HUNKY DORY

Just another day in LA

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 00:40:05 GMT

Monday December 7th After the Rain View from my balcony   November 24th Mi Familia en mi casa / el pavo yo cocine

December 2nd

A full moon night. My 11^th night back in LA. – flew in 11/22 now it’s 12/02. Oh I grew up here in LA, and I lived here for a stint after college in the early to mid nineties, but I’d been on a worldwide, whirlwind, disORIENTating odyssey for the last 13 years, so LA is kind of new to me, in a way.

Thanks. I’m glad to be back. First day back, 10 days I was chatting up this smoking hot girl at the DMV, we had side by side chairs in the waiting area, I was renewing my license, she’d lost hers and was there to replace it. I told her how I just got back into town, she’s all, “Welcome Back!” It was pretty sweet. She was stunning, her mother Filipina, she sold Hondas – pre-owned, not used. I remember her job because I need to buy a car. I’d taken the bus to the DMV in Santa Monica.

The last time I was in LA, I was here for 6 nights, 7 days. I had a job to be at Monday morning, an apartment, and possibly even a girlfriend…all on the other side of the world. I wasn’t really back in LA. I was on vacation in LA. I was about fun. I’d rented a convertible PT Cruiser and drove that the entire time I was LA. Airport to Airport.

This time, I’m back. For real. For the long haul. The only thing I left behind on Cheju Island or anywhere in Asia are friends. Because I have no automobile of my own just yet, nor bicycle, nor any means of transportation, I’ve been hoofin’ it a lot. Taking busses. Walking. Busses. Walking. Mostly walking, as I hate waiting for the bus. I don’t mind the bus, it’s the waiting that vexes me so. Plus, LA is not a bus friendly town, so basically, as Robbie Sullivan said, and it’s so true, “The bus is cool, for about a week. Then it gets lame.” It’s true. Still, you see a lot of stuff when you ride the bus that you’d never see if you ride in a car. Especially if you are the one doing the driving.

Today, from my brother’s house on Beverly Glen near Santa Monica Blvd, I walked down Overland Blvd, past the boulevards of Olympic, Pico, Palms, National, Venice to Washington Blvd. This one Barbeque place looked really good; a few massage parlors, some that do nails and other womanly stuff as well – things I saw along the way.

At Washington, I turned left and walked past the long Sony Studios with the large billboards of current releases, SJ Parker and HughG flashing their big blue eyes on a big billboard opposite the huge white satellite dishes across the street and I continued along Washington to the main stretchy intersection with the Triangle Bldg, the oldest bldg in Culver City where Culver meets Washington – downtown Culver City. It’s little sprawling but easily traversed by foot what with the super wide sidewalks. Downtown Culver City is very posh, a little upscale, kind of like Pasadena, but not so far from LA. You have the Kirk Douglas Theater, the Culver Plaza Theater, the Pacific Movie Theater, Greek, Mexican, Korean cuisine. Other restaurants are there obviously, but those were the three that stood out to me. I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. It was 3 o’clock, just minutes before my movie began. I was there to see a movie. I’d walked for ninety minutes from my brother’s house. My mp3 player’s battery had died along the way. I was carrying an old paperback copy of The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe. My friend phoned me. I felt the vibration. I mentioned the book and he’s all, --Yeah, Ken Kesey. --No, he’s in it but he didn’t write it. --I read that back in Berkeley. Had we been face to face, I would’ve blathered on about Tom Wolfe and the Merry Pranksters and Kesey and One Flew and lots of other literary and psychedelic jibber-jabber. But I don’t like talking on the phone. Plus, I’d just bought a phone on the cheap so I pay for each call by the minute whether I place the call or not. I kept it short.

The cute girl with braces behind the counter at the Pacific Theater told me there’d be almost 12 minutes of previews. It was just three o’clock. The movie started five past. I had a good seventeen minutes before show time. I went outside though the glass doors in the long glass wall of the theater. Iron benches dotted the large courtyard. There was outdoor seating outside the three nearby restaurants. On the sly, of course, I filled a small bowl and took one monster hit and held it in till very little smoke exited my lungs. I smoked a cigarette simultaneously and took my sweet time about it. I can be invisible if I want to be, and I had to be. Lots of commerce and shops and banks and rests and cops and people milling about the wide manicured sidewalks and clean streets.

Funny thing is, I bought my ticket outside the theater at an ATM looking metal box attached to the side of the theater. There’s a line of them. Push some buttons, choose your movie and time, swipe your card, cha ching – your ticket sir/madam. No voice required. Self service ticketing, if you got a bank card.

Another funny thing is this. The Acid Book that I was just by chance reading, was about LSD and hippies in the 60’s and at the same time, actually 10 years prior, the US military was using LSD in mind control experiments. LSD had been invented/discovered/first chemically synthesized in a lab setting April 1943, by the Swiss chemist, Albert Hoffman, and he immediately published his findings.

The events of his first LSD trip, now known as “Bicycle Day”, after his bicycle ride home from the lab where he accidentally dosed himself, proved to Hofmann that he had indeed made a significant discovery.

A psychoactive substance with extraordinary potency, capable of causing paradigm shifts of consciousness in incredibly low doses, Hofmann foresaw the drug as a powerful psychiatric tool; because of its intense and introspective nature, he couldn’t imagine anyone using it recreationally.

‘Bicycle Day’ is the name given to the day he accidentally exposed himself to the substance (he wasn’t wearing gloves!) and then subsequently rode his bike home and started tripping along the way. Three day later, he dosed himself in a more clinical setting. From there he began writing about the power of LSD. It wasn’t long before many people were taking it and trying to utilize its energy towards some goal. Kesey and Leery were speaking of an evolutionary breakthrough of the mind where humans can harness the power of psychedelics and evolve – create a more perfect world.

Point of clarification – back in the day, the 60’s when LSD first achieved widespread usage, it was classified as a hallucinogenic. This has since been changed to psychedelic. The reason, and it’s pretty simple to understand, is that to hallucinate is to see something that isn’t there. A hallucination is a creation by a person’s mind. It is now believed by many that what is seen while on a ‘trip’ is ‘there,’ it is not imagined; it’s just that a person before under the influence of ‘psychedelics’ couldn’t see it was there. People write books about this stuff, I don’t want to go there, suffice it to say that in the 60’s LSD was seen by many as a gateway to human evolution, by where a person could harness the power of controlling one’s own mind and do amazing things. Invisibility? The ability to pass through walls? MK7000, where the US military gave does of LSD to soldiers under observation. Perhaps, in addition to other purposes, perhaps one chapter or one unit of the military was trying to create Jedi like soldiers who can use their mind to defeat an enemy. Good idea for a movie.

Movies and LA. Every time I come to LA I see at least one movie. More if I have the time. So many movies play each day in LA: UCLA film archive, the Nuart, the Beverly, the Fairfax, the Aero Theater. Funny story about the Aero Theater in Santa Monica – once I went to a double feature there with a bottle of rum, I lived right down the street at the time. I ended up passing out and waking up long after midnight. I set off the motion detector alarm as I walked around. I grabbed a Kit Kit, got let out, not without major damage done to the door and its myriad of locks by the security company. I walked home. Somebody probably got fired over that.

Anywho, because there are so many movies playing and because you can’t possibly see them all, you’ve got to be selective. I love Adam Sandler movies but I’d never pay 10 bucks to see him on the big screen. He’s just as funny on the small screen. I like cinema. I like big movies on the big screen. That’s why of all the movies playing this week, first week in December 2009, the first week I’m free in LA to do what I choose, I chose The Men who Stare at Goats. And that’s why all this LSD jive is appropriate because it is true that the US government funded US army experimental operations with LSD and other types of mind altering agents and this does make a good premise from which to make a movie and George Clooney was very believable as a Jedi trained soldier and Jeff ‘the dude’ Bridges was awesome as his CO, guru. Add Kevin Spacey and Ewen McGregor to the mix and you have yourselves a wonderful movie. It was funny, poignant, interesting, well shot and acted – it dragged a little bit at times but that’s why the theater experience is necessary in a film this big. The Iraq war. Lots of ideas passed on from this film. Lots of wonderful ideas. Optimum Trajectory. There is more truth to this story that you would believe. Find out where your destiny lies. And the river will take you there. Just another day in LA.

fight of the decade

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 09:23:55 GMT

I'm not a big fan of prize fighting.

But I am a big fan of the Philippines. In fact, I lived on the island of Bohol for close to four months back in ought six with my then girlfriend and well, as is my MO, I've since moved on.

I'm back in AmericA. And one thing that I have with me here in America, after my many years in Asia, after nearly a year of my life spread over the last 10 years in the PI, one thing that I'm wearing right now is a Manny Pacquiao tee shirt that I won at some shopping mall's giveaway in 2006. It's a Dolly Tuna tee shirt with his picture on the back. It was then I first heard of this prize fighter who was a hot up and coming boxer.

On November 15, 2009 in Las Vegas, Manny Pacquiao fought Miguel Cotto for the WBO Welterweight Championship title and it was not a 'Filipino' event. It was a world wide sports event. I had the pleasure of being in Angeles City, the most 'Westernized' city in the Philippines on that day in November and all along the strip, bars were charging 300 peso consumable cover charge for the fight. That means, entrance is free, but you have to drink at least 300 pesos worth of beverages. That's like 6 bucks. Also, the nearby, newly created MARQUIS MALL, in their cineplex, they would be showing the fight live in the theater on a big screen, and they charged a non-consumable admission.

Being that the fight would be shown live, LV time, and that Pacaio probably wouldn't fight till about 11:00 since the program began 9 am and there were two preliminary fights...

I basically hung out at my favorite hotel, the Ponderosa, which is far enough from the strip to be in another world than the Tijuana-esque Angeles strip, but close enough to get there after a short 20 minute walk. I ended up watching the fight live via the internet on a computer with the entire staff of the Ponderosa, many of whom I know since I've began staying at the Ponderos years ago. I'd retired relatively early the night before, and in the morning had coffee, cinnamon (sic) toast, and did laps in the pool. It was 10ish. I was lounging around the pool area. Shortly thereafter, the fight began.

The day before I'd read an opinion article in some Filipino daily about how Pacquiao no longer belongs to the Philippines. That with his house in Beverly Hills and his many other houses around the globe and his many millions of dollars, he is now a global player. Be that as it may, Pacquiao still hangs with local Filippinos everywhere he goes, be in Manila or Las Vegas. He is still one the people. And that's a large reason why he is loved so much by all his compatriots. He was born on the island of Cebu and for Cebuanos he is god. I was drinking in a bar the night before the fight with this Filippino man who was telling me that he's got his life savings -- 3 grand -- riding on the fight. And that if Manny loses, as he told me, 'My wife's gonna kick me out of my house!' Good thing Manny won.

One week before, I'd seen the movie, Once we were Kings, which is a documentary of the Ali-Foreman fight in Zaire back in the 70's -- 'Rumble in the Jungle' they billed the fight. It was mc'd by Howard Cosell. James Brown played a show the before the fight. Watching that kind of put me in the mood for a championship bout.

I remember in the days before my trip to the PI, days before the fight. I was on Cheju Island. I'd just returned to Korea after five and a half months in Nepal and India. It was cold. I was leaving for America in three weeks and had little choice but to find somewhere warm. The PI. 80,000 won each way on Cebu Pacific Air. I was at THE BAR, staying upstairs with J, the owner and whilst shooting pool downstairs, the name Effren 'Bata' Reyes came up. He's a big name among pool enthusiasts. In terms of Famous Filippino Athletes, Bata and Pacman are probably the most famous. I can't think of any others.

In closing. After spending 40 days in Nepal, 3 months in India, 2 more weeks in Nepal, 3 days Thailand, 7 days PI, 1 week Korea, 10 days PI, 4 more days Korea, I've returned to Los Angeles to begin the next phase of my life -- becoming a published/paid author. "In this economy?!?!"

Yes. Wish me luck. It's gonna the fight of the decade.

Tarantino

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 23:14:41 GMT

With the exception of Death Proof, I've seen EVERY Quentin Tarantino movie in the theater. In 1992, my old LA gf, the last white girl I ever dated, took me to see Reservoir Dogs. My LA pal and I saw Pulp Fiction in 1994 in Century City, In 1998 while home for vacation from the ROK I saw Jackie Brown with my brother and ex-wife (they snuck in beers, and as is commonly the case when beers are snuck into a movie house, they left early to smoke cigs and drink more. I abstained and enjoyed). The first Kill Bill I saw in LA, again on vacation, this time with my 11 year old nephew, their son -- its release coincideded with another vacation in LA from the ROK. The second Kill Bill I saw in Fukuoka, Japan.

And Inglorious Basterds I just saw last night in Seoul at Technomart. I got out the East Seoul bus terminal and went straight up to see what was playing. I haven't been in a 'city' with a real cinema for 5 months. What luck. I'm back in the ROK for a few days before continuing my journey which will lead me back to LA, where I shall reside permanently, until something better comes along.

I first heard of this movie, Inglorious Basterds, when Showbiz Tharp posted the trailer on his blogsite many months ago. I'd known that QT had been working on a WW II film. I'd heard in an interview that he started writing it before the Kill Bill series but I had no idea that it was coming out, nor that it starred Brad Pitt as Lieutenant Aldo Raines.

A lot of people are going to bash this movie. Perhaps they already have. I've heard lots of negativtiy about it, and all's I can say to these people is -- Try and make a better movie!

I loved it. I could go into why but I won't. The man has never made a bad movie. And he never will. And me, I'm going to have endure another day of Seoul. Think I'll go see it again.

"I'm a mushroom cloud layin' motherfucker, motherfucker!"

ought

Fri, 30 Oct 2009 19:44:26 GMT

Ought

In the movie Shawshank Redemption, Brooks Hadlyn, played by James Whitmore, answers the question, ‘What year did you come to Shawshank?’

‘That would be ought six.’

He was saying the year 1906, using the word ‘ought’ as zero, as in the commonly used, 'oh six'.

In shotgun shoptalk people use the expression ‘ought’ to describe the size of shot. British spies, are sometimes called double ought spies, like 007. Ought used to be an acceptable/popular form of zero.

We as a people; that is, almost the entire planet, more specifically, everybody who uses the Roman Calendar with year one coinciding near the birth of Jesus and who today recognize this current cycle of the earth around the sun as 2009, which is the vast majority of the modern world — WE have only a few short months until it will be 2010. The ought years are almost over. And they will be gone for another hundred years.

We had the opportunity to live through them. We will never see them again. Our children probably won't either.
Ought Years, that is.

In the last 9 years; that is, 2001 to the present, October 31^st 2009, Halloween in some circles. In that time, I’ve never once heard anyone refer to recent years as ought three or ought seven, as in the sentences, ‘I was graduated from University in ought 3' or ‘I divorced my wife in ought seven’.

I, for one, believe that the ought numERICal should be re-introduced into the English vocabulary cuz it sounds so cool. Think about it. When speaking of this current year, simply compare ‘two thousand nine’ and ‘ought nine.’
There’s really no comparon.

Plus, the ought years are coming to close.

For the duration of the year, we should all try to use the ‘ought’ numerical expression every time we refer to a year in this soon to end decade. We as a people really OUGHT to bring back the expression OUGHT; that is, use it in everyday speech when talking about the decade that is now ending.

Oh yeah. That’s it.

I was reading a magazine the other day and there was a bit about Best Album of the Last Decade. I don’t remember who was in the running cuz I don’t know by name much modern music, but what blew my mind was that the decade is coming to an end.

In three months. 15, if you want to be technical. Still, the ought years, which occur for only nine years each century -- they are ending shortly.

We ought to do something memorable. Let’s bring back the word ought as the word zero.

brain drain

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 23:43:44 GMT

Brain Drain

In the past, this phenomenon referred to poor countries losing their most talented and brightest minds because of a poor economy. That’s still essentially the meaning of brain drain.

Allow me to be more specific. In the past, countries like China, Russia, and India have produced great minds in the fields of engineering, medicine and computer technology. These individuals would study in America or Europe, earning master’s degrees or PhD’s. However, due to economic factors, a professional, a doctor, a scientist, could except to earn little more 500 dollars a month is his home country, where the average wage compared to Western standards were and sometimes are still a mere pittance. As a result, these talented professionals would almost always stay in America or Europe. Hence, the term ‘brain drain’ – the brightest minds in the country leaving.

These days, this pattern is being reversed. Most recently in Sunnyvale, California, part of what is known as the Silicon Valley, or the center of computer innovation in the world, a think tank symposium was held where some of the brightest minds in the field of computer technology met to discuss matters regarding the future of technology – one of these issues was titled “Reverse Brain Drain.”

Not surprising, nearly 40% of the participants were of Asian descent, mainly India, China, and Taiwan. The consensus among these participants, many of whom have been living in the US for over a decade, many of whom possess green cards and are ‘permanent residents’ in the US, was that most of them planned on returning to their home country in the next few years, as many HAVE been doing over the last few years.

The average age for Indians to return to India was 31 and Chinese returning to China was 33.

The question presented was – these Indians and Chinese (the largest Asian demographic of the group) received their higher education in America and all possessed high paying jobs in America, so why would they return to their native country? This was one issue that was discussed at the symposium.

The over all feeling among the Asian-Americans present was this – 20, 30, even 10 years ago, the average wage at a high tech job in America, compared to India or China was like 20 to 1. It made little sense to stay in a country where a decent salary could not be earned. The problem, in the past, with many 3^rd world countries, and a problem which still exists today with most 3^rd world counties is that ALL the wealth is concentrated in a few families/companies – a real middle class didn’t/doesn’t exist.

These days, things are very different. A Chinese man with a PhD from an American university, who is a real mover and shaker in the IT field, can do very well for himself in Beijing or Shanghai. The same holds true for Indians, who can return to Bangalore or Delhi or Mumbai and work for a company and sure, their salaries will never compare to that of the US, but making several thousand dollars a month in India, while in America, may not seem like much money; in India, they can live like a king on that salary.

