Tuna X

Told by Marlow's drunk uncle:

"So like I says...like I says, the guy, he goes into a Subway. He walks into a damn Subway in goddam South Korea, you hear? He walks up to the counter, ready to order.

[unintelligible.]

'I'll have a 6-inch tuna sub,' he says, but the lil' girl behind the counter, she don't get what he's sayin', even though he's speaking the vernacular, see? She don't know nothin'.

'Excuse me,' she says, and she looks down, like her neck is broke.

'No tuna.'

And, wouldja believe it, this guy just walks out, like there's no more tuna in South Korea.

Y'know what I woulda said?

Find some!"

Freon Tiger

I sit in the third row of the fifth column of Mr. Zediker's algebra class, in a twisted-steel molded-plastic lacquered-wood one-piece desk that touches the wall opposite the entrance to the room, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I can't do algebra worth shit, but it's a required course for ninth-grade students, even if the bulk of us will barely manage to claw our way out this nightmare, and so I manage the best I can, which mostly consists of filling in the blanks of my math textbook with semi-plausible answers to avert the brunt of Zed's admonishment. If it looks like I'm trying, then he just assumes, rightfully so, that I'm not cut out for mathematics, let alone life en masse, although the joke's on him since neither of us is capable of using French phrases correctly. Stupidity opens doors, I suppose.

A girl sits in the desk ahead of me, and I'm pretty sure she's a young woman but it's difficult to ascertain because I rarely catch a glimpse of her beyond a mane of black hair that flows down past her shoulders. I can say with certainty that it has a lot of volume, but for all I know it could belong a girly guy with excessive tresses, and the fact that I have my head down most of the time inhibits the task of determining gender further although my instincts assure me that it's most definitely a female which sits in front of me. Probably.

The prescription of my glasses is out of date, which is yet another factor that impedes my perception of the girl sitting ahead of me, but it's a mixed blessing, all things considered, because it allows me to squint at the board when called upon by Zed, who just assumes that, in tandem with the tie-dyed shirts I wear repeatedly, I must be a poor, drug-addled kid whose parents choose to spend money on booze rather than provide up-to-date eyewear for their child, and he doesn't care because, as he's informed his students several times, he's two years away from retirement, so he just shakes his head when I misread the numbers on the board and moves on to the next unfortunate soul. Don't blame me for taking advantage of the system, even if it's to my detriment, and I still don't know if the girl in front of me is truly female.

For some reason, through no effort of my own, the wooden portion of my desk is pressing against the plastic seat ahead of me. It was like that when I got here, believe me. I guess I didn't notice at first because I'm a child of the sensory-deprivation age, and I'm still not really aware of it, but I am mindful that the young woman in front of me is actually a young woman because she's twisting around to peer at me. She's quite pretty, I must admit, even though she's throwing a disdainful look toward me which suggests that I just ran over her pet dachshund and picked its shattered remains apart with my teeth, which is weird because I'm not old enough to drive a car without parental supervision. I adjust my glasses, uncertain as to what the future entails.

"Umm, could you, like, move your desk back a bit," she mutters with a puzzling tone of voice, as it's neither presented as a question, nor is it befitting of the horrific expression displayed upon her face. At best, or worst, it's nearly apathetic which is odd because she's telling me to do something, but I'm not one to argue since I'm not that cool.

I shrug, say 'Yeah, sure' and wiggle my desk backward; no one sits behind me, so there's no danger in the move, but still she wears that look of disgust like a Halloween mask come into fashion. Eventually, she turns around, and she probably won't say another word to me for the remainder of the semester, but at least now I know she's a girl, and a strangely alluring one at that, for obvious reasons.

My mind wanders, besieged by fanciful longing, and I can't help but pretend that in five years' time, this girl will be on friendly terms with me (like a friend, but not quite), and ten years beyond that, she'll casually mention that she's had a crush on me for a while now, but I wander even further; what would I say in such a position? The odds are ten to one that my lungs won't welcome oxygen the way they once did, my eyes will no longer be an enticing shade of blue, and my tongue will be as tied as it always has been, so I suppose that I'd be unable to say all that much, and fifteen years from today, I'd probably be comfortable with that. We'll see, which is a mantra I chant whenever wistful thinking defeats me.


