What better way to take advantage of a peaceful people than by robbing them at fake gunpoint with the BB pistols they sell to a person of any age. I couldn't believe the realistic quality the first time I had one pointed at my face by a mentally handicapped child, but even the weight of it in my hands makes me want to pistol whip the first fool to flagrantly disrespect my authoritah (you older folks probably miss the South Park reference and that just makes me sad) I feel that I've been too cordial about cultural relationships. I think it's high time I prove that nobody fucks with America on the world stage or in a tightly packed aisle of a stationary store. You want to trust people? Not anymore, I'm gonna send you running for the hills in your soaked shorts. Fear me not my government, for guns don't kill people, I do (with the help of my gun of course).

Don't get me wrong, I paid for the pistol. But I thought about the irony of stealing it by robbing the place with their own merchandise.

I never thought I'd say this, but at some point in my old age I think I'll be a crotchety old man about some things. For example, it's easy to make fun of the grandpa that tells everyone a million times with vigor and anger about how he used to walk to school in the snow, uphill, both ways. But I now empathize with that ubiquitously known diatribe.

It occurred to me the other day that I too must go uphill to and from school on my bicycle. Yes it is possible, and with all the free time I have in my office to waste on extremely pointless (or do I mean poignant) rants. To strengthen this seemingly arbitrary rant, I made a corresponding arbitrary graph (please refer to fig. 1).

Of course rants are utterly useless with fudged and groundless statistics alone, therefore I have made a list of things I bitch about when riding my bicycle to and from work:

1) Why does the second biggest intersection in Seogwipo not have a streetlight or stop sign for ANY of the 5 roads that converge?
2) I have some grief with the lack of smog checking in Korea.
3) I will NOT ride on the sidewalk with all the pedestrians. It is a known fact that wheels belong on the road, feet on the sidewalk, and skateboards in jail cells.
4) When there is that bike lane on the "highway" sections, could you people refrain from parking your cars there? I hate getting clipped on a 30 mph downhill by a dump truck because your lazy ass couldn't park 50 feet further down the road at the parking lot.
5) Learn to drive. I learned. You can learn too.

I hate to go out on limbs, but I'm feeling so primordial I might just delve into my inner-monkey and swing from this elated and elevated branch under my feet.

I had the most rewarding and inspiring day yet in Korea.

It all started three days ago when I began teaching my winter English intensive class. Basically, I have 3 hours a day with 15 kids to teach whatever I deem dire and delightful. The first hour I split it half and half with writing and reading. My students are presented with a prompt each morning, given 20 minutes, and are expected to write SOMETHING. There is no minimum requirement, no level of expectation, no grade given... I simply kick back and wait to filter the gold nuggets during the reading portion. They know that I promise them regalement and sweets afterwards, but as a teacher I think it's necessary to increase the fluency with kids. By having them read and write everyday (at their level and interest) for one hour, I believe, is increasing their confidence in "linguistic Qi". Yes, that's right. The flow of potential linguistics accumulates within their frontal lobe and like a fire-cracker will explode from the capital orifice when the fuse of reluctance extinguishes. (boom goes the Korean student)

Anyway, back to my crackin' day...

Today was a free-flowing exercise inspired by the five senses. I set-up five stations designed to isolate each one of the five senses. At station one I enclosed the TV in a box, instructed them to plug their ears and watch scenes from A Scanner Darkly. Station number two had them blindfolded and sitting listening to the song 3030 by Deltron (aka Del the Funky Homosapien, yeah, that arrogant prick). At station number three I had the winner of all sensations: Oobleck. In case you forgot, it's 3 parts cornstarch to 2 parts water and it makes a killer procrastination device or is just plain wholesome fun. Then at station four I sliced a chunk out of my Old Spice (deodorant is practically non-existent in Korea), put it in a cup and covered it with a coffee filter so they couldn't see it. But the trick of all tricks was at station five where I blindfolded children and force fed them 99% Cacao chocolate chunks under the guise of education.

The lesson was a huge hit with the kids, but most rewarding was the writing they produced for me. I did not make them write much, but I had them write how each sensation made them feel. I got responses like, "I am very angry", "I feel punished", and "Is this crayon?" from the Cacao station. I got some great responses from the Deltron 3030, but the one that I thought I'd get the greatest responses from was almost all blank because the children a) couldn't express what they felt with the oobleck b) did not know how to describe it, even in Korean, and c) spent too much time playing with it than writing.

That was pretty much it for the day. I never have felt better about teaching. I am 100% positive that every child left with a smile on her face and that's all that matters for me. It only got better at the private lunch I had with my host-family, co-teacher, and principals. I came into it thinking:

"This is it. This is what they warned us about at the Fulbright office. I am being asked to change home-stays and they feel this is the only diplomatic way to do it. It's like an intervention. No, it's a band aid. That's what it is. I'm being kicked out of my home-stay and fired in one big fell swoop. Essentially, that's like a deportation isn't it? Oh god! Fuck you Fulbright! You didn't warn us about deportation!"