Add to the equation that many of these Asians not only wish to marry women of their own ethnicity, but also, most have close ties to their families and hope to care for their aging parents, and that really puts the dagger in the hope of America retaining these individuals. I’m referring to current Immigration policies. In the past, an American, even a resident alien could marry a foreigner and the spouse was almost instantly given a green card. Those days are long gone. Also, trying to bring aging parents to America isn’t as easy as it once was. And finally, add to it the fact that China and India are two of the fastest growing economies in the world – the choice becomes almost a no-brainer for many foreign born resident aliens in America. They would rather earn their degrees, work for a top company in America for a few years and then return to their home counties, where, even if their salary is slightly less (20 to 1 becoming more like 3 to 2, was the consensus by the panel, when income tax and cost of living are factored in) the quality of life for their entire family would be much better if they return to their home counties. Earning 3000 dollars a month in Delhi would ensure a comfortable life. Earning 5000 dollars a month in Manhattan or San Francisco, after income tax, rent, insurance, etc. does not guarantee a comfortable life.

So, essentially, we are entering a new era; one known as – the reverse brain drain. The major difference is that the country that will suffer by losing its greatest minds is the US.

In conclusion, this is not MY independent thought. I never really thought of it, although I just spent 3 months in India. This is actually a ‘paraphrase’ of an article I read in computer magazine, whose name I can’t remember.

Immortality

Wed, 14 Oct 2009 19:20:22 GMT

This is not a Spam

There are some fundamental laws of physics that no one can argue. Gravity or inertia need not be argued or debated. They are rules of nature.

There is another. Matter can neither be created nor destroyed. It merely changes form. The sun gives energy to plants. Animals eat the plants and grow and crap, which feeds the plants and we eat the plants and the animals and we grow. We die and our bodies transform into a rotting stink, feeding the bugs. The cycle continues. Nothing is REALLY created or destroyed. Trees turn into fire into ash into gases. Form is merely transferred. This is another law of physics, or rule of nature.

So what about our souls? Is a brain a soul? No. A brain, imagination, identity, purpose – all the things that make you YOU, they are all physical. They can all be explained by some function in your brain and/or body. And they, like your body, will eventually die. So what about our souls? Is possessing a soul just part of our imagination as well? If science is your main belief and rationale your credo (to repeat myself) then yes, you have no soul.

But what if a soul does exist?

Buddhists believe that EVERYTHING in this world will come to an end. Impermanence is the 2^nd Fundamental Principle of Buddhism. That is, everything in the physical universe will die. Hindus, too, believe everything earthly will die. Everything, that is, except GOD. And we are GOD. We, that is, our immortal souls, are all part of GOD. That soul that lies within every person, animal, living creature, is also immortal. It is part of GOD.

Therefore, when we die, it is only our bodies and our brains and everything we knew in this world that dies. Our souls come back in the form of another life. The soul was never born; therefore, it can not die. We, that is, our souls have all been around since the beginning of time. But since memory resides in the brain, we have no recollection of past lives.

Heaven and Hell are Western concepts. Perhaps they are just representations of reincarnation. Good people come back as healthy people – Heaven. Bad people come back as animals or messed up people – Hell.

Karma is an Eastern Concept. Perhaps it is just a variation on the Western – judgment day concept. Your actions in this life will affect your place in the next life.

Nobody knows for certain anything of this sort. That’s why we call belief in this sort of stuff ‘faith’ because none of it can ever be proven.

Most Western religious concepts require leaps of faith – heaven, hell, purgatory, the devil, etc. The Hindu concept of a GOD centered universe that we are all a part of and the physical world just being a temporary situation with choices that, in the end and with regards to the entire universe, are essentially meaningless – this concept makes sense without any great leaps of faith. Furthermore, believing that everything is temporal and that our lives have no real meaning in terms of the universe does not make you a nihilist.

No matter how chaotic life may seem, there is order. Find GOD, really find GOD -- not in a church or in a book, but in your heart and soul and you will find meaning. Because only then, will you find yourself – your true self, that is. And when your true self is realized, you will find immortality. Your soul was never born, therefore, your soul will never die. That by definition is immortality.

putting the word CULT back into the word CULTURE

Sat, 26 Sep 2009 20:46:35 GMT

25 years ago, a little independent film emerged from the City of Quartz – a film that would become a cult legend in its own time; much like The Big Lebowski – which also takes place in Los Angeles – would also become a cult legend, years later as the new millennium began in 2001. Before we look at the two films themselves, let’s look at Los Angeles in 1984 for what it stood for in terms of CINEMA – and to prelude understanding why these two films have become interwoven into the lives of so many people.

It’s 1984. LA is the capitol city of the film industry. Whatever happens in regards to American cinema happens first in LA. With the digital revolution over a decade away and even video tapes (remember Betamax?) and cable TV (remember the Z channel or ON Subscription TV) still in their infancy, cinema in 1984 was still a limited feast; in that, if you wanted to see a movie, you had to go to a movie theatre. That was your only option, unless you owned a projector and movie reels. Videos and video players existed, but they weren’t standard household items just yet. Only the very rich and knowledgeable of the latest technology owned them. “Straight to video” movies were a very recent thing outside the porn industry, and thousands of people didn’t own their own production companies like now. The result was a relatively limited number of new films being released each month – relative to NOW, that is. As a result, theatres tended to show movies for a much longer duration and there wasn’t that huge a choice as to what to see. That would change virtually overnight.

Being from LA, I had the opportunity to witness this change first hand. As a youth going with my older brother to see Star Wars or The Spy Who Loved Me (years after) many times over a year long period where they showed continuously for months at one theater, only to reappear at another theater for what seemed like forever; to the creation of multiplexes where a list of different current films would show, concurrently on different screens, many getting replaced weekly. It all happened overnight – one morning we all woke up with VCRs and Blockbuster stores were everywhere. And everybody had 24 hour cable with HBO. It’s hard to remember a time before infomercials and infotainment. Televangelists were some of the first pioneers of the early 1980s to use cable TV for financial gain: PTL, Tammy Faye and Jim Baker, et al.

The first MULTIPLEX – a new word coined in the early 80’s to denote what had previously never existed – in the LA area was located in the then newly created Beverly Center which opened for business not long before 1984. The Beverly Center is located on that monstrous strip of real estate between 3^rd St. and Beverly Blvd. (which run parallel east-west), and between La Cienega Blvd. and San Vicente Blvd. (which run parallel north-south) in West Hollywood, near an area, known to older residents, as the Miracle Mile district. All 4 of those streets were/are still fairly busy thoroughfares so this rectangular block of land was/is quite huge. And there it is – right smack in the middle of a lot of traffic. Furthermore, over the last 25 years, the Beverly Center has grown substantially, as has everything else around it. Commercial development never stops in West Los Angeles. The Beverly Center has always had nearly 5 floors of above ground parking. And sometimes it’s hard to find a space.

Most people don’t remember what was there on that plot of land before it became the Beverly Center. I remember, because I grew up near there and had spent several birthdays there as a youth. It was two entertainment venues side by side, sharing the same space harmoniously. One side– a sprawling amusement park (large, but nowhere near the size of Disneyland) called Kiddie Land; next to it was a small equestrian village called Pony Land, where adults and kids could rent horses or ponies and ride around a track. Some horses were fast, some were slow. Some were led around the track by a cowboy (for the kiddies). You got to choose your horse. I liked Pony Land. Kiddie Land had awesome rides like a big rollercoaster and a haunted house and it was quite fun, if you were 9, and that’s how old I was when I spent my last birthday there. A few years later they tore down two side by side landmarks of my childhood. It was my own personal 9-11. After the demolition, nothing remained but an empty lot for a short time that seemed like forever in the mind of a child. Then, construction of this new entertainment venue began, which took a long time, and coincided with my puberty. As childish concerns faded from my life, so did my memories of Kiddie Land and Pony Land. And everybody else’s as well. By the time the Beverly Center finally opened, I was finally able to get an erection.

And to this day, I’ve never heard or seen referenced or mentioned anywhere: Kiddie Land or Pony Land. As if they never existed. As if my childhood never existed, or never ended. I still remember the sign on the large wooden fence behind which the new shopping center was erected: COMING SOON! THE BEVERLY CENTER! No pun intended.

Anticipation and hype took the city by storm. The high octane pomp welcoming and fanfare that this new mall received, bequeathed by the citizens of West Los Angeles rivaled what you would think the 2^nd coming might be like. People were so ‘into’ the Beverly Center when it first opened. The nearest real shopping malls up until that time were located in the San Fernando Valley and nobody from LA ever went to the valley, even if it was only a short drive, less than 10 miles over the hill. It’s like, oh my god, let’s go to the mall. I’m so sure. I didn’t enter the Beverly Center for over a year on principle. I remember mentally boycotting it as a pre-teen adolescent.

I also remember that scene from the Indy film Suburbia, another movie set in LA, where the punk rockers steal that roll up lawn and then break into the mall with it after closing time and laid it out in front of the electronics store and sat on the grass while they watched TV through the large storefront window. It’s a beautiful scene in an otherwise schlockish movie. Punk rock squatter, alive and well in Los Angeles, if only on celluloid.

Cut back to 1984, as if we ever left – my older brother by 16 months worked part time as an usher at the Beverly Center’s ‘Cineplex’, as it is/was called. Cineplex – a new concept in 1984; now a common expression like ‘multiplex,’ or ‘home entertainment center.’

I remember going to see a movie there for the first time, the original Terminator there at the Cineplex, stoned off my ass with Julie Peck in 1984, and thinking how small the screen was. The theatre was very cramped with walls too near, not enough people, and the screen was tiny. It wasn’t a movie theatre. It was a screening room. I was accustomed to seeing films at the Chinese Theater, or the Cinerama Dome, or the Pan Pacific, with screens that stretched farther than your eyes could reach, that made each feature film larger than life. And here I am watching Arnold S. tear the hell out of LA looking for Sarah Conner and it was as if I were watching it on a large screen TV! It was a little disappointing. Still, that was a bitchin’ movie in 1984. Even now. It’s my favorite of the Terminator series because Arnold’s the villain.

The Beverly Center – because it showed so many different films at once, many of them independent; and since it was located in the heart of West Hollywood; and since many people on LA’s Westside work for ‘the industry’ – became a showcase for independent films; and many industry people began frequenting the Beverly Center to watch independent films while sipping gourmet coffee, which the Cineplex served. For this reason, many young aspiring actors would get jobs at the Cineplex to hopefully get ‘noticed’ by someone in the biz. My older brother was tall and fit and handsome, with thick hair and occasionally he would get casually ‘hit on’ by industry people, that is, somebody who worked in any of the many aspects of film making, under the guise of a promising career. I’m sure when my brother realized that many of the ushers and concession stand clerks and ticket takers that he worked with were aspiring actors and actresses and models hoping to get noticed, he was just as surprised as I was to hear that. I was really surprised the first time I’d heard that. I had no idea. My brother’s friend Steve told me and I was like “Really? No way!” I’m sure someone had to tell my brother too; that he didn’t just figure it out on his own. And when my brother did hear about that entertainment biz ‘perk’ for the first time – probably from his friend Steve, who also worked at the Cineplex – he probably reacted with surprise and said, “Really? No way!” My brother and I were smart, got good grades in high school, but we were slackers and underachievers and didn’t possess any future aspiration whatsoever in 1984.

Anywho, I’d visit my brother at work on weekends in 1984, usually at the time he got off work, with friends and girlfriends and we’d all go out afterward. I basically picked him up from work cuz we basically shared a car. I was 16 years old and just got my license. At those times waiting for him to get off work, standing in front of the Cineplex, up on the 8^th floor of the Beverly Center which was then no more than the theater and a small food court: there was Früzen Glaje Ice Cream parlor where my brother’s girlfriend worked, and Mrs. Fields Cookies where my girlfriend worked. On the big neon Cineplex marquee I’d see these titles of these movies that I’d never see but whose names remained lodged in my head, like they were somehow more TELLING of REALITY than Hollywood’s latest. I would watch some of them years later on video or DVD or late night on cable by chance, or on a computer, and I would remember some of their names: Stranger than Paradise, Spetters, Repo Man. These days, there are so many more opportunities to watch movies than there were 25 years ago.

Repo Man. It was there at Berkeley in college 2 years later in 1986 that I would learn just how deep Repo Man jargon and culture had dug itself into the collective psyche of young people. ‘Put it on a plate son, you’ll enjoy it more.’ (Otto’s standing in the kitchen, eating out of can labeled FOOD) ‘Are you using a scrambler?’ ‘I can’t hear you. I’m using a scrambler.’ ‘We’re sending bibles to El Salvador!’ (said while holding in a hit of grass) ‘Shut up, Rent-a-cop!’ It was 1986 and David Letterman was harassing his guests nightly with witty sass and uncomfortable questions on Late Night and the generation that would later be termed, Generation X, was laughing hysterically in college or otherwise finally on their own, or living at home brooding in their parents’ basement or attic or garage. The US was funding death squads in Central America and few people in America knew, or cared. Most didn’t really let it affect their lives. Except members of SAICA. Who’s SAICA? Exactly! Reagan and Thatcher personified what everybody should have been angry at, but most people weren’t angry at all. Most people were happy just to have shopping malls. You couldn’t see all the new homeless people from the inside of an indoor air conditioned shopping mall. You couldn’t ride a rollercoaster or ride a pony in West LA anymore, but you could shop like it was no one’s business and watch Indy flicks and drink gourmet coffee in little rooms on small screens – not very cinematic. And all the while, marijuana crops were being burned in Northern California and longtime growers and small possessors were being incarcerated while cocaine was dropping in price like an old computer. 1984 - 1986. Cheap smoke-able cocaine for the first time hit the streets, first in the ghettos, then all over. Street corners in LA where medium grade Mexican weed had always been safely available became crack corners, where only crack could be procured and the scourged walked the earth in circles. Wealth quickly becoming concentrated into fewer and fewer hands and Ronnie and Maggie were quickly becoming two of the most popular leaders the Western world had ever seen, largely because of corporate controlled media on the newly available cable television, but mostly from apathy on the part of their critics. No movie captured the misplaced absurd stylish nihilistic angst of gen x’ers more than Repo Man. It’s no wonder why so many people starting hanging those pine air fresheners shaped liked trees from their rear view mirrors. ‘Find one in every car. You’ll see…’ And why so many of us remembered so many lines from the movie. They had about as much meaning as anything you heard in real life, and just as much relevance. I mean – just as little reverence.

Things had changed a lot in 2 short years. 1986. My first roommate in college had a VCR and we’d rent movies. He also had a computer. It was a 386 with no hard drive, just a 5¼ inch floppy disc drive, and on a 5¼ inch floppy disc was the ‘dos’ program so the computer would run; and there was an archaic WP program and we could save writing on the floppy. I spent hundreds of hours in my free time over that semester writing maybe a hundred pages of fiction, mostly short stories, only to have it become ‘lost’ on a ‘corrupt’ floppy. My roommate and I had a big fight at the start of our second semester together, after which we were never friends again. It was entirely my fault – the end result was the floppy, my writing, was unreadable. So much for all that time. 6 years later, in order to graduate, I wrote a senior thesis. First, I wrote it long hand in a notebook. Then I typed it on a typewriter. Then I edited it, and totally revised it analog style, and then only after I’d reorganized the lot and made it read-worthy did I retype it once again on that same heavy electronic typewriter. It was close to 50 pages each time. And like…20 years later…if I’m with a group of people and I say something like:

‘I can get you a toe. I can get you a toe before 3 o’clock. With nail polish.’

Somebody in that room is going to turn around and say, ‘You’re killing your father, Larry.’ Or something equally as non-sequeterish (sic), something that only makes sense to someone who recognizes the cult reference.

‘I believe Asian-American is the preferred nomenclature.’

The Big Lebowski is by far the most quoted movie of the last 10 years and there are hundreds of thousands, possibly millions of people all over this world (mostly in America and Canada) that would never shy away from an opportunity to pay homage to the dude and Walter. Film books and awards elude certain movies that are re-watched continually because the authors and judges just don’t get it. They are not part of the culture – that is, people who have re-watched a single movie enough times to recognize key dialog and love it when they have the chance to recite lines aloud to others who know the line verbatim and its direct source, and can appreciate the shared joy of a cultural connection. Much like Muslims do with the Koran or Christians with the Bible or Chinese with the Little Red Book.

Certain movies are considered cult movies, and some movies ARE cult movies. Heavy Metal, The Song Remains the Same, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and The Wall WERE cult favorites of the past, but they owed their popularity largely to large screen cinema and frequent midnight showings for people high on drugs with a group of friends, or just in the mood to party with a crowd after midnight in a safe venue that allowed booze and other party-ables (if you could sneak them in – it was easier back then to do that).

On the small screen, the past popularity of these films can not endure. People may own these movies on VHS or DVD but they will not get the kind of repeated viewings that a copy of Lebowski or Repo Man will get. There is just something about the lackadaisical dude; the crazy, potentially dangerous, but well intentioned Walter; the innocent, simple victim Donny; and ‘a case of mistaken identity’ that takes us from one Lebowski’s world to another; from the simple life of a youthful middle aged herb smoking hippy, into the helter-skelter world of a wealthy, physically challenged ‘overachiever’ with a ‘kidnapped’ trophy wife, a group of nihilists, a pornographer named Jackie Treehorn, the Malibu PD, a stolen Chevy (‘We got ‘em working in shifts!’), and an old Sioux City Sarsaparilla sipping cowboy narrator with a big white moustache and a pleasant voice – there is just something that never gets tired. Plus, we have the dude quoting George Bush Sr. from news footage of the original Gulf War that we see on a TV set that plays in the background of Ralph’s Market during the first scene of the movie, to keep us, from the beginning of the movie, locked in a time capsule of 1991. ‘This aggression…it will not stand.’ Then the dude writes a check for 67 cents after first opening the ‘Half and Half’ carton to smell if it’s not sour. Watching The Big Lewbowski is like visiting an old friend and hearing what he has to say again. Oh, he’s just repeating what he always says, but you love him just the same. He’s family. It’s the things he says. The things they say. ‘The bums lost! Condolences!’ I’d venture to say that somewhere in the world right now, somebody is watching The Big Lebowski. And probably on a computer!

