', though I'm not sure I'm transliterating it right). Jei just got massive amounts of mangdu, which was also a very good choice.
Hung out with Jei, waiting for the bus, then walked home.
On the way home, this happened:
Walking across the street where The Bar (a very chill expat hangout) and the PCBang where I lived for my first few weeks are, a 40 year old man (exact age) with a stark white shirt and glasses came running across the street, grinning with his hand held high.
"Hello! Hello!" he said, gripping my hand and shaking warmly, with a bow.
"Anyonghaseio," I said and bowed back.
Still shaking my hand, he gently held my forearm with his other hand, and guided me backwards to the edge of the street.
"Have you heard Jesus Christ? Heard, Jesus Christ?" He echoed his words, as if trying to if he'd pronounced them correctly.
"Yes. I've heard of Jesus Christ. He and I have the same birthday." Which, of course isn't true, but whatever. He was a weird guy on the street-- I don't think specifics of changed-calenders really matter to the conversation.
"Birthday?"
"Yes. December 25th? Christmas?"
"Christmas..? Ah! Christmas!"
"Yeah."
"Have you heard Jesus Christ?"
"Yes."
"You believe-- you believe-- go to heaven. You no believe-- no believe-- you go... You go to hell."
Now, I'm not the sort of guy to blow off a good theology discussion, or run away because the guy's fundamentalism (who actually wasn't drunk, believe it or not) puts me off. I guess what I'm trying to say is: I'll play ball.
So I said, "Tell me. Are things good because God says they're good, or are things good, and God just follows the rules?"
I guess no one had ever brought the Euthyphro dilemma to a streetside preaching. Especially not in English.
"No. Earlier. Earlier, there was Adam and Eve. Adam sin? He sin. Then, the bad."
Doh. Philosophical dilemma, meet language barrier. Language barrier? Philosophical dilemma.
"That's not what I... Okay," I said.
"How old? How old are you?"
"I am 24."
"Ohhh! 24! American age?"
"No. Korean Age."
"Ah! I ammm... 40. I am 40. In America? 39."
"Nice."
It occurred to me, at this moment, that he had positioned me to be facing a rather specific direction. Not that I don't trust strange 40 year old men who accost me in the middle of the night, but... I pulled my bag round to the front of me, dropped my iPod (which is ancient and broken in 4 different ways, any one of which would have most people replace it) into a zippered compartment, zipped it shut, and put my hands in my pockets.
"So you? What is your name?"
"My name is Christian."
Hey, if he can't find the one white guy in Jungmun...
"You... Oh! Your name is Christian?"
"Yes."
"Okay! Okay! I believe in Jesus! And you believe in Jesus! And we go to heaven!"
"Um. Uh huh."
And with that, he shook my hand again, and tottered away.
So... THAT was weird.
(and no, I didn't have anything stolen. Which is cool too).
The problem with publishing
If you post something online, it is published.
Unfortunately, what this means is that one has to stratify their ideas-- is this concept craft-worth? Something I'll work on and refine, revise and turn into something artistic and meticulous?
Or, is it just a blog idea? Something to post, think about, and move on from?
Originally, my nonfic was going to be blog-material, and my fic was going to be career-material. It's a silly notion that relegates nonfiction to a second-tier artform, but at least it's not arbitrary, like any other line I draw seems to be.
How do you folks balance the two pulls? Do you only post about yourself and your day? Or have you drawn other lines?
Unfortunately, what this means is that one has to stratify their ideas-- is this concept craft-worth? Something I'll work on and refine, revise and turn into something artistic and meticulous?
Or, is it just a blog idea? Something to post, think about, and move on from?
Originally, my nonfic was going to be blog-material, and my fic was going to be career-material. It's a silly notion that relegates nonfiction to a second-tier artform, but at least it's not arbitrary, like any other line I draw seems to be.
How do you folks balance the two pulls? Do you only post about yourself and your day? Or have you drawn other lines?
Hairbrained Scheme
Was talking with Jei about Manga production companies... She was saying how everyone always complains about the low quality of the books, even though they print so many in a run that they will never really become collectors items. My idea, tired and hungry as I was (we were in a bookstore after failing to get to a yoga class) was for the manga companies to have 3 parts to their business. 1, the manga writing. Pretty straightforward. Then, they put them on the interwebz. 2, they sell crappy paper, binding materials, printers, and ink on the cheap. And 3, they sell really nice trade paperback (and, for their really successful titles, hard cover) books of manga. Seems like a pretty simple horizontal business model, though it would require a bit of investment capital right at the beginning (to kick-start the printing-material production aspect). We left the bookstore, changed conversations, ate some pizza, and then went home.
When I got back, I saw another reincarnation of the People Pay for Form, Not Content argument on boingboing.net. This particular entry on boingboing was in regard to an article ("Post-Medium Publishing") where Paul Graham argues that we've been paying for form all along. To super-duper paraphrase, "[A great paperback book is approximately the same price as a bad one. Same with hard covered books. But a brilliant paperback is still cheaper than a terrible hard cover.]"
Publishing is (and always has been) running on the bottled water model-- the water's free. But the bottle. That's $2.50.