(I don't shine like gold, but you'll remember me.)

If I Ruled the World Vol. 1

1) It's Batman, not the Batman. Saying or writing "the Batman" is a form of fanboy ersatz elitism. Most of all, it's grammatically wrong.

2) One can never complain about people having their iPods too loud. Seriously, the sound of a cough or a sneeze is louder. Just be thankful that people -- word to Radio Raheem and Rockin' Rodney -- no longer carry around Big Fucking Ghetto Blasters. Or lament. Depending on your mood.

3) The current anchorwomen for SBS, KBS, and MBC will be replaced by Lee Hyori, Ha Jiwon, and Choi Yeojin. BoA's doing the weather for all three. Can I get a soul clap?

4) More work for the actors of The Wire. Seriously, why isn't Dominic West a leading man? Why is Lance Reddick (aka The Black Patrick Stewart) relegated to getting skeletonned on Lost? Is there a The Wire curse? I cried a little when, during my 11-hour hell-flight from Tokyo to Detroit, I saw the kid who played Michael in The Secret Life of Bees.

5) Public school water fountains dispense chocolate milk!

Vomit

Let it be known again: I am not a beer snob. Or a food snob. Or a nitpicker when it comes to head-exploding bullets. I don't claim to be an expert on matters gastrointestinal or military; all I want is to be sated, whether it's relaxing on my sofa with a belly full of Budweiser and pig's feet or watching some poor fellow's gray matter erupt out of the back of his head like a geyser. I don't ask for much.

Yet here I sit, making love to the Internet like Jarobi on the phone, and for what reason? Truth. Always, always truth.

Yesterday Legs bought a six-pack of "Taiwan Beer," sold at Home Plus and, I imagine, Hades.

Hey, I drink Korean beer, which is pretty much the brewing equivalent of a third-grade vinegar-and-baking-soda science fair volcano. I'm pretty easy, like Sunday morning and shoplifting. Make it cold and make it foamy -- that's all I ask.

Enter: "Taiwan Beer." Now, I don't want to disparage the good people of Taiwan...but if that's what they're drinking, at least one good thing could arise from a Chinese invasion. I'm just saying.

Apparently, Monde Selection, some sort of international food-and-beverage quality institute, gave TAIWAN BEER their Grand Gold Medal, although the can doesn't specify which year. Shows you how discerning Monde Selection is. The runner-up that year was probably some pilsner brewed in a bathroom stall at Samgakji Station.

Sorry...I have to cut this short...I drank three of those fuckers, you see, and now I have to barf.

Like I said, I'm not a beer snob.

More Feeling

If I had a photograph of you, or something to remind me...I wouldn't spend my life just

(waiting)

wishing.

It's more the way your eyes are laughing as they glance.

It must be something more.

If I had a photograph of you.

You.

My angel.

My werewolf.

My 18th letter.

In the Night Kitchen

Oh. Oh, no. That's sooo terrible. So nasty. I can't. I really can't. You want me to do that? I can't. Do it yourself. Do it by yourself.

That sort of defeats the purpose.

I don't care. I can't. I won't. You're on your own.

When am I not? Seriously, let's do it. Live a little.

I'd rather...You know what you're asking me? How can you be so mean?

It'll all work itself out in the end, trust me. I can do it. I'm ready to do it. Let's take the plunge. The water's rising fast. It's already thigh high. So why not? Why fucking not?

It still might work out if we wait. Don't be so reactionary. I'd rather wait and hope for a miracle than spend the rest of my life under an avalanche of grief.

Typical. By the time we get to Phoenix, we'll be dead. Here's you yawning for eternity, here's me staring forever. I'm sorry, but I have to take the bull by the horns. You're with me, for better or worse. This is our only option, don't you realize? One, two, three, let's blow up the bridge.

Just let go of the handlebars, now...You're mad.

Yeah...I've always expected the next thing to happen, and it's never going to again, I guess. This is the last chapter. Do you think we'll meet again?

I hope so.