25 years ago, before computers were a household item, there was Repo Man, where our hero was an unemployed slacker named Otto, whose ID says he’s 21, but who is really 18 and who gets a job at the Helping Hand Acceptance Corporation, repossessing cars from deadbeats who don’t pay their bills; where everybody is trying to track down a 1964 Chevy Malibu with a 20,000 dollar finder’s fee paid by Double X Finance, and with 4 dead aliens in the trunk; and a lobotomized physicist, wearing sunglasses with one eye missing, at the wheel. ‘Looks like sausage.’ ‘It isn’t sausage, Otto, that’s a picture of 4 dead aliens!’ Otto laughs. ‘Laugh away, fuckface! That picture’s going to be on the cover of every major newspaper in two days time!’ Everybody wants that car. Everybody, that is, the 4 other Helping Hand repo men aptly named Bud, Oly, Miller, and Lite; Marlene, the hot Helping Hand receptionist who changes sides to work with rival repo men known as the Rodriguez brothers, or ‘God damned dipshit Rodriguez gypsy dildo punks!’ as Bud refers to them. ‘Hermanos Rodriguez don’t approve of drugs,’ Lagarto Rodriguez says to his hermano, Napoleon, as they smoke joints with Marlene who is dressed covert like a Black Panther. She responds to Lagarto, “I don’t either, but today’s my birthday.’ They all smoke their own joints, even Marlene using a flashy roach clip. There’s a secret outfit, a UFO watch group called United Fruitcake Outlet, where Layla, Otto’s love interest works, also looking for the car. And there is another agency pursuing the car, whose agents are all tall, blonde white men – hombres secretos – who all wear dark suits, sunglasses, and who shout ‘Not in my face!’ when fighting. Their leader is an older humorless woman with a metal hand – ‘It happens sometimes. People just explode. Natural causes.’

There’s the Reverend Larry, who hosts a TV telethon and promises, with your donation, to wipe out ‘…the twin evils of godless communism abroad and liberal humanism at home.’ He’s looking for the car, too.

There’s the book Dioretix – The Science of Matter over Mind. ‘You read that book I gave you? You better read it, and quick. That book’ll change your life. I found it in a Maserati in Beverly Hills. Know what I mean?’

And of course, like the ransom money seeking nihilists in The Big Lebowski that provide abstract relief with their faux German-ness and funky minimalist clothes, ‘We’re gonna come back and cut off your Johnson!’ Repo Man gives us a madcap trio of punk rockers on a never ending crime spree – the dopey leather clad, mohawked Archie: ‘Dukie wookie hurt his wittle hand’ ‘Fuck you, Archie! Just for that, yer not in the gang anymore!’ Duke is the group’s leader with the shaved head, who just got out of the slammer (juvenile detention), and his girl Debbie with the British accent, whom Duke stole away from Otto at a punk rock party at the beginning of the movie, completes the trio. ‘Come on Duke, let’s go do those crimes!’ She says after Archie gets vaporized opening the truck of the Chevy, leaving only a pair of smoking black army boots. ‘Yeah, let’s go get sushi and not pay.’

And to top it off, there’s a kick ass soundtrack featuring Iggy Pop, Black Flag, Fear, Circle Jerks, East LA’s own – The Plugz, and Suicidal Tendencies. “All I wanted was a Pepsi. I’m not crazy. Institution! Yer that one that’s crazy. Institution! Yer driving me crazy. Institution! It doesn’t matter. I’ll probably get hit by a car anyway.”

Where did punk rock originate? I’ve had this conversation many times with many educated people. I’ve heard opinions like – It started in 1969 with Iggy and the Stooges. It started in the late 70’s in NYC with the Ramones and other CBGB punk bands. It started in London with The Sex Pistols.

My answer to all these so called brainiacs is this: no one band or one city created punk rock. Punk rock is more than just a style of music. It’s a lifestyle. As Cheech says to Chong in Up in Smoke before the battle of the bands, “Relax. It’s punk rock. You don’t have to be a musician. You just have to be a punk.” And that about sums it up – punk rock is a way of life. “It’s a way of looking at that wave and saying, ‘Hey bud, let’s party!’” Wrong movie.

Punk is a mode of expression like a language or culture, in the same way Ebonics is a language and culture. Ebonics is NOT a REGIONALISM. A regionalism is just that – something that originates in one region. Ebonics did not appear in one place and spread. It evolved independently in many urban centers around America simultaneously. You can take an inner city youth from LA, NY, Philadelphia, and Atlanta and put them all in a room and they can all understand each other, even if a white suburban American can’t. That’s beyond regional. That’s culture. There are rules. There is a structure.

‘This isn’t Nam. There are rules.’

Same goes with punk rock. Every urban area in America felt it at more or less the same time – and those who responded to its calling found others who shared similar life views and they started a new lifestyle dressing similarly and squatting in the same abandoned building or garage and expressing their angst using instruments many could hardly play at all. Not all punk rockers were musicians. Some were just punks living the life, doing other stuff. And it didn’t matter from where in the world you were from. If you were a punk rocker, it was pretty obvious, and you were accepted. Even some of the musicians weren’t really musicians. They were just punks with enough attitude and expressive ability to be entertaining. The 80’s were a very conservative time, with mainstream men all wearing short hair and preppy clothes; and Wall Street and brand names going hand in hand with every commodity; and draconian drug laws replacing the long hair, free love, wide collar and lapels, lax attitude about drugs of the 70’s. Skeeball and Slip ‘n’ Slide had been replaced by Pong and Space Invaders. Punk rock, like every social movement was a reaction. Like every product in Repo Man having a plain wrap label.

The music reflected that reaction. Some people adopted the culture long before the 80’s began because they could see where the world was headed back in 70’s. In life, things don’t just happen without reason. Everything is a progression.

In LA, the punk rock movement thrived on the East side long before people on the West side even took notice – ‘Beverly Hills, Century City, don’t you know yer so damned pretty.’ Downtown, East LA and the industrial ‘warehouse district’ that lies between the two, the area the paved LA river runs through– that was where punk rock was spawned in LA – the Troy Café, Al’s Bar – before it became fashionable, and that is exactly the place where the movie Repo Man takes place.

Alex Cox, director of Sid and Nancy, wrote and directed Repo Man and it is an incredible piece of film that only its fans recognize as genius. I just re-watched it and I could watch it again and still laugh. I just might.

Not many movies withstand the test of time. Those that do can be called ‘art,’ or just good movies. Emilio Estevez recently wrote and directed and played a small role in a movie called Robert about the ‘other’ Kennedy assassination and I found it to be a wonderful film on many levels, with a superb ensemble cast and script. I saw it on an airplane. Since I don’t live in America, I don’t know what the reaction to the film was, nor if it won any awards, but that definitely was an award winning piece of work. Still, for me, Emilio’s ‘Gilligan,’ that is, the role that he will always be remembered as, is Otto Maddox.

“Otto? Auto Parts?”

Otto was every teenager, coming of age, becoming an adult, dissatisfied with everything and everyone, having no clue as to what to do with his life and living every moment damned proud of it and regretting nothing. ‘The dude’ was that same person 15 – 20 years in the future finding peace and serenity in marijuana, drinking Caucasians and league bowling with his knuckleheaded friends.

The scene where Estevez, I mean Otto, is driving around with Bud, played by Harry Dean Stanton, and Bud is showing Otto the ropes always makes me laugh, no matter how many times I see it. The entire scene takes place in Bud’s old Impala. Bud is driving and Otto is riding shotgun. The same music plays in the background, but day becomes night becomes day again. Bud honks and yells at a driver, ‘Come on, dickhead!” Then he talks seriously to Otto. It’s night again.

--It helps if you dress like a detective too. Detectives dress kind of square. People think,

‘This guy’s a cop.’ They’re gonna think yer packin’ something. They don’t fuck with

you so much.

-- Are you?

-- Am I what?

-- Packing something.

-- Only an asshole gets killed for a car. The guys that make it are the guys that get in

their cars anytime. Get in at 3 am, get up at 4. That’s why there ain’t a repo man I

know that don’t take speed.

-- Speed, huh?

Cut to them parked and snorting painful lines of crank. Bud starts yapping about the Repo code and then turns his attention to people across the street.

-- Hey look, look at that. Look at those assholes over there. Ordinary fucking people, I

hate ‘em.

-- Me too.

-- What do you know? See…an ordinary person spends his life avoiding tense

situations. Repo man spends his life getting into tense situations. (Looks out window) Assholes! (Looks at Otto) Let’s get a drink.

-- Have a nice day…night…day. Night, day, it doesn’t mean shit.

Repo Man is the quintessential punk rock movie. It’s like the movie Suburbia, only good. Repo Man combines an engaging story, quality acting with memorable and likeable characters, and themes that really question our connection with eternity in a materialistic age. At the very least, it pokes fun at all that most people hold sacred. The film is so densely packed with dramatic and iconic stimuli, a multimedia mosaic of background noise and subliminal shading all intentionally and tastefully positioned along the journey. Like GB senior’s cameo in The Big Lebowski’s background TV footage, TV backgrounds in Repo Man, other than the Reverend Larry’s Telethon, show news footage of war torn Central America. One would need at least 5 to 10 viewings to notice all the nuances – a lot like a Simpson’s episode. Like the The Big Lebowski, Repo Man is probably the most spiritually invigorating film ever made – for atheists who wish for something to believe in.

In the end, there’s only one thing left to be said. “Shut the fuck up, Donny!”

Or maybe the cowboy narrator has a better closing, “Do you have to curse so much?”

Bravo

Kashmir, August 2009

parable retold

Sat, 26 Sep 2009 20:00:39 GMT

Gangotri Temple, Uttrakhand, India Six shots from the same location

Retold Parable from an American POV

In ancient times, the God Shiva and his female companion – the daughter of the mountains, the mother of Ganesh, the fair Parvati – used to take human forms and visit the people of earth. As fit the bill, Shiva sometimes appeared as a wandering Lama with Parvati as his ‘chela,’ or protégé. In ancient times, a Lama was considered as close to God as humanly possible and people would offer a Lama food and shelter and comfort since, due to their complete devotion to an acetic lifestyle, a Lama lived a life of poverty without home or family. A Lama wore a cloak of the most inexpensive material and walked the earth carrying nothing but a small silver pitcher and a walking stick. It was believed that to offer what you could to a Lama was like making an offering directly to God.

One day, Shiva and Parvati, appearing as a Lama and his chela, approached the house of a successful merchant. It was a stone house, with several rooms and a yard. The merchant was, on the one hand, happy to have been blessed with a visit by a Lama and his chela and he invited them inside for a cup of hot chai, but at the same time, he was at that moment deeply immersed in the day’s totaling of accounts.

“Sit sit, I won’t be a minute. Just make yourselves at home there on the sofa and I’ll bring you your chai in just a sec’,” the merchant said as he returned to his calculations in the next room, trying quickly to finish up and serve his guests. All the while Shiva and Parvati sat and waited. “The water’s just boiling,” the merchant kept calling out and after 20 minutes or so Parvati began to get a little annoyed. Parvati, in her simulacra of a young male assistant, looked over at Shiva, looking like an old and wise Lama, content with life’s simplicities. Shiva sat unperturbed as Parvati spoke low, not to be overheard by the merchant.

“Imagine the gall of this man to have us wait for so long. If we are to represent ‘GOD,’ and this man has the opportunity to sit face to face with ‘GOD,’ and all he can do is tend to his petty business, what does that say about this man?”

After about 30 minutes Shiva rose. At that same moment, the merchant came running in with a tray of steaming chai and choice biscuits and placed the tray down on the fine wooden table. “My sincerest apologies. My cooker is always a little bonkers. Please accept these offerings.”

Shiva spoke. “Thank you so much for the tea and cakes but my companion and I really must be moving on.” They left and the man stood for a moment before grabbing a cup of chai and a biscuit and returning to work.

Outside, Parvati asked Shiva what would be done with that man.

Shiva spoke. “That merchant has made a lot of money. That man loves his money, much more than he loves God. I’m going to curse that man. And his curse will be that I will increase his wealth ten-fold.” Parvati’s mouth dropped, but she knew better than to question the work of Shiva. They walked on. As they walked, Shiva looked straight ahead occasionally glancing to the approaching ground to make sure the path maintained its integrity. Parvati continued to think about why Shiva would curse this man with MORE money.

Later in the day, miles down the road, the two wanderers approached a 3 walled shack with partial roofing and dirt floor. There lived an old crippled man and his cow. Other than a large flattened sack on the floor for sitting and a few pieces of crockery chipped with age, the man owned nothing. The man had nothing, except a skinny cow.

As the two approached the dwelling, the old man hurriedly dragged his creaky rheumatic legs as fast as he could move them and upon reaching the Lama standing in front of his ramshackle residence, he fell to his knees and touched the Lama’s feet, as was the customary sign of respect in those days. Still is, in some parts.

“Oh Lama, bless you for visiting an old cripple’s house. I have not much, but my cow can give you a cup of fresh milk if you would please to enter my home.”

“Thank you.” Shiva said and entered with Parvati following closely behind.

The two wanderers sat on the sack mat while the man sat in the dirt. The entire time, 30 minutes again, that Shiva and Parvati sat on the mat on the man’s floor, the man’s eyes were on Shiva. Even as he milked his cow, he kept one eye on Shiva and nodded and responded to every last thing the Lama said. They shared a few laughs and pleasantries, spoke of better times, the Lama gave the man a blessing and after the two had drunk their milks and were ready to depart, the man once again fell to the Lama’s feet and thanked him for the visit.

Outside, Parvati had only positive things to say of the man. “Now that was hospitality. That old man didn’t have much to give but he gave everything, even all his time and attention, to you. Not like the first man who barely gave us the time of day, even though he possessed a lot. How are you going to reward the old cripple man?”

Shiva stopped walking and stared, face unmoving, into Parvati’s eyes before speaking. “Tomorrow, that man’s cow will die.” Parvati could not maintain eye contact. She was again completely flummoxed by Shiva’s decision. This time, Parvati had to ask. “Lord Shiva! I don’t understand. Please explain.”

Shiva spoke: That rich man, he loves his money. He loves his money much more than he loves God. For that reason, I will give him what he loves and next week he will be that much further away from God.

That old cripple, he loves God more than anything. The only thing that is standing between himself and God is that cow, so by taking the cow, I am bringing him closer to that which he really loves: God.

I heard this story one time and one time only. It was told to me by an American guy some weeks back. There were three of us, and three of us alone, all from California, in India, in Manali: Bryan, Rhythm, and myself, all sitting in the Yeti Guesthouse courtyard café in Vashtish at the same time on the same day, drinking tea and smoking a chillum. I was in a hammock. Rhythm and Bryan shared a nearby table. Other than the stone tables, the entire place was wicker. Large colorful tapestries adorned the outdoor wicker walls. The top was covered in case of rain, but occasionally drops fell on one of the 2 hammocks – mine. It was raining. Bryan was filling his chillum and sharing with us as he told the story. My tea was lemon, honey and ginger with the tea bag on the side. I left the tea bag unused in the saucer. I’d never heard nor read the story before and I haven’t heard of it since and it was difficult to remember it so I may have reinterpreted it. Still, I don’t know what inspired me to write it out but it seemed relevant to something.

Related to what?

Success is relative. The more successful you are, the more relatives you have.

Bravo

Manali, India

August 2009

catholic celibacy

Thu, 30 Jul 2009 11:42:11 GMT

June 19, 2009

Swayambu, Nepal

Catholic Celibacy

Here’s something interesting thing to think about.

I’m Catholic, like many people from certain countries and nationalities like Irish in America – Irish Americans. Lots of American Catholic priests of Irish descent.

Irish Americans were known for having big families in the past. No birth control. Six, seven children – that’s a lot of sons. Irish tend to be a very robust, physical people. Lots of young men playing football, getting married, having kids, becoming priests.

Mathematically, the chance of homosexual males in the mix is very high. Add to it, the perfect opportunity to never have to come out of the closet, to live without a wife and not look ‘weird,’ to make your parents happy (they have 3 other sons to carry on the O’Brien name), and be more or less set for life in a position of respect. Priesthood offered a unique opportunity for many young Catholic men during the 19^th and 20^th centuries. And not just those of Irish descent.

Being a Catholic priest involves a vow of celibacy.

Celibacy is a good thing in small doses. Self control needs to practiced to be perfected. However if a man wants to devote his life to that vow, he’d better be prepared to deal with the weight of that commitment. And just because a man is ‘homosexual’ does not make his libido any less demanding.

Sex, like food and water, is a need, although its absence will not kill you, as will denying oneself food or water.

It will kill the race, however, so there’s a certain life force contraction in a celibate lifestyle that a person must mentally accept and embrace, and in that state of denying oneself a very basic human part of life, the accepter of this vow becomes a better spiritual leader, more accessible to the populace due to the absence of his own family and the denial of his own needs. I believe that this is the general theory, a sacrifice for the greater good, a personal offering to the spiritual well being of a society. It is a choice that is practiced in many different religious ‘clergy’ throughout the world. And it is a practice that many religious clergy do NOT practice.

Let’s look at this practice for what it is exactly. It’s not just that Catholic priests are not getting any. They can never have any. Yet, they are still men.

All’s I know is I’m a 41 year old man. I’m a heterosexual. In my last job, I taught at an all girls’ high school. Now, if I were forced celibate by some VOW that was thrust upon me and I was not allowed any sexual release with a woman or by myself, and me being who I am; that is, not fully committed to a celibate lifestyle, it would be dangerous for me to work at an all girls’ high school. I can work there now no problem because I can control myself. I allow myself sexual release with partners or by myself. I’m a functional adult and a professional teacher. Plus, I would never have sexual relations with a student of mine, much less a high school student on principle. Be that as it may, I’m not going to deny the fact – there was some physical attraction.

One university in Boston did a study – you can look it up. When a man is hungry, the smell, sight or presence of food triggers an impulse in a man’s brain taking center stage in his consciousness, telling him to pursue and obtain that food. Salivation and other physical responses may occur. It is a physiological response and can not be ignored, passively. There is a specific area in the brain that is affected by hunger with a food sensor that triggers an impulse as strong as instinct. What the study proved was that this same impulse area in the brain is triggered when a heterosexual man sees a beautiful woman or if there is sensory evidence of a desirable female’s proximity. Even a picture. Physiological reaction. Same area of the brain as hunger. Essentially, the same ‘pursue/obtain’ reaction.

