Expectations of my First Winter Camp

Winter camp! Hey you guys! Winter camp is here! YAY! It's like camp - but in the winter. All those fun activities we are going to do.  All those learning opportunities.  All those memories we're gonna make. 

And the children.  Oh, the children!  They are going to be the most wholesome, leave-it-to-beaver types.  They're gonna be like. "Gee Mister, you're thuper thtrong."   Their lisps are going to be ADORABLE. 

I know it's a little early but that will add to the mystery.  Dunkin Donuts, you're up at this time too? Crazy! Woah, look at everyone else up at this time.  They are goin to be singing and dancing in perfect morning choreography.  It's going to be freaking Mary Poppins in this joint.  

And then the sun will rise and everyone will take a moment to bask in its radiance.  They'll breathe in the low net with eyes closed, standing on their tippy toes and floating in the ever so gentle wind.  Is this perfection? They'll wonder.  No, their inner reflection will reply.  This is Winter Camp.  

Flow

My friend read one of my blog entries the other day and said he liked it.  Being the ego whore that I am, I asked to hear more. "It was good because it felt natural.  It felt earnest. It felt like your weren't forcing it.  Sometimes when you write , I think you're trying too hard."  Aside from being an abject lesson as to why you should not pursue compliments, it raised some points.  

I can accept I am a writer. I have been published in different formats and to varying( read, middling) levels of success. I used to say I was an aspiring author until my beautiful lady pointed out my former academy has published ten and plans  to publish over sixty more of my short stories. So this is a thing for me. It is not a hobby nor an interest.  It is not a job although I occasionally get paid.  Even if the payment is drinks coupons at a rainy beach party or a discount on sausages.  Having the ability to write and know that that will pay the rent and put mythical children through college would be nice. Then again, so would 'lottery winner' and I do believe there is a comparable amount of luck to both gigs.  

Now this is where some people disagree because they think you can work at your writing.  To some degree they have a point.  Salman Rushdie says to aspiring writers (and therefore not me, clearly) to treat writing like any other job.  You sit at your desk from nine to five and DO YOUR JOB.  The more you do anything, the better you get at it. My friend from the beginning of this article likes to punch and kick things. He's not a crazy homeless man. He is a martial artist.  He says muscle memory requires doing the same thing ten thousand times.  I have not written ten thousand notes.  I've barely written 'the' ten thousand times. Clearly working at your passion improves your appreciation of and your ability within said passion. 

So where does this friend get off talking about trying too hard?  He must be taking about letting my writing flow naturally.  To have an idea and to express it easily.  How lovely! What a wonderful notion, to take any opportunity and any subject and just be able to expound effortlessly.  Sometimes of course that's not possible. 

Everything is hard to everyone all the time. I am going to disregard the babies who can shoot three pointers or mathematical geniuses.  They're genetic freaks, so far outside the norm as opposed to be needing to be shunned by the norm.  I love those guys but they're not you or me. Everything is hard to everyone all the time. My friend, who I realize is taking a few too many rides on the example train, may be great at getting someone to tap out.  It does not mean he can do it without exerting himself, without thinking it through, without accepting and working through the problem. 

So when I write, occasionally  I'm blessed with a revelation. Awesome! Now I have  writing fervour.  Sometimes something interesting happens. Cool. I have a fun story to embellish.  WHAT ABOUT THE REST OF THE TIME? I have to write about something! I have to make it witty! I have to be socially relevant! By writing more and more, I can write more and more. I am not alone in this process. Runners love being able to push themselves further in more torrid circumstances. Painters live for creating 'their best works yet'. Both do not come overnight.  They come through many, many hours of suffering and torment.  

So, I say to my friend and I say to you.  Yes, sometimes my writing will stink.  Sometimes it'll jar and you'll want to give up on me.  Sometimes you'll want to compare my writing to shoving a stick up your arse, dipping it in tar and then spreading it on the wall. Recognize that it's all part of a larger process to self improvement.  Believe that one day, something amazing will come out of it. Then recognize that within your own struggles in your own passion.  

On the subway, on the bus, we ride the journey of missed opportunity.

I'm a foreigner in a Korean city who spends two hours every day on public transportation. As soon as I sit down on a subway the whole bank of seats becomes clear within three stops.  I reckon I could clear a whole carriage if I stayed on the subway long enough.  It is the same on the bus.  Every other seat could be occupied and people would rather stand in increasingly more confining spaces than be sat next to me.  

Somewhere on here, there's a space next to me.  

