some girls

OMG I just got internet on at home. 100Mb/sec is what the thing says. I’m literally pooing my pants at the thought of being able to livestream listen to RRR Breakfasters tomorrow morning.
I was jumping the gun a bit the other day re: local radio. Because of all the hills not much can be picked up and there’s generally few songs and lots of blahblah.
I haven’t checked yet if I can key the iBook into using the connection here yet. My handler, miss park lent me her dextop pc which was awful nice of a thing to do.

Most of the time, outside of class is like being marooned on the set of Annie, and the town’s small enough that I can’t walk into a shoe shop without bumping into at least two of em. I’ll never have any problems getting a witness, an alibi, if I’m accused of something wrongly, because no matter where I walk there’s always at least 6 girls nearby. There’s 1200 in the school and 900 of them orbit past me each 5 days.

It’s interesting though. In the first week I put the question ‘what do you like doing?’ to all of them, and the widespread playing of computer games in this land is definitely no myth.
With such a mass, it’s the mutations that are interesting. Like, there’s a few of em who look a lot like boys. In fact, I think they are boys– they spontaneously changed in order to safeguard the survival of the species.
I’d be lying if didn’t say some of them were cute. I know they’re only 12 & 13, but barring some terrible accident with a mechanical rice picker, they’ll grow up to be gorgeous, and be flight attendants and get away with bloody murder.
There’s one girl who looks so Rock and Roll it blows my head — hair that has this natural unkempt cabbage-clumpy style and big glasses — she just needs a rickenbacker bass slung around her neck and voila.

It’s a ridiculous question at that age, but it’s in the syllabus, so lately I’ve been asking them what their dream job is. The best answer I’ve heard so far is Break Dancer. And the president of my fan club, a year 7 pip-squeak wid attitude want to run a pet shop. Doctor is popular, as is teacher.

On why easter has some egg in it

One sweet day jesus was crossing the road at the zebra crossing and got mown down by a silver Honda Civic.
The difference between alive and dead, here and there, was really quite distinct. Reflective white paint / dust-covered black-blue gooey stuff. That is, except that actually getting from one to the other took a while.

There he lay, several feet from the curb, all crushed and torn up inside. His back was broked and his lungs were poked. His ribs were smashed and his spleen was mashed. On that day, a child called Billie, took her trike for a ride.

She stopped near the dying jesus and got off. His worldvision was starting to blur and was gaining a purplish butcher’s shop-window hue. One of his eyes had swollen shut, he had blood in his beard and some road debris– wire– had caught in his hair. He’d been lying there half an hour and didn’t have much longer.

“Oh great. I’m saved”, thought jesus. “This kid’ll see me and get help. An ambulance will come.” He quit his slow crawl and stretched a shaking arm up toward the kid. He tried making noise but not much made it past the bile and blood flooding his mouth. It made a bubble.
He was making this effort but because someone had finally found him, he felt like he would be alright.

Billie frolicked about and then sat down on the curb near jesus. She looked at him.

She wedged a doll into jesus’ outstretched pain-wracked claw. Billie played, talked and sang to herself.
He expired like that and as he did, a hard-boiled egg, that he was taking home to his mother, slid gently from his other hand and rolled to a stop in the gutter.
Billie picked it up and put it in the pocket of her dress. Later on that day she gave it to a woman who she thought was jesus, because the woman had long hair the same mouse-brown colour as his.

From that day, it has become custom to receive an egg if not from a girl-child, then at least from a girl (or woman) younger than you.

Tigers and foxes are getting married

First it was nowhere really, then it snowed, then it was sunny at lunch/big play, then it snowed again. Then it was sunny walking home.