Now this is interesting to think of, in terms of intellectual property rights, obviously. Ideologically, I support Creative Commons, and have been wrestling a lot with the notion that gaining recognition as a writer nowdays means operating, at least partially, inside old int. property rights models (which I really don't support).
That was when I developed my hairbrained scheme. Or. Well. My newest hairbrained scheme.
Keep doing the "sub to lit mags" thing. Then, every time a story gets published, just put it out under one of the creative commons licenses (provided I get my rights back.... I don't know if I would sign a contract where I regained and retained no rights, anyhow. Unless it were me writing romance novels, or Holywood scripts which I didn't care about, of course). Then, set up in the CC license for anyone using my work to direct people to my website, where I will set up a service to commission a hand-bound book of 1+ of my stories.
I realize that this would never ever make any money. But it would be really fun, and crafty, and I have a feeling I would learn a lot doing it. AND, of course, it would be very much in-tune with both the pragmatic realities of the publishing biz (you pay for materials, not for words), and with my ideals.
So. Whaddaya think?
That's great.
I'm going for it. Anyone know HOW I can learn to bind books?
When I got back, I saw another reincarnation of the People Pay for Form, Not Content argument on boingboing.net. This particular entry on boingboing was in regard to an article ("Post-Medium Publishing") where Paul Graham argues that we've been paying for form all along. To super-duper paraphrase, "[A great paperback book is approximately the same price as a bad one. Same with hard covered books. But a brilliant paperback is still cheaper than a terrible hard cover.]"
Publishing is (and always has been) running on the bottled water model-- the water's free. But the bottle. That's $2.50.
Now this is interesting to think of, in terms of intellectual property rights, obviously. Ideologically, I support Creative Commons, and have been wrestling a lot with the notion that gaining recognition as a writer nowdays means operating, at least partially, inside old int. property rights models (which I really don't support).
That was when I developed my hairbrained scheme. Or. Well. My newest hairbrained scheme.
Keep doing the "sub to lit mags" thing. Then, every time a story gets published, just put it out under one of the creative commons licenses (provided I get my rights back.... I don't know if I would sign a contract where I regained and retained no rights, anyhow. Unless it were me writing romance novels, or Holywood scripts which I didn't care about, of course). Then, set up in the CC license for anyone using my work to direct people to my website, where I will set up a service to commission a hand-bound book of 1+ of my stories.
I realize that this would never ever make any money. But it would be really fun, and crafty, and I have a feeling I would learn a lot doing it. AND, of course, it would be very much in-tune with both the pragmatic realities of the publishing biz (you pay for materials, not for words), and with my ideals.
So. Whaddaya think?
That's great.
I'm going for it. Anyone know HOW I can learn to bind books?
Crazy Man + News Outlet = ... Reservoir Dogs?
Hey everybody!
I got a blog post about my experiences that I've been meaning to write for a good long while. That's probably what y'all would rather hear about anyhow, but if I hadn't been youtubing, I probably would have put-off posting anything for another few days at least, so think of this as a bonus.
Like I said, I was watching youtube clips-- crazy people on the news-- er... "news"-- you know how it is. And then I saw this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRDEM2X4UZU
I know it's from like 6 months ago, and that you've probably already seen it (I be behind the times) but if I can say just one thing. Just one thing...
THERE'S A GUY ON A "NEWS" CHANNEL REENACTING RESERVOIR DOGS, AND HE IS MR. BLONDE. HE IS POURING GASOLINE ON AN INTERN. HE IS TELLING US THAT MR. BLONDE IS THE GOVERNMENT AND THAT THE INTERN IS (good, hard working, honest american) PEOPLE.
I know this is all old news, like I said, but I just thought it was worth mentioning... HE IS REENACTING RESERVOIR DOGS. Just thought people might like a reminder.
I got a blog post about my experiences that I've been meaning to write for a good long while. That's probably what y'all would rather hear about anyhow, but if I hadn't been youtubing, I probably would have put-off posting anything for another few days at least, so think of this as a bonus.
Like I said, I was watching youtube clips-- crazy people on the news-- er... "news"-- you know how it is. And then I saw this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRDEM2X4UZU
I know it's from like 6 months ago, and that you've probably already seen it (I be behind the times) but if I can say just one thing. Just one thing...
THERE'S A GUY ON A "NEWS" CHANNEL REENACTING RESERVOIR DOGS, AND HE IS MR. BLONDE. HE IS POURING GASOLINE ON AN INTERN. HE IS TELLING US THAT MR. BLONDE IS THE GOVERNMENT AND THAT THE INTERN IS (good, hard working, honest american) PEOPLE.
I know this is all old news, like I said, but I just thought it was worth mentioning... HE IS REENACTING RESERVOIR DOGS. Just thought people might like a reminder.
A Brief Interlude of Shit You Already Know
Nerds are the only people worth knowing. That’s because the term “nerd” doesn’t refer to a person with a pocket protector and a particular style of horn-rimmed glasses. It doesn’t refer to people who are socially inept, or people who lack flare, gravitas, or presence.