This is surely a missed opportunity.  Koreans spend lots of money on their English education. Talking to me is a free English lesson.  I'm happy to respond to anyone asking me questions.  Hell, they can even ask me questions about places I've been and things I've seen.  I'm a dictionary, a travel guide and Wikipedia all rolled into one.  I'm the freaking Internet with a smile and minus the virus.  I would also like to meet new people and give what Tyler Durden refers to as 'single serving' friends.  

"Oh no, you didn't just use a 14 year old reference!"

Although, lets be honest, that doesn't always apply to me.  Sometimes I do want to be left alone.  Sometimes I want to just stare out of the window and think deep thoughts, normally what I want to eat, where I want to eat it, and how quickly I wish that to happen.  Sometimes I want to not talk to a stranger.  It's nothing personal. I mean it can't be;you're a stranger. It's not like celebrities are clamoring for my attention on public transport. 

Rihanna may be a multitalented entertainer with millions in the bank, but all she really wants is to talk to you, then take your seat. Stay back, Rihanna!   

If only there was a simple way to let people know that you're approachable.  Students have traffic light parties where the choice of colour worn indicated their level of sexual availability.  Perhaps something could be worn by people who want to have conversations on public transport on buses.  Some bright orange armband.  Then other people wearing the same armband could recognize a kindred spirit and join them.  No, wait. I see what I've done here. That's Jews and homosexuals  in Nazi germany.  Damn.  

               I'm an idiot, sometimes.    

The fact is we are all social creatures living in an increasingly sociable sterile environment.  I can say this knowing those hermits who wish to argue with me would be, by their very actions, acting sociable.  Sociable and ornery, certainly, but still sociable. Maybe we should accept that and turn round to the person next to you and say 'hey'. Maybe when the person next to you says 'hello', say hello back. You may find you have a lot in common.  I'm sat next to a woman right now as I'm typing this.  I know she keeps looking over my shoulder and is reading this.  I just looked over at her after I typed that and she closed her yes, feigning sleep.  Don't fake a coma, lil' lady. Point out my typos and tell me what you think.  Nope.  She is actually asleep.  Bad example.  

There were clues.  

Be excellent to one another. Chicks dig scars.  Movie quotes starring Keanu Reeves aside, they have wonderful points.  I am here to show you guys that are inching your way on the freeways in your  metal coffins that the human sprit is still alive. 

'Dude, I'm not doing the Point Break remake. Patrick Swayze's dead now. Show some respect.'

Your public transport journey is a part of your life.  Get busy living.  Or do the other thing. 

Humbug Thoughts on a Xmas Eve Morning

  

As I sit on the 349 heading downtown on a brisk morning, I find myself asking myself some questions and getting precaffeinated answers.  My brain does not work so badly in the morning; rather it fires off different axon trails that are often better left unused.  Occasionally though it makes me write about fast and the furious.  I apologize for this. 

I woke up to children singing the chorus of 'So this is Christmas'.  In my brain. Repeatedly.  Their devilry hypnotized me into deciding to buy presents.  Milady and I chose to go no gifts this year.  We are pretty skint after we chose to go on vacation for three weeks in South Africa. We chose well because it was a fantastic vacation but now, with less than 24 hours to Xmas morning, I am terrified of no presents.  The silence associated with no ripping wrapping paper, no heartfelt thank yous or squeals of excitement.  The inactivity as no one scrambles to find more presents from hidden recesses or to announce which bag is for collecting trash.  The lack of shit. The lack of a perfect gift.  The lack of a moment.  When will I get my moment? Bah humbug? More like, dammit, I really screwed the pooch on this one. 

So I panicked.  I got showered,dressed and headed off to Hot Tracks.  Buying for Nikki is somewhat easy. She loves stationery. She thinks pens and notebooks are groovy.  I think she's groovy ipso facto, stationery are let through my velvet rope.  I can afford stationery.  I'm not THAT broke.  My business is doing quite well considering I'm selling food during xmas in a country where that means more pot luck dinners than you can shake a stick at.  But now the heart flutters as I realize I'M BEING A TERRIBLE BOYFRIEND.  She was working under the assumption of no gifts and she's getting these things from me. I'm Neville Chamberlain and I've made Santa into hitler.  Wait, in that analogy, am I Hitler? Oh G-d that's not good.  

But now I'm locked into this process.  If I come home without presents, milady will know I went out on Xmas eve morning and CAME HOME WITH NO GIFTS.  Imagine as a child your dad going into a toy store as you waited outside, licking an ice cream.  You wait ten minutes and then he comes out with nothing.  You now hate your dad a little, right? Oh dear.  I'm a deadbeat dad.  To my girlfriend. On Xmas. 

