Of vampires, scuba divers and wafflers

Vampires drink blood. Scuba divers sip oxygen. And, pancake lovers suck the sap of maple trees.

To be the latter in Korea, you better be doing well in these trying economic times.

250 ml of Maple syrup = $19.75

Expectations, Packing and Pod People

There was a time when packing for trips abroad was a difficult and time-consuming process for me. Lists had to be made, laundry done, ziplock bags tested for durability, clothes evaluated based on complex weight versus usefulness calculations, and footwear selections bureaucratically drawn out by appeals processes and hung juries.

Luckily, those days are behind me now. Diligent practice, experience and repetition have made me an efficient and worry-free packer.

However, there is still an element of planning and preparing for international trips that I find frustratingly difficult. And that is the Art of Mental Packing (commonly referred to as AMP by those still working the steps in the Acronymics Anonymous Program which-- and this is neither here nor there-- is referred to as AA by those still working to admit they have a problem).

Although often overlooked, mental packing for a voyage overseas is the most critical and difficult of all preparations. If done poorly, even a seemingly fail-proof honeymoon to the Bahamas risks potential disaster and disappointment.

So, what is the most crucial element of mental packing?

For the Acronymics, it's: E.E.

For the rest of us, it's: Enumeration of Expectations

And, it is precisely at this step that I failed to prepare myself for this summer trip to Korea.

While my list of mental expectations included such things as: eating new foods, fumbling with a new language, meeting new people, teaching new lessons, learning new things, and seeing new sights, I never thought to include:

getting naked with a bunch of old Korean women, petting a snowman in a room of ice, watching new friends get cacooned by a mechanical Orgasmatron, feeling limp and relaxed in a room made entirely of charcoal, and providing English-language marriage counseling to a background chorus of salary men snores and the rhythmic purring of people dozing in public pods.

Man, how I love Korean spas!

Now that I think about it...., mental planning is highly overrated, and the plotting of international trip expectations is more a hindrance than an aid.

It's always the unexpected that we remember the most.

Of Clubs, Villages, Drums and Toilet Paper

Being an astronomy geek at age 9, I started a “Space Club” that lasted all of two days and left only two

crudely-painted t-shirts of Saturn as its legacy.

At 14, my friend and I started “R.E.S.C.U.E” which was a club dedicated to eating cookies in an empty classroom after school, writing letters for Amnesty International, saving bake sale funds to “adopt” Guatemalan children, and attempting on a weekly basis to remember what our club's acronym stood for.

Since then, however, I haven't really been one to join clubs. I find exclusivity unappetizing, specialization perspective-narrowing and acronym usage linguistically lazy.

But...., not only am I now a member of a club, I am a member of a village. An English Village to be precise. Our village consists of about thirty English teachers and ninety Korean University students. With demographics like this, we know that we have to work hard in order to compete in today's economic climate.

That's why we have dedicated ourselves to activities and pursuits that will best prepare us for the pressures of global village competition.

One of our central technical training courses focuses on achieving a Buddha-like balance between drumming and toilet paper management (see above picture). Our village experts inform us that, as technology improves and bathroom wiping tissue dispensing becomes automated, there will be an increasing need for village citizens capable of handling toilet paper with unfaltering metronomic precision.

As I am a fresh English Village Club member, gaining the ability to simultaneously beat on a drum and manage a generous length of unwieldy toilet paper is my first Right of Passage.

As you can see from the picture, even with the help of an experienced guru, I have yet to master this
simple task.

I'm told that meditation in the loo and daily rhythmic finger-tapping should cure my unfortunate habit of stepping on the toilet paper and aid in my ascension to Village Membership Enlightenment.

I guess it's never too late to join a club. You just have to be willing to put in a little work.

*Toilet paper seems to be a reoccurring theme on this blog. For more on the topic, see this post, this post, and this post.

Cultural Criminal in Korea

Not every criminal feels regret for his wrongdoings. Not every murderer of morals experiences guilt. Not every felon feels remorse or sympathy for the victims of his ethical transgressions. Ask the neuro-scientists who study psychopaths. They know. Ask the mother of a law-breaking child who consistently sneaks out to eat Hershey bars and ice cream when he knows he isn't allowed to have sugar before dinner. She knows too. Some outlaws simply feel no guilt.