There are computer nerds, botany nerds, word nerds, baseball nerds. There are design nerds, and porn nerds, and car nerds. Paint nerds, drug nerds, film nerds, wine nerds, carpentry nerds. Nerd is just a synonym for passion.
What do you think fantasy football is? It’s D&D for football players. It’s a group of guys, sitting around in someone’s den with Cheetos and Mountain Dew, scribbling on pieces of paper, and being upset when they lose. Er. “Lose.”
“I drafted so-and-so.” No you did not.
“I’ve got the defense of the Stealers, and Brett Favre as QB.” Yeah? Well my lvl 17 Night Elf mutliclass, has the constitution of a warrior, and the magic of an elementalist, plus a +8 Sword of Mighty Might.
And that's all I've got to say about that.
There are computer nerds, botany nerds, word nerds, baseball nerds. There are design nerds, and porn nerds, and car nerds. Paint nerds, drug nerds, film nerds, wine nerds, carpentry nerds. Nerd is just a synonym for passion.
What do you think fantasy football is? It’s D&D for football players. It’s a group of guys, sitting around in someone’s den with Cheetos and Mountain Dew, scribbling on pieces of paper, and being upset when they lose. Er. “Lose.”
“I drafted so-and-so.” No you did not.
“I’ve got the defense of the Stealers, and Brett Favre as QB.” Yeah? Well my lvl 17 Night Elf mutliclass, has the constitution of a warrior, and the magic of an elementalist, plus a +8 Sword of Mighty Might.
And that's all I've got to say about that.
If you were in a bed and breakfast in hell...
If you were in a bed and breakfast in hell, this is what the alarm clock would sound like.
HolyShitThisIsALongPost
Hey yall, it's been a while. Let me explain...
There is too much, let me sum up. Buttercup is marry Humperdink in little less than half an hour......
Srsly though, there's way too much for met to rehash all of Orientation in Suwon, Orientation in Jeju-do, and the Awkward Meal of Epic Awkwardness with my school's principal/head teacher (to give you an idea: it was too awkward for me. Yeah. YEAH).
So instead, I'm just going to run through my time since moving into my new apartment (which happened yesterday). I'll try to throw in a few mini-flashback sequences, so you can get a broader perspective. Yeah.
The TaLK program has assigned every teacher a coteacher (a Korean college student who's in an internship which, as far as I can tell, is "Babysit this stupid American and also help him run his classroom"). My coteacher's name is Nakyung, and she's pretty cool. She's actually an English lit. major, and is also 16 years old (US age-- Korean age is different; you're 1 year old when you're born, and because it's on a lunar calendar, people born at the end of the year actually gain 2 years in Korea. Yes, it's confusing. No, it's not just confusing because I phrased it poorly, and tried to cram it all into one sentence. She's so young because she skipped middle school, because she's a smartypants.
Side Story: Everyone got a cell phone (Jei, Tom, all the friends we met during orientation-- Salvador, whose voice could make him the next Morgan Freeman; Thai-An, who acts exactly like a Sailor Moon character) three days ago. Apparently, to sign up for a cell phone, you need to be a resident of Korea-- I'll be an official resident of Korea in 2 weeks, when I get my Alien Registration Card. How everyone else was able to get their cell phones, was, their coteachers signed the contract (and they're just paying through their coteachers). I go to the phone shop, spend 25 minutes figuring out which contract I want, figuring out the bells and whistles, deciding on a phone, etc, all back and forth through Nakyung's translation. We go to sign the contract, and Nakyung shows her ID. "I'm sorry," the clerk says, "you're too young. We can't have minors signing contracts." Apparently, you're still a minor when you're 18, in Korea. That was stupid as hell, and is just one more reason why I feel all isolated and stuff.
Yesterday, my mentor teacher picked me up from the hotel (you know the hotel... The Only 3-star Hotel In The World Without Internet). We had a 1 hour car ride, which was tolerably awkward, because Nakyung is interesting to talk to about literature (she's promised to get me some English translations of Korean lit, if I give her some good contemporary English lit-- any ideas, anyone?). We drove straight to my school, which is tiny. There's 110 students total, between 1st-6th grades (and just 6 classrooms, and office, and a library, in the school). Since I'm teaching a voluntary afterschool program, the attendance will drop to somewhere between 5 and 12 students per class (instead of the maximum 18.2). That is hella-manageable.
But yeah. They gave me iced coffee, and Nakyung and I went and wandered around the facilities. All dusty, rundown classrooms, with huge brand-spankin'-new flat screen plasma TVs (I could use the out-of-place TVs as a metaphor for myself, but that would be asinine, pretentious, and silly). We parked ourselves in the computer lab (the main door was locked, but there was a door literally right next to it that wasn't). Apparently, my mentor teacher went looking for us for about 20 minutes, and didn't even think to check the computer lab. When we found her, eventually, she was like "How did you get in there? It was locked!" Security!Fail.
Side Story 2: During orientation in Suwon, they warned us about the apartments. "You'll have one tiny room, and probably a shared bathroom. Your room will have a bed-- probably smaller than a twin-sized bed, a tiny fridge, and probably, maybe, a desk. If you're really lucky, you'll have a hot plate."