* * *

(haiku on the side of my ‘Little bunny Juju’ bin)

I’m going to
carrot field everyday,
image of her smiling face

* * *

I got a small radio/tape player. I haven’t properly listened to radio in months. The first song I hear: You Might Think by The Cars.
Radio makes me more human.

the land of the morning clam

“The Animals Is My Best Friends”retroactive fanks

This is a bit late out of the blocks, but kim’s guesthouse was the place I stayed after doing the winter camp finished in early Feb. (There was a few days at bucky’s pad in between too) but all up I was two weeks at the Kim’s place and I’m sure that, overall, the environment softened the transition between one full-on experience, and moving into the present set-up. It was kind of an uncertain limbo-time in a strange new land, so it was nice being around people all the time.

I can’t access Blogspot blogs presently – I think the skool’s blocking it. But first up I was dorming with brian and josh (who’s linked at brian’s).
There was lots of Japanese people blow through and all of them were nice, as in, polite and not with prickly egos like how westerns can be.
There was this Japanese girl who really liked to sing and on one occasion I heard her break into this Mongolian horse-riding trad. stuff which sounded amazing – with all of the unconventional note-shifting.

Like if it was a prison and I was doing life, I eventually got the choice bunk in the choice dorm. For a while there was an English guy and a dutch guy there. One night they went out and got sauced. The dutch guy puked in the room, albeit in a plastic bag, but the aroma was none to pleasing.

Pictured are a Japanese guy, another japanese guy named yasuo, who did computering at tokyo uni, which apparently is pretty hard to get into, some cute girl from Busan – who wanted to be a flight attendant but only had the marks to get into economics (those filffy economics majors), some uncomfortable looking whitey and a girl named Bo-ra — who was by far the most interesting (from the psychological POV) person I met during the stay.

She was born in korea but adopted by dutch folks and grew up there, with two other non-blood, also korean, sibs and a biologically related -to the parents- sib for good measure. This was the first time she’d been back to korea and was even just trying some of the national dishes for the first time with us.
She said she kept looking around the streets and subway and seeing guys who looked just like her brother — i.e.. her facial recognition cues were just as unadjusted as mine.
I just thought it was a rather bizarre circumstance to be in where a person had grown up being very much the outsider (europe has plenty of immigrants, but I don’t think many east-asians … Bucky also weighed in on this saying that adoption programs like that from Korea to western Europe + Scandinavia were going for a while during that time = late 70s early 80s but it was found that a lot of em were getting mental probs from growing up as such a small minority) — and coming to a place where she’s not given a second look, but not knowing the language or customs.

And of course there was the extended Kim family themselves. After a fortnight I was starting to feel like one of the tribe. Mr. Kim helped me tie my tie for the first recruiter job-innerview — he was unemployed, laid off from the hyundai plant, so I could dig the whole down n’ out lumpin’ vibe. Sunny (rightly) complained that she had to do all the cooking for the family as well as run the bidness, her brother drove the car and the kid, Na-something, brought me into first-contact with the fine art of snorting back your own snot rather than using a handkerchief. Although it’s a national pastime here, I will never get used to it or take it up. This kid sounded like a spitfire or something.

Anyway it was a nice place to stay. They have complimentary toast with strawberry jam and low-grade instant coffee that’s hard to beat. And you can take as many posed fotos with folks as your camera will fit.

I and Sunny wearing one of her trademark, kick-arse faux-velvet tracksuits.

Thrown Clear

As dear old Leo Johnson was fond of saying, “New Shoes”. I haven’t bought new sneakers in six years so excuse me for mentioning them because it’s an excuse for mentioning them. And technically you’re not supposed to wear shoes inside here but fuck that for a minute because for one thing they’re clean unlike the rest of this gutter trash country, and it’s my place so there.
Oh I like it here, I just wish that for heaven’s sake they’d buy a few street sweeping machines, and hire some cleaners.

He had those kind of teeth that were so gapless and white that you started to believe they were only two solid pieces of enameled calcium.
His pit was a great pit. Despite the grudge I held, I had to admit that even if I wangled my way from one contract to the next I could never hope to live in a pit like his.
I sat there drinking milkshakes, eating fondue, icecream, cheesecake and buttered scones with jam, and saw how he was transitioning from actor to director. How his future-self would one day hire his past-self to play the character he had become, in all but outward appearance.