But I'm different. I feel intense remorse for my cultural crimes committed here in Korea.

I've only been in the country for one week and already I've managed to condemn upwards of six people to years of solitude and loneliness without hope of intimate companionship, romantic romping or even light petting.

If only someone had told me, I would have been more careful. I wouldn't have done what I did. I wouldn't have committed such vile acts of atrocity, the horrendous likes of which could sentence so many innocent people to years of loveless sequestration. If I had known the consequences of my actions, I would have resisted the urge, battled the demons, and ignored the cruel compulsions.

What was my crime? What did I do to condemn so many good Korean people to years of quarantine without direct experience of the birds and bees?

It's so awful, it makes me cringe even to type it, but here goes...:

I poured my own drink at the dinner table.

Yes, it's true. I'm ready to accept responsibility for my actions now. I picked up the pitcher of water and refilled my own glass! There, I've said it. And, it feels good to get it out.

If I had only known the consequences, I could have saved so many love-seeking women from years of sadness and misery. If only I had known the cultural implications of pouring your own drink in Korea....

It wasn't until I had already left a wake of victims in my path that one of my students finally explained to me my cultural faux pas. Apparently, in South Korea, if you pour your own drink while sitting at a table, the person sitting across from you will not be able to find love or a boyfriend/ girlfriend for 3 years. A pretty brutal sentence for those urged to marry within their age and class bracket before twenty-five years old.

As cultural superstition would have it, every time I went out to eat with my students, I was not actually helping them practice and improve their English as I had thought, but rather unwittingly condemning them to loveless isolation.

The fact that they still like me is a miraculous testament to the existence of true selflessness.

I'm off now to atone for my atrocious sins. Maybe it's time I rectify my wrongs, take a new lord and savior into my heart and pick up a new hobby (soapstone carving has always interested me).

Not every cultural criminal is immune to rehabilitation.

On Fakes, Faking and Toast

Who can spot a fake?

Not everyone.

But, I can.

And, maybe you can too.

I can spot a fake smile, a fake nod of approval, a fake boob job, a fake prosthetic limb (in the nude), a fake offer to help excavate dog doo from my shoe sole, a fake claim of rational non-fallacy, and a fake Virgin Mary outline on a piece of toast, given the right lighting conditions.

After all, this is the age of faking… we have to be prepared.

Our peers, children, neighbors, government and media work hard to ensure that we see enough fakeness everyday to acquire sufficient fake-sensing, personal radars.

I mean, just imagine how much fake-ological evolution had to take place in order for us to get to the point we humans have reached today. How many of our ancestors had to ooh and aahh at the seeming miracle of toupees, drop jaw at the magician who cut a woman in two, fear death and anguish for coveting a neighbor’s really cool four-wheel drive before we could recognize the bright orange hue of a FAKE sun tan?

Yes. We should be much better at spotting fakes by now.

In a time of fake fantasies, fake fur, fake beef, fake weapons, fake Rolexes, fake teeth, fake evidence, fake IDs, fake memoirs, fake lips, fake Louis Vuitton bags…
We should definitely know better…

BUT, I sincerely hope we haven’t learned yet.

And, I say this because, I myself, am on the verge of embarking on an adventure of “faking,” and I whole-heartedly hope that nobody notices.

I have just moved to a new city and taken a new job for which I feel myself completely unqualified.

If anyone spots this fake in the act of faking, I will be pressed to conclude that the theory of fake-ological evolution is indeed true.

Job Position Available: Ruler of the Universe

/Geek Confession

I’ll be looking for a new job soon. I’m pretty sure I want to be Queen of the Ants.
Well… that, or Big Blade of Grass among all the grasses...

In any case, I’m not the only one looking for a job with high aspirations.
A friend I met a few years ago in Nepal sent me an e-mail today, divulging his ambition to get a job as ‘Master of the Universe’.

And, it struck me that he might not be the only one with this desire.