くま-さん

This is Kuma. He's not much to look at, but he has a soft side that most folks never get to see. I wouldn't label that side as sentimental, but it smells a lot like romanticism, that's for sure; and his favorite tune is A Flock of Seagulls' Space Age Love Song, which should alleviate any doubt as to that schmaltzy aspect of his character. He is also quite a large cat, dare I say a big softy, hence his delightfully apposite moniker, but that's beside the point, really. What you need to know is that Kuma is lovable, huggable, and sensitive to the cravings of our post-postmodern identities. He's an avid student of Eastern prosody, as well.




I once saw a him devour a coked-out, anorexic midget whilst composing a pornographic haiku with bloodstained paws:


Sister softly kips
Bukkake will be her dream
Sperm I spray to thee



(To those who would jeer at a cat's ability to compose an epigrammatic Japanese verse form of three short lines, please cut the beast some slack; he began choking on a goddamn midget bone halfway through his provocative endeavor.)

He then proceeded to take a dump on my Pyromania record. I was pissed at the time, but in hindsight, I'd like to think that it was his way of encouraging me to expand my horizons, and for that, I thank him. (You should, too.)

You, Mr. Bear, are my hero.

Pele

I'm going to tell you a short tale, Constant Retard, and this time I'll try to skip the esoteric in favor of pure realism; but for all intents and purposes, this story is fiction. See, I'm a cautious man -- to the point of paranoia, some might say -- and I've already been threatened once today. Once, I've found, is my threshold. By proxy.

This tale concerns a youthful-looking 30-year-old named Edgar. Aside from a few white lies and a lot of white-stained bedsheets, Edgar grew up an honest man. Hell, he even feels guilty jay walking across a deserted boulevard at four in the morning. What Edgar is not, however, is a patsy. He has a strong belief in justice, and he sticks up for what is right, at least as far as it pertains to himself. Like there's any other way.

Now, our boy Edgar, who I must mention in passing has alluring blue bombardier's eyes
and an eight-inch cock, was once married to a lunatic hellcat; and while in the end he prevailed over that dirty she-bitch, some wounds never heal. For example, Edgar remains bitter to this day that his ex-wife made off with his 42-inch plasma screen and DVD collection, not to mention (although I just did) his vast library of literature and music CDs. To Edgar, that isn't only unfair, it's criminally unfair. But the South Korean courts didn't see it that way. Edgar supposes they didn't particularly care -- and, to him, that is perhaps the biggest injustice of them all.

But I digress, for this is not another story/psychoanalysis session about Edgar's former marriage. I'm just trying to lay a little groundwork here, let you know how worked up our dear friend Edgar can get over such matters. See, Edgar, who I must also mention is one hell of a three-point shooter, worked for a company last year. Not your run-of-the-mill Korean cram school, mind you, although the shit they tried to pull isn't a new song for more than a few who've had to deal with some of their shadier institutions. (Perhaps ironically, Edgar worked that circuit for a few years and had nothing but positive experiences.)

It all started out nice and rosy for Eddie, and save a few bumps along the way, it was a pretty smooth ride. The work was easy and interesting, and while the pay was far from great, he was content, and that's a very rare thing.

In the end, though, it turned out to be a smooth ride over a waterfall. On Edgar's last day at work, he was informed he wouldn't receive his severance pay. This, as you might expect, pissed Edgar off to no end. Word to Lo Pan.

But Mama Ford didn't raise no pushovers. Edgar was determined to fight back, and fight back he did. He took the matter to the labor board, despite his former boss' ludicrous claim that he was simply a "freelancer"; despite his former boss' claim that he wasn't entitled to severance pay because his first three months on the job was a "probationary period"; despite Edgar asking again and again for medical insurance (lawfully his right) and not receiving it until eight months into his contract, and then being told that that was when he became a full-time worker and no longer a "freelancer."

Edgar, of course, saw through the bullshit. These excuses weren't paper thin, they were rice paper thin, he mused. Edgar knew the law, and the law stated that if someone works more than fifteen hours a week for the same employer for at least 365 days, that person is entitled to roughly ten percent of his annual salary.

Edgar worked forty-five hours a week (although, to be fair, not all of that time was spent working), and he'd be damned before he'd lie down and take a won less of what he rightfully deserved. Not when he initially protested and was offered half that sum, not ever*.

This was a matter of principle, you see. And money.

(Mostly, it was money.)