The study was done solely on heterosexual males, but we can deduce that conversely, a homosexual man would get the same response from same sex stimuli. So if a person were gay and say cut off from any sexual relationship with any other person his entire life and he was NOT 100% committed to the vow, I think that working around boys of varying ages would be asking for trouble as well. But that’s just me.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Unlike the Catholic clergy, many Christian ministers are allowed to have a wife and children. Catholics are one of the only Christian groups who force their ministry to take this vow of celibacy. I don’t remember ever reading about Jesus telling his disciples to abstain from pleasuring their wives or having children. Rumor has it that Jesus married Mary Magdalene and had many children with her. And her former job was prostitute! Perhaps Catholic priests should be allowed to marry.

Would that stop priests from molesting children? As a heterosexual male, if I were married and had children, a daughter perchance, I would never be able to look at my students in a sexual way. Not that I do. I don’t. But sometimes in the presence of certain 3rd year high school students, a flash of lust would come over me, especially during stretches without female companionship, as often plagues the life of a single man. I never acted on those impulses, but I’m not going to deny that they were there. Evidence would show that a man having a wife and kids is a LOT less likely to molest some boys. Or even girls for that matter.

If Catholic priests were aloud to take wives and have families, would the Catholic Church continue to exist without losing a share of its membership? That remains to be seen. The real question is: if priests DID become allowed to take wives, and a homosexual priest wanted to take a male partner, would that be allowed? ‘It’s for the sake of the children’ is usually a very persuasive argument. And let's not forget the 'WWJD' argument. What Would Jesus Decide (sic)?

This is just something to think about.

indiaNAjones

Wed, 29 Jul 2009 13:00:56 GMT

Where the hell am I? What day is it? Vashtish. Today.

Vashtish is a subsection of Manali, named for the Vashtish Temple which has hot springs to bathe in, separate pools for males and females.

I've been here for 10 days now. Manali is a hippy community with a large number of expats, mostly European, who live here part of the year, or year round. It is the first place in India I've been where I've actually wanted to stay for more than a night or two.

THE ROUTE

From Kathmandu/Pokhara/Nepal crossed through the bordertown of Nepalganz into Jumantha. From there, bus to the 2.5 million metropo-village of Lucknow (pronounced Nucklow), where I stayed for two days. Then overnight train to Haridwar (1 day), 3 wheel taxi 24 km to Rishikesh (3 days), 12 hour bus ride up to temple peak of Gangotri (3 days) to see the 24X7km Gaumukh glacier (14 km hike) that feeds the Rio Ganga. From there down to Uttrakeshi (7 hr bus ride, 1 night) back up to Yangotri (8 hour bus ride), another peak complete with temple and hotsprings (1 night). The Himalayas in the state of Uttrachand, formerly Uttrachanal, have 4 main peaks, each with a temple. I visited two. If it weren't for the constant rain, I'd probably have visited all 4. Trouble is, they are all different peaks so you have to go all the way down and all the way back up each time. About 8 to 12 hours each way by bus. Some pilgrims do it on foot, like everybody did back in the day. Although I imagine the very wealthy / powerful went by horseback or were carried on a litter.

From Yangotri, I went down to the village of Barcot (6 hrs. / 1 night). In the morning I hitchhiked with truckers up to the honeymoon capital of India, formerly the British "summer getaway" for soldiers SIMLA. I didn't like Simla, too crowded and hilly so I wandered about till I found a proper bus station. I took a bus to Kullu.

I spent one night in the barren little hellhole of Kullu, which would be pretty insignificant if there weren't an airport there. I would've been better off staying in nearby Mandi, which seemed much more vibrant.

"Oh Mandi, well you gave and you gave without taking..." Does Barry Manilow know you raid his wardrobe?

Next day I arrived in Manali and I can honestly say - here is pretty mellow. It is a valley of lush green hills filled with wtih coniferous trees and waterfalls with snow capped Himalayas in the background. A loud river divides the two sides of the valley. Ganja grows wild EVERYWHERE. Everywhere you look, its growing. I've been sober now for over 2 months so its a nice change. You can get good coffee (I drink only tea now - mainly ginger/honey/lemon) here. There are awesome bakeries. Western food is practically cheaper than Indian food! And Manali is famous for TROUT. I was going to go fishing with some folks a few times but with all the rain rain rain, the river's not so good for fishing nearby. Or so said, Sunoo, the Nepalese guy who runs the BIG FISH Restaurant, who cancelled the trips on two occasions last week. We hung rocks around the perimeter of my mosquito net and were going to use that, as well as poles.

Chuck Palahniuk has that line about sugar packet friends which is so true. Even when you travel alone, unless you are a total zero, you inevitably meet people and guess what - YOU ARE NOT ALONE, unless you want to be. I met two guys from California here: Bryan and Rhythm, numerous Brits and cool Indians and Nepalese as well.

Of all the foreigners I've met here, one thing we all have in common is - there is something about India that gives every visitor some kind of spiritual awakening. If nothing else, you are overcome with the feeling that
"God is far too huge to be confined to a single religion." God is everywhere. Even smoking a chillum here is a sacred thing.

Tomorrow I'm going to Leh. It's 450 km over mountain peaks (some over 5000km) from here to a desert valley that is basically Tibet, if you take away the invisible 'border.' It's one of the few places on the planet where you can literally (if your head is in the shade and you feet in the sun) get frostbit and sunburned at the same time. It gets less rainfall than the Sahara and summertime is the ONLY time (May-Sept) that vehicles can get there, so now is the time.

Ladakh has more temples and churches per capita than anywhere in the world. Furthermore, Muslims, Christians, Hindus and Buddhists (even Jews) all have their own places of worship and all worship there peacefully. Always have. Also, Hindu temples are not just places of worship, never have been. Since antiquity, they have always been centers of learning and places where people congregate and discuss various topics. In Ladakh, unlike other areas of Asia which are mostly 'male centered,' women and men monks are virtually equal in all ways. Have always been. Also, this was an important point at the end of the Southern Silk road where first Buddha and later Jesus came and spent much time. Jesus is called Issa, and much was written about him during the time he spent in Ladakh. St. Thomas, his disciple, founded a church in Ladakh which is still there and he, like Issa, is held with reverance by the Buddhists of Ladakh.

Anywho, this last week has been very lazy -- watching big screen movies like CHOKE at the Yeti Guesthouse, all night Texas Hold 'em tournaments, afternoons in a hamock watching the rain and reading NAKED LUNCH, which is an awesome novel that should be required reading in American High Schools.

NAKED LUNCH is by far, the greatest book I've ever read. And I've read a lot of books.

letter to a friend

Thu, 09 Jul 2009 14:58:48 GMT

You're on summer vacation I take it, perhaps in Canada for your brother's wedding.

I've been in India about a week now. I don't understand the attraction. It's hot, noisy, dusty; flies are everywhere, and the people are not that cool. Really nosey and intrusive. And they stare much more than Koreans do.

This PC bang dude does nothing but pace and look at what people are doing. And if there's a free computer (there are only 3) he looks at porn. If he touches my keyboard one more time, I'm going to smack him.

That said, I can add smoking cigarettes to my list of vices that I no longer do. I don't really miss it. Perhaps its all the diarrhea.

50 days sober! Where's my chip!!!

Tomorrow morning I plan to go to a place called Gangotri, which is the glacier where the Ganges river starts.
It's almost 4 thousand meters up so it'll be cool (not 40 degrees) and hopefully quieter than it's been everywhere else I've been.

I don't know when my aversion to noise (cars honking excessively, etc) began, but it's pretty intense. My aversion that is.

My return flight to Korea is Aug 16. Beyond that I know not. Seems like a long way from now, but it's really not.

They say it's 40 degrees here in Rishikesh. I think it might be. As for the "ashram" stay I was considering, it all seems very cult-like and creepy. Lots of these dudes dressed all in orange walking in groups. Orange tee shirt, orange shorts and sandals. And with their Freddy Mercury moustaches, they look like some gay cult.

Rishikesh, like Haridwar, is a pilgrimage town where people come from all over to bathe in the Ganges. It's much cleaner up here; that is, the river is much cleaner in Rishikesh than it is down in Varanasi where they throw dead bodies. Also, R & H are both vegetarian communities. You'll see pigs and cows in the street, but you won't see any on a menu or on a plate or in a market.

India's a funky place. I always hear from people how "amazing" it is. I just don't see it. I guess a lot of people come here for some "spiritual" purpose. I don't get that either. Every white person I've seen in the last week (all two of them) have looked like they were on their way to a Grateful Dead show. Stinking hippies.

God is everywhere. All's you gotta do is believe. God will find you. Peace.

my name's nepal, and that's between y'all.

Fri, 12 Jun 2009 10:44:15 GMT

unfortunately, the computer here is so slow that I can't attach any pictures cuz it would take WAY too long.

suffice it to say, I been here in Nepal for 23 days now. so far, I haven't touched a drop of liquor. I've been living
above a Buddhist monastary surrounded by monks and monk students aged 6 to 16, as well as monkeys
that hang out in every tree and balcony and roof top and will snatch a sandwich right out yer hand, if yer stupid
enough to walk around eating something.

I spent a week in Pokhara, mainly boating on a lake and taking it real easy with
Eric, the heavy drinker from Seattle, Sam, the 18 year old from Mill Valley, and Hanh, the Japanese wannabe
from Ho Chi Min city. She was all right.

They had a Indigenous People's Film Festival here in Kathmandu, with short documentaries from
all over the world 2 weeks ago.

There was a bombing in a church not far from here a few days after I arrived. 2 people died, about a score injured.
The news blamed it on one woman acting independently. Yeah, that's believable.

The Maoist and the YCL are both messing things up around here. Even more than they already are.
There is so much corruption and apathy in government, you feel for the rebels, but not really cuz they're
doing nothing positive. Just making things worse. Blocking traffic, shutting things down.
Extorting money out of good citizens. They call themselves Maoist's, they don't even know Mao! Most are young
illiterate punks.

And why would anybody name their group after the most f'd up person in the 20th century. Yeah, let's do like Mao.

Things move really slow here. And part of that is really nice.

Justin and his gf Bimala and I share an apt, here at the Benchen Vihar Monastary guesthhouse. Sounds funny, I know.
Just about all the residents are students of Buddhim from all over the world.  Mostly Europe.  Some of them are yogis
and other such ranks in the Buddhism echelon.  Everybody here is really mellow. Here at the monastary.
Down in the city, it can get a little sketchy.

We're heading for Kashmir at the end of this month. We'll be there a while. As for Electric Pagoda, the bar/rest?
I got my money back, Justin's having a moral dilemna running a place where every other night there are fights,
broken bottles, broken windows, cops coming. And his partner is quite the tool. It's actually his partner who's the
biggest thorn in this venture. Me, I don't really like Thamel. Something about NOT being drunk that makes
downtown nightlife NOT as appealing

Justin was advised by this visiting Rimpoche who is just visting our center for a short time.
He is like some real heavy weight in the Buddhist world, like the Pope or something -- I guess the Dalai Lama considers him to be #1 in the world. All the high Buddhist people in the world, like the Dalai Lama are reincarnations of the first Buddha.

Justin's had several private meetings with this old glass eyed holyman (the meetings aren't really private cuz there's a translator and helpers cleaning the glass eye with cotton swabs while it sits in his face as the man advises Justin.

His advice: Just wait...don't do anything.

We're gonna wait in Kashmir. Spend the hot summer up (it's over 40 degrees in Delhi right now) at 4000m in Ladakh and surrounding areas in Northern India like Rishikesh, where the Beatles wrote the White Album and where John Lennon wrote that famous lyric, "You made a fool of everyone.." (Sexy Sadie) about the Maharishi, cuz of his demands for money and his attitude towards the female disciples.  The Beathles had gone to visit him and stayed in his Ashram for a few months. Ringo and his wife left after a week cuz they missed their children...and cuz of the vegetarian diet.  THAT Maharishi died earlier this year.

The first time I ever heard the name Kashmir, I was stoned listening to Physical Graffitti.
Now I'm stoned and getting ready to go there.

It's the circle of life.

gro lasalle ran great

Fri, 15 May 2009 20:31:56 GMT

Why I don’t speak Spanish

This is a rather long piece. If you’ve read my stuff, you probably know that I tend to use my life experiences to make a point. This piece is no different.

The title is a bit misleading because I DO speak Spanish. Rather well, as a matter of fact. But I’m far from fluent. I SHOULD be a fluent Spanish speaker since both of my parents are Peruvian: born there, raised there, went to college there, got married there and immigrated to America in 1959. Still, they never taught me Spanish. They never once spoke to me in Spanish while I was growing up, nor taught me a single word in Spanish the entire time I was growing up. I had to learn it on my own, which I did as a young adult in college and through subsequent trips to Peru in my late teens, early 20’s where/when I lived with my father’s older sister and studied vociferously 501 Spanish verbs and other texts and filled many notebooks, not to mention hours of conversation with my aunt and cousins and grandparents and every Peruvian who could put up with my gringo accent.

The only Spanish I ever heard my mother say to me directly while growing up was, “Carajo, mierda!” Which means, ‘You little shit!’ That’s a loose translation. In her defense, I was quite naughty.

At the same time, I’ve lived in Korean so long that I never tell people how long I’ve actually lived here – for one reason and one reason only – even though Koreans and many other people tell me how well I speak Korean, in my mind, I feel that I should be fluent. But I’m not. I’m far from fluent. I’m ashamed to have lived here so long without mastering the Korean language.

So the title of this piece should actually be – Why I can’t master a foreign language –

The “GRO La Salle ran great” heading is a reference to the classic sitcom All in the Family, which was actually an adaptation of a British sitcom called Till Death Do Us Part. Archie Bunker’s character was based on the character Alf Garnett, a similarly bigoted working class Joe. Whereas Archie referred to his liberal son-in-law as “Meathead” or “Dumb Polack,” Alf referred to his socialist, Liverpudlian son-in-law as a "randy Scouse git."

In any event, AITF was the first ‘American’ TV show to tackle the issue of race relations in a humourous (sic) manner. Not that there’s anything humorous about race relations. Or is there?

I’m a teacher of EFL by trade, and in my life I’ve tried unsuccessfully to master two languages other than English, so I understand very well the difficulties in learning a foreign language. As a result of this understanding or lack thereof, I have a lot of patience with my students, cuz I too am ‘challenged,’ that is, I have trouble in the art of mastering a foreign language.

Maybe I’m stupid, or maybe I have a complex about listening to other “speak,” cuz it’s really the listening part that I haven’t been able to master. That, and the retention of new vocabulary. But my problem lies mainly in the listening part. I can converse with no problem in Korean or Spanish. I would say I’m fully ‘conversational’ in Spanish and Korean, when it comes to speaking, but it’s the listening part that really gets me. I could watch a Korean sitcom or drama over and over again and I hear words that I know and phrases, and I can get the gist, sometimes, but a total cohesive understanding of what is being said is not attained. I could READ a few lines in Korean out loud 100 times and 1 hour later completely forget what I’d read. I could hear a song by the Gypsy Kings or Oscar Aviles, a famous Peruvian troubadour of the Afro-Festejo variety – my favorite music, incidentally – 1000 times or more, and still not fully understand what they are saying. Sure I hear words and phrases that I understand, I sometimes get the gist of what is being sung, but I can’t really hear it, the way I hear English. I can even READ the words, but then soon after, I’ve forgotten them. And given the fact that I know all the words to SO many songs in English makes me think – there is something wrong with the way I view foreign languages.

‘Active listening,’ professionals in the field of EFL and ESL call it, and that is what I ALWAYS have to do when speaking in foreign tongues. That is, I really have to tune in: focus, concentrate, cut out all else and just listen, but still, I’m left with a partial understanding. With English I can PASSIVELY listen with zero mental effort to any English speaker or TV show or song, rap music lyrics, any accent of English, backwater hicks or Australians, and I completely understand whatever is being said. I can be in a restaurant full of Koreans and if there is an English speaking couple at the far end of the restaurant, I unconsciously hear and understand every word they say! Why can’t I do that with a foreign language? Even the language of my parents! I’m from LA, which outside Mexico City, is the city with the largest Spanish speaking population in the world. LA has more Spanish speakers than Madrid or Barcelona or Lima, Peru or Caracas, Venezuela. My best friend in LA is Mexican. I don’t understand why I haven’t attained this level of fluency in Spanish. At the same time, why haven’t I attained fluency in Korean when I’ve lived here for so many years and studied it so painstakingly?

I blame myself. But in this blog, I’m going to give an alternate answer. This is not to blame others for my shortcomings: it’s just simply a possible reason for my learning disability.

The answer to the question ‘why’ is my upbringing. I don’t blame my parents. Be that as it may, I was taught, from infant age, that English is good and foreign languages are bad. White is good, and color (that is, people of color), are bad.

Allow me to elaborate.

I was born on April 9th, 1968, 5 days after the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King. My parents had lived in America for 9 years and basically decided before I was born, that they were NEVER going to teach me Spanish. They had achieved near fluency in English by the time of my birth, and they decided, they were never going to talk to me in Spanish, and they were going to make sure that I spoke English only. And this, they did for my own good – to protect me.

See, they arrived in America long before I was ever born, and, I don’t know what they knew about America before they arrived, but upon arrival, they encountered racism everywhere they went. They flew to Miami for their honeymoon in 1959, and after their initial week of ‘honeymooning,’ they traveled across the country by land to California, where they settled in Los Angeles. Along the way, they traveled through many Southern states and encountered segregation everywhere they went. This was pre-civil rights, the tail end of the 50’s. Segregated schools, segregated public restrooms and drinking fountains, segregated restaurants, stores, neighborhoods – segregation was everywhere. And it wasn’t just black and white. That is, it wasn’t just blacks who were discriminated against – all minorities: that is Asians, Indians, Latinos – all minorities, that is, all people of color faced discrimination in some way. And there they were – my parents: college graduates – my mother had a law degree before moving to America – they were thinking: we’ve arrived in the land of opportunity and here we are, ready to start a new life, start a family. My parents were professionals, that is, looking to work in professional fields, not laborers, so basically they were trying to enter the “white collar” work force. I’m sure they encountered a lot of racism in their lives – against other people of color, as well as against themselves. They encountered a lot of discrimination against themselves for their limited English ability and their brown-ness and their non-white, non-50’s-esqe demeanor which they never could have achieved because, how could they? So, like any parent who seeks to protect their children – which basically is every ‘normal’ parent – they decided early on, that they were NOT going to teach their children Spanish or educate their children in the ways of THEIR ancestors, the way so many other immigrants throughout American history had done. They were afraid I’d speak English with an accent when I grew up and face discrimination because of that.

