my bolog

Mind Invasion

2008-05-26T01:35:00.000-07:00

John Huer wrote an opinion piece in the Korea times which said that Koreans should not be protesting the importation of American beef, they should be protesting the "virus" of American culture.

While they are out there with their candles lit over American beef, all of Korea is being overcome by a mind invasion from a wholly alien culture against which Korea has no known antidote. For no other society, except the U.S. itself, can afford to be so "American" and remain culturally sane.

Yeah I don't really understand this whole "invasion" thing. I mean I think Korea has its culture pretty solidly in place. It's kinda like saying that the British should be worried about the invasion of American culture...or the Japanese. I just give two shits about the whole "culture" thing. Kimchi is always going to be called Kimchi, and a Hanbok is always going to be a Hanbok. Despite the hundreds of failed "hub" attempts in Korea, it is certainly a "hub for museums on anything and everything remotely Korean". Thing is, some Koreans have a funny way of expressing themselves, and they end up looking a tad stupid. It goes a little like this:

give me STARBUCKS! give me BURGER KING! give me NIKE! give me STARCRAFT! give me HARVARD! give me VISA WAIVERS! give me..ZOMFG! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! is that US beef you are trying to give me? Why you gotta be taking over Korea’s culture of mad expensive cattle farming yo? That shit just ain’t right.

"Don't pretend to be innocent."

2008-05-25T19:44:00.000-07:00

Wow, this NYT article on how the Chinese are trying to improve their English skills before the Olympics is uber hilarious.

Here are some classic quotes:

when I asked my students about their aspirations, the first boy yelled, "When I grow up, I want to be a foreigner!"

On the blackboard, I wrote down the English for fry-cook, road builder and - for a girl who called herself Cher - fashion designer. She pointed at a classmate and said in English and Chinese, "His father is a prisoner!"

The police, 60 percent of whom are supposed to be competent in English in time for the Olympics, study from a book called "Olympic Security English." Dialogues called "Dissuading Foreigners From Excessive Drinking" and "How to Stop Illegal News Coverage" introduce useful phrases like "Don't pretend to be innocent.”

Now those are some classic quotes!

When twitter is down...

2008-05-23T21:33:00.000-07:00

http://whentwitterisdown.com/ is a good site to click through while you are waiting for twitter to come back online.

Wrong again Chosun Ilbo!

2008-05-20T00:13:00.000-07:00

In today's online Chosun Ilbo, an article entitled "Strong Exports Fuel Continued Climb of Aussie, Canadian Dollars" states:

"In the early 2000s, one U.S. dollar was worth 1.40 Canadian. The greenback had trumped the Canadian dollar for more than a century, since the American Civil War in 1864."

This is simply not true, and where the Chosun Ilbo got this "fun fact" is telling of the kind of 'hard work' their journalists do. I mean seriously kids, learn to use the wikipedia and google news to at least steal correct information!

"The Canadian dollar's latest rise reignited chatter of the currency reaching parity with the greenback, a level it has not been at since November 1976." - Seattle Times.

I could post far more quotes like this...but then i'd have done more work than englishnews @ chosun.com.

I'd upload the image comparing CAD/USD if blogger was functional, but its not, so go here.

The end of porn in Korea

2008-05-15T00:28:00.000-07:00

This is an extension to a comment (below) that I made in a thread on the Marmot's Hole. regarding Korea's "NEW?" war against pornography. Anyone capable of searching Google News for "Korea Pornography" will find that the war is hardly new.

May 14, 2008
'War Against Pornography' Starts

March 26, 2007
'South Korea blocks foreign porn sites'

2006
Korea seems to have been porn problem free

April 15, 2005
'S. Korea cracks down on online porn'

June 07, 2004
'Cleaning Up Korean Cyberspace'

2003
Korea seems to have been porn problem free

April 04, 2002
'Portal Webmasters Indicted for Failing to Stop Pornography'

August 14, 2001
'Cracking down on cybercafes'

November 22, 2000
'South Korea: Prosecutors to crack down on cyber terrorists...'

April 20 1999
South Korea: Prosecution to stage crack down on pornography

I'm sure this goes back even further. What does this prove? It's impossible to get rid of porn, pron, pr0n, etc...

Online porn came later in life for me than it does for kids these days. I relied on mags and VHS. And when BBS’s and the net came to be…boy was that amazing. But during all of that, I was also provided sex education by elementary and high school teachers,my parents, and my older brother. Of course it was awkward at the time, but at least I knew what was what.

With so many hotties prancing around on tv in saucy outfits, it’s no wonder kids are watching pron to see what goes on under those skimpy skirts and knee socks…because if they weren’t that would be even more fucked up.

The fact is, both parents and teachers need to step up to the plate, teach kids about sex and sexual etiquette when their kids are young.

If a kid can go to the bathroom in a subway station and buy a condom for 500won, he/she should be told how to use it by a parent and a teacher.

If a kid can go to a pc room and find porn littering the cache and downloads folder, he doesn’t need to use his pc at home to download that onto his phone, usb, psp, pdp, etc.

Kids aren’t stupid, but if their only guidance is that crazy fucked up video they saw of a guy parting the lips of a pussy with surgical implements while fifty guys ejaculate on the chicks face . . . his/her knowledge regarding sex and sexual etiquette is going to be rather skewed, don’t you think?

Textbook Politics

2008-05-14T18:22:00.000-07:00

I don't remember much about my Canadian history textbooks. I do remember that they, like most of my textbooks, were worn and that many students before me had used them. If a new textbook did come out, it was simply a new edition of the same book with grammatical errors fixed. Often, parts of the class used a second edition, while other classmates used a first or third. The content and page number rarely differed by much.

History is, as it is said, written by the victor, so I take for granted whether or not the Canadian history I was taught leaned left or right. I like to think it simply moved through the center and provided a broad understanding of a subject that any interested student could then delve into independently or focus on at university. I also like to think that I was afforded teachers who, if they did not agree with a statement or positions expressed within the textbook, provided alternative interpretations and ideas. That, to me, displayed their passion for the subject they were teaching. By the middle of high school, I knew if a teacher was conservative, liberal, or didn't give a fuck and was simply waiting for his/her pension.

Nevertheless, I am sure there are groups in Canada who don't want evolution taught in schools, want various novels banned because a few pages mentioned feltching or some other 'vulgarity'...but I just didn't notice. Despite my Roman Catholic elementary and high school education, I was taught evolution. I was also taught 'religion', but that was simply a subject included alongside science, math, history, politics, English, etc. I think the only time I felt religions evil hand was when my school refused to install 'ministry of health mandated' condom machines in the bathrooms.

It's not that I didn't give a shit, I just didn't rely on the education system to provide me with 100% of my information. I also don't think that my education was politicized to the point where books were being edited, re-edited, changed, burned, corrected, or replaced due to who was sitting in government at the time. I read books on my own, read a newspaper everyday, and discussed various topics with teachers whom I respected and friends who had the same interests. Most of my classes involved writing essays which required me to actually enter a library and research topics on my own, and so over the course of my high school life, I gained more knowledge outside of the classroom than I did inside it.

Now that I am older, I understand that I was afforded an education quite a bit better than the education provided in other countries. I don't think I am smarter than everyone else because of it, as I didn't really take school/marks very seriously. I just think my high school education, in hindsight, was provided to me effectively. Those who excel in different systems would, in my opinion, excel even more in the system I participated. Why? Because students were encouraged to ask questions.

Asking questions is so critical to education because it keeps the teacher on his/her toes, and may indeed help the teacher to improve his/her teaching methods. Asking questions and questioning the status quo is what makes any system good (Democracy is an example), and while I was in high school, asking questions was important, as it made up what was called 'the participation score'. That is what I excelled at. I always questioned and challenged my teachers. Some of them hated me for it, but some of them enjoyed my banter. From what I can tell, questioning a teacher in Korea is pure suicide, as Korea is a rote learning system and what the teacher says (hence, the textbook) is LAW, and should not be questioned.

I still remember coming to Korea in 2002 and seeing a TV commercial for YAHOO Korea. The commercial was set in a university lecture hall. A student put his hand up and asked the professor a question. When he finished his question, the teacher scowled and grimaced and the entire class fled in panic, leaving the questioning student sitting all alone looking scared. The message? Don't embarrass yourself by asking the teacher a question; ask YAHOO! One might shrug and say "bah! It's just a commercial", but of all the skills my students lacked, it was asking questions. Very rarely did a student tell me they did not understand something in class. Very rarely did a student put up their hand to ask a question other than "can I go to the bathroom?". If, after explaining something, I went around the room and asked individual students if they understood, they would answer truthfully, but rarely did they stop me to express their opinion, ideas, or question me. I can only imagine how scared they were to do such things in the actual school system, let alone a language institute.

Perhaps this is why textbooks are such a steamy issue in countries that use the rote learning system. Textbooks have been at the center of controversy in Korea, Japan, and other rote learning systems because the textbooks are biblical, and students study them as 100% factual and are not encouraged to question what they say.

