The Daytrippers

Because I'm now officially a married man again,

(women hit on me more/I sulk about my apartment in my boxer shorts, scratching my ass)

I have certain familial obligations to attend to. Last week, these consisted of traveling to Seoul early on Saturday morning for Chuseok breakfast at Legs's father's and, two hours later, more Chuseok food at Legs's aunt's. Trust me, Constant Retard, I was stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey and then some. The Yoo family, you see, loves to eat. Also do they love to force feed me against my will, so much so that last Saturday my belly was stretched prodigiously enough that the next morning my abdominal muscles felt as though I'd done a couple hundred sit-ups the day prior. Spending time with Clan Yoo, I've discovered, is an exercise in gluttony -- a gastrointestinal Olympics, if you will.

Today was more of the same, as the missus and yours unruly woke up at the crack of dawn to travel to Gwangju* to visit Legs's mother's grave and make merriment with the southern chapter of the Yoo-Tang Clan. Anybody who knows me knows that in the morning my stomach is weaker than Kool Moe Dee in a fruit fight, so I was reluctant when, immediately upon hopping into Papa Yoo's ride, I was persuaded** into ingesting pastries and pumpkin (to quote Jules Winnfield, the cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast). Ugh. Then, not an hour later, my stomach lurching like Davey Hogan at the pie-eat, we parked at a rest stop for bibimbap***. Assa!

OK, now I'm good. Really, I probably won't be hungry for at least another six hours, maybe ten.

I didn't actually say that aloud, of course. That would have been foolish; because I knew it wouldn't be long until more food was forced upon me like Kobe Bryant on a Colorado hotel employee. Word to the Borg: resistance was futile. As predicted, all manner of seasonal fruits (pears, apples, rice wine) were consumed at the grave site, and I should mention -- in passing, as it were -- that by then I desperately wanted to break wind. Like a motherfuck. But I only fart at home or in church, so my flatulence would have to wait.

And wait it did. Because straight after our visit to the grave we made a beeline for a restaurant serving octopus prepared in every way the human brain can conceive, including the simplest: live. Just what the doctor ordered. Boiled octopus, wriggling octopus tentacles, octopus heads****, octopus bibimbap...that was pretty much it, actually; but there's still time for my suggestion of ham and cheese served between two octopuses to be added to the menu, God willing. I'm just waiting for Bobby Flay to steal my idea and recreate it on Iron Chef America*****.

The meal was further complemented with plenty of beer and soju, and while I love me my libations, I was more than a little concerned as to how they would impact our journey home. Not stomach-wise, mind you, because I only get carsick on boats; no, I was mostly worried that my liberal intake of alcohol would in a few hours' time turn my bladder into a panicky little sissy boy and that, stuck in Sunday evening traffic, I'd wet myself like Ratso Rizzo on his way to Florida******.

Mercifully, that didn't happen (and even if it did, I wouldn't tell you). Instead, we drove for five hours, stopping now and then for fresh air and hitchhikers. At one point, just as I was drifting off to sleep in the backseat, Mr. Yoo said, "This is a beautiful country, Monty. It's beautiful out here, like a different world. Mountains, hills, cows, farms." Or maybe it was one of the hitchhikers who said that. I was pretty drowsy.

Anyway, here I am, back home after an eventful day, my abdomen distended from food and drink, my bladder shaking like a Shih Tzu before an open window, and my intestines burning with desire to release noxious gas in my apartment like the Tokyo subway terrorists. Even so, I think I might pour myself a drink. You know, to cap off a day well spent. Then, perhaps some Cheddar and Sour Cream Ruffles, maybe a tuna sandwich. Wash it all down with a 500ml bottle of Coca-Cola.

Because if there's one thing I've learned from the Yoo family, it's not to train for sprints but for marathons.


* Not that Gwangju; the other one.

** "Hi, Hell. I have someone for you."

*** Sorry, rice with mixed vegetables.

**** I love the belief that eating another creature's brain will make you smarter (like I need that). It makes me feel like I'm a Wendigo!

***** While you're here, I'm a huge fan of ICA (in truth all cooking shows, or what Anthony Bourdain once labeled -- somewhat hypocritically -- as "food porn."), but I have to take the show's producers to task for overdubbing Chef Morimoto's English. It's annoying and condescending. "Okay," Morimoto will say, and then a second after that you get it repeated, blandly, by some voice actor. I can't be the only one who feels this way.

****** Two Midnight Cowboy references in one post! I'm patting myself on the back, Barry Horowitz-style, right now.