You look at historical footage of early Americans: Italians, Irish, Polish – they all adapted: sure, the parents were old world, but their kids were AMERICAN. Yeah, well, that’s what my parents expected of me. There was really no difference.

If they’d had a window to the future and could have seen that 30 years hence, multiculturalism and the ability to speak more that one language was a PLUS, perhaps they would have thought differently, but that wasn’t the case. They were limited by what they knew. That window was not available to them, no more than any window to 30 years from now is available to us.

You know, a person can say, “He’s 3 years old, he doesn’t know anything.” And he’d be right. A 3 year old doesn’t know anything. But that doesn’t mean he’s dumb or brain damaged. A 3 year old is ignorant; he don’t know shit. Yes, that is true. But a 2 year old, 3 year old, 4 year old has a working brain like a sponge and he/she is soaking up everything around him/her. A child is more intuitive than the average adult. That’s all they have to go on.

I grew up in a world where white was good and color was bad. On tv, all the good guys: rich people, their wives and daughters, successful people, the heroes – they were all white. All the criminals, maids, low income workers were people of color. Baretta, Starsky and Hutch – they never busted white people. Huggy Bear was the pimp/snitch/African American that S&H shook down every episode for information. All the Mexicans and Indians on the old Westerns like F Troop or Bonanza were white people in wigs and makeup, speaking broken English (dangling participle). They were always outwitted by the superior white cowboys/infantrymen.

In real life, my parents’ bosses were white. All their American friends were white. The woman who took care of us and cleaned our house (both my parents worked full-time) was brown. The only language spoken to me by my parents was English . The only language on TV was English (this was long before a SAP button, long before remote controls). The only language that seemed to be of worth was English. The only time I EVER heard Spanish was when my parents spoke to the housekeeper or when they were fighting. The only other time I ever heard Spanish being spoken from age 1-10 was when relatives from Peru would visit, and they were all crazy and different from anything I’d ever known. They’d bring these “sweets” like ‘Panetone’ and ‘King Kong,’ which were not delicious at all.

Even in my diet, my older sister said to me one day, years ago – I was a really picky eater as a youth – she told me, “You said clearly, you would only eat white food or meat, that is, rice or potatoes or white bread. You wanted nothing color on your plate.” Vegetables are all colors. I would pitch a fit if there was anything ‘color’ on my plate. Occasionally, we’d have dinner at my Uncle Abel’s house prepared by his Peruvian wife. Today, I would dive in and love every bite – seco de cordero or lomo saltado. I’d even ask for seconds. Back then, as a child, when visiting my uncle’s house, I was forced to eat everything on my plate before I could excuse myself and I’d cry.

I’d cry. Like the spoiled bratty American punk that I was.

I was a victim of society. And I think about it a lot now.

I think about white guilt. I’ve never experienced white guilt, cuz I’m a first generation American. I mean, my older brother is dark. Really dark, like my father, but we are Mestizo – like most of the Latin American population – which means that we are all blends of European blood and native Indian (sic) native South American ancestry. Filipinos use that word Mestizo because they are primarily a mix of Spanish and native island blood. For some reason I came out whiter than the rest of my family. My scrotum is not pink like most white people, it’s brown, like my nipples, and if I spend more than a few weeks in a hot, sunny environment I get dark and can physically blend with natives in the Southern hemisphere with little trouble, but I have a big nose and I act white. But I know I’m not, cuz I’ve had many white friends throughout my life and I’m not one of them, culturally that is.

I remember a rehabilitation counselor I had after getting my first DUI telling me – she was giving me a ‘scared straight’ speech. She said to me, “If you end up in jail, yer fucked. Jails are very segregated socially,” she told me, “The blacks aren’t going to accept you, the whites aren’t going to accept you, the Asians aren’t going to accept you, and the Latinos aren’t going to accept you either. You’re not gonna fit into any group.

Kind of like life on the outside, I thought to myself.

White guilt generally comes about from white people who feel bad about what white people have done to their brown or red or yellow brethren in years past. I look at white guilt like this — when I look at my parents, I realize that my family’s only been in America for like 50 years, so we have nothing to do with anything that went on in America before that. I have nothing to feel guilty about.

However, if I WERE white, that is, really white, so much that my mother and father were white and my grandparents too, I WOULD feel guilty for everything my ancestors have done to other people. It’s natural. The same way a Japanese person might feel guilt for the atrocities that their ancestors have bestowed on Korea and the Pacific Islands and parts of China and Manchuria, not to mention all the WWII POW’s they enslaved.

If you don’t know yer past, you don’t know your future.

Some people use history to their advantage like Hitler used the First Reich and Second Reich to unite Germans against the rest of the world, or Jews of the world creating a Zionist nation based on the premise that they’d been in the area known today as Israel for over 2000 years, even though most modern Israelis have no history on that strip of land. Racially identity is a powerful thing. It justifies murder, slavery, thievery and a whole host of evils.

Some people choose to ignore certain aspects of history. Ignorant does not mean stupid. The root word is “IGNORE.” (It’s not, really, but it works.) They ignore the apparent. They ignore the lessons of the past. Many of the “privileged” in this world use ‘history’ to maintain their privileges. And history unfortunately seldom echoes truth.

I’m privileged. If my parents never emigrated from Peru, I would’ve been born there. Genetically, I’d be no different than I am now, but I’d most likely be a native Spanish speaker. My English language ability wouldn’t be at the caliber it is now. I wouldn’t have this cushy job in South Korea.

Furthermore, I wouldn’t have had many privileges I have now, like the ability to visit nations throughout the world with no visa. I acknowledge that. I don’t feel guilty for my privileges, I actually am happy for them. But I acknowledge them as a ‘gift’ from divine providence and my parents. And for that I am thankful. I learned a lot about myself the 3^rd time I went to Peru. By then, I could speak Spanish reasonably well, but everybody in Peru knew before I even opened my mouth, that I was not Peruvian. They could tell by the way I dressed, by the way I carried myself, by the way I walked that I was ‘un extranjero,’ a foreigner. I was not one of them.

And Peru, like many Southern Hemisphere countries is very class-ist and racist to the point that brown people don’t get the same respect that the lighter-skinned people get.

I remember one young guy I befriended in Lima, a college student, telling me, “You see those Serranos (mountain people)? Those are our niggers.” I had no reply. He was a ‘friendo.’ (Yes, I am making reference to Anton Chigurh)

Dark, short people from the Andes, should they venture into Lima, are not given the time of day because they are not tall and light skinned, or come from ‘proper’ families. In India and Nepal, it’s all about caste. Once you are born, you are either on the top, on the bottom or somewhere in the middle. And there you stay for the duration of your life.

Kind of gives new meaning to the phrase – ‘sucks to be you’.

In the third world, there is more acceptance of the status quo than in America. In America, there is a lot more hatred because, in America, it’s all about money. Family and background are really secondary to financial wealth. In America, no matter what you look like, no matter where you came from, no matter what you believe – if you’ve got the money, then you’ve got the power. That’s why there’s so much more hatred and hate crimes in America than in caste/class based cultures. Every state but 4 has had a history of lynching African-Americans. During slave time, there was no lynching. It began after emancipation.

In 1898, in Lake Cormorant, Mississippi, a black man was hanged from a telephone pole. And in Weir City, Kansas. And in Brookhaven, Mississippi. And in Holdenville, Oklahoma, where the hanged man was ‘riddled with bullets.’ In Danville, Illinois, a black man was hanged from a telephone pole, cut down, burned, shot, and stoned with bricks. A black man was hung from a telephone pole in Beleville, Illinois, where a fire was set at the base of the pole and the man was cut down half alive, covered in coal oil, and burned. While his body was burning, the mob beat it with clubs and cut it to pieces.

By Eula Biss from Time and Distance Overcome

Castration, eye gouging, horrors upon horrors. Lynchings were not simply executions, they were public torture sessions. Why?

“In America, first you get the money, then you get the power, then you get the woman.” -Tony Montana

In most countries, that kind of economic mobility just doesn’t exist.

Many Koreans despise the Japanese for atrocities committed against them. At the same time, many Koreans look down on Southeast Asians as “dirty, lesser people.” Different African peoples have nothing but contempt for other African peoples and because of this – genocide is a common phenomenon there. Everywhere in the world, people hate their neighbors for their ‘race.’

The America I grew up in was very similar. I took a stand

In Berkeley, in the late 80’s, I began thinking, telling people, I’m Peruvian. Why? Cuz both my parents were. That’s when the hyphenated American phenomenon first achieved widespread usage. It gave me some solace. It freed me from White Guilt, not that I felt any, but it gave me a community to draw power from. It gave me the piece (sic) of mind that – I’m not one of them. But upon arriving in Peru, and spending time there as an adult, I realized. I am as American as tacos or pizza or hamburgers (named after the city of Hamburg, where the Beatles first gained widespread recognition). I’m an American, and nothing I do will ever change that. Peruvians could see my American-ness a mile away. Still, it did little to bring my Spanish learning quest to fruition.

In 2005 I spent the summer in Europe, and outside of England, I basically told everybody that I was Peruvian and spoke Spanish everywhere I went. Kind of like Canadians openly displaying a Maple leaf on their person or bag to show that they are not American. I rode an overnight train through Spain and – wouldn’t you know it – I shared a car with a group of Peruvians! We had a really good time. At some point, I told them I was American. They didn’t care where I was from.

I have a US passport. I have an education from UC Berkeley (which I paid for entirely by myself). Still, when I see homeless people I feel privileged to have what I have. I don’t feel guilty, I don’t feel superior. I feel privileged to have had the opportunities I’ve had. I feel thankful that I’m not homeless and poor. I’m happy to have had opportunities and I try to make good of them.

White guilt is natural, but it doesn’t have to be carried around. There is no reason to feel guilty for what one’s ancestors did. BUT...

But acknowledgement is kind of par for the course. Acknowledgement.

Then the human race can move forward.

“If you don’t know your past, you will never know your future.” Well that about sums it up. Will I continue to try and master Spanish and Korean? Yes. Is it difficult? Fuck yeah. I learned a new Korean word today – 혼혈아 hone hyul ah. It is the non-offensive word to describe the child of a Korean and a Westerner. Unlike the racial slur Twiki (don’t know the hangul spelling). I prefer the term 50/50, but what do I know.

Will I try to learn Nepalese since I’m going to be living there starting next week? I’m sure as hell going to try. Do I laugh at racial humor? If the jokes are funny.

Why can’t black people become astronauts? Because they’re niggers.

Is that funny? Not really. Did I laugh when I first heard that joke last Saturday night at my Canadian friend’s bbq? I don’t remember. But most people on that full moon, roof top evening in downtown Cheju City did laugh. Does that make them racists? If I laughed, does that make me a racist?

In short...

I hate everybody except my friends – and they come in all shapes, sizes, colors and creeds. They live all over the world. My friends are all part of what I call the BRAVO-FOLD. It’s not a cult, but we share a bond. We share a bond unlike the bond that ethnic groups share. The only bond we share is that they all know me.

I don’t care where you are from or what culture you hale or what you believe in. I hate you. And if I see you on the street, just keep walking, cuz I have nothing nice to say to you. I’m not a racist. I hate everybody equally on a case by case basis.

Goodbye. Peace out! Elvis has left the building.

This will be the final blog entry that I write here in the ROK. I’m leaving tomorrow. I worked today and EPIK wants me out of my flat tomorrow morning. Fuckers. I’ll be off the grid for a while. I want to get published in print form, so I’m going to stop blogging for a while and try some legitimate publishing.

That said – I want to send a shout out to my blog community and readership: Showbiz (If I’m ever in Pusan, I wanna check out the Gargles. Gook has mad skills and you are very entertaining), Whiskey Exhaust (enjoy Korea while yer young. Before I became jaded by the ubiquitous militaristic – obey, don’t think thought process of most Koreans – I really enjoyed living here), Nightmare Believer (props for your honesty and tell-it-like-it-is approach to Korea’s female population), Bobby McGill (bastard son of Bobby McGee and Maggie McGill – your race blog last week gave me the impetus to post this – I started writing this essay 2 months ago), Anonymous (keep on hating, you slags), Scouser (I’d planned on moving to Prague before my Nepal opportunity presented itself. If I knew yer email you would’ve been hearing from me. You still might, but I don’t know yr email. As a side note, you recently posted a pic of Yogi G – Justin Reeves. He’s one of my partners in this Kathmandu venture. www.epmandu.com Congratulations on your nuptials), Grand Narrative dude (keep doing what yer doing – I hope there’s a PhD in this for you).

And finally – Angry Steve. Why are you so angry? Watch the movie Celtic Pride. Again. You’ve probably already seen it. “You’re in Bean town now. Bean town!”

Gotta love hometown identity!

another senseless death

Wed, 06 May 2009 02:48:51 GMT

Two years ago, almost to the day I moved to Cheju Island. I moved into the
Waygook Arms, which is officially called the 외국어고등학교원어민기숙사.
Or Foreign Language High School Dormitory.

It's basically a bldg with 18 spacious one room apts where 18 foreigners live
Only 3 of whom actually work at the Foreign Language High School. Two
American girls and one Japanese guy.

There used to be 4, but, we've all heard what happened to Aldo the Spanish teacher by now.

Aldo, myself, and my boy Blue -- GB -- we were all pretty tight. GB was married
to a great lady of Korean descent. They were my downstairs neighbors, GB and
Jinsoon. She was, as GB liked to say, "the best cook I've ever known. She could
look at a plate of food, take a bite, and know exactly how to make it." She not only
made kick ass palak paneer, she made the cheese for it using 제주 우유. And the nan to go with it.

GB and I are both film buffs, and we'd talk movies a lot, but we had nothing on her.
She was so knowledgeable of films and music.  When she was in high school, she
played drums for a heavy metal band that covered songs by Judas Priest.

The were together a long time GB and JS. I met him the night before they got married,
and subsequently attended their wedding. It was a veritable Who's Who on Cheju Island,
the two of them combined knew so many people.   That was 2 years ago.

From that day and for over a year, I saw them on a daily basis. They were my downstairs neighbors.
I was their freguent dinner guest. 9 months ago, they moved to a faraway beach, so I didn't
see them very often after that.

They'd moved into a minbak, one room that had ceilings almost 20 feet high. It was bitchin.

The last time I saw them, it was Christmas Day. The two of them, myself, and our Filipine
friend, May Ann, all had Christmas dinner together. JS made the most awesome roast beef and
mashed potatoes. I thought I was back in America.

I hadn't seen either one of them since then. Until...

Yesterday, Children's Day, I was at the beach with my new friend Addie. Addie's a little red headed
fireball from Kentucky who lives in my building and we rode out to Hamdock beach, which is not close
to where we live, but is close to where GB and JS live.

Addie lives in room 302, next to room 301 where GB and JS used to live. I live in room 401.

It was the strangest thing. It was nearing 6 and there were no less than 40 foreigners on this small strip
of beach. We'd been there since 1 and Addie had Cinco de Mayo dinner plans in the city, so I said,
"Let's get out of here."

On the way home, I knew we would pass right by GB & JS's new place.

Now I haven't seen the guy since Chrismas. I've lost my phone twice, therefore, have changed my
number twice since then (changing your number is cheaper than replacing the phone on the same
number) so we've rarely spoken this year.

I tell Addie, I'm gonna make a quick stop. She's wondering why. When I stop the bike in front of their
house, I remove my helmet, turn around and explain, "You know I'm leaving in two weeks. Well,
I wanna see my friend before I go. He lives right here and it's so far I never come out here."

She's all cool.

So there we are. We're sitting on my bike in front of his house. Looking at this high roofed house with
round bay windows. The balcony door is open. I'm about to just go and knock on the door,
but instead I call him.

He answers. I'm all excited.

-- Hey Blue. Are you home? Look outside.

His voice is somber.

-- I'm not home.

-- Where are you?

-- I'm at the morgue.

-- Fuck, I'm sorry, Who died?

-- My wife.

I can not remember the last time I was so stunned or speechless. I didn't know what to say.
I thought he was joking, but that's hardly a joke. Basically, he said, I can't talk right now and hung up.

A minute later I got a call from our mutual friend Jay who was there with GB in the basement of the
hospital. I said I'd be right there.

Apparently, the night before, GB came home to find his wife hanging from the high doorpost
inside their house. He cut here down, called 119, tried to revive her, but it was too late. He'd
spent the night in the hospital and it was now the following day. Apparently when a Korean
passes away, they make a shine in the basement of the hospital and the family mourns for 3 days.

I took Addie to a bus stop from where she could catch a bus home and I immediately went to
the hospital. GB was a mess when I saw him. By 9 PM a bunch of us, friends of GB's were having
dinner next door to the hospital. He was very "sedated" by alcohol and we stayed with him there and
then later in the basement of the hospital. Members of her family and Korean friends were also there.

JS alwasys seemed to me a very level headed person, not given to hysterics of flights of insanity.
She never seemed depressed or sad or anything negative.

And apparently to others who knew her better than I, there was no indicators that this could happen.

We are all very saddened by this and are left with a profound feeling of WHY?

This picture was taken by me two years ago at the World Cup Stadium here in Seogwipo.

Two people in the picture are no longer with us. Both took their own lives.

This is the strangest life I've ever known.

my life as told through tee shirts

Fri, 24 Apr 2009 06:31:24 GMT

I wrote an essay years ago about why I don't wear teeshirts with labels like Nike or Polo
cuz I don't want to be a walking billboard. Still, I have a lot of tee shirts, some white, some
black, some colored -- all with some expressive image on them. In a sense, I am a
walking billboard, just not for corporate America. Each teeshirt holds some memory for me.