"In recent years, high school textbooks of United States history have come under increasing criticism. Authors such as Howard Zinn (A People's History of the United States), Gilbert Sewall (Textbook Publishing), and James W. Loewen (Lies My Teacher Told Me) make the claim that U.S. History textbooks contain mythical untruths and omissions, which paint a whitewashed picture that bears little resemblance to what most students learn in universities. Inaccurately retelling history, through textbooks or other literature, has been practiced in many societies, from ancient Rome to the Soviet Union. History textbooks are not subjected to review by professional academics, nor can authorship of a high school textbook be used to advance an academic toward tenure at a university. The content of history textbooks thus lies entirely outside the academic forum of fact and social science and is instead determined by the political forces of state adoption boards and ideological pressure groups." (wikipedia)

The above states that "the content of history textbooks thus lies entirely outside the academic forum of fact and social science" and that the contents are "determined by political forces" which can't be good for a country like Korea. I say this because I have noticed that with every new President comes new Ministry heads, and when they are appointed, they want to make a lot of changes and are pressured to tow the party line. Thus, with each new administration, talk of text book content becomes and issue, and text books are changed.

Donga.com illustrates this point with an article published on their English website.

"In response to criticism over the biased contents of modern history and social studies textbooks, the government has decided to overhaul their contents. To this end, the government will add governmental and non-governmental agencies and relevant experts to the Council for Better Curriculum and Textbooks created in 2005, and correct textbooks from the first semester of 2009."

How is this plan good for those learning history and social studies NOW? Why doesn't the government simply provide teachers with supplemental material that incorporates the "different" or "corrected" point of view? Isn't this cheating students who won't be learning the same material in 2009?

"The Gwanghwamun Cultural Forum held a luncheon forum entitled “The Lee Myung-bak Government’s Policy on Education and Science“ at the Sejong Center for the Performing Arts on Wednesday. At the forum, Education, Science and Technology Minister Kim Do-yeon announced his decision to correct lopsided textbook contents."

They don't even bother to hide the fact that the new policy is in direct correlation with the new administration. Thus enters the fact that "The content of history textbooks thus lies entirely outside the academic forum of fact and social science and is instead determined by the political forces of state adoption boards and ideological pressure groups."

"In response to the comment, “Some people have argued that students have biased knowledge of history since textbooks approved by the former education ministry have some problems,” Kim said, “Korea’s modern history should be a source of pride. Therefore, it is not right to look down at our modern history. I think our history textbooks and education are a bit biased to the left.” "

Exactly, the previous Minister had it wrong, but the NEW Minister is going to CORRECT his/her mistakes simply because towing the party line means moving from the "progressive left" to the "pragmatic right".

"At the same time, the ministry believes that recently used history textbooks do not reflect a diversified historical consciousness since they were written and reviewed only by historians. It plans to encourage social scientists to participate in textbook writing and reviewing to ensure content diversity."

A history textbook written by a historian? That is an abomination!!! Until the Korean government stabilizes education, makes it less of a political issue, and places more emphasis on deep understanding, critical thinking, and problem solving rather than the cramming and mere memorization of facts, I fear the textbook controversy shall be an issue society-at-large will have to deal with whenever a new President is voted into power.

Korean Competitiveness

2008-05-14T17:22:00.000-07:00

According to an article in the Korea Times, "South Korea ranked 31st in competitiveness among 55 countries, falling behind Thailand, the International Institute for Management Development (IMD) said Wednesday."

Perhaps there is good reason Korea is becoming less competitive. According to Maeil Business News, Korean and Japanese digital TV producers are currently embroiled in a war to gain larger market share by slashing prices. "The price war in the U.S. market was initiated by Japan’s Sony which had executed a drastic price cut at the end of last year, with other LCD TV makers following suit. Yet, Sony lowered its LCD TV prices additionally this month in a bid to draw more customers." That's called competition. Isn't it?

"Samsung Electronics has pulled down the price of its 40-inch full-HD LCD TVs to $1,299 at major U.S. electronics retailer Best Buy -- $500 lower than three months ago and a whopping 40 percent discount of the price tag in the domestic market."

Koreans pay more for Korean produced products because they have no other alternative. Right? Perhaps that's why "The United States topped the list [competitiveness among 55 countries] as it did last year". Perhaps its because the US market is open and companies COMPETE to win customers.

When I tell people I live in Korea, they almost always mention or seem to think that I get serious discounts on hard drives and other electronic components because I live in a country which produces them. I am rather embarrassed when I tell them they get a better price. Its shameful really.

Also, Yoon Ja-young, the author of the Korea Times article uses the email chizpizza @ korea times.co.kr. Am I to trust the written word of a journalist who uses the email CHIZPIZZA? I just don't get it. At what point did he/she think "hey, this is appropriate!"

Professionalism

2008-05-12T18:00:00.000-07:00

I was reading an article in today's The Korea Times which spoke of how Koreans are turning away from beef and consuming more pork. Blah blah blah, this issue is so tired I can't even begin to write about it. If you want coverage of the AMERICAN BEEF IS SATAN issue, check out the Marmots Hole.

Anyway, back to the article "Korea Turns From Beefy Country to Porky One", by Oh Young-jin, a Staff Reporter with the Korea Times. Apparently this professional and highly qualified journalist has the email address foolsdie @ gmail . com. Now that is hilarious!

I often wonder why so many Korean professionals have such unprofessional email addresses. It's really strange having someone who wants to do business tell you their email address is "sparkly_princess@", "afghanistan@", or "twinkle_toes@". Call me old fashioned and out of touch, but in my opinion, a professionals email should be either his/her name (youngjin.oh@), or a variation of his/her name(yjoh@). I also don't think someone should post their alternative email address. Why does Oh Young-jin not have a @Koreatimes email? It just makes the Korea Times look small time and unprofessional.

Creative Constipation

2008-05-08T20:28:00.000-07:00

I feel like my brain is turning to mush because my job does not challenge me at all. I spend a good part of my day at work reading the news, checking up on flickr, reading various blogs, commenting on various blogs, and basically not thinking very hard on much of anything. I used to write quite a bit. I used to write idealistic rants regarding politics and society, and I used to complain about how imperfect my life was. In general, life is pretty awesome these days.

Nevertheless, I very much feel that I have become creatively constipated. I know there are creative energies inside of me just waiting for a chance to spring forth, but something is blocking them. Something has made me lazier, more passive, and less inclined to give a shit. Of course there are spurts of energetic creation. I revamped chiamattt.com a couple of months ago and I still like exploring the city with my camera. But it just doesn’t feel like enough. I have ideas, I have notions, and I have impulses, but for some reason I make a lot of internal excuses not to act upon them. Sooky would say that I’m just old, and old people do less. That may be partly true, but I still feel young at heart.

In my opinion, there are three things I need to do in order to free myself from this creative constipation. The first is to clean up my diet and eat healthier food. I don’t think my current diet is crazy bad, but I do need to consume a greater amount of fresh fruits and vegetables. The second is to read more books. While I read a lot of news and webstuffs, I don’t read enough fiction and non-fiction books. The third is to get more exercise. I am out of shape and should start trying to get into better shape. I know I’ll never have a six pack, but shedding a couple of dozen pounds would do me, and my health, a lot of good. I have been walking quite a bit, but I need to walk more, and broaden the number of muscles I’m working.

Perhaps the biggest stumbling block to these three improvements is how drained and lethargic I feel everyday at 6pm when I leave the office after having done nothing work-related all day. I do check the job boards for other things, and I do get ‘positive’ things done while I sit at the desk, but when one has nothing job-related to do between 9am and 6pm for days-, weeks-, sometimes months-on-end, it’s hard to leave work fresh faced and full of energy.

I have noticed that when I’m busy at work (when it rains it pours), my day goes by quickly and when I leave I’m ready for more. I’m ready to get other things done. By the end of a nothing-week, I’m ready for my computer chair and tv downloads.

Despite my lack of creative juice, I vow to start a regiment of exercise and healthier eating. I’ve already started walking for about 30-45 minutes on my way home after work, and I have made great effort not to eat after 8pm. It’s a start, and I hope to see some results sooner than later. Maybe I should also start drinking and smoking less. Baby steps I say. Baby steps.

Simplicity

2008-05-06T20:48:00.000-07:00

"Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication."
-Leonardo da Vinci

I could not agree more, and that's why I have decided to use blogger. While their wsiwyg editor could use some added features, blogger allows me to host off of chiamattt.com without having to fiddle with mysql. That is ++ in my books.

Mr. Scruffy

2008-05-06T19:01:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning, made my coffee, checked my email, and attempted to wake a very sleepy Sooky from her slumber. After getting dressed for work, I headed out into the semi-gloomy Seoul morning and walked to the subway station. The train came right away and I was happy to see that my usual car was not as busy as it usually is, and saw seats available. As the doors opened, a loud voice could be heard coming from a scruffy looking man seated next to the doors. My already bland mood sunk even further as I sat between two businessmen sitting opposite Mr. Scruffy.

As I sat, I wondered if Mr. Scruffy would direct his loud voice at me and invite my attention. Thankfully he did not, and he continued to look toward the back of the car and ramble on and on. Mr. Scruffy was speaking loudly, sometimes screaming, sometimes waving his hands, and regrettably, only quiet for brief periods of time. He didn’t seem drunk or violent, but he did seem agitated. At no time did he swear or confront any individual person. He was just a bit crazy.

I thought about taking my camera out and snapping a photo of him, but decided against it. Instead, I tried to get a shot of him with my camera phone. I held it as if I were watching something on my phone and snapped a few pics. In my paranoid haste, I was unable to focus properly.

He finally got off nine stops later, and the seats around him quickly filled up and I continued on in peace and quiet.