So, in hopes that I might help others out there with a similar goal, I am posting the following job opening that came to my attention through secret channels of cosmic networking and job-searching:

Job Title: Chief Executive of the Universe

Position Summary: The Master of the Universe or CEU is responsible for implementing the strategic goals and objectives of the Universe, and is accountable to the Scientific Laws which currently govern the Organization of the Universe (as well as to the Board of Organizational Chaos). Working with the Chair (whose dark matter-infested offices in the Small Magellanic Cloud Galaxy are in the process of relocation), the CEU is responsible for giving direction and leadership toward the achievement of the Universe’s philosophy, mission, strategy and universal light year goals and objectives (whatever they may be).

Qualifications:
-Advanced degree in Confusing Little Life Forms (or related field)
-Minimum of 10 billion years of administrative/managerial leadership experience related to planets, pulsars, quasars, comets, binary stars, neutron stars, globular clusters, OR confusing Little Life Forms
-A history of responsibility for multi-galactic matter profit and loss
-A sense of humor

Knowledge, Skills and Abilities:
-Earned reputation for creative ‘big picture’ thinking, reasoned problem solving, and capacity to put good ideas into practice
-Ability to manage processes of creation and decline while simultaneously confounding the Little Life Form
-Evidence of success in securing planetary, stellar and galactic support
-Strong networking, conflict resolution, space-time dialogue and subatomic communication skills
-Untaught natural capacity to laugh, create and inspire organic and comedic evolution
-Ability to speak and write persuasively with passion, lack of clarity, beguiling purpose and de-emphasis on meaning (multilingual skills required)

Please send cover letter and curriculum vittae to any address you feel like. Please no phone calls or emails. We will contact you if you are right for the job.

Editor’s Note: I’m not sure, but I think if you tell them your best friend is a dwarf star, it might help your diversity standings among the competitors...

Cosmic Holes, PMS and Perspective

It’s that time of the month again.

It’s that time when blood flows from me, and I stick spongy cotton up my entrance way in an attempt to thwart threats of panty paint scribbles and menstrual malodors. It’s that time when the haphazard viewing of a wailing baby and the sing-song intonation of a bee zzzz-ing around a flower fill me with purposeful understanding of an interconnected world- cyclical, alive and fertile.

But, more importantly: it’s that time when I have a socially-acceptable excuse for being unpredictable, socially intolerant and seemingly uncaring of the petty, personal plights of others.

This month, the timing couldn’t be better.

It just so happens that over the last few days I have been feeling abnormally unsympathetic towards the woes and tiny traumas of my fellow humans (…or, hu-people, as we feministically-correct like to call us).

I pity every emotion-exposing soul-bearer who has shared their problems with me recently only to get a slow shrug and a “so what?” eyebrow flick in response. Each and every one of the confiders deserves better…

But what can I do? I have been busy. I have been busy braiding my thoughts into rastafarian dreads, trying to contemplate the vastness of the universe and the immensity of potential nothingness.

Yeah..., it sounds like philosophical hopscotch on a bed of psychedelically-altered, eastern-religious rice, I know, but it’s pretty sane stuff. Really. Especially, considering what we are learning these days…

Astronomers just recently released their findings of an enormous expanse of universe devoid of anything…er… everything… (See this and do some googling). Basically they just found a huge patch in the universe’s quilt that has NOTHING on it. This means that grandma didn’t embroider any holiday prints there, didn’t glitter-glue any decorative sparkly stars, ringed planets or any visible, shiny sequins. She didn’t even spill any tea or release any scented, dyspeptic gases there. It’s a big, empty patch in our universal quilt with NOTHING on it.

And by big, I don’t mean like the size of your rich neighbor’s pimpin’ new Sports Utility Vehicle with GPS and automated pubic hair-drying capacity. It’s not big like the size of your ex-lover’s thighs, your continent, this planet or even the Milky Way galaxy. It’s more like 1 billion light years in diameter big…

Well, let’s try this. Have you ever spent a romantic night under the stars and wished that you could take your sexy companion to the brightest star in sight for an evening of nefarious debauchery? If you had the right travel agent who could book you a flight traveling at the speed of light, you could get to your destination of passion and unbridled euphoria in no less than 2 years. Yes, that’s 2 light years, minimum.