So here it is, my life according to the tee shirts I own.

me in Mont Saint Michel France me in Miho, Chungcheong buk do

Once upon a time, the above T was my favorite tee shirt, although I’ve since lost it. The
image is a lithograph by Picasso of Don Quixote and Sancho. I grew up looking at this
image everyday, as my parents have had a large framed DQ&S in their living room, for as
long as I can remember. I’d never seen it on a tee shirt until I went to Granada, Spain in
2005. I had to have it, so I bought it, and for two years, I wore it often.

My history teacher in 7^th grade once asked the class, “What was the single most
important event in 1492?” And the entire class started calling out answers, “Columbus,
discovery of America, etc. etc.” He said, “No. That is incorrect. The most important
historical event in 1492 was the fall of Granada and it is because of that, that Spain was
able to stop financing wars against the Moors, and be able to start launching seafaring
expeditions.” He may have had a point.

Granada was, until 1492, the Muslim Capitol of Southern Spain. There, in the city of
Granada, you will find Alhambra, which is one of the greatest feats of ancient architecture
in the world. Like most Muslim architecture, including the Petronus Towers in Kuala
Lumpur, everything is based on the octagon.

Alhambra is an amazing place to visit. I recommend it, if you like history and/or architecture.

_____________________________________________________________________

This is the oldest tee shirt that I own. I bought it in LA many years ago and for those
unaware, Aztlán is one name given to the region in Northern Mexico annexed by the US
following the Mexican war. The Chicano movement of the 1960's embraced Aztlán as
"their true homeland."

I bought this tee shirt in East LA, where my best friend in America lives. One of them, at
least. At the same store, I also bought this second tee shirt, which is a parody of a hwy
caution sign found in many border towns between the US and Mexico, like San Diego or
Calexico.

The sign cautions motorists against highway crossing families. In this image, the ‘family’ is a family of pilgrims.
It’s a political statement about immigration (if you couldn't figure it out).
_____________________________________________________________________

The Philippines

This tee shirt I bought at an SM mall in Cebu city. It was instrumental in meeting my
Japanese ex-girlfriend since it was the ice breaker. She walked up to me at Old 55 in
Pusan back in 2006 and asked me, “Do you know what that shirt means?” “I do,” I told
her. The Japanese script translates into big root.

I've been in Cebu a couple of times in my life, but my favorite place in the Philippines is
a place in Northern Luzon called Sagada Mountain Province.

Located 14 hours North of Manila – 7 hours to Baguio City up the National Hwy and then
another 7 hours up the Halsema Hwy takes you to Sagada Mt. Province.

I’ve been to Sagada 8 different times in my life, since my first visit in 1999, the last being
in February of 2009. It’s a beautiful place way up in the mountains with a culture entirely
different than anywhere else in the PI. They are Igorot people and eat with their hands and
are mountain people. I love it there. I much prefer the mountains to the sea.

One thing Sagada is famous for is the hanging coffins. People get buried in a crevice in
the mountains. It is also famous it's massive caves and beautiful scenery.

It is near Banaue, known for the rice terraces.

In February I also stayed in Subic Bay for a few nights and because I ran out of clean
clothes I bought this tee shirt. It’s a little cheesy, but I was out of clean shirts.

___

______________________________________________________________________________________

Thailand

Thailand has many cool tee shirts, many of which are corporate spoofs like the COMA
tee shirt, written in the logo script of PUMA except the puma is on its back, or this one
that I bought in 2006.

At the same time I got this one, which I noticed is now part of the Pusan Web layout.

Also in September 2006 when the new Bangkok international airport opened, I was one
of the first people to fly out of there. The older Don Muang airport still holds a very firm
place in my memories (I’ve been to Thailand a dozen times or more times over the last 10
years), but I bought this tee shirt to commemorate my being one of the first people to use
the new airport, Suvarnbhumi Intl Airport. It’s pronounced ‘Sue went home’. At that time, it was still under construction.

Europe – Last year, instead of flying “home” for my 2 week home leave, I met my mother
in London and after a week, we went to Paris. There I bought 3 tee shirts. I’m a fan of
Toulous Lautrec. I think these are just cool.

Then after my mother returned to LA, I went to Amsterdam for a couple days and there I
visited the Bulldog Coffee shop

as well as many others. But at Bulldog, I bought this tee shirt. Amsterdam is a
blast. Everybody bikes everywhere and if you bike too slow in the fast lane or don’t heed
other bikers, you will get bitched out by passing bikers. Order. Coffee shops sell the most
delicious coffee and ice cream and various sweets you've ever tasted. I wonder why?

Laos – In 2007 I spent 20 days in Laos. Laos is an awesome place to visit, but it has an
inordinate amount of unexploded ‘ordinances,’ which is a euphemism for bombs.

BOMBING LAOS

Once the bombing began, the civilian population became the target for more than two million tons of bombs. Anthony Lewis wrote that this "was the most appalling episode of lawless cruelty in American history."

There is an international NGO that does nothing but find these unexploded ordinances and
make sure they are properly diffused. I gave them a donation and in return, got this tee
shirt.

Also, while there I stayed in a tree house, 100 feet in the air, for 3 days in the Bokeo
jungle. It is a Gibbon preserve and they’ve erected zip lines throughout the jungle, so you
hike around with a harness with pullies on it and when you get to a line, you clamp onto the cable
and ZIP across the jungle. It’s awesome. It’s called The Gibbon Experience

You can watch this guy zip around.

Cambodia – this shirt I bought last Summer while I was in Phnom Penh. It’s cool cuz it feels like a polo type shirt, but it’s got no collar. Also, it’s got Khmer script which is kind of cool.

I’ve been to Cambodia 3 times and I’ve wanted to return to Ankor Wat, but I just don’t feel like being surrounded by hordes of tourists. Hordes!

How many boards could the Mogols hoard if the Mongol hordes got bored – C&H

I gave the same shirt to my friend in Seoul, Keith, who retributed (sic) by giving me a New Zealand tee shirt, since he’d just returned from there.

I’ve never been to New Zealand, but I’d like to visit there. I hear it’s “sweet as…” as Kiwi’s like to say.

I remember the first time I started hearing that expression. It was a Kiwi who worked with
us at Konkuk University in Seoul and my American friend and I, who’d never heard that
expression before, didn’t know what to make of it. Is he saying, ‘sweet ass’ or ‘sweet
as’…as in…the phantom comparison? It was the latter.

Last time I was in LA, I was hanging out with my friend, and he suggested we go to
Walmart. I went along and man oh man – it was not only my first time in an American
Walmart, but it was just like that Southpark episode where everybody keeps shopping
there, even though it’s killing all local business. Everything there is SO cheap and they
have everything! No wonder that guy got trampled on Black Friday. It's a wonder people
don't get trampled weekly. So in addition to the many other things I bought, I got a Laker
tee shirt. Go Lakers!

Also, that same friend, on a different day – I was helping this same friend do yard work
and got really dirty, so he gave me this tee shirt to wear. It’s from the Renaissance Faire.

Lastly, I bought this one on Venice beach, that same trip. And since my mother works in a
law office and since she gets a lot of free shit from her legal conventions and
whathaveyou, I got this bail bond company tee shirt. Which is pretty cool.

I’ve never been to jail, nor have I ever needed to be bailed out. Although, I did spend the
night in a holding cell once when I got my DUI in 1993. I remember having the option –
have bail posted for me, or spend the night in a holding cell. I chose the later as it was 3
am and they were going to release me at 8. Also, they wanted to tow my car, but I
suggested they just park it and leave it, which they did. It saved me 75 bucks in towing
charge and possible storage fees. We were basically a 20 minute walk from the police
station. Also, this was Santa Monica, not LA county so the holding cell wasn’t full of rapists
and crazies, just me and one other guy in a business suit, who did get bailed
out. He was yelling a lot cuz he wanted to pay his own bail, but that’s not allowed. I
remember thinking, I don’t want to call anybody cuz I didn’t want anybody to know. As it
was, coincidentally, at 2:30 am, while I was being pulled over and given a battery of
sobriety tests, my friend was in the Jack-in-the-Box drive thru across the street buying a
late night munch-out. He recognized my car -- a 1968 sky blue Ford Galaxie coupe, and
after getting his food, watched the entire episode from his car while macking out on a
Bonus Jack with fries. He told my brother and all our friends. Pricko.

You never know who is watching you.

I like to travel and I like to buy tee shirts everywhere I go. Like this long sleeve tee shirt I
bought in Argentina.

And this tee shirt I got in Bolivia.

Potosi is the most altitudinous city in the world. You walk for a block or two and you are winded. That’s also where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid met their maker.

I’ve lived in Korea for many, many years and I haven’t seen too many Korean tee shirts. None to be exact. I’d like to get one. I don’t own any, but I that's cuz never see any. Why is that?

spontaneous displays of beauty

Fri, 24 Apr 2009 03:32:26 GMT

I blogged about the music to the movie sound of music a long time ago and I stand behind every word I said.
Last month in Antwerp Centraal Train station in Belgium something amazing happened. Actually, it looks spontaneous, but that would be impossible. Even if it was staged, what happened was really cool and a real treat for anyone who happened to be there at the train station at that particular time on that particular day.

That what the world needs. Most spontaneous displays of beauty.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0UE3CNu_rtY

this is my bike, there are many like it but this one is mine

Fri, 24 Apr 2009 01:59:33 GMT

I've got a bike you can ride it if you like it's got a basket a bell that rings and things to make it look good. I'd give it to you if I could but I borrowed it.

Actually, it's for sale. Runs great. rides 2 comfortably and is available mid May

450,000 won

retraction with unrelated introduction

Mon, 20 Apr 2009 09:13:33 GMT

Last year, EPIK Cheju hosted a “cultural festival.” Basically, all of us waygook teachers got the day off and spent the day at the cultural center showing off our “cultures.” They had a table/space for the UK, the USA, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand. As you can probably imagine, the majority of teachers here are North American so they had to shuffle some of us NAs to the other tables. It caused a big rift, so trying to be the peacemaker I said I’ll be in the British group. I made this poster -- my salute to great bands out of England.

I also made another poster featuring Bowie and The Clash, but it’s in the house of my 3rd floor neighbor and she wouldn’t let me come down to take a picture of it cuz she was sleeping.

Anywho, it was a fun event. Even if the Korean minds behind it saw us as stooges doing stupid acts for the masses. And that they did. We accepted that and we did our thing. The Americans made hotdogs and served no less than 1000 that day, buns and all and all the proper condiments. The Canucks had a field hockey rink set up complete with goals and equipment and, in addition, served pancakes with real maple syrup.

I as the token Brit, made the poster above and brought my guitar and spent the day playing songs by the Beatles, Stones, Bowie, the Clash, et al. I was a walking jukebox, and when I ventured into the Canadian zone I did my best Neil Young and Gordon Lightfoot, and at the Aussie venue I broke out my favorite AC/DC songs. At the American area I led everyone in a 10 minute version of Miss American Pie. I was amazed at how many of the young Americans knew the words. Was it Madonna? Or is it just a great song.

Ok, so a correction is required here. I never mind being told I am wrong, but I guess, in this case, I was wrong.

In my last blog I criticized Korea’s lack of English language magazines, but apparently this issue is larger than I thought. You can read more about it here.

First of all, in the past there was Seoul Classified, which was a bi-weekly publication, and exactly what I was talking about. SC was put out by foreigners and Koreans highlighting things to do and offering sometimes interesting stuff to read. The only problem with it was that it didn’t really extend itself beyond Itaewon and Hongdae and the foreigners in charge, namely Johnny Red, was a major A hole, so I failed to mention it. Is it still around? I don’t know. I haven’t been to Seoul in a long time. Apparantly there are others in Seoul as well. One called simply Seoul and a DDD Life in Korea as well. I haven't seen either of them.

Also

It is rumoured that the Jeju Life magazine is going to be soon republished in print form, headed by a foreigner with a Korean spouse and they plan to redo the magazine properly, including the original staff of the original magazine. This is a good thing. I heard this story secondhand so I can’t verify it – that is, it may just be hearsay, but I hope it is true. Cuz that would be a good thing. In Cheju we have the yahoo user group rhymeswithjeju, which apparently began as a print media venture…my friend Greg Blue wrote a few articles for it, but apparently they were too anti-korean so they got nixed, but he told me that originally, the user group was an actually magazine. But…you know how it goes. Can’t finance itself – can’t exist. rhymeswithjeju is a very useful site for selling, buying, sharing info, etc. It's not a website, it's just a user group.

Also

I was at Gecko’s in Cheju on Friday night

and there I got a copy of 10 Magazine, which is an English magazine just like the many magazines I described in my last blog.

10 Magazine is the joint effort of Koreans and foreigners, the head foreigner being Stephen Revere, long time resident of Seoul, who was the host of Let’s Talk Korean, one of the many tv shows featuring an English class show format. The difference with this one from the other plethora of shows like this where there is a Foreigner who speaks in English and a Korean who explains in Korean, in LTK, Stephen speaks Korean as well as English, as did his host. In any event, this magazine focuses on things going on, not only in Seoul, but in every province in Korea. It’s not a bad magazine. Good job, people.

Except…

I was given the magazine by the cashier of Gecko’s who saw me thumbing through it as I waited for my change. She said, “It’s free! Take one.” So I did, as did my company, but when I got home, I noticed there was a price tag on the cover – 3,500 won. I wondered. Is the magazine free, or does it cost money?

Magazines of this ‘ilk’ are not the New Yorker or the Atlantic. The few ‘articles’ in the magazine are not written by professional writers. They are written by expats just like you and I. So why would they charge for it? Kind of defeats the purpose.

Perhaps the magazine is given away for free. I can’t imagine anyone ‘paying for it.’

Maybe they thought to charge for it initially and have since recinded that option. I mean, 3,500 won is not a lot of money, but the point of tourism is to promote it. The revenue should come from advertising. I guess it's tough to keep a magzine running in Korea. That's the point of the article I linked. Perhaps they have no choice but to charge.

I could think about this more, but I have 4 weeks on my contract.

So that's it for ragging on Korea. Criticizing Korea -- it’s like shooting fish in a barrel.

korea and japan

Fri, 17 Apr 2009 04:36:53 GMT

j japan vs korea

Comparing Korea and Japan is like comparing apples and oranges, or Afghanistan and Pakistan.

What I want to do to is point out THINGS you can find in Japan that you can’t find in Korea, and THINGS that you find in Korea, that you don’t find in Japan. You make the comparison for yourself.

1. Music – Eveywhere I go in this country I hear Gee Gee Gee Gee Baby Baby Baby Baby or some inane K-pop flavor of the month. Any place you go in Korea that isn't a Western Bar, you hear K-pop. I went to Mosburger hamburger joint in Fukuoka a few years ago and they were playing Public Enemy. I couldn’t believe it. I was going to get my burger set to go, but I thought, fuck it, I’m eating my burger here. I ended up meeting some girls and we went to a Karaoke place, which was identical to a Norebang except they had a fat playlist which included songs by Beck, like Loser. That was when I first learned that the chorus is, “Soy un perdidor." I’d never known what he was saying in the first line. Thank you, Japan.

This is a poster for Aerosmith appearing live in Buenos Aires. When was the last time a good rock band came to Seoul?

"Yesterday was raining, but that didn’t stop 45 thousand fans from seeing their favorite performers at the 5.5 hour SMTOWN LIVE 08 concert extravaganza. For a total of 39 performers including Boa, Super Junior, Dong-bang-shin-ki (DSBK), The Grace, SHINee and Girls Generation (SNSD).

Shouts out if you were the one of 45,000 screaming girls at the concert.

SMTOWN LIVE 08 will take their show on the road to Beijing, Shanghai and Bangkok, starting in September"

Wow, sorry I missed it. Who else has played in Seoul lately beside Bjork? And that was a LONG time ago.

There is really no international music scene in Korea. And not counting the ex-pat cover bands or Korean punk scene in Hongdae or assorted Korean indy bands, there is no live music to speak of -- except classical and really boring jazz. DJ Shadow played in Pusan? Who else has EVER played there? The Gargles? I’m sure they are entertaining, and if I’m ever in Pusan, I’d like to see them, but that doesn’t compare to what Tokyo or most major cities of the world have to offer.

Actually I take that back. Last year, DMC from RUN DMC played in Seoul.

I saw Ozzie in Seoul, as well as Jane’s Addiction open up for The Red Hot Chili Peppers in 2002. And Smashing Pumpkins were there in 2000. And we saw Eric Clapton in 98. So 5 years in Seoul – 5 bands came. Tokyo is like London or Toronto or LA with live bands almost every night of the week. The last Tokyo magazine (I have a friend in Tokyo who sends me magazines) I browsed, I saw their calendar – Nickelback, Beck, Oasis, Cyprus Hill – you name the act, they’re playing in Tokyo at some time over the next few months, in addition to dozens more. This year, every major act in the world will include Tokyo or Osaka or both on their world tour.

I was at The Voodoo lounge in Fukuoka a few years ago and members from Digital Underground were playing there unannounced, just cuz they were there. No cover, just good music.

Deep Purple has a classic song, My woman from Tokyo. Turning Japanese was a huge hit by the Vapors back in 1980. Alcatrazz, Yngwie Malmsteen’s band with Graham Bonnet on vocals, did Hiroshima, Mon Amour. How many popular pop or rock songs can you think of that have Korea or anything to do with Korea in the title? I can think of only one – Ice Cube’s Black Korea.

                         Everytime I wanna go       get a fuckin’ brew
                         I gotta go down to the store with the two
                         Oriental one penny count muthufuckas
                         They make a nigga mad enough to cause a little ruckus

                           Thinkin every nigga in the world’s on the take
                           So they watch every damn move that I make
                           They think I’m gonna pull out a gat and try to rob
                           Their funky little store    but bitch I gotta a job

                            So don’t follow me up and down your market
                           Or your little chop suey ass will be a target
                           Of a nationwide boycott
                           Juice for the people, that’s what the boy got

                           So pay respect to the Black fist
                           Or we’ll burn your store right down to a crisp
                           And then we’ll see ya
                           Cuz you can’t turn my hood – into Black Korea

Not very flattering. For anybody. It doesn’t paint a pretty picture but…the Death Certificate Album was the bomb. And yes, I did transcribe the lyrics from memory. Who would’ve thunk that back in 1991 when I was first listening to that, that I would move to Korea? Surely not I.