Smoking in the Bathroom

2008-03-26T19:42:00.000-07:00

Apparently there was an institute-wide email (which I deleted because it was in hangul) yesterday asking employees not to smoke in the bathroom anymore. Western readers may find this a tad strange, but in Korea, men like to have a smoke while they take a dump. I'd go so far as to say that being able to smoke in a bathroom is cultural. Anyway, I don't smoke in the bathroom (often) while I am taking a dump, so the new regulation does not really affect me the same way it might affect old school Korean men over thirty.

Today, I was confronted by a PhD regarding yesterday's memo while I was standing at the urinal with an unlit cigarette in my mouth.

PhD: I guess no one translated the memo for you; the one that was sent out yesterday.

Me: Pardon me?

PhD: There is to be no more smoking in the bathrooms. There were complaints from non-smokers like myself.

Me: Oh yeah. I heard about that memo. I think it is rather comical.

PhD: Why is that? Second hand smoke is unhealthy.

Me: PhD's are allowed to smoke in their offices. You don't ever have to sit down and speak with a PhD who is a smoker? Also, how much of your day is spent in the bathroom?

PhD: Those points are irrelevant.

Me: I'll tell you what's irrelevant. This conversation is irrelevant. I have a cigarette in my mouth not because I am about to smoke it. I have a cigarette in my mouth because I am using the urinal and I don't want to put it down anywhere in here. With your PhD in whatever environmental science you studied, you didn't notice that my cigarette is unlit and that in its current state is not putting your health at any risk?

PhD: *shocked*

Me: Have a nice day and avoid the roof at all cost; it's where the smokers dwell.

before 9:05

2008-03-17T20:35:00.000-07:00

The alarm did go off at 6:20 this morning. I think I got up and shut it off. It was Sookies alarm, which went off at 6:50 and then again at 7:00 which finally encouraged me to sit up in bed, cross my legs, and look at the clock.

I went to the kitchen and filled the coffee maker with water and Illy ground goodness and headed to the bathroom. Emerging from the bathroom I headed back to the kitchen to get two cups of coffee ready. With coffee in hand I sat down at my computer to see if anyone had commented on my previous days flickr posts. Nothing new. Looked at the clock again and headed to the bathroom window to have a cigarette. The morning was bright and while I enjoyed my first mild seven of the day I watched the maintenance man sweep garbage into a dustpan fashioned from a large rectangular can.

"Sookyyyyyyyyy, it's time to wake up! Wakey wakey!" as I left the bathroom; my eyes fixated on the half finished cup of coffee on the desk. Knowing my breath smelled like morning smoke, I took a few sips of coffee and swished it around in my mouth hoping to minimize the smell before my morning mission to wake Sooky up. No can do. It's early and she's tired. I can understand. Monday is a bitch, and work is work. I slide back out of bed feeling somewhat defeated and before heading back to the bathroom window I tune into the bbc news; turning up the volume to wake up levels. As I inhale and exhale nicotine goodness, Sooky cheerfully calls out good morning and I crane my neck to see her sitting on the edge of the bed sipping on the mug of illy caffeine goodness that I had made earlier.

We get ready for work and part ways in the driveway. I head to the subway, while she heads for the bus. I light another mild seven and send short text messages to the woman I love so much. I pass men in suits and wonder what time they'd woken up, schoolboys and girls standing on corners waiting for friends, and old women carrying bags of vegetables. I use the bathroom of an office tower; entering through the back. The man at the security desk glances at me briefly. I make no indication I notice his existence.

As I emerge from the front of the office tower I am confronted with a consistent wave of office workers heading toward me. Some looking fresh faced and raring to go, while others look blank and somber. Commuters are a boring breed. We simply deal with it because we have to. There are those of us who simply head to work with nothing in our ears, and nothing to watch, while others pass the time listening to music on their mp3 players or staring at visual media on their DMB phones, PSPs, and other audio DMB/DIVX players. I dislike the visual commuters. They walk slower, don't pay attention to where they are going, and are constantly distracted by what they are watching. They annoy me in some subtle way.

I travel 13 stations north to get to work. The commute is boring and I don't usually get a seat until the seventh stop. After the seventh, eighth and ninth stations, the train is pretty empty and I can stretch my legs. For the most part, the remainders of the passengers left on the train get off at my station. We rush up the stairs, through the turnstile, and out exit two. Half run to get across the road before the light turns, and the rest of us make our way up 'institute hill'.

I get to the office and press power on the computer. While the slow piece of shit with two cdroms boots up, I clean my mug and fill the humidifier. I log into windows, startup firefox, log into icb, nate, gmail, and check my outlook. With nothing to edit I begin reading the news and get settled into my day of not really doing anything.

Rest Easy Johnny: I'll Miss You

2006-11-06T23:55:00.000-08:00

When I think back on the time I spent with my uncle, I have trouble pinpointing when I found out he was injecting prescription drugs.

Before my uncle moved into my house in the suburbs, I remember him getting married at city hall with his now ex-wife Val. After that were sporadic visits from time to time for Sunday lunches with the family, and of course Christmas. Every Christmas he’d come to the house with oysters which we would both shuck and eat with lemon juice. After my grandfather died, and my brother left for England, eating oysters at Christmas became our Christmas ritual as no one else liked the taste.

During the time he was married, or perhaps after he and his wife had split up, I sort of knew he had a drinking problem. When he took me and my cousin (his daughter) up north to go camping one weekend, I saw my uncle drunk and irritated. Camping was fun, but toward the end of every night when it was time for bed, his daughter didn’t want to sleep and slurred shouts were made and that was that.

Once Johnny moved into my house, everything sort of came into view quite quickly. Unemployed, he could not afford to drink, so he joined AA and was proud of his monthly poker chip style sobriety milestones. The milestones of course meant nothing. He may have not had a ‘drink’ at the pub, or kept peach schnapps under the bed, but if there was Nyquil in the house, you knew where to look for the empty bottle.

That’s when I found the needles. Soon after he moved in I had got the flu and my mom got me some Nyquil to help me sleep. I had the bottle in my room in the basement. My uncle’s room was in the basement as well. I remember getting home from school on a Friday and not being able to find it. My uncle left for his AA meeting and I went into his room and found the bottle empty. I rummaged through his dresser and found heaps of empty codeine bottles, blackened spoons, lighters, bloody cotton swabs, and needles. On one spoon was a greenish substance that looked almost like wassabi. The drawer was littered with bloody things. It was an eye-opener, but I kept it to myself.

I wasn’t naive of intravenous drug use. I grew up listening to the Sex Pistols and was interested in the life of Sid Vicious. I can remember being so utterly depressed by the movie Sid and Nancy. I read Junky and The Western Lands by William S. Burroughs and The Basketball Diaries by Jim Carroll. There were documentaries on A&E, PBS, and various other stations regarding various kinds of narcotic abuse. The “war on drugs” had educated me well on how and what people do to get up, down, and fucked.

It was easy to see when Uncle Johnny had just shot up. His eyes were glassy, his speech was slurred, and he moved in slow disjunctive movements. He fell asleep on the toilet, fell down the stairs, dozed off at dinner, and spent most of his time nodding off in his room watching TV or reading a book.

Throughout the month he would have to change injection points. Toward the end of the month was when he moved down to his ankles. That’s when I’d come home from high-school and have to wipe drops of blood from the kitchen and hallway floors.

The week before his disability payment he’d be broke and ‘off’. He’d get a haircut, talk more, eat more, be more visible, and have chronic diarrhea; a side effect of being ‘off’. That time of the month was the best time of the month. The time we would talk a lot and joke around.

Then I went to University.

I never talked to my uncle on the phone from University. If I did, I don’t remember. I saw him when I went back for visits, and of course at Christmas. The oyster ritual continued. At the end of a Christmas visit on year, I can remember going to his bedroom to say goodbye. His door was shut and I knocked a few times before opening the door to find him passed on his bed with his legs slung over the side with his pants around his ankles; a needle still dangling from a vein in his penis. For some reason I knew he wasn’t dead. I walked up to him and slapped him viciously hard in the face, and ran out. I was at the door getting ready to head to the airport and up came Johnny with his pants pulled up; his hands rubbing the cheek I had slapped. He said something incoherent and I left.

Sometime after that, I was at my apartment in Ottawa and my brother called to say there had been a fire at my house. No one was hurt in the fire, but my cat did succumb to smoke inhalation and had died. The fire had started in my uncle’s room. Apparently he had lit a cigar with a match and in his dosed-up state, had simply thrown the match onto a chair before going outside. The fire marshal noted that as most of the walls in the basement (finished by my grandfather) were made in the 1960’s out of cardboard thin sheets of wood, we were lucky the entire house didn’t go down. With a driveway full of firefighters, police, and neighbors, it was clear that my uncle was completely mashed. Because the house was my grandmothers, the fire marshal did a very kind thing and reported that the fire had been caused by faulty electrical work, hence, guaranteeing that insurance would pay for repairs. Nevertheless, insurance was unable to repair the rift that had finally widened into a chasm between my uncle and both my mother and grandmother. He moved to a rooming house in a seedy part of Toronto and I guess everyone was a little happy to see him go, including myself.

In spite of everything that had happened, he still came for Christmas and the oyster ritual continued, and if I was in Toronto, id go downtown and see him at his rooming house near Yonge and Dundas and chit chat. I knew nothing had changed. I knew he was still using, and I knew he had started drinking again. I also knew there was nothing I could do about it and accepted him for who he was; my interesting and smart junky uncle.

This past Friday just after getting to work my brother called to tell me that my uncle had been found dead in his room. He had died in his sleep from a seemingly accidental overdose of methadone and alcohol. He was 60.