So, one fateful day, a particularly cold one for early spring -- a day much like today, in fact -- Edgar marched down to the labor office, contract and bank statements in hand, to claim his right.

And now it occurs to me that, as appealing (and handsome, and well-dressed) as the character of Edgar Ford is, every good tale needs a good villain. A good, despicable villain. And while Edgar's boss, in what was ostensibly a face-saving measure, didn't show up on that fateful day and doesn't appear in this story (word to Sauron), his minion, whom we'll call The Cocksucker for descriptive clarity's sake, did. And he did not disappoint.

Have you ever seen a lopsided victory; I mean one in which there's absolutely no way the other side can win? This was one of those. It was like that 100-0 girls' basketball game that got all the media attention a few months ago, the one where a team from Texas drubbed the snot out of a team of borderline retarded kids. Only THIS was the exact opposite of THAT.

Sweet, sweet justice. More than a feeling. Please, Mommy Fortuna, let my dreams come true. Show me what I want to see. (I want to see the manticore!) Shine a little light. Will you?

But, Edgar knew, Koreans rarely went down without a fight. It was dually their most admirable and most annoying character trait. The Cocksucker, telling lies upon lies, soiled Edgar's name and tried to paint him as your run-of-the-mill...and now I find I have the will to type no more, for, if Edgar is anything like me, he cannot stand slander; he won't have his honor smeared. It's better to shut up and err on the side of

(righteousness?)

the law than to throw one's arms up in protest, especially when One is just, the Other a fucking crying baby. He didn't attend company get-togethers or dinners? Oh, really? I wish I could rewrite history the same way, and in my version assholes, liars, men who cheat on their wives and ask me to do the same, are purged in favor of honest men. You snakes. You petty, writhing serpents.

And here is where our paths, that of writer (Sparkles) and of character (Edgar Ford), diverge. And here is where I find my exit.

April 3, sucka. Ray Liotta in Goodfellas.

Fuck you, pay me.

Understand?

오캐이?

Win.

Capitals: WIN.

당. 연. 하. 지.

Ah...justice.

!!!





Denouement: "He's the first guy who ever asked for severance...he only worked to get severance...he has no ethics..."

No ethics. Me.

Damn you.






* death by italics

The View from Above

Everything looks great up here. Serene. Azure blue, and white wisps of clouds that look like stretched cotton, some like fat clumps of mashed potatoes.

Now I know I've reached my ceiling -- top of the world, Ma. Nowhere else to go but down, and damn is it refreshing to know that no one is watching me from above, no one looking down on me. That used to happen. That used to happen a lot, figuratively and literally. But none of that matters anymore. Up here, there is nothing but the swirl of winds and the calm blue, and I am one with all.

I used to look down a lot. At first it made me dizzy, like a man suddenly teleported onto a tight rope wire, but you get used to it, and eventually -- although I can only speak for myself -- you find yourself looking down less and less, until you can't recall the last time you did, and such a recollection no longer spurs a fondness for doing so. Minutes, days, centuries, millennia...it's all the same up here. There is no such thing as tedium. How could there be? If I want to look down upon my old world or the infinite others that exist within our

(universe)

being, I have the time, believe me. Maybe one day I will, but for now I'm content to sit up here, where the sky never darkens, where all fronts are quiet.

Maybe tomorrow I'll go shoot some hoops down at the high school, or catch a matinée of The Third Man at that cinema on Front Street. That might be nice.

Heart Attack

I am going to have a heart attack. Tomorrow, or the next day. Anyway, it's coming, building locomotion, a death train to my heart.

I'm ready. I'm waiting. I suppose I've been waiting for thirty-one years, and here it comes, the fastball!

(swing and a miss, strike one)

Not in my sleep, please. Give it to me while I'm wide awake, watching a Sergio Leone picture or something.

Goodbye, Mother and Father. You didn't raise me well, but you raised me right...and that counts a whole lot. I'll hate you if you miss me and cry a lot on holidays.

To little Xavier: face the sun like a sunflower. You'll figure it out for yourself, so there's no need me telling you to be good. You will or you won't be, and nothing I can say will change that. I hope you don't wind up in prison, but from my perspective it's better than being dead, so maybe I don't know much. Stop scratching your ankles.

I am going to go to sleep now.