The first concert I ever attended was Cheap Trick – They have an album, Live at Budokan. Other artists with a Live at Budokan album include: Bob Dylan, Dream Theater, Ozzy, Asia, and Avril Avigne. I think of the metal bands I liked in the 80’s and live albums they made – Iron Maiden had Maiden Japan. The Scorpions made Tokyo Tapes. These bands not only came to Japan, they recorded live albums there. In the movie Spinal Tap, how did they make their comeback at the end of the movie? They toured Japan.

2. English language magazines – In Cheju, an enterprising young guy named Jim Saunders put together a
crew and got the backing of City Hall to help publish a bi-monthly magazine called “Jeju Life.”

It basically featured places in Cheju that people should see and things in Cheju people should do. There’s a lot to do here for people of all ages: singles, couples, families, etc. They did it for a little over a year; now their publication is only available on-line. wherever you want.

His magazine wasn’t ‘bad’ – I would never criticize the work of someone who produced so much with such few resources, but it was a little pathetic, that is, the finished product – in comparison to ‘real magazines’. Two months of work, a ton of money provided by “the city” to produce it. The final result – each issue was like 8 pages of glossy print. Basically, because it was a foreign venture, they could not “sell advertising,” or pay the writers or staff. It was like a full time internship, all work was done by volunteers who did it for the experience and for something to do, and the result was a magazine you could read in one visit to the toilet – taking a piss.

So foreigners can’t start a magazine and sell advertising, even if the advertising was entirely for Korean businesses or if the magazine showed off Cheju places of worth to foreign visitors. I actually visited a few places that I read about in their magazine. A magazine like that would do so much to promote interesting places to go in Cheju like

약천사 Yakcheon Temple in Seogwipo.

Or the Maze Park 미로공원

It’s like the maze in The Shining, and actually it’s the product of Fred Ditto, a long time foreign resident of Cheju who started planting the hedges 20 years ago.

Korea has a Ministry of Tourism trying to expand tourism in Korea. What do they do? They come up with slogans like “Hi Seoul!” And spend billions of won making posters and buying TV air time. The idea that “Foreign tourists probably don’t speak Korean,” and that media in English, or Japanese, or Chinese, or any other language would be an asset never factors into the equation. In Korea, other than the Korean Herald or Korean Times, which are the thinnest newspapers in the world; both of which carry day old news, if you spend any time on the internet, what do you have to read, published by Koreans, if you are an English speaker? The answer is – you have nothing. But then again, at every major subway station in Seoul or Pusan, and just about every place with a seat, including subway trains, long distance busses, hospital waiting rooms, train stations or bus stations, or airports, or even some elevators in high rise buildings – there is always a TV playing. Why would you want something to read?

Tourism? In Korea? A few English language magazines that have stuff to read in addition to write-ups of things going on / things to do that week or month would surely boost tourism / business. There’s so much to do here. Why can’t Koreans utilize the media of ‘something to read’ as a way to market what they have. It’s not brain surgery.

In Japan, you have SO many English language magazines. In addition to Tokyo Journal, Tokyo has

Tokyo Families (free), Metropolis (free), and several others.

Fukuoka has Fukuoka Now,

Osaka has Kansai Time Out, in publication for over 30 years. If you go to these cities for vacation, these are indispensable sources of information. They tell you what is happening that week – brewery tour times, movies, plays, museum exhibits, sporting events, restaurant reviews, cultural happenings, as well as stuff for sale, jobs available and people who possibly want to meet you (that’s where the money comes from).

Every big city in the world has similar free weekly publications. New York has The Village Voice. LA has LA WEEKLY. San Francisco has Bay Area Guardian. I can list more, but you get the point. These American weekly papers are over 100 pages, they come out free and fresh each week, and tell you EVERYTHING that is going on that week – and there’s a lot to do in a metropolis. Even Angeles City/Subic Bay in the Philippines has one -- City of Angels, which is published monthly and is free.

Seoul? Pusan? I guess there’s always soju bang, norebang, Dongha bars, etc. Unless you live there, or know people, there’s very little information in print form.

3. In Japan, if you have a working visa, you can teach privates legally. In Korea, you can’t. Nuff said. In Korea, if you are here on a work visa, you can only work at the place (or places) designated on your visa. In Japan you are free to 'work,'

The last problem with Korea (that I will mention in this blog).

4. No motorcycles on Highways – Imagine being in America and wanting to ride your Kawasaki Ninja up the California coast from LA to SF. Yer on the 101 or the 5 and you get pulled over by the CHP – “Sorry sir, no motorcycles allowed on the highway.” What a joke! Many Koreans and foreigners drive Harley’s or large Hondas, Kawasakis, et al. Their engines are a lot larger than that of a Tico. Why can’t they drive on the highway?

In Japan, and in America, motorcycles can drive on highways, and god as my witness, every driver knows – slower traffic keep right, or left in Japan. Here, nobody seems to heed that INTERNATIONALLY KNOWN COURTESY. Drive slow in the fast lane in Germany and you’ll get a ticket, or yelled at by passing German drivers, “Schizen, dumkopf!” Drive slow in the left lane in LA and you may get shot. And for the love of God, why don’t Korean drivers ever let ambulances pass.

Again, it’s not a selfish thing. It’s a universal consciousness saying, I don’t want to let him pass, because, no one else is letting him pass. Koreans are not necessarily rude. It’s just, they act like everybody else acts without giving it a second thought. Or even a first thought.

The first time I came to Korea, I lived in Taegu and my co-worker was an American guy who’d lived here for a year and a half. I remember thinking, “Wow, you’ve been here a long time!” Anywho, we were in downtown Taegu waiting to cross the street. I’d been in Korea a matter of days. It was a busy intersection. It was my first Saturday in Korea and there were maybe 20 Koreans standing on either side of us, also waiting to cross the street. The light was red and traffic was heavy. My friend said to me, “Watch this.” He feigned taking a step forward like he was going to start walking. He lurched his leg forward like he was going to keep walking, and as he quickly drew back, everybody just started to cross. It was mayhem. Tires shrieked, people screamed, then jumped back onto the sidewalk. My friend snickered and said, “In Korea, people don’t wait for the light to change. They just wait for the first person to start walking and then everybody follows.” That will always stick in my mind. It’s been my metaphor for how Koreans think.

In conclusion – I’m reminded of a slogan contest given back in 2002 when the Ministry of Tourism was trying to come up with a slogan for Korea. “Come Back to Jamaica”, “Amazing Thailand” – something of that ilk. I actually had the 2^nd runner up – “Taste Korea.” Mine was picked 3^rd out of the lot and I never picked up my prize. In any event, the winner was “Dynamic Korea – The hub of Asia.” The hub of Asia? Gimme a break. Tokyo is the hub of Asia, just like Bangkok is the hub of SE Asia. That’s why Narita airport is the most common connecting point for most North American or European flights going to Korea, China, or Taiwan. And why the Nikko Hotel is always full, but no one ever pays to stay there – it’s filled with tourists flying out the next morning on connecting flights.

what is EPIK thinking?

Tue, 14 Apr 2009 00:51:23 GMT

I don't mean that in a sarcastic way. I'm serious. What are they thinking?

On December 28, 2008, this story was released by the Korean Herald:Non-Natives Can Become English Teachers. In short, this story describes how as of this year, 2009, Southeast Asians from the countries of the Philippines, Malaysia and India, who are university educated and have teaching certificates, will be eligible to work for EPIK. That is, they can NOW start working as English teachers in Korean Public Schools.

There are varying opinions on this matter. ``Korean English education has put too lopsided focus on American English so far and there have been many unqualified teachers at schools. We don't oppose English teachers from India or the Philippines as long as they are proven teachers,'' said Yoon Sook-ja, chairwoman of the National Association of Parents for True Education. But the overall consensus is that, although there are nearly 20,000 NE speakers working in Korean public schools, more are needed. Especially in rural areas.

Be that as it may. Cheju hasn't seen an invasion of Southeast Asians replacing us. And probably the latest news article is the reason why.

Korean Herald March 30, 2009 5000 Korean English Teachers to Be Recruited This Year, Here, to quote the first paragraph, "The government is to recruit about 10,000 Korean instructors for conversational English classes at public schools over the next two years amid difficulties in the hiring of native English teachers."

The plan is, to hire 10,000 native Koreans over the next two years to work in Korean public schools. But wait, I thought they were hiring Southeast Asians.

I think the key part is the AMID DIIFFICULTIES IN THE HIRING OF NATIVE ENGLISH SPEAKERS

I know a few teachers who left in December/January after completing their 6 months minimum tenure. I know OF a lot more that have left. When a person's salary drops 30-40%, decisions are made. Apparently the decision to hire Southeast Asians was made, only to be tacitly replaced by the decision to hire native Koreans.

But wait, the 2009 contract for NE speakers has been augmented as well. Instead of airfare (which had always been paid back according to how much was spent), NE speakers will now be given 1.3 million won as a 'loan' upon arrival, which doesn't have to be paid back, if they work 6 months, and an additional 1.3 million won upon leaving -- so that's basically 2.6 million in airfare regardless of how far you fly. In addition, a 2 million won resigning bonus is now included for teachers who renew. Also, the vacation time has been extended from 14 days per year to 21 days per year.

So what is EPIK thinking? Do they want NE speakers to stay? Do they also want to hire Southeast Asians? Do they want to hire Koreans as well? I know what I'm thinking. I'm out of here in 4 weeks. Woo hoo!

japan, the media, and north korea pt. 1

Thu, 09 Apr 2009 06:02:47 GMT

The first Japan-based Korean newspaper, The Choson Sinbo published an article last week about a newly opened authentic Italian restaurant in Pyongyang -- the Capitol city with the ignominious distiction of suffering serious food shortages, widespread famine and starvation; while, at the same time, testing long range missles. This one fired April 5th.

The restaurant opened December 2008 following a direct order by, the Dear Leader, and was reported to have been attracting a lot of attention. According to the newspaper article, the North Korean government is importing ingredients such as flour, butter, and cheese directly from Italy to aid this restaurant in perfecting its dishes.

Moreover, the restaurant manager admitted that after the North Korean chefs had failed to 'imitate the taste of Italy,' Kim Jongil, who is known as a great fan of Italian cuisine, decided to send these chefs to Naples and Rome to master the art of Italian cooking before opening the restaurant.

As you can easily imagine, the staff at the restaurant has been working eagerly to meet Dear Leader's expectations as well as to satisfy customers. One North Korean lady who visited the restaurant said excitedly that she knew pasta and spaghetti were popular worldwide from having seen them on TV, but that it was her first time trying them.

This story, originally from the Choson Sinbo, was reprinted in last week's issue of TOKYO NOTICE BOARD a free weekly English language publication that deals mainly with ads -- everything from jobs, to apts, to cars, to personals, to events. But like any REAL publication of worth, it contains many interesting things to read as well -- like this story I pilfered. It's got movie reviews, notices with writeups about events going on that week in Tokyo. Know what 'haru' means in Japanese? I didn't, now I do. It means spring. I read all about the Sakura (cherry blossom) festival, eating from baskets of o-bento (packed food) and enjoying the beauty of 'hanami' (flower viewing) in this short one page story. My point -- somebody got paid to write this story.

A lot of the literary entries in Japanese English language magazines (and there are MANY, most of which are FREE) are not unlike the blog entrees that many of us post several times a week. Only in Japan, people get paid to write stupid / interesting stuff that makes people laugh / think. And people get paid to be published in glossy print weekly / bi-weekly / monthly / and bi-monthly magazines.

Tokyo Notice Board, a weekly publication, is filled with ads mostly -- some free, most costing varying amounts of money depending on the size and color or black and whiteness of the ad. Like all the free English language magazines in Tokyo which operate under the same principle, this revenue pays for, not only the magazine's production, but it pays freelance writers and journalists, as well as full-time editors, copy editors, ad salespeople, and other staff to put out a new issue every week. TNB has been doing a great service to local businesses in Tokyo, as well as the entire English speaking population of Tokyo since 1998, not to mention the many people it employs -- Japanese as well as foreigners.

And in the light of 'simple business sense', spreading culture and local "non-neon" advertising, not to mention just having something interesting to read while riding the subway -- a magazine like this is WIN WIN for everyone in Tokyo. That's why magazines like this exist in major metropolitan cities all over the modern world. Except Korea. And this publication, Tokyo Notice Board, is just one of many in Tokyo and Osaka and Fukuoka.

There is Tokyo journal, which as been around since 1981, and there are so many more, which I'll get to next time.

Stay tuned for part two of this blog -- Why Japan is an advanced civilized country, and why Korea is not.

49,000 and rising

Tue, 07 Apr 2009 04:55:35 GMT

So today, as I arrived at home from work, my odometer read 48.998. Because of this, I HAD TO drive an extra kilometer up the hill beside my house so I could watch the shift to 49,000. I knew that if I DIDN"T force the bike to make the switch right then and there I was going to forget all about it and not notice till it read 49,018 or something. I would’ve been really disappointed. As it stands, it was really cool seeing the change. Gotta love life's little pleasures.

When I first bought the bike about 2 years ago, the odometer read about 21,000, so I’ve put close to 30,000 km on it. My commute to work is nearly 40 km each way (I get 6 thousand won per diem, transportation allowance). In addition, I like to cruise a lot around the island enjoying the beauty that is Cheju Island.

Next month, I’m leaving and I wonder if I'll make it to 50,000 before I sell my bike. 50,000 km is a lot of mileage (sic) for a 125, but my bike runs great cuz I take really good care of it. Still, it’s going to be a tough sell. Who wants to buy a bike with 50,000 km on it? My neighbor hippy Jay is leaving in June and he’s got a Honda Steed 650. He’s gonna ask about 1.8 mil for it, he tells me. He’ll have NO problem selling his. It's one of the nicer bikes on the island. Me, I’m not expecting a lot of people to want to pay 500,000 for an 1997 Hyosung Cruise with nearly 50.000 km on it. But that’s what I want. We’ll see what I get.

2 years in Cheju Island is slowly coming to an end. I hope I can make it to 50. Thousand that is. I'm talking about kilometers.

yesterday was gil grissom day

Mon, 06 Apr 2009 04:18:26 GMT

Yesterday, Sunday, April 05, 2009, on OCN was Gil Grissom day. For those unaware, he is 반장님, or head Crime Scene Investigator on the show CSI.

I never really watched this show until recently. In years past, I’ve watched the Miami version many times cuz I like the Horatio character, even though he’s cheesy as hell.

-- You gotta be cool. You gotta be like David Caruso in Jade. (from 40 year old virgin)

Jim Carrey did a funny Caruso immitation on Letterman.

In any event, for CSI fans worldwide, Grissom is leaving or has already left and yesterday was really weird.

I woke up at 9:30 and immediately turned on the tv. I’ve been watching way too much tv lately. CSI was on and it was this episode with the miniature killer, which went on for 5 episodes, meaning, it wasn’t till the end of the 5^th episode that they actually caught the killer. And apparently, these 5 episodes weren't originally aired back to back, but throughout the season. In any event, CSI showed all 5 episodes back to back -- it was actually 7 episodes cuz the first and last were 2 parters). I'd had plans to go watch Cheju United (our soccer team) play against Kyungnam (the Pusan surrounding area team) but I bailed on my friends cuz I was so transfixed. At the end of those 7 episodes, they played the 2 parter Quentin Tarantino episodes, which he wrote and directed, and by evening I was still watching CSI and they showed the GOODBYE GRISSOM, hello, MORPHEUS 2 part episode. Morpheus is of course Lawrence Fishburne and I guess he is the new CSI chief or 반장님.

Which makes me wonder. I mean, CSI is a worldwide phenomenon, but why is it SO popular here in Korea. They have their own KPSI, which is a very inferior copy, but today on OCN was Gil Grissom day. And during every commercial break today, and there were many, they had fans, the same 6 people talking about how much they will miss Grissom. They had one girl, all teary eyed screaming, 가지마ㅏㅏㅏㅏㅏㅏㅏㅏㅏㅏ. They had Grissom being interviewed about leaving and since I don’t live in the states anymore, I wonder, IS THIS HOW IT WAS IN AMERICA WHEN GRISSOM LEFT?

Do people really miss Grissom that much or at all? Or maybe Koreans don't really care about CSI. Maybe it's all just marketing.

I don’t know. I think TV is evil, but utterly entertaining, like crack cocaine. I think in the last decade many film stars have resorted to TV cuz it’s matured as a medium (Fishburne was in Apocolypse Now!). But, still, I think popularity has more to do with marketing than anything else. Take the tv show, Friends for example. If you go to Laos -- and I''d heard about this phenomenon before I went there, but I didn’t’ believe it till I saw it. In Vang Vieng, a secondary city there, second to Vientienne, the capitol and second to Luang Prabang, the old temple city, you can see Friends at every place you go. Vang vieng is kind of the adventure sports epicenter in Laos, replete with lots of drugs and lots of things to do for people wanting an adrenaline rush. There, you will find many open air covered restaurants/bars and they ALL are showing Friends every day. I wouldn’t have believed it but I saw it with my own eyes. And the guy who was bringing us beer was all smacked out on some kind of opiate and talking at length about Ross and Rachel like he was the authority on them and I thought, this is fucking weird.

About as weird as the fact that I work at two high schools and they both have a multimedia center and while their DVD collections are not that massive, they are very limited actually. They both have the entire 9 seasons of Friends on DVD. They have NO other American tv shows. I’ve recently been bringing them home to watch. They are still factory wrapped. So no one has ever watched them, but they are here. I wonder how many other high schools in Korea have them, or how many other video libraries all the world.

Point is, somewhere along the lines, someone with some budget control, that is spending power at both schools, perhaps the entire school district, decided to buy the entire Friends Show.

Why do both my high schools have all 9 seasons of Friends, when they don’t have much else.

Is it just marketing? Why don’t we have CSI episodes? It seems like that’s the one. Yesterday WAS Gil Grissom day! And OCN's been marketing the hell out of the crossover. They have this one commercial with this scene from the Matrix where Morpheus is talking to Neo, and it's dubbed into Korean and Neo's saying to him, "I hear you're taking over as head of CSI." Pretty wierd.