The bus has been playing Xmas songs.   The eternal hellfire repetition of 'Feliz Navidad'.  The mournful sound of a saxophone instrumental version of 'Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas'. At least it is better than a restaurant I frequent. They have a Xmas Playlist consisting of songs, of the variety done by cover RnB singers who fly all over the vocal spectrum in lieu if being able to hold one note for any appreciable amounts of time.  Bah humbug. 

  People are not going Xmas shopping.  This is Korea.   People go to work dammit.  People to to school and learn shit! They do not look concerned about presents at all.  I wish I could lean over to the woman next to me and ask 'What would you like for Christmas?'  I'm fairly sure she'd have a palpitation.  I look over at her an smile.  It was meant to convey 'don't worry, I'm not going to freak you out.'  It failed in its conveyance.  She got up and moved to a new seat.  I am alone in my suffering.  My bus has arrived.  What do I do? What can I do?  

Ah Xmas.  Your emotional rollercoaster has once more started its inexorable journey. The feelings are back.  The sickness in the pit of my stomach.  The sweaty palms.  The frantic eye tic.  All symptoms that Xmas has arrived. 

Merry Xmas.  Jesus, who'd go through all this, eh?

The Lamest Addiction

I have a problem.  I gamble too much.  It's been debilitating and its nearly ended my relationship with the woman I love. Friends are surprised she stayed with me; many have confessed to her that they wouldn't.  Thank you for the support guys.  

I have not gambled now for 100 days. It is a big deal for me.  I am slowly changing the algorithm on my YouTube preferences from wsop poker show reruns to Tales from the River Cottage cooking shows.  My nights end with TV shows, not free roll tourneys.  My life is more boring yet a lot more fulfilling.  

My friends have been supportive. They are completely against me gambling, except of course, for some gamblers.  However their support structure has shown me something key.  

Gambling is not a sexy addiction.  

When I tell people I stopped gambling, the overwhelming response was 'good! Gambling's stupid, pass the chicken.' My friends eat a lot of chicken.  

Imagine that response if I said I had an addiction to crack.  'Yeah, yeah, whatever, crack.  Shut up and pass the lamb chops.'   In this alterniverse my friends dig lamb. 

It's the Assumption I'm alright. The assumption that a decision has been made and that everything is done with.  You wouldn't think that of an alcoholic or a smoker.  You wouldn't think a meth head will be fine to be left alone with cash on a Friday night and make responsible decisions. 

So why is gambling put in this boat?  It's not sexy.  It's not substance abuse.  It doesn't damage your body, unless you count pulling all nighters at the casino as a thing.  It's a dude losing his money.  It's silly, it's harmless, it's fun.  

It's sporting.  Poker made a bid to be counted in the next Olympics which is o course hilarious.  But TV spots and sporting personality sponsorship deals has conferred a legitimacy to a game where statistically, 98% of online cash belongs in 1% of the players' pockets.  

It's a dream.  Getting something for nothing. And yes, most players are out for a jolly good time and they know they are never going to land a big score, they know they will probably dust off their cash in their wallet. But there's the thought of five 7s lining up, of hitting pocket jacks on flopped trip aces and winning a Bad Beat Jackpot, of winning it all.  

So when you tell these people you're not good with gambling, that you have a problem with it, they see it skewed.  They see it through their eyes.  They think you had a bad run, or are having gambler's remorse.  The fact is, I could go on a winning spree online playing tournaments and not sleep until the cash games took it all away again.  

My friends think I'm 'good' at poker. Some of them think I'm 'bad' at poker.  I think cards and chips mean nothing to me at the table. It is purely the rush of playing.  It's all I crave and win or lose, I want more and more.  

One drink is anathema to alcoholics, one more hit a bullshit line for a crackhead. So when I say to my friends I quit gambling, why do they ask me when the next game is? Keeping lighters in the house can be all a smoker needs to start up again, why are my friends chatting about their winning sessions in the casino to me? 

I thank everyone for the support. Lets keep this train rolling.  By the way, wsop started again this year.  I am not watching it. I'm not listening to the four different podcasts available for it.  Poker rats and full tilt remain off my computer and iPhone.  My wsop cigar ashtray has mysteriously disappeared and my friend's poker chips are with another friend.  

I'll probably slip at some point.  That's statistics.  But until I do, I'll just keep playing games of crazy eights, asshole, beer pong and of course Ne'er Ever have I ever. 

 Peace.  

The Day Daegu Went To The Races

Another successful Saturday night.Your usual mix of drinks, fights, hugs, tears and laughter.

But that's another story.  I absentmindedly put the soccer player's jockstrap off my head and into my top shirt pocket. Again, that's another story. 

Yes, like a handkerchief.