Here is a brief description of my apartment: Spacious studio. Decently large bathroom. Air conditioning and heating (for the winter). A (real) balcony (aka, not one made of metal mesh, that extends half the width of my shoulders). Queen sized bed, full stovetop, kitchen table, lots of cabinet space, an armoire, and hardwood floors. My apartment is also on the outskirts of town. It's located half a block from a few food stores and 2 blocks from a very cool expat bar. The other direction, my apartment is a 20 minute walk (through tangerine groves, mind you) from what everyone tells me is one of the most gorgeous beaches on the island.
I have only two complaints about my apartment. 1: The shower head is hooked up to the bathroom faucet (which is common, in Korean bathrooms), which is unfortunately right next to the door. The door's been sprayed and soaked with water so much, that it's warped and no longer fits in its frame, so the bathroom door doesn't close (I'm gonna ask my landlady to replace it-- it's in the process of rotting and falling apart, and that shit ain't cool). And 2: I have no internet, yet. I paid my landlady to hook it up, but it has yet to work. Unfortunately, she doesn't speak a word of English, and my coteacher is on vacation in Seoul for about 5 days. Looks like I'll just be using the PCban (ban = room. So, PC room) for a little while longer. Grr...
Side Story 3: After I moved in (Nakyung was there when I met my landlady), Nakyung and I went out to find dinner. A little while after that, she got a call from my landlady (who, I think, assumed that we'd parted ways earlier). Apparently, my landlady was just asking her if I (being the white devil that I am) had swine flu. I laughed, when Nakyung relayed this to me, and then she told me that apparently the Korean newspapers say that 50% of all Americans have swine flu. I told her "Um... I think it's actually, like, 50 people total." So, I learned something that day: Fox News is not the only "legitimate" news outlet that speaks nothing but bunk.
So, without a cell phone, and without the internets, I've been feeling mighty isolated, for the first time in a month (during all 4 weeks of orientation, I've been around Tom and Jei pretty much all the time, and before that, you know, I was hangin with you lovely Swine Flu Infectees). Last night, I talked to Ms. Kara Prior for the first time in about a week and a half, which was sweet, and also arranged to meet Jei and Tom (Salvador, Thai-An, et al) today around 4:00. I was to log on to skype/gchat around 2:00 to confirm the specifics.
I walked on down to the beach, did my laundry (zomg, laundry machine in my apt. complex is free!!), and went up to the PCban. Apparently it started raining all torrential-like as soon as I got up here (though I couldn't tell; the PCban, like all good nerd establishments, lacks any source of natural light, and the thrum from the 50-plus computers drowns out the pounding of any rainstorm). I talked with Jei and Tom (Tom wasn't sure if he could make it to the Seogwipo Bus Terminal by 4:00, but said he'd try. Jei said "Yes. I'll make it." She expressed an interest in taking a raincheck, but I was feeling so cut-off, that I kinda twisted her arm into agreeing to come.
I got on the bus (which was difficult because, you know, I don't speak a word of Korean). I get to a big building that says Seogwipo Bus Terminal, and get off. I go inside, and wait. I realize, too, that I'm virtually broke (I've got tons of money in my bank account, but only one bank in Korea allows for international withdrawals). I've got just over 2,000 won, and the only international ATM in the southern half of the island is in the center of a city I've never been to, which is in the opposite direction from my apartment's town. That, and I'm hungry (from failing to eat lunch). 55 minutes pass, just sitting in the bus stop.
There's nothing quite like going to meet friends who fail to show up, being lost and hungry and out of money, in a place where you are functionally illiterate and lack communication skills beyond rudimentary charades. I do not recommend the experience.
Forge on, as it were. I asked 5 different Korean business men which bus would get me to KB bank. None of them spoke English. Eventually, I found the right bus-- the bus driver was one of those super nice ones, who turns round in his seat at your stop, and says "Here, here. You here. Yes."
I wandered in the approximate direction of Not Into The Water (because that was the only way to go from where I was), and felt thoroughly lost. The rain was still torrential, and my umbrella flipped upside down (umbrellas + coastal winds = not friends). Fixed my umbrella more or less, and ducked inside a hotel named "French Hotel." The concierge was not French (thank God. See, "Why Parisians Can Suck My Balls"), and when I asked "KB Bank?" his face lit up and nodded vigorously. He rummaged around beneath the counter, and reappeared with an umbrella, and jogged right out the door. Then, gave me good and precise directions to the bank.
Got to the bank, got my moneys. Wandered around a market for a bit, and then walked into the first restaurant that looked homely. I judged correctly-- it was family run, and the dad of the family made me cold noodles. Imagine this: Slushy flavored with only red chili paste. Put noodles, cucumber, and diced hard-boiled egg in it. That was my meal. It was amazing, but probably only because I was famished by that point. The dad tried to make conversation as well as he could (I was the only client), and eventually, we watched baseball on the TV.
Left, went and found the bus stop, without issue. Then, got on the wrong bus.
I asked the bus driver "Jungmun?" (Jungmun being the city where I live) and he said "Yes, Jungmun." What he meant was "I drive to the Jungmun Resort Hotel, which is a 45 minute walk from the city." I got out there, but I was dry and fed and had money, so I made the trek all uphill into town. I made it back at 9:00, from leaving at 3:15.