In conclusion, I want to say that DVDs and the internet have changed the way tv is watched. I don't think watching one episode on such and such day at such and such time and then waiting a week and doing it again -- I don't find that very entertaining. With TEVO, most people in America don't do that anymore either.

What I find entertaining is watching an entire season of a particular show, episodes one after the other, back to back to back over the course of a few days.

Now that's entertainment.

Like main-lining, as opposed to snorting.

dying to leave korea

Fri, 03 Apr 2009 04:39:40 GMT

Dying to leave Korea

Excuse the pun, but it seemed like an apt title. I’ve written about living in Korea: things that I like, things that I don’t like. I’ve written about getting married in Korea, and getting divorced in Korea. And now – it’s time to write about dying…in Korea. This blog is about non-Koreans who have lost their lives here in the ROK.

First of all, between 1950 and 1953, it is generally accepted that 54,246 Americans lost their lives in Korea. In addition to these US infantry men who lost their lives here, soldiers from 16 other nations, not counting the US and Korea gave their lives fighting and died here in Korea during those years.

If you visit the UN Cemetery in Pusan – and if you haven’t, you should – there are numerous tombs commemorating the deaths of thousands of brave men.

The Cemetery contains the bodies of 2,300 men from Australia (281), Canada (378), France (44), the Netherlands (117), New Zealand (34), Norway (1), South Korea (36), South Africa (11), Turkey (462), the United Kingdom (885), and the United States of America (36), as well as unknown allied soldiers (4) and non-belligerents (11). During 1951 to 1954, remains of about 11,000 men of the UN Forces were gathered here, and remains of soldiers from Belgium, Colombia, Ethiopia, Greece, India, the Philippines, and Thailand (as well as the majority of those from the U.S.A., France, and Norway) were repatriated to their home countries. Plaques bearing particulars of the deceased covers each grave.

Many foreign visitors to Pusan every year come for the sole purpose of visiting lost family members. It’s a very emotional place. You see a lot of recent, hand written cards on tombstones and it’s enough to jar your emotions.

Cut to the present. Foreigners are still dying here. 4 years ago, almost to the day, in early April 2005, my good friend Jean François Doutre died in a motorcycle accident, and the memory of his death gave me the impetus to write this, as did the recent passing of Nathan Furey, a long time resident of Cheju Island. Both men were 36 years of age.

I’d like to talk about my friend JF Doutre and the last time I ever saw him. He was a good friend of mine. He was my best friend in Pusan at the time of his death. JF was from Montreal, a French Canadian, and since his name was Jean François and that’s kind of long name, people had started calling him JF long before he even thought to come to Korea. Finally, he just started telling people – “Call me Jeff.”

Jeff was a big guy, a six-foot plus guy, with huge hands and a powerful build, but he wasn’t aggressive or overly physical like a guy his size might be. He was actually very calm and laid back.

We both began working at Kyungnam College, fall semester 2004.

Jean François was part of a caravan of about 10 bikers on route from Pusan to Kyungju when a scooter cut him off and he fell, slid, hit his head, and died soon after on route to the hospital. I wasn’t there. He had invited me to go. I knew a lot of the bikers in the caravan. Most were teachers from Kyungnam College or Dongseo University, and there were a few others.

Jeff was a great guitar player, but not ‘great’ like you would normally think, meaning he didn’t play like the average guitar player. He didn’t know any chords, he couldn’t play any ‘songs,’ he was self taught and had a style like someone who just picked up a guitar and learned how to play it on his own terms. He was amazing. Plus he had this deep voice that was piercing, almost haunting, and he had a whole bunch of songs that he’d written. One was a Pablo Neruda poem that he’d written music for. He would get sounds out of a guitar that you couldn’t believe and he’d show me how he exactly how he did it, cuz nothing he did was random. He didn’t strum or pick in any conventional way, but everything he did was totally conscious and purposeful.

I remember we were going to perform together at this kind of Open House English Dept. Talent show a month or so after the fall semester began. We met a few times to practice and worked out this Korean song – a real ajoshi slow song, but we were gonna start it, do one verse slow, and then rock it out and do a really fast punk rock version. The song was called 사랑을위하요. However, at that time, I had an evening private that played me 100,000 won for teaching 3 hours in the evening and I tried to change my day but they wouldn’t let me, so I had to choose – play or earn money. I chose the money. And I regret it. A hundred bucks doesn’t last very long. A good memory lasts a lifetime.

I remember 3 months after working at KIT, Jeff’s phone number was the only phone number I had saved in my phone of any of my co-workers. And we had a big group of teachers. I never called anybody from work, and nobody ever called me. I never met anybody else I worked with socially, unless it was except if it was a group thing.

He started calling me. “Hi, this is Jeff.” (You’re gonna have to do better than that. I know a lot of people named Jeff). “We work together.” “Ohhh! Jeff. What’s up?” He used to call me all the time, like he really wanted to be my friend. So we hung out sometimes. I liked him, but I just couldn’t understand WHY he would want to hang out with me.

I’m one of those, “I wouldn’t want to be part of club that would have someone like me as a member,” kind of people.

When our winter vacation began, we talked about going to go to Thailand. He actually made reservations for the two of to go together, and I pickled out on him, that is, I said, “Oh, I can’t leave the day you are going. I’ll just meet you there.” So he went and days later, I met him there. I remember feeling really bad that we couldn’t have gone together and spent 8 days there. We spent only 4 days together cuz I arrived so late and then he returned before I did.

So when the Spring semester began I thought. You know this guy is all right. Why am I always blowing him off? I shouldn’t be so stand offish with him.

We started playing music together at his apt, which was down the street from Kyungnam – he on acoustic guitar and me on bass. Then we made plans to jam at the Rock n Roll practice studio near PNU (which was a really shitty practice studio) with our mutual friend Pierre, another Montreal native and this drunk drummer guy whom I’d never met.

We met and it was magic. Again, JF made it really clear from the outset that he couldn’t play any ‘songs’ so don’t even ask him to try and Pierre had this hollow body electric and played a really jazzy style with lots of 9^th chords and cool jazz progressions. Drunk guy was a fair drummer, but he was a big drunk. And for me to say that means a lot, cuz I’m a drunk, but this guy...he’s the kind of guy that would get the shakes if he didn’t have a drink. In my life, I’ve never had the shakes, and I never drink till the sun goes down.

So JF says, “This is a song I wrote.” And he played it for us. He was playing an acoustic guitar plugged in and I started backing him on bass and Pierre came in with really cool accompaniment and drunk drummer wasn’t bad and after 4 or 5 hours, it was like – we have something here. Jeff had a lot of cool songs. We sucked, but I’m sure if we practiced over the next few months we’d improve and could put a set together of original music, unlike any music that is played in Pusan. It’s jazzy, it’s deep, it’s original and Jeff was a great front man what with his size and his guitar playing prowess and his powerful voice.

So we left and we rode the subway talking about our new band that would surely be a welcome edition to the Pusan music scene. I told Pierre and Jeff that I knew a really good drummer – Justin – and that he and I had been trying to put a band together with another dude, but it just wasn’t coming together, but this…this is totally possible and we were all psyched. At that point Jeff invited me to join them on their caravan the next morning. I declined, said I was going to get drunk tonight and then sleep in, but that I’d call my drummer friend and “NOW…now months after you started calling me and wanting to play music together, now we would start playing together. We would meet possibly mid week or on the following weekend and that I knew a much better practice space with much better equipment.” That was the last time I ever saw Jeff.

So that night, after talking to my friend Justin, I went out to Kwangali, probably Hollywood Star followed by the Fuzzy Navel. I was living at the Samick Beach Apts, so it was just a 2 minute ride from my apt. I ended up getting really drunk and I was riding my bike (which was really stupid), but I remember at some point I fell. Not only did I fall – I could hardly call it crashing cuz I didn’t hit anything – but one minute I upright was on the bike, and the next I was in the same position, but laying on my side. The engine was still running and my leg was pinned under between the weight of the bike and the pavement. More specifically, my ankle, my shoe was covered by the weight of the bike, not so that my ankle was being crushed, but so it was more trapped. I tried to pick up the bike but from my vantage point of laying on the pavement, I could get no leverage. The motor kept going and I tried to squeeze out but I couldn’t. I was stuck, pinned beneath the weight of the bike and drunk. I started yelling and writhing and trying to free myself, but to no avail. Finally, with my free leg I bent it at the knee and was able to put my foot against the seat and I pushed till my leg came free leaving my shoe still trapped under the weight of the bike.

Then, wearing only one shoe, I picked up the bike and started cursing loudly as I turned off the ignition and pushed the bike to the sidewalk. It was a residential street. No one was around.

I remember saying to myself – fuck the bike. I flagged a taxi and rode home.

I was awoken by my friend Trey at 10:30 the next morning, who said, “Hey, you’re friends with Jeff. Do you know his girlfriend’s phone number?” I said no, cuz I didn’t. He then told me that Jeff had been in a wreck and was on his way to the hospital.

Later I would get the final news. Jeff was no more.

As it was, I bussed it and subway’d it for about a week, thinking, I shouldn’t ride any more cuz of the potential for DEATH, But after a week I realized, I need a bike. I searched for my bike on many evenings and early mornings before class, walking around residential neighborhoods in my area, but it was gone. Gone like my friend Jean François. I bought a new bike, a better bike. Bikes are replaceable, friends are not. I would never see Jeff again. Nor did I ever see my original bike.

What sticks in my head most about that day was that I’d been trying to get back into studying Korean at that time and I’d met a gal who was a pretty fluent English speaker, but a lousy writer and we agreed to do an exchange where she taught me Korean and I helped her writing.

We had plans to meet that day so I called her and told her I couldn’t meet her. She wasn’t’ happy. I didn’t want to tell her why I wasn’t meeting her, but she got angry, so finally I just said to her, “Look, one of my best friends in Pusan died this morning in a motorcycle accident. I feel really bad. I don’t feel like studying today. Can you understand that?” You think that would have been a good excuse, it wasn’t, meaning she continued with her indignant banter about commitment, “So does that mean that you don’t have to meet me? You said we would meet today. And now you want to cancel.” I just shot back, “Didn’t you hear me? My friend died today, I’m never gonna see him again. I feel like shit. I don’t feel like studying today.” And she was like, “What, so that gives you the right to just cancel on me?” I was stupefied. Either 1, she thought I was lying and just made up the whole thing just to get out of meeting her, or 2, she believed me and thought, well that’s no reason not to meet. There was no, ‘I’m sorry to hear that’ or ANY kind of words of condolence. There was just bitchdom – you’re not meeting me and we had plans. I thought, what a callous bitch you are and hung up. I never spoke with her again.

Which brings me to my point. You know, for Korean people, a relative’s death is a big deal. Grandfathers passing away are sad events, commemorated at the day of death and also the following year on the same day by huge family gatherings. Kids get the day off from school and workers have the day off shortly before Chusok so they can mow the lawn around the grave site and make it look nice. Suicides here are pretty common among high school students and entertainers. They get newspaper coverage and are blogged about endlessly. But a foreigner dying? Koreans don’t give a shit.

Koreans who aren’t Christian or Buddhist, but are just Korean – Confucian, that is, are basically ancestor worshippers. So why doesn’t this respect for death extend to foreigners? It doesn’t.

Case in point – KIT, Kyungnam College’s abbreviated name, is a Christian college. They have an on campus chapel and students have a class called “chapel” where they have to go 2 times a week. So, if KIT wanted to do some kind of memorial service for Jeff, you think they would’ve chosen the chapel for the appropriate location. It would make sense since a chapel is basically a small church, or house of god.

Well, they organized a memorial, and like everything in Korea, it was done in a hurry and with little notice, and was a little ‘show’ if nothing else. I didn’t have internet at home and on that Wednesday (my first class was at one) I showed up just before 12:00 and no one was in the office. There were two offices, and I sat in one using the computer and checked my email and there I read, “There will be a memorial for Jeff at 12:30 in the 2^nd office.” I looked at the clock on the wall and it was 12:35. I was wearing this ginger suit – bright ginger jacket, ginger pants and, black shirt and a ginger tie. I looked like a freak, a stylish freak, like I was going to Mardi Gras. I would NOT have worn that had I known there would be a memorial for Jeff. In any event, I opened the door to the other office and there was the entire foreign staff looking all somber with 1, that is, just one Korean faculty member, and there I was dressed like I was going to a costume party. There was Mr. Park, the hardcore Christian Korean English teacher, the only Korean staff member in attendance, and he was all teary eyed and emotional with his big melon head, and I thought, this is all the college could do for him? Some stupid 20 minute memorial in the office?

It reminded me of some 4 year old crying because their dog died and the parents putting on some kind of memorial for the dog just to entertain their grieving son or daughter. It was pathetic.

Also, the man on the scooter who cut Jeff off – apparently, he was very vocal about his claim: “So who’s going to pay for the repairs on my scooter?” Because the other members of the caravan were pretty sizable dudes, he shut his clam before he got hurt. But still, in his mind, he needed to be compensated, even if he basically killed our friend.

In his defense, I don’t know whose fault the collision was, but still, you think he would have had more sensitivity to the fact that he was fine and the other guy was unconscious and being driven away by an ambulance.

And you think KIT, a Christian college, would do more to commemorate the dying of a faculty member than some jive ass dealy in our office when they have a chapel at their disposal. And you think other Korean faculty members would take time out of their busy day, lunch hour no less, to pay their respects.

So cut to 2009. I live in Cheju and Nathan Furey just died here, of natural causes. The cause of death was Viral Meningitis. The foreign community here organized an ongoing auction on Facebook, where people can post stuff they want to sell and all the proceeds will go to his family. He left behind a young wife and 2 small boys. People have donated guitars, playstations – all kinds of stuff. I’m sure many of the people who are donating stuff don’t even know him or the family, but it’s really nice to know that when a foreigner dies in Korea, or gets hospital sick, that other foreigners, even those who have never met the person, feel the need to do whatever they can to help.

Like when Jeremy in Pusan in 2006 had an aneurism and people put out phone APB’s about blood donations and within an hour, a dozen foreigners were either at the hospital or made it clear that they would donate blood if needed. It’s a really nice thing to see people come together to help our fellow man, cuz Koreans sure as hell don’t want to help anybody but other Koreans, and even then, only those that they are related to.

Nathan Furey died on March 13^th in a hospital room in Jeju City. His mother and father had flown in and they knew he was going to die. His final days he spent in a coma and they and his family and close friends were at the hospital as long as visiting hours would allow. They were not religious people, his parents, but when their son lay on his deathbed and they knew he was not going to get better, they thought to themselves, we should have some kind of clergyman come and bless him or give him last rites or something, because it that’s what people do.

So they were told about this English speaking Pastor from a popular Presbyterian Church, one that many foreigners attend regularly, and thought they should invite him to come and say a few words of finality. I heard this story 2^nd hand and it has to be re-told.

This pastor just barged into the hospital room, the parents are sitting there, grieving and he said nothing to them. Nothing at all. He just walked right up to the dying young man in a coma, and while everyone in the room was wondering who this guy was and why didn’t he introduce himself or something, he stood over the body, put his hands on the head and began, “In the name of God I command you to rise.” He yelled, “In the name of God I command you to wake up. Be healed.”

I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. He did the whole, “Heal ya!” repertoire on the comatose body while the parents and his close friends watched.

At first everyone was just oh my god, what is this fool doing, he’s supposed to be giving last rites and he’s just making an ass of himself. He’s there, commanding this dying man in a coma to wake up and suddenly, the parents just started laughing. Now mind you, they’ve flown here from the other side of the world to basically watch their son die. They haven’t smiled in days, perhaps weeks. They are feeling such intense pain and suffering and they just started laughing. The pastor is wondering why they are laughing.

In the end, the parents thanked him. Why? Because they had suffered so much, and at that moment, it was such a breath of fresh air to have some comic relief in this time of suffering, that they welcomed it. They thanked him afterward. The funny thing is that he did help them. And he will probably never in his life understand how he helped them.

The point is – Koreans don’t give a shit about foreigners, alive or dead. If he were really a “pastor” and cared about his “flock” he would’ve known that the people who need consoling or help is not this guy dying, it’s his poor mother and father that are going to have to bury their 30+ year old son. His first duty should have been to look them in the eye and say, “I’m sorry. Just know that your son is going to a better place.” Sure, it doesn’t mean anything but when a parent is watching his/her son die, they need some consoling.

I really miss Jean François. I do. I really miss him a lot. This is for you Jeff, and for Aldo Omar Martinez Sanchez, my downstairs neighbor, who took his own life in December of 2007. And old drunk John, who died of cirrhosis of the liver in autumn 2007, whom I’d never met but whose ITTT certification course I took over and completed. And Nathan Furey, who recently passed away. And Rick who was killed in a motorcycle accent in 2004 in Cheongju. He was my replacement there at KNUE. He too was only 36 years old.

I’m sure there are others.

This is for all of you. You will all be missed.

I’m going to end this with a quote from TREY from the email he sent 2 days after JF died.

                 Jean Francious Doutre
                    Rest In Peace
                          2005

Life is precious, remember to love the one you're with and love the ones you left. No matter what happens in life.........LIVE IT!!! You can't change it, you won't change it... BUT you can be the difference in others by being you. I thank you all for just being you. Don't change, just be you.

With thankful regards for being human,
Trey

this just in

Wed, 01 Apr 2009 04:10:55 GMT

We Welcome Our New Monkey Overlords

Researchers recently revealed that they had observed monkeys (1) planning future combat and (2) perhaps teaching their young to floss. A researcher from Sweden's Lund University, writing in the journal Current Biology, described a daily ritual of a 30-year-old chimpanzee that loathes his human visitors at a zoo north of Stockholm and thus begins every morning by roaming his enclosure to collect stones and place them strategically in handy piles for subsequently hurling at irksome visitors. [Washington Post, 3-10-09]

And a researcher at Kyoto University's Primate Research Center told Agence France-Presse in March that he had observed mother long-tailed macaques in Thailand flossing their teeth (with strands of human hair) more frequently if their young are present and hypothesized that they were teaching dental hygiene. [Agence France-Presse, 3-11-09]

This is only the beginning. There's no negotiating with an angry chimp.