My Uncle Johnny lived at my house for most of my high-school and University years. I feel it necessary to say that he had a positive influence on who I am, and despite the choices he made, he always provided advice from the heart.

I’ve been told that, in time, the hurt will fade, only to be replaced by positive memories that soothe the soul. Already, I can feel that happening.

Maybe it’s because Uncle Johnny and I had a unique relationship. He was a remarkably smart man, and I respected his humor, stories, and confidence. He was there at times when my father was not, and while I will always call him “Uncle Johnny”, he was, in a subtle way, a father figure.

He talked to me about things I didn’t want to talk to anyone else about, and the advice he gave was honest and non-patronizing. His life was filled with experiences very few people have had, and from the tales he shared with me and the mistakes he had made, I was able to make some of the right choices for myself. Even if he didn’t intend to do that for me, he did, and because he did, I will truly miss him.

“Take it easy brother. Be cooool” is how he ended our last meeting in Toronto in September of last year.

I just want to say “You too man. Rest easy”.

Smiles

2006-03-12T23:53:00.000-08:00

A group of people were walking through a forest lost. As they walked the image would shift from them in the woods to some buildings along some railroad tracks. The railroad tracks were rusty and hadn’t been used since the cold war ended. The buildings were in shabby condition, though it appeared they were still hooked up to a power grid. From images of the group walking in the woods toward the relic of the past, images of what was inside flashed intermittently.

A young girl walked slowly through one of the buildings. She was carrying a handgun; her face deadpan and sullen. She had hair down just below her shoulders and she followed with her eyes what looked like a blurry balloon. Once and a while she would raise her hand and fire at the blur but it did not die, and she cursed at it.

Two Japanese women were crouched over black body bags. The bags were filled with the bodies of unknown men. The two women were giggling at each other. One of them wore a black one piece dress and the other wore jeans and a blouse. Their hair was short and they had blood red eyes. They heard a sound and walked like crabs onto the ceiling and waited. From where they looked was a maze of black bags, stacked high, in a room that looked as though it went on forever.

The group of people arrived at the buildings and were confused by what they saw. The buildings invited fear and half of the group decided it would be best just to follow the railroad tracks north. The other half; hungry, tired, and curious decided to investigate the buildings. The group that had decided to follow the tracks sat down to rest while the group that decided to enter fanned out.

Screams were heard from every direction. The air had been silent prior to the first scream, but just as the first scream ended, a second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh and so on occurred in what seemed like only a minute. The group sitting by the tracks were paralyzed with fear and one commented that the screams outnumbered the people who had entered.

They knew they had better leave and find help and they began running north along the tracks.

A man, in his late thirties had entered a building through a side door. He was with two other members of the group that had decided to go into the building.

They had not heard the screams. In fact, none of the group that had entered the buildings had heard the screams.

The man and his tagalongs found themselves in an office. One of the tagalongs turned on a soviet era photocopier and pressed the green button. Unlike western photocopiers the entire top half of the contraption swiveled as if the entire bureaucracy of it was working to scan a single image. The image that came out was of them on the floor in a bloody mess. They were perplexed by this and a tagalong lifted the lid to find it covered in dry blood.

A woman in her forties was walking through a large room. She had her hands in her back pockets and walked slowly scanning in every direction with her head. She was clearly nervous and as she turned a corner she found herself face to face with the young girl with long hair. The girl looked up and smiled. The woman said hello and the girl began to back away and lift her arm. She fired two shots. One bullet screamed past the woman’s right ear as the other screamed past her left. She dropped to the ground but was not hurt, though her hearing was gone. She looked up and saw the girl walking away. She looked behind her to see a blurry object on the floor; blurry blood slowly making a blurry pool.

The three in the office entered yet another office. The new office was large and contained hundreds of copiers in three rows. Each person began walking down a row turning each machine on and pressing the green button as they walked. They reached the end of the room and turned back to collect what each machine had produced. The images collected were frame-by-frame stills telling the story of the photo that showed them on the floor in a bloody mess. Shivers ran down their spines as they witnessed each picture. Each row told the story of their death and one began to panic. “We are just dying! Who is doing this to us? Does yours show who is doing this to use? Who is doing this?” The pictures showed their death but no image of who was inflicting the damage appeared. They just stood there swapping photos.

The woman who had lost her hearing approached the blurry object. There was a ringing in her ear that caused some discomfort. She stepped in the blurry pool of blurry blood and noticed that it was slippery. She crouched down to see what it was. She tried to touch it but her hand could not find anything to touch. She got up and walked in the direction she saw the young girl walk in and found herself in front of a locked door.

A teenage girl with blonde hair had found some empty rail cars behind one of the large buildings and noticed some smoke billowing from a chimney in the last car. She raced toward the car and found the doors wide open. A stove inside was packed full of documents slowly burning. On the table she found an empty can of tuna. Just as she placed the can back on the table boots came down from the ceiling and connected with her jaw and knocked her out. She woke up soon after and noticed that she had been tied to the stove; the heat from it slowly cooking her back. She felt no pain but knew she would die.

Panic came over one of the tagalongs and she began to cry uncontrollably and say she did not deserve to die like that. The others were calm, though they did nothing to quell the woman’s fears. They left her in the room and entered yet another office, this one covered in black dust. They found a refrigerator and noticed that the handle was free from dust and quite shiny. The man grabbed hold of it and pulled the door open. Dead mice began to fall from the space the door made as it opened and he jumped back and the door flung open; hundreds of dead mice piling up on the floor. The stench was overwhelming and they ran to another door and entered another room.

The women in jeans looked at the locked door. She put her ear against the door to listen for activity but the ringing in her ears made it impossible. She moved away from the door and with a swift movement of her leg kicked at it a few times until it swung open. The room was empty except for a table, chair, and typewriter. There were windows on three of the walls and she looked out each of them to see a garden filled with roses. Looking out the third window she saw the young girl with long hair walking slowly toward another building. She opened the window and called out to her. The young girl kept walking and ignored the cries coming from the window just a few hundred feet away. Tired and scared, the woman sat at the table and looked at the typewriter.

The woman who panicked pulled herself together and ran to the room the other two had entered. The smell of the mice made her eyes water and she ran to the door they had opened. She found herself once again with the two men. They looked at her and motioned her to come to where they were. They were looking cautiously out of a window and the man whispered to her to be quiet. She looked out the window in the direction they were looking and saw a young girl with long hair walking toward some rail cars. The girl stopped and slowly turned her head and looked straight at the three in the window and smiled. She began walking again and disappeared between two of the rail cars. “This place is fucked” said the man as they spoke softly. “Who is she?” asked the women who had panicked. “Was she in the pictures from the copiers?” the second man questioned. They stood there and looked around wondering what to do next.

The young girl with long hair entered the car where the teenager was bound to the stove. She had passed out but the young girl poked her. She sprang to life to see a young girl with long hair smiling at her. “It’s going to be ok” she said softly. She went to a dresser and opened the top shelf. She took out a knife and cut the teenager down; her back was burnt badly, though she felt no pain. “Who did this to you?” the young girl with long hair asked. The teenager looked down to see the young girl was wearing boots and responded “it was you?” The young girl laughed and said “yes” softly and began stabbing the teenager in the stomach and arms. She fell back and though she felt no pain, she knew she was dead. The young girl with long hair stepped back and shot the teenager in the face.

The three in the room who were resting stood up at the sound of the shot. The woman at the typewriter heard nothing, though what she read made her entire body tremble.

You can’t hear. But you can see. It would be better if it were the other way around. You should have gone north you stupid bitch.

The three in the room decided it was time to find the others. They began rushing through room after room until they found themselves in a small office. They had come to a dead end and decided to rest before heading back to find another way out. As the man in his thirties sat down at a desk, the other two decided to go into the previous room to look around. As soon as they left, the Japanese woman in jeans came into the room and began sniffing his face. He did not know what the do and just sat there and did not move. She began softly running her fingers down his face and neck and rubbing his chest. She stood up and as she stepped aside the Japanese woman with the black dress ran in and began to do the same thing though this time she seemed more interested and more passionate about it. The Japanese woman in jeans left the room and the woman in the black dress shouted “you are a liar!” and began biting at his face. He pushed her off and punched her three times in the face. The power of his punches were too much for her fragile face. With only three punches she was gone; the hair on his fingers covered in blood and brain matter.

He walked into the next room to find the tagalongs in a bloody mess on the floor. The images of the copier had come true for the two of them but he was determined to live. He looked up from the mess to find the young girl with long hair standing in the doorway. She smiled and looked at the mess and said “did you do that?” The man said nothing. He stood there and just stared at the girl. “Would you like to…” the Japanese woman in jeans came from behind the young girl with long hair and started biting at her shoulder. The long haired one let out a bone chilling scream and pistol whipped the Japanese woman in the face and turned and began stomping on the woman. The man ran toward the young girl and bear hugged her. She began to growl and spit. She was wild with rage.

The woman at the typewriter entered the room and saw the girl with long hair being held by the man who had been in her party. The man and young girl both looked at her and started screaming, but she could not hear either of them. She looked down to see a woman with a shattered skull on the floor and back up to the man holding the girl in a bear hug. She began to move toward the two, and sensing something wrong the man began to pull the young girl back into the other room. He did not know what to expect from the woman who could not hear. She would not respond to his questions, nor did she respond to the enraged young girl with long hair. Once in the room the woman who could not hear looked to see the two other members of the party laying on the floor in a bloody mess. She looked up at the young girl with long hair and smiled.

