Word to my Mom's

Christmas in August. On Monday my mother arrived to spend 3 weeks with us. It is her third time visiting Korea. My sister accompanied her the previous two times, but this year she had school and couldn't come. Maybe not buying an extra plane ticket meant more gifts for me, because I lucked out like a motherfucker. Since I haven't been home for Christmas for 5 consecutive years, a shitload of presents was more than welcome. Plus, the little girl's b-day is tomorrow, and there's a suitcase, which I could probably fit into, full of gifts for her.

Woohoo!

Here's the haul (not including most of the wife's stuff, which is bras and panties and other cootie-ridden stuff of that nature):

- 2 Ralph Lauren T-Shirts

- 2 Ralph Lauren polos

- a button-down, short-sleeved polo shirt

- 2 pairs of Levis jeans

- 3 (3!!!) bottles of Crown Royal wiskey

- an authentic Dwyane Wade Miami Heat jersey

- a case of Kraft Dinner (scurvy, here I come!)

- Season One DVD of C.S.I. Miami (the wife's favorite show), and Constantine DVD

- enough chocolate and snackfood to make Augustus Gloop jealous

I'll post some photos of the little one's score sometime this weekend.

19. Red Circle.

Here's a dirty joke. Before you accuse me of being the devil's son-in-law, please read this first:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_aristocrats

Now, then...

A family walks into a talent agent's office. There's a father, a mother, a son, a daughter and a dog.

"Sorry," the agent says, "we don't sign family acts. They're too cutesy for today's market."

"Just give us five minutes," the father says. "This'll blow you away."

The agent consents. The father snaps his fingers, and he, the mother, son, daughter and dog all stand at attention. The father takes an American flag from his backpack, unfurls it, zips down his trousers, unfurling his dick, too, and proceeds to piss all over the flag. The mother next takes a can of lighter fluid from her back pocket and squirts its full contents onto the flag. The son then pulls down his pants, crouches precariously over the wet flag and deposits a shit the size of a baby's leg on it. He tags in his sister, who thrusts her index and middle finger down her throat until she has forced herself to vomit all over the sodden flag. Finally, the dog struts up and, looking around questioningly at the family, non-verbally asks for a cue. The family exchange glances, and then they, one by one, take turns jerking the dog off until he spews a meager thimbleful of cum on the desecrated flag. That task completed, the father takes a machete from his bag and cuts the dog's head off with a single stroke. He tosses the head on the flag. The mother wraps it up and sets it alight with a match. The remainder of the dog's body the family eats, the father and mother getting both front legs, the son and daughter the hind ones. After the fire has started to die down and their meal is finished, they take turns picking their teeth with the dog's tail.

"That's quite an act," the talent agent remarks, astonished. "What do you call it?"

In unison, the family smiles and says, "we're the Aristocrats!"

Dean's List

With the 18th Letter's 2nd birthday fast approaching -- and with Grandma Sparkles coming to help celebrate it(!!) -- you can bet your sweet bippy (thanks, coach McMillan, for that gem) I'll be posting a ton of schmaltzy words and pics to commemorate the event; but for now here's a teaser, one of the photos that adorns my desk, a photo which brings a big smile to my face no matter the weather or what mood I'm in:

Trifecta!

Face it, Tiger. You just hit the jackpot.

-- Mary-Jane Watson

Having lived in Korea for the better part of five years, there's little that surprises or startles me anymore. Rare is it that I find myself astounded, instead finding commonplace what once induced speechlessness. Today, however, I got lucky. Three seperate instances occured to subtly nudge me, to remind me that, regardless of how situated or mundane I consider my life here and now to be, there's always something undiscovered, something waiting.

1) On my way to the 7-11 a few blocks from our place, some kids were huddled around a pair of miniature arcade-style games. They were playing one of those games where one has to hit the right buttons in coordination to the music playing.

And the song that guided them was Pop That Coochie by 2 Live Crew.

2) After work, I showered and went outside for a cigarette. Almost ready to extinguish my smoke, a police car rolled up. The car slowed down and then stopped in front of me. The officer sitting in the passenger's seat rolled down his window and asked me, "do you like marijuanna?"

"No," I answered, nonplused.