Yes, so that's what I did today and yesterday. And now my livejournal is happy. I'll be copying/pasting this to my blog too, which you should all follow.
There is too much, let me sum up. Buttercup is marry Humperdink in little less than half an hour......
Srsly though, there's way too much for met to rehash all of Orientation in Suwon, Orientation in Jeju-do, and the Awkward Meal of Epic Awkwardness with my school's principal/head teacher (to give you an idea: it was too awkward for me. Yeah. YEAH).
So instead, I'm just going to run through my time since moving into my new apartment (which happened yesterday). I'll try to throw in a few mini-flashback sequences, so you can get a broader perspective. Yeah.
The TaLK program has assigned every teacher a coteacher (a Korean college student who's in an internship which, as far as I can tell, is "Babysit this stupid American and also help him run his classroom"). My coteacher's name is Nakyung, and she's pretty cool. She's actually an English lit. major, and is also 16 years old (US age-- Korean age is different; you're 1 year old when you're born, and because it's on a lunar calendar, people born at the end of the year actually gain 2 years in Korea. Yes, it's confusing. No, it's not just confusing because I phrased it poorly, and tried to cram it all into one sentence. She's so young because she skipped middle school, because she's a smartypants.
Side Story: Everyone got a cell phone (Jei, Tom, all the friends we met during orientation-- Salvador, whose voice could make him the next Morgan Freeman; Thai-An, who acts exactly like a Sailor Moon character) three days ago. Apparently, to sign up for a cell phone, you need to be a resident of Korea-- I'll be an official resident of Korea in 2 weeks, when I get my Alien Registration Card. How everyone else was able to get their cell phones, was, their coteachers signed the contract (and they're just paying through their coteachers). I go to the phone shop, spend 25 minutes figuring out which contract I want, figuring out the bells and whistles, deciding on a phone, etc, all back and forth through Nakyung's translation. We go to sign the contract, and Nakyung shows her ID. "I'm sorry," the clerk says, "you're too young. We can't have minors signing contracts." Apparently, you're still a minor when you're 18, in Korea. That was stupid as hell, and is just one more reason why I feel all isolated and stuff.
Yesterday, my mentor teacher picked me up from the hotel (you know the hotel... The Only 3-star Hotel In The World Without Internet). We had a 1 hour car ride, which was tolerably awkward, because Nakyung is interesting to talk to about literature (she's promised to get me some English translations of Korean lit, if I give her some good contemporary English lit-- any ideas, anyone?). We drove straight to my school, which is tiny. There's 110 students total, between 1st-6th grades (and just 6 classrooms, and office, and a library, in the school). Since I'm teaching a voluntary afterschool program, the attendance will drop to somewhere between 5 and 12 students per class (instead of the maximum 18.2). That is hella-manageable.
But yeah. They gave me iced coffee, and Nakyung and I went and wandered around the facilities. All dusty, rundown classrooms, with huge brand-spankin'-new flat screen plasma TVs (I could use the out-of-place TVs as a metaphor for myself, but that would be asinine, pretentious, and silly). We parked ourselves in the computer lab (the main door was locked, but there was a door literally right next to it that wasn't). Apparently, my mentor teacher went looking for us for about 20 minutes, and didn't even think to check the computer lab. When we found her, eventually, she was like "How did you get in there? It was locked!" Security!Fail.
Side Story 2: During orientation in Suwon, they warned us about the apartments. "You'll have one tiny room, and probably a shared bathroom. Your room will have a bed-- probably smaller than a twin-sized bed, a tiny fridge, and probably, maybe, a desk. If you're really lucky, you'll have a hot plate."
Here is a brief description of my apartment: Spacious studio. Decently large bathroom. Air conditioning and heating (for the winter). A (real) balcony (aka, not one made of metal mesh, that extends half the width of my shoulders). Queen sized bed, full stovetop, kitchen table, lots of cabinet space, an armoire, and hardwood floors. My apartment is also on the outskirts of town. It's located half a block from a few food stores and 2 blocks from a very cool expat bar. The other direction, my apartment is a 20 minute walk (through tangerine groves, mind you) from what everyone tells me is one of the most gorgeous beaches on the island.
I have only two complaints about my apartment. 1: The shower head is hooked up to the bathroom faucet (which is common, in Korean bathrooms), which is unfortunately right next to the door. The door's been sprayed and soaked with water so much, that it's warped and no longer fits in its frame, so the bathroom door doesn't close (I'm gonna ask my landlady to replace it-- it's in the process of rotting and falling apart, and that shit ain't cool). And 2: I have no internet, yet. I paid my landlady to hook it up, but it has yet to work. Unfortunately, she doesn't speak a word of English, and my coteacher is on vacation in Seoul for about 5 days. Looks like I'll just be using the PCban (ban = room. So, PC room) for a little while longer. Grr...