I went to the taxi rank and stood in the organized line. We all dutifully waited our turn. Ha, how weird would that be! It wasn't a particularly memorable taxi-line fight. I held my end up but I felt the other participants were lacklustre at best. So after clotheslining the woman in the improbably high miniskirt I was free to choose my ride home. Her gurgled response from the bloodied Tarmac seemed to say 'You were right David.  These clothes were unsuitable to win a taxi fight.' I nodded to her, accepting her acceptance, and opened the taxi door.  That's when it all went wrong. 

The cab driver was listening intently to his cb. It was odd.  The guy was not watching TV.  He was not listening to Korean Traditional Trot. My ears thanked him. He seemed almost nervous. No, scratch that. He was anticipatory. Like a rapist watching a roofied victim slowly become relaxed, he seemed to be biding his time. I have ssen that look before. Whatever, I don't care. The dreams are fading and my music teacher still writes to me from prison.  Now who's crying?

Hopefully, Djokovic again.Come on, Murray!  Tennis, that's a real sport. LOL.

 I just wanted to go home.  I told him  where I lived in my perfect cabnbeerean.  Nothing.  I repeated myself, figuring he was one of those cabbies who needed repetitions.  Nothing. Suddenly the cb went off.  I would not normally notice except my drunken ability to understand Korean had somehow ameliorated to outstanding.  I understood everything being said. 

"Drivers to the start line. We got a race." The cab started. I was pushed back by the force into the seat. The bucket seat. Something was off. I looked around the inside of the cab. It was very bright.  J.J.Abrams would have been blinded by this lens flare. What the hell was going on?

The inside of the cab was not THAT different by Korean standards.

The cab drove through to the Kyoungpook Uni HospitalSubway  crossroads. The police had lined up the road for their night time drinks checks. Only.. Some cars were just waiting there.  And they were not your average Sonatas or Matizes.

Also, it appears they are on fire.

And one of the policeman looked oddly familiar. 

No way.

Best. Photoshop. Ever.

 It was then I also noticed something about my cabbie. It was not that he was lacking in Korean features. It was that he was overcompensating by having all kinds of Bro. There was so much Bro coming off this dude, I felt the sweaty strangulation of a thousand polo neck shirts being worn at once.  I looked across the way. There were signs this was not going to be your usual ride home.

The rules were simple. There were no rules. The other rules were: you had to get your fare home and back again. I laughed at this. I lived so close my boy just had to win.

"Hey man, what's your name?" I asked him.

"Pau - I mean, Brian. Brian Pillbox. Or something."  I was impressed with his ability to remember almost half his name.

"Brian, I live literally just down the road. You cannot lose."

"Oh man, That's what Liddy said. Then she died and came back to life."

"I'm sorry. I don't know what a Liddy is. I'm an English teacher. I use real words."

The next rule according to the ludicrously afroed policeman : go to the 24 hour burger King drive thru and collect whatever the fare wanted to eat.


"Dude, That's awesome. I want a double whopper no cheese, chicken royale, fuck it, I'll have a Royal Box. And a Coke  Zero."

Zero times any number equals zero. That's why I don't put on weight.

"No, you'll get a hamburger. A generic hamburger. Our shoot cannot afford to pay our sponsors."

 "BriPaul, I don't think that's how sponsorship works. And you say 'shoot', like this is a movie. Is this a movie? Am I going to be on Korean television every day for the next four months?"

"Shut up, just let me drive."

"Okay, but I do want a whopper."

"I told you! Generic names only!"

"Okay I'll eat a Biggie. Is that racist?"

"I honestly don't know what is racist anymore. I race against latinos, blacks and asians and I always seem to win. That can't be right, can it? I mean, the Law of Large Numbers would dictate I would lose eventually. But no, the white man is superior in every race. What's that all about? And I only lose to some guy whose ethnic background is so unknown, his DNA is probably some kind of pumped up quadruple Helix*."

Honestly, this may have been the most words that Paul Walker has ever said in a row. and I had to make it all up for it to happen.**

"Okay, well some kind of a large burger, then."

But seriously, I was hungry.

I'm just saying, this is the driver for fatties.

The cars lined up and we got ready to go. Man, I regretted winning that Taxi Line FIght...

TO BE CONTINUED

  *

Obligatory pic of the Deezer. "What is it Precious, WHAT IS IT?"

**Also, not to take away from the moment, but how funny was it to have his dopey bro accent say "Quadruple Helix'?

Email Transcripts Between A Robot and its New Hagwan Boss

Do's and Don't Of Summertime

When contemplating the summertime, people in Korea relish the opportunity to, you know, really do something with their weekends. And when it comes to weekend activities Korea is Instagrammingly awesome.  As ever, with these moments there is a right way and a wrong way.  And, as ever, I have lists these impeccably.  Honestly, at this stage of the game I am nailing it harder than a hammer. A Hebrew Hammer, if you will.