"Good!" he exclaimed, giving me the thumbs-up as the car started off.

3) Sitting on the sofa in the TV room, I was reading Jack London's The Sea-Wolf when the doorbell rang. I opened it to find a mother, carrying a baby on her back in one of those traditional wrap-around jobs that can't be good for the old spine. She held a white button-down shirt in her hand, and bobbed up and down like a jackhammer, comforting her roused toddler.

"I heard you lived across the street, and I wanted to ask you something," she said.

"Shoot," I intimated by my facial expression.

"Well, my husband's brother was in Thailand, and he picked up this shirt while there. He claims it's a designer shirt -- that he only paid about 5,000 won for it -- but I've never heard of the brand. I was hoping that you could tell me whether or not it really is a quality shirt."

The shirt was a Nordstrom -- whether real or fake I hadn't a clue (though the circumstances under which it was purchased have me leaning toward the latter). But I told her it was a really spiffy shirt, that the brand was all the rage these days, and she left with a happy grin, thanking me for the clarification.

---

In the immortal words of Ice Cube (before he started making shitty music and even shittier movies), "today was a good day."

Hot time, summer in the city

There must be some relation between the hot weather and the violence -- domestic or otherwise -- that seems to thrive in the summer months. Our neighborhood is positively on fire these days with the angry shouts of men and women, and the cries of babies.


Speaking for myself, I walked outside, in the morning, and was almost instantly soaked with sweat; and certainly I wanted to maim, mutilate, or kill the first person that looked at me askance.

This post is brought to you by:

Would I, could I, on a boat?
Would I, could I, with a goat?


Save some of the stuff left laying under a heat lamp at 4 in the morning at your local 7-11, this is the first time I've seen a green meat product. Dr. Suess would be proud.

In case it isn't clear enough, the English says "chlorella grilled ham," which is a relief, because when I first saw it I thought it read cholera grilled ham. Phew!

I don't think I'm alone in asserting that all this "well-being" shit needs to quit, posthaste. I mean, just how fucking good for you can processed meat be, anyway? I even have my doubts that it contains chlorella, whatever the fuck that is. It very well might just be Chlorox. It's probably neither; it's probably just green food coloring.

Still, it beats purple ketchup.

The Iceman Cometh!

I rarely complain about the weather. In some masochistic way, in fact, I like the harshness or discomfort that ill weather sometimes brings. For instance, last Sunday after basketball, I walked home in the pouring rain, and I felt positively cleansed when I arrived home sopping wet. I consider sweating a homeopathic cure (although, ironically, I can't stand saunas. Go figure). My only weakness is that I can't stand sub-zero temperatures -- but that's because I am somewhat underweight and significantly lacking in insulation.

So this summer hasn't been a big problem. Neither was the last one, nor the one before. Shit, we only just bought an air-conditioner this year, holding off for so long partly because my wife has an apprehension towards them (her being Korean and all, inherently afraid of the mortal danger that cooling devices such as air-conditioners and electric fans possess), and partly because of my aforementioned masochism...with maybe a little bit of "when in Rome" thrown in for good measure. See, back home the folks keep the a/c running full blast for most of the day and night, but here it seems that, though many Korean families own air-conditioners, they hardly ever use them. A/C units in Korean homes remind me a lot of the finely-upholstered couches I'd likely find at my aunts' and uncles' homes: they're purposeless, more for show than anything; you can sit on them, but only with their plastic coverings. If I leave the a/c on for more than an hour or so, you can bet your sweet bippy I'll get admonished for it.

But who cares? The weather hasn't been that bad, has it? I mean, in Arizona the temperature is climbing so high that if someone spontaneously combusted it might not be that big a surprise. Today here it was 35. Hot, yes, but nothing to drop dead over -- old folks, the homeless, and people wearing polyester notwithstanding.

Nothing an electric fan can't fix, right?

I woke up today, as I usually do on Fridays, late. My wife had just finished cooking breakfast. After we took the little girl to nursery school, I headed home to do some work. It was a little muggy, I noticed, though nothing too unbearable.

Around noon I started to feel the heat. Due to the humidity, my chest, back and face became itchy. I thought about taking a quick shower, but nixed the idea. After all, if the heat started to bother me too much I could simply close all the windows and turn on the a/c.