He mustn’t have been looking when he stepped out, or if he was, he was looking the wrong way. It almost appeared that he was rebounding off the asphalt, off the front of the bus, and into the air the way a tennis ball would off of a school’s side-wall. The bus ground to a halt, leaving only the faintest of marks on the dust-coloured street.
They crowded around the unmoving, dobbled-over body.
His pants had come down to the ankle, down to a fetching pair of sand-shoes. Skid-markings on the outside-back of his white-cotton Y-fronts were undeniable. Hands were raised to mouths in shock.
“And yet, a handsome man indeed”–
he smells of dairy”, said others.
“I haven’t smelt-uh the reek of dairy products-uh like that since our excursion to the Maeil factory”, said one girl.

Proverbs 10:19 and onward, edited by team sunny breaks

When words are many sin is not absent,
but he who holds his tongue gets wet fingers

The tongue of the righteous is choice silver,
but the heart of the wicked is like, twenny cents or sumfing

A fool finds pleasure in evil conduct,
but a man of understanding goes to the Cineplex

When the storm has swept by, the wicked are gone,
but the righteous are forever shovelling snow from the driveway

As vinegar is to teeth and smoke to the eyes,
so a sluggard is to those who send him brochures

The prospect of the righteous is joy,
the prospect of the wicked is blocked by high-rise apartments

The righteous will never be uprooted,
but the wicked are mostly found in loose, moist potting mix

The way of a fool seems right to him,
but a wise man lets his wife go ask for directions

A fools shows his annoyance at once,
but a prudent man bottles if up and one day flips out completely

A truthful witness gives honest testimony,
but a false witness gets as much pudding as they like.

Soma 1095

This is one of the many local eateries. I’ve been to it a couple of times. It’s not bad. The dish pictured is called bibimbap. The first time I had it by myself I just ate it as is, but later found out you’re supposed to mix it all together. There’s rice under what’s seen. It’s pretty filling and vegetarian too. It costs about 5 bucks.

I don’t know how all these joints stay open. About five people work there, including two daredevil motorscooter delivery guys. One of them has his hair dyed orange with the blow wave and all — he looks like a muppet. Nice people though.

So much is out in the open here. Yesterday morning I watched my normally mild-mannered supervisor/boss-woman have a huge argument with another woman in the staffroom.

Last time I was hanging out, taking it easy and enjoying the delicious taste of pleasure with my buddies @ Soma95, one of the matre Ds comes in, tired and emotional and probably a bit toasted too, yells a bit and moans loudly and grief-stricken to someone out in the kitchen — while sitting in the restaurant. He was sitting right next to the kid.

The kid has been lying in that position like that the last two time I’ve been there. I’m there for at least half an hour, but neither time have I seen the kid stir an inch, which doesn’t seem natural. I got to thinking that maybe it was some tragic traffic-skittled-kid story where it was actually a taxidermy kid that the family didn’t want to let go.

I was wrong, I was right

They give me me own bible, and it seems that Revelation, with all the fire n’ brimstone etc is at the back. It’s the NIV – new international version. One could arc up about how it’s watered down and they’ve taken the full frontal nudity out, but the bible’s been edited so much that what should this matter?

There was yet another welcoming ritual the other night — dinner with the faculty. We went to a pork bbq place. BBQ here is not as I have known it. You do it right there at the table, and eat it in lettuce. They gave us 3 or 4 new teachers some (more) flowers. the effort isn’t lost on me – I imagine roses are quite expensive in a land where everything flora is either dead or seriously sleeping. No perfume though.