Ha, remember when I did sports? No, me neither.

Going to a Sports Event

Do -  at this stage all the ex pat leagues have shut down, are shutting down or should be shut down.  Not permanently guys, just until next season. Luckily Daegu's bevy of sports franchises mean you can go to a game and watch professionals play the game you play, albeit with maybe a little less style or alcohol.

Unless this guy comes back from the dead.

Me and my friends.

An action shot of said sporting event.

Book your seats in advance, budget time and money, and you are almost guaranteed great memories that will be best expressed by facebooking endless photos of you and your friends' faces in some kind of stadium over and over and over again. Make sure to include one fuzzy image of said sportsman doing nothing in particular.  Now all your friends will be jealous.  

Don't- As  far as you are concerned, these overpaid hacks are embarrassing the noble game of baskbaseultisoftballs you have been championing for the last however many Sundays it took for you to lose in the first round playoffs to that bullshit team made up of probable semi pros who grew up together inventing the game.

Cue a joke about Chris Keeler and Paul Groba getting angry.

 As your combination of rage, depression, loss and sense of victimization swirl together in a cocktail of sweaty shitty beer and sweatier, shittier soju, remember this.  You are a paying fan, and paying fans are expected, nay obligated to tell players how, why and when they suck. Combine this with good acoustics, lack of English being spoken and small crowd turnout, you can really get inside that foreign player's head. Take the time to google everything about him and remind him of his failures as a husband/lover/student/mariachi, as well as reminding him his career has almost certainly not ended up the way he hoped.   The tears, they will taste so good.

So, so good.

Hiking - 

Do- check the weather on this one. Dress appropriately. Bear in mind snakes happen after rain.  I assume because the raindrops allow them to go freestyling down the slopes.  I don't know.  I hate snakes.

Look at that evil bastard.

Anyway, go early, so you really enjoy those views of tiny cities, or farmland.  Take photos, to prove you are totally into this thing.  Health, or whatever.  I don't know. Health, snakes, same same. Make sure you see that giant Buddha/stone/monastery.  Yep, holy introverts went out of their way to plant that shit right out if the way.  So you better find them and take pics. Holy pics.

"Seriously, is this guy just going film us praying? Because I need to fart and the bubbles are bad enough...."

 Oh, and take food and drink.  Do not be the guy in the group who 'forgets' and makes everyone give one bite of their food.  It is awkward for everyone.  I apologize again to the Apsan Tour of 2011. 

Don't -  This hiking seems to be like walking. Walking upwards through trees.  It doesn't seem that hard.  Step things up a notch.  Get to the mountain a day earlier than everyone else. As we all know, hiking is strictly set between certain hours probably.  Rig the mountain with just the right amount of landmines. Pay one class of middle school children to don war paint and teach them how to use bows and arrows.

Obviously not this bitch. She just hides. Like a bitch.

Release a crazy dude with a chainsaw and a motion tracker.  Any of these are good. However, whatever you do, wait until your friends are halfway up before you tell them your game changing plan. At the end of the day, as you shiver in a combination of fear and exposure, hiding next to the last monk standing in the shell of a burned out monastery, remember this.  It's not hiking if no-one dies.  I learned that from Predator. 

Should have stayed in Office, Dude-anator.

Going to Seoul 

Do - Don't.  

Don't - Do. 

You're welcome.

Enjoying Some Culture

Do - oh my days, Korea is full of culture.  And I'm not talking that Frasier Crane, sniff but don't swallow malarkey either.im talking soju wine tasting, bull fighting, herbs and medicine, mask making hootenannies.  I'm just saying rednecks and Koreans are probably related. And doing each other
 

Pictured, Evidence.

.  Enjoy doing the cheesy, rural bumpkin stuff. What are you, too good for a hay cart ride? You're probably from London, aren't you?  Or New York.  Or somewhere else where your heart has died. Well, compare fifteen different ginseng infusions and tell me your soul did not just leap up for joy.  

Every single person in this pic is living the dream, people.

Don't - approach Korean culture the same way you approach a crazy old lady. Open arms, smiling, yet be cautiously aware she could have a brick in her handbag. In fact, approach like you ARE a crazy old lady.  

Nailed it. And by it, I mean two out of three of these got some Hebrew Hammering. The chick said no.

These ladies seem to get deals and discounts and front of the line privileges.  I say dress up like one and enjoy your day out, first class Gangnam style. A moment for my writing as I reference such clichéd tedium. Allow your inner ajumma out.  Elbow anyone you like, especially, and this is the best part, other ajummas.

AJUMMA FIGHT! My money is on the garishly dressed one.