However, to cross this patch of recently found, grandma flatulence-absent cosmic nothingness would take you I BILLION years, traveling the speed of light. Business class.

Yeah, it’s pretty damn big. And pretty astoundingly vacant. And pretty thought-masturbatory.

So, this week, when people told me about their malfunctioning iPods, bedbug infestations, childhood traumas, psycho boyfriends, and parking dilemmas, I had to giggle at the insignificance of their perceived catastrophes.

Luckily, I could reference the socially-accepted ‘woman’s bloody time of the month’ excuse for my lack of sympathetic decency.

And then, I could go back to worrying about my apartment deposit and Lindsay Lohan’s cocaine-anaesthetized rhinoplasty…

Beard Confessions

I’ve never understood why criminal confessions were so hard to get.

I mean, why does getting the truth out of someone always involve some torturous combination of physical brutality, psychological attack, inhumane intimidation, threats on family, sleep deprivation and ridiculous good cop/ bad cop routines (at least, in the Hollywood films and in U.S. off-shore detainment facilities)?

I just don’t get it.

Getting someone to confess their most hidden, unspeakable inner secrets is easy.

I do it every day.

All you need is a broth of new culture, a pinch of mild alienation, one heaping fingernail full of introspection, and a foreign language to translate the flavor. That’s it.

I mean, if I can do it, anyone can. I was never trained in the art of interrogation. I’m just a high-poverty-line ESL teacher. And, yet, just this week, I learned about a Taiwanese man’s forbidden liaisons with a Chinese woman of royalty, a Korean gal’s botched reconstructive facial surgery, and a Saudi Arabian’s story of claiming his wife upon first sight at age five and ‘re-having’ her at age 14.

And, it’s true. Speaking a second language allows you to say (and even think) things you would never feel comfortable or permitted to express in your own language.

That’s why I wasn’t at all surprised today by any of my students’ summaries of their respective childhoods. (We were practicing the form: “I used to…”)

“He used to jog, but now he watches 'American Idol'.”

(Aww… that’s cute.)

“When she was young, she used to collect stamps, but now she doesn’t. And she used to love 8-Man. He was a power magic cartoon hero. But now she doesn’t like.”

(Aww… that’s cute.)

“He used to use scissors cut worms. He used to pretend like he famous cooking chef… But, now he doesn’t cut worms. However, he is good at cooking.”

(Aww…that’s cute… in an I-used-to-fantasize-about-sea-urchins kind of way)

“She used to have a beard. She used to feel embarrassed because of beard.”

(Aww…that’s what? A beard? Why, that’s just trauma with fewer calories.)

“Yes, uh, she used to have a beard. This beard it was very dirty and it make.. uh.. made many problems. It is- was very noisy and it sometimes make-made messy. But now, she doesn’t have a beard.”

As a compassionate teacher aware of the unintentionally-revealed secrets exposed when conversing in a foreign language, I nodded and smiled, thinking to myself what an adept extractor of buried confessions I was. Yes, I had uncovered a poor Turkish woman’s young struggle with facial hair. So there, Guantanamo Bay questioners! Eat my graceful, torture-less tact!

Of course, now as I’m beginning to get my resume together for the secret service interrogation job I have always dreamed of having, I’m beginning to doubt my super-extraordinary, clandestine intelligence-unveiling abilities.

After all, when a Mexican from Guadalajara says “beard,” he probably just means “bird”….

And… unfortunately, I can’t think of a single Intelligence Agency that would be impressed by an interrogator with unmatched ability to expose past pet information.

(“Yeah, he might be planning to simultaneously detonate bombs in every Starbucks around the globe, but I’m not sure. What I do know, though, is that he had a guinea pig named Poinky when he was eight.”)

I’m ready to admit that I might not meet the qualifications to become a successful interrogator.

My aspirations of becoming an animal psychiatrist, however, are not yet squashed.

(“As a young parakeet, he was once called a mustache. That’s when all of the psychological abuse began…”)