It’s tradition for the boss – the headmaster – to do shots of soju (the local spirits – I’ve mentioned that before) with the newbies but since I don’t drink he switched to pepsi. At some time during the night I switched from coke to pepsi a few times – oh baby – lethal combo. The vice-princy – aka medicineman also did this as did mrs.chun, who’s the home ec. teacher, and I think maybe a couple of others. Mrs.chun is pretty cool, her desk is next to mine. She does all kinds of zainy stuff like say the dinner is last week when she means next week.

All this is normal enough but then I was bundled up and taken into the surreal and murky depths of Noraebang aka kareoke. I had only just sat down when the drill sargeant started up with something local and yelly — the reverb on the mic. was horrendous but on purpose.
They immediately started badgering me to pick a song. I procrastinated, hoping I could wheedle my way out, but nuh-uh. I could see how what I chose was quite crucial in some ways and there was a lot of choice considering that englishy songs wouldn’t be quite as well known as local. Black Sabbath’s ‘Go to hell’ popped out. I kept flipping through – and settled on ‘let’s twist again’ by Chubby Checker — I have no idea why. I thought there was only a chorus. i’ve really only ever heard it on tv commercials. And the Jive Bunny version.

It was about the same as if a medium-sized mammal had died in the room. It was shocking. There was all these verses and I just read them as the words changed colour on the wall of nine televisons. I tried singing the choruses, but it’s hopeless unless there’s some cue as to what note I should be hitting.

In contrast most of them were fantastic, none moreso than the principal — just as I guessed. Miami Vice – the art teacher was pretty good. he frustrates me a bit because I’m strangulating myself regularly with too-tight shirt collars + ties, and he’s wearing don johnson. I didn’t know you could do that.
There’s another guy that I call Charles bronson — he wears a toupee. I don’t know why the toup is frowned upon. It’s kind of like a special hat. There’s another guy who I was calling spock, because he looks a bit like him, but he’s too madcap for that.

Most of these people don’t know any english at all, but spock knows just a little, but isn’t afraid to use it unorthodoxly. The little guy sitting at the desk on the other side of me hasn’t said a thing – I don’t know his name or what he teaches.

stories about eggs

One of the coolest thing I’ve seen is these sneakers that some kids wear which have wheels in the heels. There’s just one in each shoe situated somewhere under the ball of the foot, and when they angle a foot to the ground just so, the wheel connects with the ground — and hey presto — instant roller skates.

One of the most filffy, Fillfy mate, fillfy things I’ve ever seen is an infomercial for a b’dai (I don’t know how you spell it) that’s clocking around at the moment. There’s these two women and one of them folds up her index finger tight against her palm then squirts a stiff looking mustard into the central crevice. Next comes a wiping with a bit of toilet paper, leaving some lodged in the crack. CUT TO: close up CUT BACK TO: the two women talking, no doubt, about how this is what your sphinctre looks like right now, you dirty animal. This what conventional wiping is leaving you like. The fear factor employed is a pair of thin, white cotton underpants over the top and a stain showing – ie. the nightmare of four-dimensional skid-marks.
CUT TO: faces of people – squirmy yet exilerated as their crack-holes are blasted with warm-water from Brandname B’dai.

I’ll never look at mustard squirted into a clenched fist the same way again.

One of the things I really like about being here is that you can act as faggy as you like, flapping yr wrists about, twirling and dancing about and no one will ever give you an anti-faggy look. It’s really that low on the radar that it just doesn’t register in people’s minds at all.
And you’ve got to admit that skipping is a great and efficient way to get around… maybe I’ve been hanging out with 12y.o. girls too much.

On a different note, I’d like to say again what a great company Host Central is. Sunny Breaks is currently way over its agreed upon space limit because last week I decided it’d been too long since I messed computer things up. I got rid of Linux on the laptop, but had to find somewhere to stash loads of fotos first – answer – the webspace. I reinstalled OS X thinking everything would be fine and it’d connect to the school network no probs, but there were probs. Anyway, hopefully this whole stoopid connectivity problem can be rectified soon.