Side Story 3: After I moved in (Nakyung was there when I met my landlady), Nakyung and I went out to find dinner. A little while after that, she got a call from my landlady (who, I think, assumed that we'd parted ways earlier). Apparently, my landlady was just asking her if I (being the white devil that I am) had swine flu. I laughed, when Nakyung relayed this to me, and then she told me that apparently the Korean newspapers say that 50% of all Americans have swine flu. I told her "Um... I think it's actually, like, 50 people total." So, I learned something that day: Fox News is not the only "legitimate" news outlet that speaks nothing but bunk.
So, without a cell phone, and without the internets, I've been feeling mighty isolated, for the first time in a month (during all 4 weeks of orientation, I've been around Tom and Jei pretty much all the time, and before that, you know, I was hangin with you lovely Swine Flu Infectees). Last night, I talked to Ms. Kara Prior for the first time in about a week and a half, which was sweet, and also arranged to meet Jei and Tom (Salvador, Thai-An, et al) today around 4:00. I was to log on to skype/gchat around 2:00 to confirm the specifics.
I walked on down to the beach, did my laundry (zomg, laundry machine in my apt. complex is free!!), and went up to the PCban. Apparently it started raining all torrential-like as soon as I got up here (though I couldn't tell; the PCban, like all good nerd establishments, lacks any source of natural light, and the thrum from the 50-plus computers drowns out the pounding of any rainstorm). I talked with Jei and Tom (Tom wasn't sure if he could make it to the Seogwipo Bus Terminal by 4:00, but said he'd try. Jei said "Yes. I'll make it." She expressed an interest in taking a raincheck, but I was feeling so cut-off, that I kinda twisted her arm into agreeing to come.
I got on the bus (which was difficult because, you know, I don't speak a word of Korean). I get to a big building that says Seogwipo Bus Terminal, and get off. I go inside, and wait. I realize, too, that I'm virtually broke (I've got tons of money in my bank account, but only one bank in Korea allows for international withdrawals). I've got just over 2,000 won, and the only international ATM in the southern half of the island is in the center of a city I've never been to, which is in the opposite direction from my apartment's town. That, and I'm hungry (from failing to eat lunch). 55 minutes pass, just sitting in the bus stop.
There's nothing quite like going to meet friends who fail to show up, being lost and hungry and out of money, in a place where you are functionally illiterate and lack communication skills beyond rudimentary charades. I do not recommend the experience.
Forge on, as it were. I asked 5 different Korean business men which bus would get me to KB bank. None of them spoke English. Eventually, I found the right bus-- the bus driver was one of those super nice ones, who turns round in his seat at your stop, and says "Here, here. You here. Yes."
I wandered in the approximate direction of Not Into The Water (because that was the only way to go from where I was), and felt thoroughly lost. The rain was still torrential, and my umbrella flipped upside down (umbrellas + coastal winds = not friends). Fixed my umbrella more or less, and ducked inside a hotel named "French Hotel." The concierge was not French (thank God. See, "Why Parisians Can Suck My Balls"), and when I asked "KB Bank?" his face lit up and nodded vigorously. He rummaged around beneath the counter, and reappeared with an umbrella, and jogged right out the door. Then, gave me good and precise directions to the bank.
Got to the bank, got my moneys. Wandered around a market for a bit, and then walked into the first restaurant that looked homely. I judged correctly-- it was family run, and the dad of the family made me cold noodles. Imagine this: Slushy flavored with only red chili paste. Put noodles, cucumber, and diced hard-boiled egg in it. That was my meal. It was amazing, but probably only because I was famished by that point. The dad tried to make conversation as well as he could (I was the only client), and eventually, we watched baseball on the TV.
Left, went and found the bus stop, without issue. Then, got on the wrong bus.
I asked the bus driver "Jungmun?" (Jungmun being the city where I live) and he said "Yes, Jungmun." What he meant was "I drive to the Jungmun Resort Hotel, which is a 45 minute walk from the city." I got out there, but I was dry and fed and had money, so I made the trek all uphill into town. I made it back at 9:00, from leaving at 3:15.
Yes, so that's what I did today and yesterday. And now my livejournal is happy. I'll be copying/pasting this to my blog too, which you should all follow.
tags:
beach,
explain,
holyshitthisisalongentry,
jeju-do,
jungmun,
lost,
no money,
seogwipo,
sum up,
the last 2 days
My Prop Journal
We had to have props for a mock lesson, today. My group made little journals we were supposed to decorate.
They should know: Never, ever, give me a set of markers and say "Go. Do."
Not ever.
They should know: Never, ever, give me a set of markers and say "Go. Do."
Not ever.
Time passes, dreamlike and sprinkled with flashes of nightmare-- the eyes-rolled-back snarl of a teacher; kimchi that tastes of fire and blood; the anglerfish horrors of the Suwon fish market.
But things are good, you laugh over minor cultural misunderstandings with new friends, and spin classic Korean references into Americanized threats-- "Don't make me call my friend in Jeju-do. He come up here and crack skulls till I get a drink, biatch." The sun and the humidity conspire to steam you on the way to your Crowd Control 101 class, but it's only a halfhearted effort. On the bus, you dodge scowls from toothless Korean geezers with a bow and grin.
Waiting for an elevator one day, you joke with one of the orientation coordinators.