Christmas Eve

2006-02-22T23:51:00.000-08:00

It had been a bad day at work. It had been a bad month. It had been a lot of bad things within a short period of time. He left work with a head full of misery and frustration. Questions with no answers and a job that did not foster the kind of brain activity that might have helped him quell that angst inside of him. It was a cold night and he walked toward the family mart and picked up four bottles of chang-ha. It was Friday night and he missed his relatives. Christmas was the only time of year his small family got together and forgot all of their problems and acted civil around each other, and not being able to be there again added to his misery and self destruction.

He finished two bottles outside family mart and added them to an already present pile of trash. He stuffed the other two bottles into his pocket and decided to catch a cab home and finish them there.

He flagged a cab and as he sat in the back something snapped. The cracks had turned into chasms and tears began pouring down his face. He finished the two bottles of chang-ha in his pocket and smoked profusely. The cab driver had no intention to tell a man in his state there was no smoking. As the cab entered the valley between the Yaksu and Oksu tunnels, he had the cab driver stop and wait. He got out and ran to an LG25 and picked up four more bottles of chang-ha. Chugging one as he paid, he left the shop in a sorry state indeed. Chugged the second one on the way back to the cab and got in; throwing the bottle onto another already present pile of trash. In broken Korean he began to try and tell the cab driver what was going on. The cab driver just nodded and he can remember a look of sincere concern on his face.

Traffic that night was slow, but finally they got to where he needed to get out. He gave the cab driver a big tip and apologized for the smell of smoke and alcohol. The cab driver was relieved to be rid of him, and drove off leaving a very drunk and broken down young man at the corner. He had composed himself enough to walk the streets looking somewhat normal. He got to his apartment and just fell to the ground in absolute despair. He was finished. He was done. He grabbed at bottles of imovane and valium and ate a whole bunch; washing them down with another bottle of chang-ha.

After about five minutes he knew he had done something wrong. He knew he had taken it too far. He knew he had to get himself to a hospital. As fucked up as he was, he packed a few more bottles of chang-ha in his pocket for the ride there. He left his apartment and his eyes closed.

He woke up at an unknown hour of the night from a deep sleep and knew he needed to vomit. Thankfully the steel guards on the side of the gurney were not up and it was easy for him to slide out and stand up. His vision was blurred and he recalled being there but not getting there. He knew he had been in and out of consciousness. He knew he had been forced to drink a thick liquid. He had given blood. They had attached things to his chest.

He moved slowly as he picked up the tube connected to his wrist off the floor and looped it a few times; using the steel pole on wheels for support as he made his way to the door with the stencil of a man on it.

He fell to his knees and began to vomit violently into the toilet. The episode caused flashes of white, black, and sparks raced past his face. He collapsed backward and let his back and head hit the tile wall. His head fell and he became motionless. His eyes opened again and he remembered the comfort of the bed. He rose once again and began to move; the floor covered in black slippery liquid. He did not notice that the tube taped to his wrist had come undone at the point it connected to the tube from the bag hanging from the steel pole on wheels. He was lucidly making his way back to the bed losing blood. He was in another world...a cloudy world. The world of too many things. He slid back onto the bed and fell asleep.

He had never been slapped awake before. He was startled, scared, thrust back into reality. A gaggle of nurses and doctors had surrounded the bed and as quickly as he had opened his eyes he closed them. Again he was jostled awake, this time not by being struck, but by the pungent smell of something in a small white tube. It made his eyes water and his head shake. “Are you awake? Can you hear me? How many fingers am I holding up?” He looked down to see a nurse removing tape from his wrist, taking out the needle, and placing cotton and some new tape onto the hole the needle had left. Again he fell asleep and again he was woken by the extreme smell. He answered the questions and a nurse placed a new needle and tube into his arm and reconnected it to the bag that was hanging from the steel pole with wheels. As he watched her he looked down to see that the floor was covered in blood and showed signs of being disturbed by frantic and constant movement. No more words. No more answers. The tube was reconnected and an absurd amount of tape had been used to secure that previously insecure section of tubing. The group around his bed had evaporated.

He lay awake for as long as he could as an older woman in a non-medical uniform came by and jabbered something Korean into his ear as she crouched down with towels to clean up the mess. A nurse walked past, looked him in the eye, and laughed like the devil.

He

2006-01-26T23:50:00.000-08:00

He is not content with who he is and does not know where he wants to go or what he wants to do. He has let his mind, body, and soul disintegrate and is sometimes ready to die. The difference between twenty-nine and eighty don’t seem so different to him. His heavy heart swings low and he dreams of better days, better situations, and better lots in life. He has conversations with himself involving characters and different lifestyles. He speaks to himself as though he were reading the script of a movie; reading down the page each characters voice the same.

He is not content with who he is and does not know where he wants to go or what he wants to do. He thinks about the same woman everyday and can’t get her out of his thoughts. He dreams of her being there and wakes up to the reality that she is gone. He might as well be eighty. He might as well be a widow. He might as well be done.

He feels sorry for himself and wants people to feel sorry for him. It is the kind of attention he has become used to. What he really wants is someone to look up to him and support him on things that he wants to do, though he rarely works hard enough to attain that.

His life is a series of works in progress and nothing ever gets one hundred percent done. There is something to be learned from that…. he knows, but for him it is easier to just take pills and drink from dusty bottles purchased at the local variety store, and despite being an idealist and sometimes philosophical thinker, he cannot live the life he advises people to live. He cannot incorporate his overtly perceived wisdom into the everyday life he lives or the actions he commits.

He has convinced so many people that he is smart but inside he does not agree with them. He does not think he is stupid, but he certainly does not think he is smart. He does not think he is ugly either, but he certainly does not think he is handsome; even though taxi drivers and old women working in restaurants say he is.

He looks at the people around him and does not see the negatives that they live with. Perhaps it is because they hide them so well and perhaps it is because he only looks for the positives and then compares those positives with his negatives and ultimately loses. He wants to change locations again but knows that by doing so he will just be leaving problems behind. No matter where he goes, those problems will eventually catch up to him. He has left his problems behind on a number of occasions and no matter how far away from them he runs they always seem to be there just waiting to blitz their way back into his life.

He is not content with who he is and does not know where he wants to go or what he wants to do. He is exhausted. He cannot find energy. He cannot find happiness because he has not allowed himself to be happy. He has not cleared his mind of all those precepts and expectations that cloud and layer all that is good and wonderful about him. He cannot let go of the past and cannot look forward. He lives his life drink to drink, pill to pill, unintended/intended hospital trip to unintended/intended hospital trip.

He is lonely because he looks lonely. He is sad because he looks sad. He is alone because he looks alone. He is fat because he feels fat. He is not content with who he is because he is not content with himself. He knows all this and yet he cannot even muster up enough excitement to change, to clean up, grab life, and shake it up.

He needs a drink.

A code of integrity has put him in a profoundly different place. At no time in his life has he ever felt so locked in. At no time in his life has he ever been compelled so strongly to uphold his end of the contract. He is bound by two contracts. Both concern a friend of his who argued in his favour and did extraordinary things. That is why he cannot just pick up and leave. As much as his life is a tangle of emotions, selfish thoughts and feelings, at the end of the day he will not rollover and put the reputation of his friend on the line. If his friend loses face in a society where losing face is an embarrassment not only to the individual but also to the individual’s family, he could not even begin to say that learning from the past, brings forth a better future. He has made mistakes before. He had dishonored and lost a good friend and vowed never to let that happen again. No matter where he goes or what he does, because of these contracts, he will not be able to change, at least his location, until October. He could change his life outside of work. He could change his life inside of work. He could change his attitude regarding life, work, friends, society, and the woman. He knows all of this. His energy is perhaps tied up in upholding his end of the contracts.

He and his friend rarely speak anymore.

He recalls the past as a patchwork of moments, visions, and desires. He cannot say for sure which event came first or what happened when and where for every memory. His memories, especially of her, have long since been skewed and distorted by imaginary prologues and conclusions. He has, in part created a mythical past which when thought about at length is either false or exaggerated. Even when he sits down to write he has trouble figuring out what was real and what was made up. Did he love her or was that just a mythical love which only his dream world could know? Could he have lived a happy and full life with her? His honest answer is yes, but his realistic and agreeable answer is no. He cannot even say for sure that he loves his mother, father, brother, or friends. He does not love himself and though in the past he has said that it is easier to love someone else than to love yourself, he understands now that to know any kind of love, no matter what or who that love is directed at, he must learn to love himself; a daunting task for a man who cares little about his now, and thinks mainly about his then.

N&G

2005-10-30T23:48:00.000-08:00

Osaka, Japan. Sunday, October 9 - 12, 2005.

Two years ago:
When I first went to Osaka a couple of years ago on a 'Visa Run' I strolled the streets close to my hotel looking for a place to get wasted. Walking up and down the side streets there were many places of interest, but because of all of the unknowns and fashion show type places that surrounded me, I craved a place to just chill and get trashed.

It was on one of those side streets that I found the N&G.

The N&G is the kind of place I don’t want people to know about. It is the kind of place someone finds and wants to keep secret. It is the kind of place one feels welcome, and it is the kind of place that contains many 'colors'. It was the faint sound of Bob Marley playing through the door that took me there and in that I figure it was destiny.