Get first dibs on the fairground rides. Refuse to pay for anything shouting "He stole my money!" and point at literally anyone. Finally, insist on getting someone else to give up their seat.  In the bathroom.  

ENJOY YOUR SUMMER!

Why I don't like going in the ocean anymore

A standard frolicking on the beach involves me staying well away from the water's edge.  I can never go back into the ocean again.  

Last time I went in there, it was pretty scary.  Damn shark came at me.  Big shark.  Shark had teeth.  Luckily I had seen Tomb Raider 2, so I knew how to be sexy enough for it to think I was Jon Voight's daughter.  After that, I relied on its good filmic knowledge to recognize a Hollywood legacy. The shark had seen The Karate Dog.  Revenge was all it wanted.  

To be fair the last good film Voight was involved with was Holes and that was ten years ago and how old do you feel?

It opened its massive jaws. I grabbed the top mandible forgetting about physics,particularly the one about how sharks going forward and moving forces things through its mouth.   As my body was dragged into the gaping maw my feet found purchase on its infinite rows of serrated teeth.  My corns thanked me sarcastically. Pushing off with feet belonging on a Die Hard set I lifted myself out as the jaws came down and we broke the surface.  I could hear screaming.  It had too much bass to be my own I reasoned so I must still be in the game. I looped over the nose of the behemoth and rode it like like a monkey on a broomstick.  I could see it was taking me to shore. That was its first mistake. Shore meant land and land sharks were not a thing.  I laughed at it. 

"You stupid shark, I will crush you," I thought, as the remains of my urine soaked its right eye.  

             Seriously, everyone does it.  

We both hit the beach at the same time and suddenly I was a flying eagle.  Then, just as suddenly, I was a retarded turtle wedged into the sand. The shark bounced up the beach.  My brain went into committee mode, arguing the philosophical ramifications of this. 

"Did you see that?"

"Did you know it could do that?"

"That's not even a thing!"

"It's a thing! It's a thing happening right now!"

"Listen, I studied at some if the finest universities in the world-"

"Ooooh, you big liar, you...hang on, It's about to land on you."

            Like this. Only on a beach. 

The thought was right. About me not studying and about the shark. I rolled over, partly to survive and partly to show what the shark was missing out on. I do have some lovely man meat. I'm fat, is what I'm saying.  The shark landed on the sand and fixed its one good eye on me balefully. The other eye had gone the way of Ammonia. G-d bless nitrogenous waste products and the micturative process. Hmmmm, maybe I did study a little.

                  "My eye! Why?"  

      "Because, shark, you are a shark."

I stared down the shark.  It was not impressed. It bounced again, another twenty foot front drop that BAGA trampolinists could only dream of.  I scrambled to my feet and waited for its fall.  I had one shot.  I prepared my deadly Muay Thai kick.  The one move I ever did right at Fight club.  A monstrous affair, combining science and joy with generous seasonings of rage and frustration.  

"This is for my prom, Andrew Fletcher" I whispered.

   I waited all night for you to pick me up. 

  As the shark came down I brought my leg perfectly into its eye and kicked through the animal's skull. The animal spun backwards and fell, never to rise again.  

So, apparently, it's really easy to confuse a land shark with a helpful dolphin.  Also, I've been banned from going in the ocean ever again. 

THE END

Thoughts inside my student's head

"Good afternoon teacher!"

Oh man, I hate myself.  I am such a phony.  Every single way that statement could be taken is a lie.  I'm not having a good afternoon at all. I wish I could just be honest with him.  Oh no, he's asking what day is it today. I don't know, David Teacher, if that's even your real name. I DON'T KNOW.  I know it's a simple exercise. I get what you're saying. Please don't repeat the question.  Everyone's staring at me.  I have been up since five this morning just crushing my brain with endless lists and rote repetition. I don't even know what ideas are my own and what has been implanted. Now you want me to bring in sequential time period ordering?  You're an asshole.  Okay, calm down. It's either a Tuesday or a Friday.  Today, Mom cried over her rice because the Soju had not been cleared up. Friday then. 

"Friday, teacher."

Yeah, yeah yeah. Don't you give me your bullshit congratulations.  Just walk on, fat man.  Oh man, what time is it? It must be time to go home soon.  Forty three more minutes?! Noooooooo!  This can't be right.  It might not be.  The clock looks blurry.  Hell, everything looks blurry. Four hours sleep a day makes light tracers around everything.  Soooo pretty.  