I wasn't feeling too peckish come lunchtime. I ate a pastry I found in the fridge, and some plum juice. To tell the truth, all the humidity was making me a tad nauseous. Finally I told myself that after finishing what I was presently at work on, I'd watch some TV in the bedroom, which is where the a/c is located.

Urgh. Two minutes later my wife arrived. I could hear her from outside. I opened the window to say hello to the little girl, and that's when I noticed that my wife had a posse. She was like the Pied Piper of Hamlin.

An acquaintance of hers was today moving into our neighborhood, so she had offered to look after their one year-old daughter. She had also offered to look after the 3 year-old daughter of another friend. In addition to these, on her way up she bumped into the mother of the family that lives across the hall, who asked her if she wouldn't mind watching over her 4 year-old son for an hour or two. Of course she said "no problem."

I just wish someone had told me. Not fun is it to be enveloped when one least suspects by a phalanx of rugrats. This undoubtedly drove my body temperature up a few degrees. So when my wife suggested we turn on the a/c (hallelujah!) I was more than willing. The problem, as I've mentioned, is that the a/c is in the bedroom, so everyone was initially piled into the room to try to cool off.

I don't know if freon is known to cause giddiness in children, but that was the effect it seemed to have caused this afternoon. The kids were like rioters, minus the Molotov cocktails. And since I couldn't exactly toss them out, I hypothesized that turning off the air-conditioner would likely make them tire out pretty fast, which, after putting my theory to the test, it did; but I was again hot and sticky, like a piece of toffee on asphalt.

Fast-forward to this evening: my daughter is set to go to bed, but she wants to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's room. Naturally, as dictates popular Korean logic, I can't have the a/c running while the little one is directly near it. So we put the angel to bed, and I sit in front of the PC with a beer dripping with condensation, even though I pulled it out of the fridge just moments ago.

And I'm beginning to feel itchy again, like a drunk with delerium tremens.

So I pick up my battered copy of Jack London's To Build a Fire and Other Stories. And you know what? Reading those tales of the Klondike sort of help make me feel a bit cooler.

Therapy.

Random Tuesdays, Ladies Get In Free!

The similarities between last Tuesday and this one are eerie -- and since I won 10 million won in the lotto last week, I'm posting another (albeit brief) collection of random thoughts. If you send me a check for 10 dollars (or cheque, if you prefer) I may just make this a regular feature. I realize that may sound crass after mentioning that I recently won a shitload -- to me, anyway -- of money, but you have to realize something: I have a family to feed.




- 3 years ago I got my first wisdom tooth. Just last week my second poked through. Does this mean I'm a slow learner?

Also, Koreans refer to wisdom teeth as "love teeth." But whose love? The dentist's? The tooth fairy's?

Fidel Castro's?

- A note to everyone I know, should you see me tomorrow: I'm not angry, and I'm not drunk. I stayed out in the sun too long again today, and I have a sunburn.

I look like a gochu.

- Finally, here are some bible exerpts with the surname 'Malone' added after every mention of 'Moses':

And the Lord said unto Moses Malone, Stretch out thine hand toward heaven, that there may be darkness over the land of Egypt, even darkness which may be felt.

-- Exodus (ch. X, v. 21)

And Moses Malone said unto the children of Israel, See, the LORD hath called by name Bezaleel the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah; And he hath filled him with the spirit of God, in wisdom, in understanding, and in knowledge, and in all manner of workmanship; And to devise curious works, to work in gold, and in silver, and in brass, And in the cutting of stones, to set them, and in carving of wood, to make any manner of cunning work."

-- Exodus (ch. XXXV, v. 25)

Next week I plan to show passages from the Torah, substituting that book's deity's name with Jayhova. God, I'm witty.

The Sports Guy Raped My Childhood!

No, wait, that was George Lucas.