I cautiously walked in and found myself inside a museum of tequila. The bar was small with only a few stools and even fewer places to sit. Three of the four walls had shelves filled with bottles of tequila imported from anywhere and everywhere. I had walked into an empty tequila bar playing one of my favorite Bob Marley songs (Johnny was) and said hello to the bar owner. After a quick bow, I sat down on one of the stools and asked for a bottle of Corona and a shot of tequila.

The owner, referred to from now on as Haru spoke English and introduced himself to me. He had travelled the world looking for teqilla and could speak English at a level we could both comfortably converse.

I told Haru about my life in Korea as an English teacher, some of my world views, and taste in alcohol and music. He was genuine in his questions which made me respect him almost right from the start. He was a man in his early forties, married with no children. His wife was a fashion designer and had her own brand of casual wear for men and women which from what I was told by Haru is quite popular in Japan.

Haru was a man who liked to relax, and owning his small bar was his way of doing that. His bar was small, frequented by friends, friends of friends, and random people like myself. He took pride in his collection of over 400 different bottles of tequila and his taste in music was also quite inviting.

We got to talking about what I missed about Canada and the topic of erbz obviously came up. Haru was suprised to hear that erbz were something difficult to get and even more dangerous to have in Korea. While still dangerous to have in Japan, erbz were much easier to get and it was at that point that Haru handed me a small pipe and directed me into a small bathroom to partake in some home grown goodness. After that, a few of his friends showed up and it became clear to me that they were there to nurse a beer and also visit the bathroom. Nevertheless, instead of having each one of them go in and out of the toilet, he simply walked over to the front door, locked it up, and got a session going. It was grand. A few of his friends spoke moderate amounts of broken English and I had fun telling them about the situation concerning erbz in Canada with particular attention and respect handed out to Vancouver. (a city I don't actually like all that much)

After a few rounds he lit a few incents and opened up for regular business again. It was at that point Dr. K and his daughter came in for a beer and a few shots of tequila. Dr. K was, I think trying to hook me up with his daughter, but none of that was on my mind. Haru chatted with us and his friends and Dr. K and his daughter invited me out for some Sake and Karaoke. Ready for more adventure I accepted and went on my way, thanking Haru and his friends for the good time they had shown me. That was my first experience at the N&G.

One year ago:
On my second visit to Osaka for my yearly "Visa run", I was unable to find the N&G again. I searched and searched but just could not remember where it was. I thought it might have just closed down. Nevertheless, I found a live roots reggae sound system performing in a basement bar and had a great time. While there were no erbz involved, the crowd was much larger, and as I was the only foreigner there, my only actions were to order bottle upon bottle of Red Stripe, and nod my head in approval of chewnz I felt worthy of a "Boh!".

This year:
I got back to Osaka on October 9th with an insane headache. I had gotten back to Korea on September 22nd with a prescription for Valium, which I had abused and doctor hopped to get more and more. Mixing it with copious amounts of Gin and tonic, other sleeping agents and on my final binge night with lines of opium, the day before my flight to Osaka was spent mostly in a constantly nodding off routine of sleep, wake up, vomit, and then back to sleep. Getting back to Korea on September 22nd filled me with stress as I still had unanswered questions regarding work, little money, and an insane amount of angst and frustration.

Understandably, my friends, who I had spent so much more time with before leaving korea for my Canadian visit were busy with other things, so most of my days were spent going for walks off my head on valium and gin into clinics trying to get more.

Osaka was what I needed to clear my head and I knew that this time it was my duty and mission in life to once again visit the N&G. I arrived in Osaka on Sunday in the early afternoon. I checked into my hotel, downed a few cans of Asahi courage and pounded the pavement with the N&G's business card in hand. Pacing up and down side streets I was unable to find it. This is when it dawned on me to ask traffic police how to get there. I found an older gentleman who was more than happy to use sign language and a pen to draw me a map showing me two streets and dots representing traffic lights. I followed my scrawl 5 lights down and then 2 lights left and low and behold I was standing in front of the N&G. It was still early and the door was locked. Across the way were two punk rockers listening to anti-flag and so I said to them “sup punks!” One of them spoke English well enough to say “when sun go down, door will open”. I laughed and said thanks and handed them both my mini cd. “What genre?” they asked with excitement. “Crazy” I said with even more excitement and with a sharpie and receipt from 7-11 I drew a map as I headed back to my hotel for a nap. On the way back to my Hotel, hunger overcame me…and as I had no idea what in the hell to eat, I looked for the international symbol of ignorance….the golden arches. The place was filled to the gills with Japanese hotties chomping on mc-recipes they do not offer in Canada. I walked up to the cash where an insanely cute Japanese girl started just jibber jabbering to me in Japanese. I looked at her and laughed and then looked down to the picture menu and pointed at what looked to me like an egg mc-muffin. With one finger I said “one” and then she jibber jabbered away for a good ten more seconds and as a feeling of being totally useless overcame me I just said “okay okay okay”. I made sure to get my order for take out as whenever I encounter McDonalds, its always safe to be near a bathroom you can trust. I paid 500yen (about 5 or 6 dollars) and was on my way. I got back to my hotel room and opened the bag to find not one, but seven fucking burgers waiting for me. “Christ!” I ate a teriyaki burger and one of the egg things and that was it. I was done. Embarassed by how much I had ordered I left my room and dumped the remaining burgers in the trash by the vending machines. I crashed for a few hours and finally woke up at around 10pm where I spent another good 30 minutes sitting on the john scolding myself for the ultimately poor choice of McDonalds cuisine. Nevertheless the toilet in my hotel room is the coolest thing I have ever had the pleasure of sitting on. When you are done your business, you press a button: Blue for boys, and pink for girls. A nozzle comes out from somewhere and bathes your unmentionables with a nice jet of warm water. You can press“stop” at anytime you want, but as a virgin of the TOTO WASHLET I just sat and thanked whoever came up with that brilliant invention. Anytime after a mcdonalds episode, I do a few jumping jacks just to make sure that the mc-mongol hordes have left my system. They had not…and I once again had the pleasure of TOTOing myself.

Finally...It was time to use the map I had made just a few hours prior. After a much less daunting task, I found the place and it was open. I walked in and Haru immediately remembered me. We both smiled and he introduced me to two of his friends who were also there sitting with him. He had a big smile on his face and pulled a big bag of erbz out of his pocket and patted me on the back with it. “Welcome back my friend…it has been long time”. “Hi Haru, How have you been? I hope you are well.” He introduced me to his friends and we sat and drank a couple of corona’s, some tequila, he sauntered over to the front door and locked it. I handed them all my mini cd, chiamattt.com stickers, and we smoked for a while and he kept the door locked. One of his friends was playing the guitar while his other friend played a strange kind of harmonica that looked like a keyboard with a pipe you blew into with your mouth. Needless to say after the beer, tequila and hittin the pipe hard, I rooked out. Sensory overdrive and a clear case of PMSS.

Post mcdonalds stress syndrome causes an insane urge to use a bathroom. I told Haru and his friends my mcdonalds story and they laughed for a long time, knowing exactly what I meant as they had also been to other countries and encountered similar experiences. Haru motioned me to the bathroom in the corner and while it wasn’t a TOTO, it let me just sit in a nice place, relieve myself and let my blood pressure descend. I sat there for about thirty minutes and let the rooking pass. Haru’s friends played the ‘girl from ipanema’ and it was at that point I knew I was alright to go back out into bar. Hitting the pipe again, Haru pulled out a bottle of “Stetson” cologne and sprayed the place down. He apologized to me and I said with a smile that I understood and took the bottle and sprayed some on my fingers. He laughed and it was at that point he pulled out a bottle of a very very special kind of tequila. He had put some erbz in a bottle with tequila and had let it sit for ten months. He asked me if I wanted some, but I insisted that he not touch it for ten years. I made up a story about how he could sell it on Ebay in twenty years and retire. We all laughed. I hung out for a couple more hours, and as it was getting late and I didn’t want to over stay my visit I paid my bill and made plans to have dinner with Haru the next day.

Osaka has always been really good to me…and last night was no exception. With the N&G rediscovered, I hung out with Haru at his bar on the 9th, 10th, and 11th, and we have become quite good friends. With email exchanged, a map in hand, and a desire to visit more often...I hope to see Haru again some time in the near future.

Paxil

2005-04-03T23:47:00.000-07:00

I woke up bright eyed today but my cough was still there. The mixture of Canadian Nyquil, Korean over the counter cold medicines and Sleeping pills I had picked up at the Airport in Singapore hadn’t quelled the demon inside my throat and nose. The cold has not died.

I won’t say life has been hard these past few months. I have been trying to wean myself off of Paxil and so far it has been interesting to say the least.

I decided to make an initial jump down from thirty to fifteen milligrams because I was running low on Paxil. There were some complications in Canada and my new shipment wouldn’t arrive for a couple of weeks. Paxil is fucking expensive even by Canadian prescription drug standards. Depending on the size of the pill, they can go from anywhere between 2 and 5 dollars a pill. I had done some reading on the net regarding the weaning process and learned that by taking a B complex Vitamin and a Lecithin supplement, the route towards not taking Paxil would be less harsh. This seems to be the case and I am quite happy I found that out.

30-15mg
The first two days at 15mg was cake and so I let my guard down. By the third day my vision had trouble keeping up with my head movements, my speech was slurred, I had terrible head aches, and my stool was liquid. To top that off I was constantly confused and feeling stressed out and once and a while I would get an electrical shock in my mouth. At times the electrical shocks were quick and just startled me, but by the end of the week I would go an hour with a constant zap zap zap zap in my mouth, neck, and throat. At first they scared the shit out of me, but upon further reading, I found out that they were quite common and nothing to worry about.