Homework time, huh? You are one sick bastard, David "teacher". It's one thing to make me listen to your voice on MY computer in MY house during MY time.  It's messed up that you're talking about things you like to do in your free time. I accept you are all about the cruel and unusual.  But making me mark my own work in class? You're a dick, dude.  Straight up douchenozzle. So no, no I will not call out the answers with you.  This is not a game. This is not a team sport. 'We' are not a team.  You are not my captain.  You're the enemy. I'd kill you if I thought you had a soul.  

Oh thank whatever religion my parents are into.  It's over.  Now we just have to relax and wait for the bell to... Thirty five more minutes!? How did this not end? Why does Time and Space hate me so much? 

Okay. This is awkward.  Polar Bear Teacher is looking at me and smiling.  What do you want, you foreigner? Wow, am I ... Racist.  Nononono, I can't be. I'm Korean.  Koreans can't be racist. That's just good science. What does he want?  I will express my confusion at the situation and ask if be could repeat the question.  

"Teacher?"

Nailed it.  He's talking again. Gah.  This guy and his words.  Read the passage? What passage,dude?  I don't even have my book open. Do I have my book? Yes, there it is.   Time to look industrious.  Open the book and we're turning pages and we're turning pages and there's the last page and we're turning back and we're turning back and we're looking at my neighbor's book and we're turning to that page and done. Made it. How do you like them apples, huh, teacher? Huh? On the right page and everything.  

What? You want me to read now? I just turned to the right page. Fine.  Work me to death.  Come on neighbor point to where we are.  Dependable neighbor. Ok' Reliable. I hate you, neighbor.  

"Before bed, he enjoys taking a stroll, reading a book and watching television."

What the hell am I reading? Seriously, what are we reading? Is the teacher self promoting? Well done for having so much time free to walk around, read a book and watch TV.  You have us in a classroom, it's a beautiful day and boasting about how awesome your life is.  That's bullshit.  And everyone else is just reading it?  Open your eyes, people! He's  toying with us!  

Oh, a question to answer. What would you like to do in your free time? Pretty ignorant question if you ask me.  Which you did. Man, that answer space looks huge. What is that four, five lines?  Hang on, would.   I see. They are asking what would I do if had free time? Well, at least they acknowledge I have no free time.  That's something.  Man what would I do?  If i had free time? That's  a huge question.  Fly a dragon right into this academy, have my reptile monster tear you limb from limb, teacher.  Eat an ice cream as my neighbor screamed and laugh as his face was covered in filthy foreigner blood.  Invent a time in the day when everyone has to stop moving and just hum and the whole world joins in and the sound leaves the atmosphere and aliens hear us and realize that finally, true human unification has occurred and we are ready for them to give us the next evolutionary leap.  Sigh. Express that in four or five lines.  Unlikely. Here we go.  Yeah.  That will work.  Fat Boy Teacher is looking at you. He must want your answer.  

"Sleep."

Good enough. 

Man, I sure hope life after kindergarten gets easier.  

Phone Noir

Phone Noir.

The day began as ever, with hazy recollection of the night before.There had been Soju.  I knew that.  There had been shouting and finger pointing.  There was always those things with Soju.  

There had been boasting.  Manly boasting.  Big man boasting.  Anthony talking about his big brown beauty.  Nick talking about his woman and how they liked playing with her magic hole.  Jeremy and how his could light up his whole life. And I was jealous, gorram it.  Jealous like a fox.  And I said the stupidest thing ever.

"Fine.  I'll get a phone as well."

I swore I would never get a phone again, not after last time. I swore I would never go back.  I made a promise to myself, to my lady... Damn. 
 She might leave me if I got back into that world.  I walked away from all of that.  And now I was going to go back into the Lion's Den.  

I scribbled a note. "Gone shopping. Back soon."  The sin of omission weighed heavy like an Eskimo woman's nipple in the dead of winter. I pulled out my bag and felt the cold steel inside. History repeating.  I strapped the holster and checked my magazines were still oiled. 

I hate shopping for phones. 

I walked to SK towers.  I hoped I could avoid seeing him. There was enough blood poured on the pavement every day.  I did not want to add to it, one way or the other. The towers had three phone shops.  Get in, get the phone get out. Avoid the smartphones.  Avoid the contracts. Avoid getting contracted.  Avoid him. But the world has spun. The corner qook store, deserted.  The subway KTF, nothing more than whitewashed windows. The roadside LG, nothing but a pair of massage chairs left in the place. Someone had squealed. Someone ratted me out.



He knew I was coming.  He knew I was coming for a phone. 

I tried. I went to Beomeo.  I wanted to not go to that place again. I would do anything to avoid that place. I could not risk letting my inner beast unleash. I went to Dunkin and got my Cuppa Joe and a cream cheese beigel.  The girl seemed so innocent. 

"Do you know where I could buy a phone around here?"

"Oh no, sorry.  No phone stores here, David."