Whew! It turns out, they just wanted to praise my teaching beyond reason, exaggerate my abilities at Korean, and invite me to continue teaching with them the following year. I explained my immediate future plans, but promised them that I'd return someday, at least to visit.

The "drive" my parents took me on after lunch was probably the funniest experience I had with my host-family to date. In essence we parked ourselves on the fashion district road because that's what people do on that street is stop in the middle of the road for no apparent reason. It must be the equivalent of cruising the strip, but as I've come to realize in Korea, police don't do jack squat in this country. There will be a car parked without a driver in the middle of the road at traffic hour, blocking buses, and pissing off anyone within a one mile radius of the scene, and the police will cruise up to the car, blare their horns and wait for the driver in order to say something futile, irrelevant, and that disempowers them as an authoritative force. No tickets are issued. Nothing happens. I don't get it. In America, cops are constantly busy with crime, but in Korea crime is about as occurrent as Haley's comet. So why is it that the Po-9 don't issue a ticket to some imbecile who thinks he can leave his car unattended on the main drag? Anyway, that's what my family was doing, but we stayed in the car while my host-mom reached over my brother to give shout-outs to her ajuma friends at their boutiques. After crawling through town, we went to get some coffee, which my consumption of such brew confuses my host-mom thoroughly. She seems to believe that if I decline it once, I hate it. So when I order coffee or say that I like it, she thinks I'm lying and/or don't mean it. It's a power struggle for the waitress to finally scribble Mocha on her pad, but hey, at least I am getting to practice some Korean with my host-mom.

When it comes down to it... I finally felt desired by both my family and school. Maybe it's just been the cultural differences in showing appreciation, but having a big lunch at the beginning of my second semester clinched it for me, even if I get the shaft on cultural and social invitations for the rest of the year.

Word.

"Who is this mystery man?", you may ask. Well, let me introduce you to the man with whom I am the object of his affection. I don't know his name, mainly because Korean names sound all the same to me. Jesus, that's a pretty awful thing for a cultural ambassador to say, but it's true. I know about 14 names out of the 224 students I have (and I learned almost 10 of those today while my students made self-portrait collages). In fact, I think you're getting a little peek into my private joke that being a cultural ambassador to Korea has actually made me racist: "Haha! All Korean people have the same name and look the same too..."

Good Lord, I sound like a prick, but hey, if you don't know I'm pushing the envelope then you don't know me and need to lighten up. I embrace the humor that wavers over the edge of disaster because I know my open-mind is dragging netting wider than ever and that's purely influenced by my time here in the far east. Nonetheless, I think my jabs have become less PC, but it's like the saying I coined just now goes... Political Correctness is for the bored and boring.

Anyway, back to today's topic... your mystery man in the photo above.

I know him as The Copy Guy. He's a very nice man and in actuality, the only person to engage me in conversations and actively pursue my friendship. Yes, in all seriousness, no one at my school has attempted to include me in any activities outside of school related functions. Which is fine because they either are alkies or too Christian for my blood.

An Example of Thoughtlessness:

Alex: "I want to go to Bumsum, the island off the coast from our school, can you get there?"
Male Korean Name: "No, well, yes, you can get there but it is hard. Many people fish there or near there."
A: "Oh yeah?"
MKN: "Yes. Do you like fishing?"
A: "Sure, I'd love to go sometime, but I don't have any gear."
MKN: "Ok. " (says something in Korean to other male teachers)

The next day a car pulls up to me and it's the same guy I spoke with about fishing. He opens up his window and tells me that he just went fishing. And then he putt-putts away in his Daewoo.

Distracted yet again...

So, The Copy Guy, he's a nice fella, but the problem is that, well, he's the copy guy. His English is non-existent, and my Korean is EXTREMELY limited. But what makes the problem worse is that he's... the copy guy. What I'm tiptoeing around is the fact that being a copy guy is not a highly selective application process. If you can press buttons and not drop stacks of paper on the floor, then you're pretty much hired. This relates to our relationship in the fact that, well, he's not the fastest rat in the maze and I don't think he can speak Korean very well. And on top of that, I think he has a speech impediment. So essentially, we don't communicate AT ALL, yet he tries every time he sees me.

I applaud his efforts, but it gets more awkward than Dave Chapelle's character of the blind, black KKK-member. I really don't know how much longer I can pretend to understand what he's saying when we sit and "talk" for 20 minutes over a cup of coffee.