I decided to stay on the 15mg dose until I got back from my trip to Tokyo. I was meeting an old friend who was going to be there at the same time, and so I didn’t want anything to hamper the situation. I had a great time, and only a few zaps occurred. My stool had returned to normal, I was less confused and my eye sight had returned to normal. Nevertheless, the headaches were still there and still are as I write this.

15-10mg
When I got back from Japan the plan to move from fifteen to ten milligrams of Paxil went into effect. Unlike the previous drop, the five milligram drop was much less a hassle. The headaches and zaps remained, but for the most part, everything else was normal, though I did feel a bit more anxious at times. I wanted to make another drop but chose to wait until I got back from a business trip in Australia. It is a good thing I did. My trip to Australia was really stressful and so I think it was wise of me to stay at ten milligrams. I had a good time in Adelaide as I was able to spend more quality time with my office crush who was also present on the business trip. Damn she is so beautiful.

10-5mg
When I got back from Adelaide, it was time to drop from ten to five milligrams. I started taking my five milligram pills later in the day so that I would have more Paxil while I was teaching the kids. I found out almost immediately that my temper would flare, my emotions would spike, and that the headaches and zaps were ferocious.

My mood swings were most evident at the office. I would go from smiling and making jokes to just sitting in my chair and staring off into the wall for sometimes more than ten minutes. I wept in the bathroom a few times a day and just felt like a complete mental basket case. It was by far the worst jump so far, and as I am writing this it is where I stand. I have been on five milligrams now for two weeks and I have decided it would be best if I stayed on it for two more weeks. My brain needs time to adjust to the lower dose and so time I will give it.

This phase has made me really anxious regarding the rest of the drops. When I first began the drops I notified my mom and managers at work. I wanted them to know what to expect from me with regards to my mood swings, sullen face, and slow often slurred conversation. My mom and managers have been very supportive. There have been a few times in the office where my coworkers have gone to my boss and asked if I was mad at them. There have been a few times I have blown up in class and made kids stand up with their hands up holding a book for too long. There have been times where I lie in bed and just stare at the ceiling for hours and get back out of bed and go to work without having slept a wink.

I decided to get off Paxil because I don’t think I need it anymore. I really don’t. My life in Korea is good. I have good friends here, two stable jobs, and a nice apartment. Paxil has caused me to gain weight, and gaining weight is perhaps one of the reasons I chose to get on Paxil. My weight depresses me, and no matter how much I walk or how much I watch my diet, the weight just keeps on coming. Enough is enough I say. I guess a second less important side effect of being on Paxil is "sexual dysfunction"... and while this has had an effect on my 'self love’ life, it bears no impact on my non existent sex life.

Coming off Paxil I have noticed that things are different. I feel so much less inclined to just get up and go out for a walk. I feel so much more lazy, melancholy and lethargic. This isn’t to say that I am Depressed, unmoving, and dormant. I still get out once and a while, work my 60+ hours a week, and complete the week and month long routine. I have just noticed a film of contempt forming on the periphery that if not checked, will become what it was in high school and early university. I don’t think it will come to that though. I hope not at least.

To make a long story short, I was shocked at how hard it was going to be to get off Paxil. My shrink in Canada told me I could get off of it whenever I wanted and didn’t mention the weight gain. He did mention sexual dysfunction, though even then I didn’t care about that. Through my reading I have discovered that Paxil is evil, and that the drug company that makes it (Glaxo) has set aside a large chunk of cash in preparation of some up coming legal actions. Apparently some Paxil users who chose to just stop taking their pills have committed suicide. The withdrawal symptoms from getting off Paxil are far worse than the symptoms you get when starting.

I just want to say that if any of you are thinking about taking anti depressants, please do your reading. Clinical testing will tell you what will happen when you start using a drug, but very rarely tells you what will happen when you decide to get off the drug. I will not say that Paxil didn’t help me. It has. It helped me a lot. But this isn’t to say that I (or anyone else) deserve to go through the withdrawal symptoms associated with getting off of it.

Early Everything Day

2004-08-23T23:44:00.000-07:00

I was with some friends of mine who don’t know each other in real life but did in my dream. We were at some kind of diner having dinner. They tell me we are going to the opera to meet one of their friends who writes violent operas. I agree to pay the five hundred for the ticket as they guarantee me it will be fun and that before the show we will meet her and maybe get to go to the after part. “Whatever” I think smoking on a joint after lighting it with a one billion dollar money order.

Split second after I exhale we are all sitting on the stage at the opera house. “We” being my friends and the opera writer. We are all smoking our own opium pipes lying on our backs staring at clouds forming in the theatre. My friends get up and go, leaving me with the opera star sitting there cross legged.

It is then I see how beautiful she is. We kiss once. A powerful kiss sending shivers down my back. We both smoke more opium and fall asleep.

I wake up on the stage with a note in my pocket that reads “see you tomorrow my love” written with an eye lash brush making the note look like it had been written a thousand tiny times.

Getting ready for the opera I get into my tailor made suit; pants phat, jacket made from ostrich feathers. I find myself putting on make-up and a pearl necklace. From there I find myself running into the theatre only to find that the show has finished; the woman who had written the note to me on stage in a very beautiful business suit speaking to the crowd in Latin and British slang. As soon as her speech is over she dashes off stage.

Running down the aisle to find her in a crowd of paparazzi, I see she is with that guy in the new Nike Tennis commercial. I slow to a halt slouching over. She walks past me and looks over. I brighten up for that moment where she laughs at me and walks forward; her tennis star in arm.

I’m on a boat with native Canadians drinking whiskey out of a boot. “it will help” says a man with no teeth and a horrible condition on his nose from sniffing paint thinner.

We are at sea and the waves are throwing the boat all around. My phone rings and it is her. “I’m sorry. I want to see you.” She says. “I’m on a boat.” I play it cool and congratulate myself inside for doing so. She whines “but I want to see you”. “Hey babeeee, I’m on the North Sea with a bunch of natives. What can I do?”

…We are on the boat together. She walks into the room now empty of native Canadians. She walks up and says “Oh him. I hired him to be there. He meant nothing. I have to keep up my opera reputation…I’m sorry.” As she says the ‘e’ in sorry she starts violently kissing me on the neck and lips. She is still in her black business suit. I begin kissing her on the neck and we rub each others backs. I move my hands down and begin feeling her ass and she whispers into my ear that I drive her crazy. We pause and smoke some crack out of a light bulb. We hug again this time in fast forward and as she unzips my pants I find myself lifting up her black skirt and pushing down her panties. The boat is lurching all about the seas. She starts playing with my dick while we both kiss, my fingers playing with her vag. She turns around and I begin to insert my dick.

I wake up just as I’m about to come and some sort of fucking up reality tells me its all just a dream and my hard penis goes limp, cum having formed at the tip. “Holy fuck” I think to myself as I lay there unsatisfied and completely depressed and angry.

“Fuck it”, I remember thinking to myself as I got up to go make coffee, a terrible hurt in my stomach from my dinner of chocolate chip cookies and beer.

Social Anxiety

2004-02-28T23:41:00.000-08:00

Listen up!

I am not a violent person. I do not agree with fighting, but when I am pushed, I am pushed.

We started off fine. we headed to a club called MOWONGGWOWON and I thought It was fun. There were cute girls and there was room to dance. The music was good, and I was just really comfortable there. But it didn't please the people I was with. They wanted to go somewhere where the girls were taller and plentiful. They wanted to go somewhere busy. who am I to argue?

We headed to club MB; a hiphop club. It was just so busy. OMG.

It was packed. SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO PACKED. I could not move. I had to piss and so I made my way to the bathroom. Inside there were all sorts of men styling their hair and taking up space. I yelled at them. "ok, you look good. get the fuck out." they listened. There are few Koreans that wont listen to a six foot two fat man.

I pissed and felt good standing alone in the stall. It was locked and I sat down and tried to collect myself. I thought I did.

I moved back through the crowd. I found a couple of my friends and told them I had to go. It was just too much for me. I couldnt breath. I couldnt handle it. I made my way back to where we had stashed our jackets and bags. There was a korean man standing in the way. I tried my best to try and get him to move aside so I could get my jacket. He would not move. I tried again. I pointed to the jackets, motioned with my hands that I wanted to get my jacket and go, but he was just trying to show his girl he could stand up to a foreigner. I punched him in the face. I grabbed his hair by the ears and pulled him down and kneed him in the face. He fell. I stepped over him and took my jacket and turned around to find one of his friends there. There was a security guard there just watching. I looked at him and said "I want to go home". He understood, but the Korean friend did not care. He jibber jabbered some stuff to me, but it didnt matter. I kneed him in the balls and when he bent over from the pain kneed him in the face. He fell over. I walked past and the guard made room for me. On the way out I found my friends and told them I had to go. They didnt know anything of what went on. I didn't bother telling them. I just had to get out. I had to get out of that hell hole.

I Startled Them

2003-09-16T23:34:00.000-07:00

Oh those fucking churchies are everywhere on this rock. They hand you all sorts of crap in the subway, and on the steps of the bus stations. They preach into old guitar amps and come by as you stand on the subway. Just the other day I saw a monk walk up the subway car throwing a card on a bunch of unexpecting laps. The old monk cant talk. No one gives him trouble. To my amazement, he walks back to where he started and begins collecting the cards again. My amazement hightened when I see people handing the monk "chun-wons" (roughly a buck). I saw a mom hand the card to her young son. She wanted nothing to do with that monk. Perhaps just not her denomonation.