She knew my name.  Dammit! I felt a cold sweat, I wanted to pull the piece there and then and let hellfire take us all.  Get a grip. That's what he wants you to do.  I smiled and walked away. I looked next door where the Olleh Superstore put paid to her lies, put the punch line to his joke. 

Well, shit, two can play this game. 

I walked into the superstore and walked up to the prepay counter. The two salesmen looked at me uneasily. I looked at them hard and long like something pornographic. I sauntered over to one of the plastic desks and sat down.  I slowly ate my beigel letting crumbs fall on their floor. They looked at the floor, the ceiling, one of them even started to gorram dust the counter.  I chewed my last mouthful then stood up suddenly. They dove behind the counter. Pussies. Then again, this was never in their pay grade. They thought it would all be shiny suits and grabbing girls off the street. They didn't think I would ever be back. I thought about making an example of them. Then I remembered my mission. I wouldn't have enough bullets as it was. 

I walked to the door , my silhouette fill the room.

"Tell him I'm coming." 

______________________________________________

The subway ride was exactly as expected.  The carriage cleared as I sat down, two ajoshis staring at me from the exits. 


I stared dead ahead. History repeating.  Get the phone.  Get out. No contracts.  No 4G. No more blood than absolutely necessary. Banwoldang music playing like a bagpipe of retribution. I got up and tipped my hat to the old men. They shook their heads in amazement. 

"You crazy bastard, I hope you live," their blank gazes seemed to say.  Up into the sub mart.  Twin Ollehs marked their territory here. I knew it was futile.  I knew it was only sucking time from a vacuum.  I knew I wouldn't just do what he wanted. I walked into one and could feel the eyes from the salesmen from the other store throwing daggers. I knew I couldn't be long. My stoic outward appearance belied the manic laughter in my soul.  The monster was coming out of its cage. I approached the counter. 

"Hi, my son needs a phone.  We're looking for one of them iPhone Sixes with the Darth Vader hyperzoom big screens, bi enough to take a picture of the moon at scale. It's gotta have retina control, remote control, raisin control. You hear me, I want it to control raisins!"

"Um, no English ."

"Sure, I hear ya, I hear ya.  How about one of them satellite phones? I'm talking Vietnam, drop the rain!"

The unmistakable sound of lacquered leather shoes running made me smile at the poor boy. His friends were coming to save him. Only thing, who was going to save them?

I grabbed the boy and dragged him over the counter. I dragged him out to the fountain forecourt and threw him towards his five compadres. They skidded to a stop on the tiled floor. One fell in the fountain. 

"Boys, we can do the easy way or the -" I began. 

They screamed and ran at me. I smiled. Okay then. The really easy way.  

The blood washed well enough away.  The ajummas' screams would take longer. Focus.  Just get the phone. I walked past the police station. They were closed.  Figured. They would not want to get involved in this.  Not on this day.  Not after last time. 

Phone street. Son of a bitch. My own hell cycle.  Shop after shop after shop all run by the man, an army of ill fitting shiny suits and polo shirts.  A cacophony of K-Pop.  They all walked out of their shops and they carried enough to drop King king. All this for little old me. And then he came through them.  

Damn The Man.  He smoked his skinny cigarette like a Korean movie gangster, that is to say, like a geek sucks on a strawberry milkshake. He smiled his oh so cool little smile.  "He thinks he won," I thought.  "He might be right," a thought betrayed. "You're old. You might be too old to do all this again." "Shut up, brain. I have no time for you."

"David, it is good to see old customers again." Strawberry milkshake sucking.  "I thought we agreed it would be better if you didn't come here again. You chose your phone.  How is she?"

I smiled, masking my grimace. Hiding my torment. Stuck in WiFi purgatory, a mask of perfection hiding the grim inoperative reality.  

"I want a phone.  No reason to lose anymore of your boys". 

"We have many fine Korean smartphones.  Pick one. We have great two year contracts. Do you have your alien registry card?"  The Man started to laugh.  His men started to laugh.  Dammit.  The beast was already out. Oh well. 

"I don't want your skinny breakable pieces of shit that last two hours fully charged.  I want a brick. I want a solid piece of European fashion.  I want twelve hours at ten per cent. I want to play Snake and feel the luxury.  I want a gorram Nokia 3210."

The guns slid into my palms and the weight felt so good. 

"And no contracts!"

________________________________________________

....I don't know how much time passed. Hours, minutes, seconds, microns.  All I knew as I limped away blood coagulating around my calf, the smoke tearing my eyes, the screams pinging through my ruptured ear drums, all I knew was this.  

You couldn't change the situation.  This is phone town, Jack.  

But I got my phone.