"All this heat," he tells you, "you're probably going to lose some weight."
"I hope so," you tell him, crossing your fingers, and deciding not to take the remark personally.
"Really? I thought that in America, having more weight showed that you could afford to feed yourself very well," he tells you. You smile, like it's a weird joke you're missing the social cues to pick up on. When all you get back is an earnest stare, you explain that that line of thinking was true for France in the 15-hundreds, but nowadays Americans are just fat because of eating poorly and little to no exercise. You start to explain that the leading research shows that high-fructose corn syrup actually eliminates the body's ability to tell the brain that it's full, but the elevator doors slide open and you can see that he's already lost interest.
There's a terrifying coordination in some of the Sports Day groups. A sort of militant efficiency that comes from synchronized chanting and the muscle-pop of testosterone. There's grit in their voices and veins that bulge from throats. The chain of command is easy to spot, top down, orders that get barked over dodgeballs and across bugbitten links in the human rope. There's a violence inside their organization, and it all seems rather silly for 10,000 won worth of KFC gift certificates.
One night, you go to Noraebang and warble through the echo of the mic. You learn that "Bohemian Rhapsody" is not, under any circumstances, a good warm-up song. You drink $3 ciders and bounce on the couches, waiting for the booklet of songs. You struggle to keep up with Eminem's lung capacity, and Matthew Bellamy's stratosphere pitch, and have a fantastic time. There's talk of purchasing a third hour, but you eventually decide against it.
You Skype obsessively. Your girlfriend's still in Iowa, a 14-hour time difference, and you phone her at 11pm, so when she answers, you get to poke fun at her bed-crazy hair. She complains: "I haven't even brushed my teeth yet." You tell her that she probably tastes like day-old tuna and half eaten broccoli. You make faces and gagging sounds, but you wonder if you're right. You skype other folks too-- your mom, who still hasn't figured out her webcam; your friend who works the graveyard shift at a college parking ramp; your old roommate who wants to talk writing and art and philsophy with you. For all these things, if you could make love to the internet, you would (but only if the internet was into it, and only if it weren't a dude, and not if it were into anything freaky... which, knowing the internet, it probably would be).
In Seoul, you see a legless man drag himself down the street, face down on a skateboard. He's filthy with dirt the pedestrians kick up from the street. Grime collects in the wrinkles in his face, deep grooves that cut through his forehead from hours and days of straining to look up. He's tied tire rubber onto his stubs to cope with the constant friction with the street. He's got a radio that he shoves along in front of him, screeching the peppy K-pop noodle-eating song they played in your dance class. The song's happiness sours, from his radio. You wonder how the world looks from his perspective; just shoes and pantcuffs and cigarette butts, and the occasional glint of money: yes! 50 won! You think this in the disgustingly blase way that rich, white, employed college kids think about these things-- a flickering curiosity that's gone by the next knicknack shop. You cannot fathom the inherent nihilism, the raw hopelessness, of his situation because hopelessness is a word you simply do not understand. You see three more men, legless or paralyzed, their thighs withered and atrophied. You do not give them money.
In class, you wince at misspellings and grammatical faux pas that your fellow soon-to-be teachers stumble into. But they're nice folks, by and large, and they're in front of the class for the first time, so you decide it's okay to cut them some slack.
But things are good, you laugh over minor cultural misunderstandings with new friends, and spin classic Korean references into Americanized threats-- "Don't make me call my friend in Jeju-do. He come up here and crack skulls till I get a drink, biatch." The sun and the humidity conspire to steam you on the way to your Crowd Control 101 class, but it's only a halfhearted effort. On the bus, you dodge scowls from toothless Korean geezers with a bow and grin.
Waiting for an elevator one day, you joke with one of the orientation coordinators.
"All this heat," he tells you, "you're probably going to lose some weight."
"I hope so," you tell him, crossing your fingers, and deciding not to take the remark personally.
"Really? I thought that in America, having more weight showed that you could afford to feed yourself very well," he tells you. You smile, like it's a weird joke you're missing the social cues to pick up on. When all you get back is an earnest stare, you explain that that line of thinking was true for France in the 15-hundreds, but nowadays Americans are just fat because of eating poorly and little to no exercise. You start to explain that the leading research shows that high-fructose corn syrup actually eliminates the body's ability to tell the brain that it's full, but the elevator doors slide open and you can see that he's already lost interest.
There's a terrifying coordination in some of the Sports Day groups. A sort of militant efficiency that comes from synchronized chanting and the muscle-pop of testosterone. There's grit in their voices and veins that bulge from throats. The chain of command is easy to spot, top down, orders that get barked over dodgeballs and across bugbitten links in the human rope. There's a violence inside their organization, and it all seems rather silly for 10,000 won worth of KFC gift certificates.
One night, you go to Noraebang and warble through the echo of the mic. You learn that "Bohemian Rhapsody" is not, under any circumstances, a good warm-up song. You drink $3 ciders and bounce on the couches, waiting for the booklet of songs. You struggle to keep up with Eminem's lung capacity, and Matthew Bellamy's stratosphere pitch, and have a fantastic time. There's talk of purchasing a third hour, but you eventually decide against it.