The Female Korean teachers have all been turned to the church. They are infact religious freaks. They eat it up. Why? I have no way of being certain, but im sure the fact that they are unmarried women over thirty have something to do with it. They have failed in their parents eyes to fullfull their cultural "job", and have turned to god for forgivness. One of our teacher's even went so far as to say that Jesus Christ was her boyfriend. This same teacher left the school just last week to head off to Switzerland for four years to live in abject poverty with a band of nuns. She says she is going to become a "Missionary", but I think instead she's going for those sexy black and whites.

If you count the crosses from the roof of my school you will reach the number nineteen. Startled you are, this does not even compare to the number of reverse swastikas you see as you walk the streets. These houses of worship are everywhere, though tucked away better than the big red glowing crosses hanging about.

This evening after work while I was sitting on my bed "crunching some numbers" there came a few soft knocks at the door. "what sooth!"

displaying my paint stained oversized boxers, an old stuzzy t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and a mop of all directions, I walked towards the door and let out a "who is it". I heard a female voice and prepared for the ultimate of annoyances; my old roommates sex fiend ex-gf.

I opened the door and freaked out about six or seven churchies. Bibles in hand they all stepped back and looked all together astonished and rattled by what they saw in the door. I said in a loud booming voice "well hello there! how are you today? COFFEE!?" I beckoned them inside. Oh the confusion on their faces. It was priceless. I felt as though they had become something of a joy for me. One of them spouted something in Korean. I heard the word je-shush three times.

fickle as I am I tired of them quickly and looked at them sternly and said "Im with amway", closing the door as I fumbled "anee-ka-sayoh" (bye bye i think) and "shil-a-ham-ne-da" (keep up the good work).

Tidbits from Geumho 4ga

2003-08-17T23:33:00.000-07:00

You walk down the road from my school and you get to a large four way; a sa(4)goree. Crossing the road on the same side I begin my climb upward. Its not so bad from this side of the mountain. The road follows the mountain upward in a bow like fashion.

At the base of the mountain I pass the aja-maz(married women) working in the fruit store and hair salon. They seem to always know when im passing as I make eye contact with them almost daily. Up past the construction site of a very large church and towards the spot a man confronted me while I was walking my now ex-gf down to catch a cab. Up. Up. Up. Yup, up all the way to the 4th left.

Hanging a left, you are abruptly confronted with a very steep slope. When it rains, the tar they use to fill the cracks becomes slippery and one must use caution. Depending on the rate of rainfall, you might have to deal with a swift moving current.

Halfway up the profound gradient the smell is overwhelming. Handling sewage and rainwater is the duty of one pipe in Gumho, and my street provides the mountain with its pipe down towards the river. Because of the rainy season, huge steel grills are placed across all roads every so often. If you stood and watched the mung flow by, you are amazed at how much shit and piss is produced by the people of this mountain neighborhood.

Once up the steep slope the road levels off and its flat all the way to my apartment. I can walk from work home in about six minutes comfortably. Its really not that far...just steep.

I see lots of life on my street. Like most areas in Seoul, the ammount of young children running about and playing is pretty high. Its the elementary and up aged kids you never see doing anything but walking somewhere with a backpack. There are a few kids who use the street infront of my building as their playground. Their mob usually consists of about four kids, but on some days, that bubbles to almost twenty. My only relationship to them is that they say "helloooooooooooo" and I say "huggajibbagoogoo" or something to that effect and jump around and make them laugh. They are funny kids.

This past weekend there was a fire in one of the buildings just down the road from me. At the time I was cleaning the storage room out and thought the smell of smoke was dust and other crap rotting in my storage space. When I heard the sirens, I knew shit was going down, so I grabbed a can of beer from the fridge and went upto the roof to see what was going on.

I got upto the roof and did a walk of the perimeter to see where the action was. It was just down the road; maybe six buildings away.

While there was smoking coming from the building, it really wasnt all that thick. I was nervous when I heard the sirens. I live in a really dense neighborhood. Buildings literally hug the sides of other buildings. The possibility for serious fires is high I'd imagine. It's no wonder buildings here are framed using concrete, walls are made of concrete, and just about everything else is made of concrete. My nervousness increased as I watched a good number of koreans dash from their own houses with fire extinguishers of all shapes and sizes. In addition to that, I saw at least a hundred fire fighters, fifty police officers and another group of men and women armed with video cameras filming the whole thing.(Korean "officials" with video cameras are almost everywhere. Cops video tape demonstrations, soccer games, and all sorts of other events. I think is creepy and scary.) The smoke stopped and I was relieved. I went back down and finished cleaning out the storage room, which looks great now!

This morning as I was looking out my window, I noticed a couple of women who live across the road from me. One is a grandma, and one is a granddaughter. They opened the gate and climbed the stairs to their apartment. The grandma moved all the way to the door, and the granddaughter took her shoes off and climbed in through a window. A few seconds later the door was open or grandma. It was cute and I smiled.

A beautiful white with gold splotch cat likes the yard next to my building. It likes to sun itself just beside the red pepper plants near the traditional kimchi pots. It is a beautiful thing staring down into the overgrown garden, with kimchi pots glistening with rain reserves and the yellow blossoms of the unknown vine draping over the blue gate. It is a lush green plot with spots of colour inhabiting its terrain. It is a tiny piece of unkept nature. Something you really dont find much of in Seoul.

At night the blue flicker of Televisions can be seen eminating from most apartments. By midnight the silence is intermittently broken by drunk men and women walking home. By four that silence is broken by garbage trucks, scooters, and automobiles. By six Gumho is once again alive, and by nine so am I.

Let my Fingers Sing

2003-07-20T23:30:00.000-07:00

Inside those fields and orchards there are currents and ambitions. Flocks of flying creatures flap wings of desire and creative folly.

In the confines of my mind a universe exists outside any other. Solar systems of anticipation cluttered with planets of opinion and tactful scrutiny. Surrounding a cluster of knowledge and kindness, are fragmented moons of assumption and astute judgment.

Orbiting the planet logic are satellites of upset and disturbed emotions. A small bi-plane zooms by at lightspeed with a banner that reads "defective happiness can't be cured".

Mr. Function relaxes on the sofa and his mind pipes in images of panic and cold feet. Dreams involving the viciousness of man towards man.

Never in his life had he seen a flower that did not bloom blue. What was it about those organisms that made him so unhappy. Do not pay heed to those worries and wishes. "they're not worth the time" she said to him in a very garbbled and magic mumbo jumbo of sounds.

Time had brought vast roadways of invisible weakness to his universe.

Demolition has resumed.

Ali the Moto Driver

2003-05-11T23:27:00.000-07:00

The port that connects Phenom Pehn with the Ankor Wat(or Vat) town of Siem Reap is classic. I had to switch boats three times just to get to the clumsy planks resting on the trunks of trees and limbs. I almost went in three times. Thank god those Khemer dudes trying to get me to stay in their guesthouses were there to help me with my balance.

Luckily, I had pre-arranged a driver and so I just looked for my name scrawled on a very tiny piece of paper. Ali was his name, driving fast was his game. Ali ripped shit up on his 100cc Honda Dream. It was the bumpiest most swerviest ride in my life. 99% of the roads in Cambodia are unpaved tracks of dirt, rock, sand, very large pot holes, and speed bumps of all sizes and shapes.

Speed bumps were of no concern to Ali. He'd forgotten a roast in the oven I suspected, but it just turns out he knows the road better then I had expected. Even though his route was alltogether eratic, after being on the back for five minutes I felt safe on his bike.(he's been my driver for three days now)

I've done a lot of chit chatting with Ali. His English is quite good and he is teaching himself Japanese. Ali is quite smitten with his Japanese girlfriend. He even let me read a love letter written to him from her. "didnt want to profess then but did" and all sorts of other cliche love letter type things. It was sweet, but I only read half of it. I was on the back going at about 110km/h. I didn't want those pages of passion and lust to fall victim to the wind.

The sky in Siem Reap is crackling with lightning right now but earlier today it was bright, sunny, and hot. We were going to see a small waterfall up in the hills that had carvings on the stones as well as the river floor. Ali called the route to the waterfall a "walking path". The "walking path" that lead to the waterfall turned out to be the hike of a lifetime for me. It was only 3km, but it was rock and root infested. For most of the way I felt like I was climbing the decayed steps of one of the temples, then i'd trip on a root and Ali would laugh. Apparently in a year they will have Elephant rides up to the waterfall and rock carvings, but these days they just do it the old fashioned way.

The waterfall was small due to it being the dry season but the rock carvings on the river floor were pretty impressive. It didn't really matter at the time because I was tired, sweaty, and dying of thirst. I was literally soaked through with sweat. Ali kept me at ease with stories of how people steal the carvings to sell in Thailand, and how the Thai people want to make war with Cambodia so that they can once again reclaim Ankor for themselves. Siem Reap translated means Siamese Defeated. It is an area of this world that has the posibility of making billions. Ankor Wat and the temples around it are amazing, though dumb fucks have carved their names and messages all over the place. Even in trees!

Ali has told me stories of tourists getting caught in the act and seeing them being beaten by Khemer police. I say "fucking right".

Siem Reap has been a far better experience having the same driver everyday. I highly recommend it to anyone who travels here. If you are ever in Siem Reap, look for Ali and his bushy hair.