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