You Skype obsessively. Your girlfriend's still in Iowa, a 14-hour time difference, and you phone her at 11pm, so when she answers, you get to poke fun at her bed-crazy hair. She complains: "I haven't even brushed my teeth yet." You tell her that she probably tastes like day-old tuna and half eaten broccoli. You make faces and gagging sounds, but you wonder if you're right. You skype other folks too-- your mom, who still hasn't figured out her webcam; your friend who works the graveyard shift at a college parking ramp; your old roommate who wants to talk writing and art and philsophy with you. For all these things, if you could make love to the internet, you would (but only if the internet was into it, and only if it weren't a dude, and not if it were into anything freaky... which, knowing the internet, it probably would be).
In Seoul, you see a legless man drag himself down the street, face down on a skateboard. He's filthy with dirt the pedestrians kick up from the street. Grime collects in the wrinkles in his face, deep grooves that cut through his forehead from hours and days of straining to look up. He's tied tire rubber onto his stubs to cope with the constant friction with the street. He's got a radio that he shoves along in front of him, screeching the peppy K-pop noodle-eating song they played in your dance class. The song's happiness sours, from his radio. You wonder how the world looks from his perspective; just shoes and pantcuffs and cigarette butts, and the occasional glint of money: yes! 50 won! You think this in the disgustingly blase way that rich, white, employed college kids think about these things-- a flickering curiosity that's gone by the next knicknack shop. You cannot fathom the inherent nihilism, the raw hopelessness, of his situation because hopelessness is a word you simply do not understand. You see three more men, legless or paralyzed, their thighs withered and atrophied. You do not give them money.
In class, you wince at misspellings and grammatical faux pas that your fellow soon-to-be teachers stumble into. But they're nice folks, by and large, and they're in front of the class for the first time, so you decide it's okay to cut them some slack.
So. Here's some squid. They know not wtf they're in for (or I wonder if they do, and they bob in desperation... That would make me sad).
Travel
Shock isn't sudden. Not this kind, anyway. This kind slithers in, slips from periphery to focus, into the flesh of the place. It's an orchestra tilting into alignment around a single pure Clarinet's A, the moment when the blur of motes form the words on the highway sign: Chicago O'Hare Next Exit.
You get on the bus and swelter. The ceiling boasts Air Conditioning next to every pair of airplane-nozzeled fans, but you don't believe it. The bus isn't on yet, because the driver is busy feeding it luggage. So you drop your head back on the teal, swirl-patterned vinyl headrest and you dream of bathing in more than your own sweat. Then, eventually, the bus starts. The AC kicks on (not a lie!) and the air smells bookstore-stale. You fake conversations with the other travelers inbetween three minute naps.
It's little things at first-- how long the dotted white streetlines are, how the snap-together plastic barricades are blocky and crenelated, how the police officers flap white gloves at traffic and walk in unison. Then the larger things enter your field of vision: 25 exact replica apartment buildings (black steel balconies and sprayed on stucco exteriors). Brand names you don't recognize. How aggressively the bus ignores the lanes.
There are the obvious things of course-- the periodic refrain, "I can't believe we're in Korea!" from various voices all around; the sameness in hair color and height; and of course, the sudden onset of illiteracy.
When you arrive, you want nothing more than to fall asleep, but you can't. You can't because it's 8:50 am, and you have to get On Schedule. You're off, you lost a day, and your legs ache and your back spasms, but you're not On Schedule and you need to be On Schedule. So you stay up and take walks, slow and aimless. You work on getting money changed but for some inexplicable reason need your passport to do so. It's day 1, but you worry about being too insular.
But then again, you've written something for the fist time in months. So, you know, there is that.
You get on the bus and swelter. The ceiling boasts Air Conditioning next to every pair of airplane-nozzeled fans, but you don't believe it. The bus isn't on yet, because the driver is busy feeding it luggage. So you drop your head back on the teal, swirl-patterned vinyl headrest and you dream of bathing in more than your own sweat. Then, eventually, the bus starts. The AC kicks on (not a lie!) and the air smells bookstore-stale. You fake conversations with the other travelers inbetween three minute naps.
It's little things at first-- how long the dotted white streetlines are, how the snap-together plastic barricades are blocky and crenelated, how the police officers flap white gloves at traffic and walk in unison. Then the larger things enter your field of vision: 25 exact replica apartment buildings (black steel balconies and sprayed on stucco exteriors). Brand names you don't recognize. How aggressively the bus ignores the lanes.
There are the obvious things of course-- the periodic refrain, "I can't believe we're in Korea!" from various voices all around; the sameness in hair color and height; and of course, the sudden onset of illiteracy.
When you arrive, you want nothing more than to fall asleep, but you can't. You can't because it's 8:50 am, and you have to get On Schedule. You're off, you lost a day, and your legs ache and your back spasms, but you're not On Schedule and you need to be On Schedule. So you stay up and take walks, slow and aimless. You work on getting money changed but for some inexplicable reason need your passport to do so. It's day 1, but you worry about being too insular.
But then again, you've written something for the fist time in months. So, you know, there is that.