But really, the copy position is probably the smartest field to enter if you're on the dim half of stupid. Every time I enter the copy center at my school there are one of three things happening:
1) Smoking
2) Sleeping
3) Leaving Las Vegas (subtitled)

Smoking indoors is common in Korea, so the copy room reeks of stale smoke and printer chemicals. And in the corner of the room, the boys (The Copy Guy and The Janitor) have set up two couches, a TV, and something resembling my childhood pillow forts (which I am still not too old for!) behind a set of cabinents to make it discreet(which it is not). Now to make this position sound even more enticing, this entire month The Copy Guy has been "on vacation", but he's still at school. I entered the steamy, gassy, and smoky copy center around 11am two days ago to find my old pal passed out with a blanket covering his trousers. I left him some papers on the desk, unaware that he was "on vacation", and came back the next day to find my papers missing that I absolutely needed for my class that afternoon. I found a translator and The Copy Guy and learned that he was doing above and beyond his call of duty to get me those copies by 1pm that day. A total of 125 pages took less than five minutes, but regressed our relationship back to square one, now being merely cordial, as I begged him to get me those copies 24 hours after they'd been given to him. He acquiesced and since, well, let's just say that I drank my tea alone today.

Here's to The Copy Guy, smart enough to get the more than comfy and easiest job around.

Now that I'm back in the grind that consists of my desk, computer, coffee-maker, leaky gas-heater, and candy stash meant for my students, I think it's time to write about my hooligan traipsing through the south in a broad sense.

Let's see, I believe I left out some adventures about Bali. Arriving in Bali after spending a few days in the droopingly humid Malaysian jungle was a bit of culture shock. Needless to say, it only added to my discombobulation when it was brought to my attention that I had crossed into the southern hemisphere for the first time in my 22-year 10-month existence.

Anyway, the arrival at the "compound" was flooring for two reasons: The villa that towered over us, and the little sandwiches that greeted my clamoring stomach. Forget the 8 staff members, infinity pool, silken drapes on the canopy beds... I was down from the start with a private cook. I mean, I wish that I had the ability to cook (as you might recall, my patriarchal submissive host-mother won't let me touch the toaster), but I like waking in the morning and being poured a cup of coffee and asking for my eggs over-medium so I can mop up the yolk with those freshly made croissants.

What I'm saying about Bali is this: I have never been so pampered in my entire life. I've never had someone unfold my napkin into my lap for me. Hell, I was almost certain they'd wipe my ass if I dared ask.

I can't see my life mimicking such ludicrous vacation hospitality, but if I ever get the cash flow, and State Department warnings about Bali do not contain the phrase, "terrorist attacks are imminent", while listing the many types of threats posed, then I could consider a regular vacation at the Emerald Sunset Villa in Bali, Indonesia.

So, in Korea people do things that, to me, seemingly makes no sense. There's the people on the train platform that try to be first on the subway to get to the open seats. However, they press so closely against the doors that they aren't able to let the people on the subway car off! I don't understand how this little old woman who barely reaches my third nipple thinks she should power through half a dozen anxious bodies to get a seat that everybody would stand up and give to her anyway. Then there's the taxi drivers that ask you where you want to go, look at the address you hand them, then say they understand, but go the wrong way after you tell them to go straight, just to pull over and ask for directions.

AND THEN there's the guy that sits in the middle of the street on his chair...

But let's be honest, that pales in comparison to the absurdity that haunts the Korean streets. Oh yes, there are freaks, ghouls, and punks that roam the urine soaked alleys and dank marble lanes of the youth crammed corridors of debauchery. Places where the businessmen loosen there ties and aid drunken cohorts towards singing rooms. Where apologies are unnecessary for indiscretions, and semblances of such sorries are only mirrored and mitigated each week. Meanwhile, these distractions from civilized life are provoked further by promotional hussies in four inch inseam length spandex shorts dancing to a soundtrack evoking Tae Bo flashbacks from jazzercise junkies. But it's the drug peddlers that get my goat... damn pushers of medium grade alcohol that call themselves: Sojumen

Wait! Is that Sojuman pouring a peace offering to his northern brother Kim Jung Il?
Yes. Yes it is.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aiDfTRSJIl8
Some people shake hands, others wave, but the cool kids give dap. A good cultural ambassador teaches the vital cultural phenomena of America.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dap_greeting

I have the question of the ages:

Which is more pathetic: Two drunk senior citizens getting into a slap-fight at noon in the middle of the street, or a drunk man stinking up the train with the puke that's all over his seemingly peg-leg?

Well, if you've never seen the sights of Seoul, you're in for a treat because it's got all of the above. The inebriated hordes of middle-aged men have never really struck me as ludicrous until today. I'm clueless as to why none of it has shocked me, but I need to make the statement now in order to redeem myself.

It is unacceptable for anybody to be passed out intoxicated before sundown, belligerently aggressive at noon, or uncontrollably vomiting upon oneself in public.

It's high time that the drinking culture of Koreans be analyzed. I, however, am not qualified to do such a task, nor willing, as I am a notorious loaf.

Drinking aside, I am currently involved in a whirlwind tour of Korea. Cheap accommodation in Korea can be found in the hush-hush back alleys that are strewn with the neon gyroscope guiding lovers to kinky havens. Circular beds, themed motels, excessive hygienic products, free porn, and late check-outs are all too common in the standard rooms... I only wonder what kind of pampering is provided within the walls of deluxe suites. Anyway, if and when you all come to Korea, talk to me beforehand about crashpads, I'm your informal expert these days on yeogwans, a.k.a. "love motels".