I love the Sports Guy's (pka Bill Simmons) columns for ESPN.com, but I have to admit that this guy makes some valid points:

http://www.montykins.com/mkins/000675.html

The misogyny part I can kind of see, but I don't really care (sorry, ladies); what bugs me, and which the writer makes a valid point of, is that lately Simmons's stuff has been (when he actually writes something, although I am aware he is busy writing a book, which I will of course buy) pretty blah, ranging from god-awful (the new intern contest, the winner of which writes like he's imitating the old intern -- who imitated Simmons -- poorly) to not bad (his take on the NBA Playoffs, portions of which mirror my own comments -- check the post commenting on the Undertaker's theme music being used to introduce the Pistons before game 2 --, making me wonder if he reads this blog).

(If you made it all the way through that herculean, run-on sentence, by the way, congrats.)

And let's not mention the Sports Guy cartoon, possibly the dumbest, shittiest...wait, I said let's not mention it, didn't I?

I just wish the guy would stick to a schedule. He started a series of articles about the greatest sports movies, but so far has only written a handful of reviews. Plus, his mailbags and random thoughts columns have reliably been his funniest -- but he hardly ever does them anymore.

I sure hope when I'm big and rich and famous I don't become tardy and forget what helped make me a household name: having a penis longer than an anaconda's entrails.

Word.

Dillinger

Connor MacLeod: I've been alive for four and a half centuries, and I cannot die.

Brenda: Well, everyone's got their problems.

Three years ago, on a visit home to Canada, the wife (then girlfriend) and I went into Rogers Video (and, boy, I sure don't miss paying 5 bucks to rent a DVD). I selected Halloween, one of my favorite films. I stepped up to the counter and handed the movie's box to the young girl working there. She asked me for my membership card, then, a little shyly, whether I was over 18 years old.

"Yeah, I'm 24. Do you want to see my driver's license?"

She shook her head, taking me at my word.

This was by no means an isolated incident. Since I turned 19, I have had numerous hassles buying beer or cigarettes. Once -- and I swear to god this is true -- I was refused addmittance to a nightclub in Hull, Quebec because the bouncer said my license was obviously doctored. I tried to put up a fuss, backing down only when he threatened to "kick my fucking ass." Hell, I've even been asked to show ID here in Korea. During my second year here, trying to buy some beer in a small corner store, the ajumma who worked there asked me my age. I told her, but she just laughed and shook her head until my wife (then concubine) came to the rescue and helped me out. Upon leaving, the ajumma apologized, saying that she honestly believed I was some high school-aged army brat.

I thought that maybe all that was behind me; that, after getting married and having a child, some age definition had finally touched my features. I guess I was wrong.

Today I went to play basketball. The forecast was for cloudy skies (I could see that much simply by looking out the window) and a 40% chance of rain. I took that chance. Sunday basketball is as sacred to me as Sunday church service is to my folks.

It drizzled off and on for an hour and a half, though nothing heavy enough to stop play. The court, regularly bare despite its quality, was today swarming with players of all ages and talent levels. Too bad it had to start pouring at around 3 o' clock.

Shortly before then, one of the guys whom I was playing on a team with asked me my age. I told him. Actually, my first instinct was to lie. I had an inkling that he wouldn't believe me were I to state my true age, and I imagined briefly that all incredulous looks and widened eyes could be thwarted by one small white lie.

Instead I told the truth; and, reliably, he was shocked (though I was, too, when he told me he was 20; I had thought he was a high school student perhaps in his freshman or sophomore year).

When I was in middle school (which I used to refer to as junior high before moving to Korea and becoming an English teacher), my parents first discovered that I was smoking fairly regularly. One of the warnings my mother, uh, warned me of was that smoking stunts one's growth. I don't know if it's true, but if it is, maybe smoking (along with the occasional tiger penis and rhinoceros horn ) has fortuitously been my Fountain of Youth.

Which is all well and good. Everyone would like to look young, especially when they start approaching middle age. But it does get annoying not being taken seriously as an adult because of my looks. Because of work I dress semi-professionally most days, yet still I get treated like a teenager, both here and back in my home country. Plus I have this fear that when I approach 40, or maybe 50, I'll look like Ron Howard, who still looks somewhat like he did when he starred in American Graffitti, only with a heroin addiction.

Then again, maybe there's some longevity for me as a narc. I could infiltrate high schools like Peter Delouise and Johnny Depp used to do on 21 Jump Street.

Which would be pretty fucking cool.

For those curious, here is a photo of me taken last Christmas: