Josh Turner - "No Rush"
It's up there with this one:
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Ode to Country
Quite possibly the sexiest song I've heard in a while.
Josh Turner - "No Rush"
It's up there with this one:
Josh Turner - "No Rush"
It's up there with this one:
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Ode to Comebacks
I blame it on the writers’ guild strike. But since Broadway has been resurrected, I feel I should do my part to push the rest of prime time tv writers to end all this. That and the fact that I’m waiting yet again in Terminal D of DFW International Airport waiting for my flight to Seoul via Tokyo. Unlike Cheryl, I’m too cheap to pay for internet at the airport so you’ll be reading this long after I’ve endured a full day of traveling.
That’s right. I’m coming/going back to Korea. This really is the last time. I’ve got a life you know. The blog may not be very representative of that but I’ve got plans. For once. August is set—now I just need to know where. I have grand plans for Buenos Aires or Scandinavia after my law school tour taking the lessons learned from Spain 2007. I may even buy my own car. Baby steps be darned; I’m jumping milestones.
Does anyone have tips for flight anxiety reduction? I’ve flown so many times it’s not even funny. And yet, every time I board that plane, it really isn’t funny. I get that guttural cough stemming from the nervous juices brewing in my stomach. I watched a video clip on the new york times about people whose flight anxiety prevented them from every flying. They were guided through a program that concluded with a cross-country flight. The participants would all support each other, kind of like a lamaze class. I want someone like that here now. I’ve got one in my bag; his name is Advil PM but he has proven unreliable in the past.
The head of the plane is staring me straight on. Three LSG Sky Chefs truck unload our on flight meals. Instead of the direct Korean Air route, I opted for the much cheaper American Airlines. I hope the food is good. I already know that there is no complimentary alcohol. A margarita sounds really good right now but I think I’ll welcome Mr. Sandman with the pill. The sky carries a most welcoming and advantageous blue and here’s that feeling I have when I’m leaving the ground that rumbles all the way to my house 15 minutes away. It’s a strange feeling, but one made much better when I know that I’ll be coming back in 3 months to an uncertainty that for once isn’t all that frightening.
That’s right. I’m coming/going back to Korea. This really is the last time. I’ve got a life you know. The blog may not be very representative of that but I’ve got plans. For once. August is set—now I just need to know where. I have grand plans for Buenos Aires or Scandinavia after my law school tour taking the lessons learned from Spain 2007. I may even buy my own car. Baby steps be darned; I’m jumping milestones.
Does anyone have tips for flight anxiety reduction? I’ve flown so many times it’s not even funny. And yet, every time I board that plane, it really isn’t funny. I get that guttural cough stemming from the nervous juices brewing in my stomach. I watched a video clip on the new york times about people whose flight anxiety prevented them from every flying. They were guided through a program that concluded with a cross-country flight. The participants would all support each other, kind of like a lamaze class. I want someone like that here now. I’ve got one in my bag; his name is Advil PM but he has proven unreliable in the past.
The head of the plane is staring me straight on. Three LSG Sky Chefs truck unload our on flight meals. Instead of the direct Korean Air route, I opted for the much cheaper American Airlines. I hope the food is good. I already know that there is no complimentary alcohol. A margarita sounds really good right now but I think I’ll welcome Mr. Sandman with the pill. The sky carries a most welcoming and advantageous blue and here’s that feeling I have when I’m leaving the ground that rumbles all the way to my house 15 minutes away. It’s a strange feeling, but one made much better when I know that I’ll be coming back in 3 months to an uncertainty that for once isn’t all that frightening.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Ode to Action Heroes
Mom sits on the floor up against one couch and I recline in the other. This is what my whole lotta nothin consists of these days. Thursdays and Sundays are always prime nights for television and if I’m not working, the other nights are filled with random surprises. The other night featured an old Korean drama dvd that my mom missed out on when we lived in Los Angeles.
Before the opening credits began, a blue screen came up with a bunch of scrolling Korean text. I saw the number 15 and my mom said something that involved the number 15. I should mention that a lot of my Korean comprehension relies heavily on context clues. Speak out of context and I won’t understood a single word you say. Immediately I understood this all to mean that after 15 viewings the dvd would self destruct in the dvd player. It happened on Mission Impossible, and that disc self-destructed in a sizzle of smoke after just one play.
I asked my mom in disbelief. She squinted her eyes and threw her head back in laughter. The sad part is that for a split second I honestly said to myself, “Hey, that could actually happen.” My mom continued cackling and didn’t have to say a word for me to realize how ridiculous I was.
Somehow, my boring old, suburban self thinks up these bizarre Hollywood plots in the most mundane situations. Every scenario becomes a worst-case scenario with an elaborate escape plan. What happens if my Cressida goes out of control on a bridge and I crash into the water below? I’ve thought about that, and I’m stuck at figuring out how long it would be before the water pressure kept me from being able to open my door. Airplane emergency landings? I’d grab my clarinet from under my seat and fend off the flight attendants who demand that I leave it behind as I glide down the inflatable slide. This explains why I’m a pretty cautious driver and a border line alcoholic on overseas flights.
The 15 was merely a reference to the recommended viewing age. PG-15. My reasoning skills in such a situation make me doubt my future success in any law school. But right now as I approach the waiting game of law school acceptances/rejections and my friends continue to shake and move, I’ll hold on to my fantasies. Besides, who wants a rated G-life?
Before the opening credits began, a blue screen came up with a bunch of scrolling Korean text. I saw the number 15 and my mom said something that involved the number 15. I should mention that a lot of my Korean comprehension relies heavily on context clues. Speak out of context and I won’t understood a single word you say. Immediately I understood this all to mean that after 15 viewings the dvd would self destruct in the dvd player. It happened on Mission Impossible, and that disc self-destructed in a sizzle of smoke after just one play.
I asked my mom in disbelief. She squinted her eyes and threw her head back in laughter. The sad part is that for a split second I honestly said to myself, “Hey, that could actually happen.” My mom continued cackling and didn’t have to say a word for me to realize how ridiculous I was.
Somehow, my boring old, suburban self thinks up these bizarre Hollywood plots in the most mundane situations. Every scenario becomes a worst-case scenario with an elaborate escape plan. What happens if my Cressida goes out of control on a bridge and I crash into the water below? I’ve thought about that, and I’m stuck at figuring out how long it would be before the water pressure kept me from being able to open my door. Airplane emergency landings? I’d grab my clarinet from under my seat and fend off the flight attendants who demand that I leave it behind as I glide down the inflatable slide. This explains why I’m a pretty cautious driver and a border line alcoholic on overseas flights.
The 15 was merely a reference to the recommended viewing age. PG-15. My reasoning skills in such a situation make me doubt my future success in any law school. But right now as I approach the waiting game of law school acceptances/rejections and my friends continue to shake and move, I’ll hold on to my fantasies. Besides, who wants a rated G-life?
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Ode to Soundtracks
Do people still purchase movie soundtracks? The latest soundtrack that I can think of with any widespread appeal was Titanic and before that The Bodyguard. I was quite the fan of the Magnolia soundtrack with all Aimee Mann, but I don't think that caught on quite like "My Heart Will Go On." I'm feeling a little karaoke coming on...
If your life was a movie, what would be the soundtrack?
Instructions:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie and try to pretend your cool... & a lot of the songs fit with
the setting
Opening Credits:
The Feeling – I Want You Now
Waking Up:
Sheryl Crow – My Favorite Mistake
First Day At School:
Keane – Put It Behind You
Falling In Love:
Rent: Original Broadway Cast - Finale
Fight Song:
Scissor Sisters - Ooh
Breaking Up:
The Dixie Chicks – Am I the Only One (Who’s Ever Felt This Way)
Prom:
98 Degrees – Because of You
Life:
Brooks & Dunn – You’re Gonna Miss Me When I’m Gone
Mental Breakdown:
Kenny Chesney – She’s Got It All
Driving:
Real McCoy – Come and Get Your Love
Flashback:
Robin Thicke – Got 2 Be Down
Getting back together:
John Mayer – My Stupid Mouth
Wedding:
Coldplay – God Put a Smile Upon Your Face
Birth of Child:
Beck - Ramshackle
Final Battle:
Norah Jones – The Long Way Home
Death Scene:
‘NSync - Celebrity
Funeral:
Schumann – Fairy Tales
End Credits:
Schubert: Octet in F major
Now I'm not much for these types of internet surveys, but a couple of my friends did it and I was intrigued. A couple confessions. 1) The first song that came up was one that I was far too embarrassed to put on here. So yes, I lied a little bit but keeping that part of my dignity means more to me than "pretending to be cool." 2) A couple Korean songs came up and I just didn't think that would be appropriate for my English-speaking/writing/reading audience.
I'm quite pleased. Breaking Up, Mental Breakdown, and Getting Back Together are nice serendipitous touches. Death Scene? Not so much.
If your life was a movie, what would be the soundtrack?
Instructions:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie and try to pretend your cool... & a lot of the songs fit with
the setting
Opening Credits:
The Feeling – I Want You Now
Waking Up:
Sheryl Crow – My Favorite Mistake
First Day At School:
Keane – Put It Behind You
Falling In Love:
Rent: Original Broadway Cast - Finale
Fight Song:
Scissor Sisters - Ooh
Breaking Up:
The Dixie Chicks – Am I the Only One (Who’s Ever Felt This Way)
Prom:
98 Degrees – Because of You
Life:
Brooks & Dunn – You’re Gonna Miss Me When I’m Gone
Mental Breakdown:
Kenny Chesney – She’s Got It All
Driving:
Real McCoy – Come and Get Your Love
Flashback:
Robin Thicke – Got 2 Be Down
Getting back together:
John Mayer – My Stupid Mouth
Wedding:
Coldplay – God Put a Smile Upon Your Face
Birth of Child:
Beck - Ramshackle
Final Battle:
Norah Jones – The Long Way Home
Death Scene:
‘NSync - Celebrity
Funeral:
Schumann – Fairy Tales
End Credits:
Schubert: Octet in F major
Now I'm not much for these types of internet surveys, but a couple of my friends did it and I was intrigued. A couple confessions. 1) The first song that came up was one that I was far too embarrassed to put on here. So yes, I lied a little bit but keeping that part of my dignity means more to me than "pretending to be cool." 2) A couple Korean songs came up and I just didn't think that would be appropriate for my English-speaking/writing/reading audience.
I'm quite pleased. Breaking Up, Mental Breakdown, and Getting Back Together are nice serendipitous touches. Death Scene? Not so much.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Ode to Boyhood
Completely and utterly shameless.
Three things to say:
1) You too can purchase my entire outfit for right around $100. (I think quite a departure from perhaps some of the other entries on there).
2) I was checking out an item to my left at the flea market that I hadn't quite gotten to yet.
3) Said item was purchased. Yes, it looks ridiculous, and yes, it may be a woman's shirt. But I'm going to find some place to wear it.
Three things to say:
1) You too can purchase my entire outfit for right around $100. (I think quite a departure from perhaps some of the other entries on there).
2) I was checking out an item to my left at the flea market that I hadn't quite gotten to yet.
3) Said item was purchased. Yes, it looks ridiculous, and yes, it may be a woman's shirt. But I'm going to find some place to wear it.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Ode to Chicago
2.5 days of driving, a short stay in Boston, and then a nice comfortable flight to Chicago, the windy city. Fortunately, there was not so much wind, a whole lot of sun, and best of all, a whole lot of Cheryl. On the other hand, jet lag continued to linger on by a string and I was often met by Mr. Sandman a few hours earlier than I would have liked. Or perhaps that was a result of the wonderful cuisine?
Needless to say, what seemed like a daily tryptophan overdose was totally worth it.
First stop: a bit of Viet and a touch of Thai. I have no photos to document this.
Next, a satisfactory pasta lunch followed by an exquisite lemon Italian ice. Still no photos.
Deep dish dinner, at last. My mom and I were robbed of a first NYC-pizza moment when we took a Korean bus tour of the city. I was not about to let that happen in the city where pizza is religion. No photos of the dinner, but left-overs to come.
And then there was the day where we simply ate:
Starting off with a true taste of Chicago...
Followed by a snack on the Navy Pier...
Dinner in Puerto Rico...
Topped off with Cheryl's favorite ice cream (she has a membership card)...
A final culinary farewell from the windy city: leftovers...
So perhaps this post should be retitled an "Ode to Cheryl," for whom I would not have been able to experience the sights, sounds, and tastes of Chicago.
And now I cleanse.
Needless to say, what seemed like a daily tryptophan overdose was totally worth it.
First stop: a bit of Viet and a touch of Thai. I have no photos to document this.
Next, a satisfactory pasta lunch followed by an exquisite lemon Italian ice. Still no photos.
Deep dish dinner, at last. My mom and I were robbed of a first NYC-pizza moment when we took a Korean bus tour of the city. I was not about to let that happen in the city where pizza is religion. No photos of the dinner, but left-overs to come.
And then there was the day where we simply ate:
Starting off with a true taste of Chicago...
Followed by a snack on the Navy Pier...
Dinner in Puerto Rico...
Topped off with Cheryl's favorite ice cream (she has a membership card)...
A final culinary farewell from the windy city: leftovers...
So perhaps this post should be retitled an "Ode to Cheryl," for whom I would not have been able to experience the sights, sounds, and tastes of Chicago.
And now I cleanse.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Ode to Comfort
It's been a while. I know. And the whole purpose of this blog--at least of late--was to share to the web community those things wonderful and great even in the most mundane of days. Sometimes it gets to a point, though, where things are just so comfortable that you suffer from blogger's block. Life falls into routine and the daily surprises that would otherwise be blog-worthy are so precious that I just want to keep it for myself. Keeping them to myself, and thus keeping them forever in the present without thinking about leaving.
I looked back at my blog post a year ago at this exact moment. I had too much luggage, too many shoes, and too many anxieties. One year later, I've got my shoes under control, just about everything but my toiletries packed, and a Macbook to document the goings-on right as they happen. Still a couple anxieties, but we'll save that for a later post.
An all too familiar scene:
I hate cliches, but this recent voyage to Korea has been a "charming" third time for several people. I would certainly have to attest to this; my third time in Korea, Hoyah chaos and all, has indeed been very charming. Perhaps a bit too charming. Reconnecting with old friends, making new friends, saying goodbye to friends, and promising reunions. But that was all expected. This last time in Korea I rekindled my relationship with the gym, found a great new hair place, and fell in love with hidden retail treasures (i.e., shopped). This wasn't supposed to happen. I was just supposed to teach, make some new friends, and complain a lot. That's what happens in Korea.
I should be sleeping, but there's just too much of this experience that I don't want to end. It was hard enough lifting my fingers to confirm my departure to the blogosphere, but I know that if I fall asleep, tthe process of waking will bring me just that much closer to having to say goodbye to all of this.
Is this what people meant by "charming"?
I looked back at my blog post a year ago at this exact moment. I had too much luggage, too many shoes, and too many anxieties. One year later, I've got my shoes under control, just about everything but my toiletries packed, and a Macbook to document the goings-on right as they happen. Still a couple anxieties, but we'll save that for a later post.
An all too familiar scene:
I hate cliches, but this recent voyage to Korea has been a "charming" third time for several people. I would certainly have to attest to this; my third time in Korea, Hoyah chaos and all, has indeed been very charming. Perhaps a bit too charming. Reconnecting with old friends, making new friends, saying goodbye to friends, and promising reunions. But that was all expected. This last time in Korea I rekindled my relationship with the gym, found a great new hair place, and fell in love with hidden retail treasures (i.e., shopped). This wasn't supposed to happen. I was just supposed to teach, make some new friends, and complain a lot. That's what happens in Korea.
I should be sleeping, but there's just too much of this experience that I don't want to end. It was hard enough lifting my fingers to confirm my departure to the blogosphere, but I know that if I fall asleep, tthe process of waking will bring me just that much closer to having to say goodbye to all of this.
Is this what people meant by "charming"?
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Ode to Validation
Two posts in one day! The previous one was short so this is to compensate.
You all have seen this before.
But during a recent perusal, THIS one caught my eye:
Notice the socks and shoes. Everything else is far beyond my price range, but from the waist down, that is ME last week and the week before. This man just might be my couture doppelganger.
Good to see that someone else on this planet appreciates the shorts-black patterned socks-white sneakers combination.
You all have seen this before.
But during a recent perusal, THIS one caught my eye:
Notice the socks and shoes. Everything else is far beyond my price range, but from the waist down, that is ME last week and the week before. This man just might be my couture doppelganger.
Good to see that someone else on this planet appreciates the shorts-black patterned socks-white sneakers combination.
Ode to 'Mo
What happens when you take one of the GAYEST songs in one of the GAYEST musical genres and then mix it with an equally GAY musical genre?
Quite possibly the GAYEST song ever.
"And I am Telling You" from Dreamgirls, performed by Jennifer Hudson, dance remix.
So the first time I heard it in spin class, I was pleasantly surprised only because I was baffled as to how the spin instructor got a hold of this monstrosity.
Second time, all you can really do is scrunch your face and think "Really? Why does this exist?"
I think I'm addicted to spinning. Prepare yourselves to be dazzled by my tree-trunk legs when I return to the States. August 25th!
Quite possibly the GAYEST song ever.
"And I am Telling You" from Dreamgirls, performed by Jennifer Hudson, dance remix.
So the first time I heard it in spin class, I was pleasantly surprised only because I was baffled as to how the spin instructor got a hold of this monstrosity.
Second time, all you can really do is scrunch your face and think "Really? Why does this exist?"
I think I'm addicted to spinning. Prepare yourselves to be dazzled by my tree-trunk legs when I return to the States. August 25th!
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Ode to Criticism
Another grueling session at Hoyah Academy. Somehow I always leave Korea with a nice feeling of satisfaction, a feeling like I've actually done something. I may not have changed anyone's life, but if I can keep someone entertained for two hours or bump a Toefl score up a couple points, my job is done.
After a substantial amount of time with the students, I always hand out my own evaluation. This is just a chance for the students to give anonymous feedback--although many of them foolishly state something on the evaluation that blatantly gives away their identity--and to take up time in class. What can I say? By the end of the session, they're lazy, I'm lazy, and I might as well make them suffer for it, not me.
I give these evaluations out knowing that only a handful will be of any use to me. Some comments are actually useful; others are...either glimpses of the kids' sense of humor or just the students being lazy even with an evaluation that I say SHOULD BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY. I'm pretty sure it's the latter, since very few of them have developed any sense of humor that extends beyond slapstick Korean humor and the occasional bathroom joke or faux-fanity (e.g., Shut the FRont door, You MOTHERFAther, etc).
Just a few of the highlights:
3 suggestions on how I can be a better teacher:
1) You need to smile sometimes.
2) I hope you are enjoying staying in Korea.
3) Speak Korean!
I was quick to mention to this student that #2 was not a suggestion and #3 would not be possible in a Toefl SPEAKING class. #1 I said I would consider.
More suggestions:
1) Eat many protein food. You have to recharge your energy. I think Paul need more energy cause he will get a lot of stresses..
This coming from a student who is one citation away from being blacklisted from Hoyah Academy.
1) Paul should teach how to write essay.
We spent the entire month working on essays.
2) You should learn some jokes.
I don't think this student's parents are paying a fortune for a stand-up routine.
1) Reduce your passion little bit for us.
Can I help it if I'm such a passionate person???
1) I like your style!...but...maybe, change your style?
Is this English???
3) Don't fold the end of your pants. It looks not good. I mean, it looks weird to me.
After a substantial amount of time with the students, I always hand out my own evaluation. This is just a chance for the students to give anonymous feedback--although many of them foolishly state something on the evaluation that blatantly gives away their identity--and to take up time in class. What can I say? By the end of the session, they're lazy, I'm lazy, and I might as well make them suffer for it, not me.
I give these evaluations out knowing that only a handful will be of any use to me. Some comments are actually useful; others are...either glimpses of the kids' sense of humor or just the students being lazy even with an evaluation that I say SHOULD BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY. I'm pretty sure it's the latter, since very few of them have developed any sense of humor that extends beyond slapstick Korean humor and the occasional bathroom joke or faux-fanity (e.g., Shut the FRont door, You MOTHERFAther, etc).
Just a few of the highlights:
3 suggestions on how I can be a better teacher:
1) You need to smile sometimes.
2) I hope you are enjoying staying in Korea.
3) Speak Korean!
I was quick to mention to this student that #2 was not a suggestion and #3 would not be possible in a Toefl SPEAKING class. #1 I said I would consider.
More suggestions:
1) Eat many protein food. You have to recharge your energy. I think Paul need more energy cause he will get a lot of stresses..
This coming from a student who is one citation away from being blacklisted from Hoyah Academy.
1) Paul should teach how to write essay.
We spent the entire month working on essays.
2) You should learn some jokes.
I don't think this student's parents are paying a fortune for a stand-up routine.
1) Reduce your passion little bit for us.
Can I help it if I'm such a passionate person???
1) I like your style!...but...maybe, change your style?
Is this English???
3) Don't fold the end of your pants. It looks not good. I mean, it looks weird to me.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Ode to Girl Power
It's official.
The Spice Girls are coming back for a reunion tour that will TAKE THEM ALL OVER THE GLOBE! When I heard about this, I immediately went to the website, registered for my tickets--which will be distributed at random--and sat back, puzzled. Was I really excited about this? For some reason, the sheer insanity of a possible Spice Girls reunion had just gotten the better of my TOEFL-essay-burdened mind and had swept me up into girl power once more.
I do hold a great deal of affection for the Spice Girls. But just about as much affection as I do for spam, McDonald's, topless beaches, Mary Roach Guildbeaux, and all the other ridiculous things on this blog. Sure, I always found Posh quite fetching back in the day with dark hair and was in awe of Sporty's acrobatic skills. Or how about when Scary would create two horns on her head with that wild head of hair? The Spice Girls had invaded the States with a vengeance and I didn't quite mind being recolonized by this 5-some.
I was late jumping onto the spice wagon. When they came out with their debut in the States, I was still into loud alternative, loud ska, loud rock, loudanything. Although my first album purchases were No Doubt's Tragic Kingdom and Alanis Morisette's Jagged Little Pill, respectively, even those were relegated to the back of the cd binder as the Smashing Pumpkins took center stage in the cd player. I was still wearing clothes 3 sizes too big and I was just too angry, too serious, and too insecure to give the Spice Girls even a fleeting glance.
It wasn't until the Spice Girls became the SPICE GIRLS that I jumped head first into the phenomenon. At this point, it was clear that they weren't out there trying to be taken seriously as artists. They were just 5 women--only later to reduced to 4--who were part of some global pop megalomania, out to have a good time. Watching the spice girls fall further and further from their reign as pop royalty, I found myself liking them even more. No matter how bad any subsequent album or single could be, they were and forever would be the SPICE GIRLS. At that point, is it even worth it to care? Is it even worth it to take yourself seriously? Other people lamented the lack of pop ingenuity that defined their early career; I applauded it, as if I, too, were in on the joke.
I'm currently renavigating my way through Proust's Swann's Way. I first read the first installment of In Search of Lost Time my freshman year of college and it all whooshed over my head. Funny how years later, inside a McDonald's eating my weekly Big Mac value meal that my own madeleine materialized. I've already been reminded of my affinity for bad pop music with a recent run-in with S Club 7, but now to have the company of 5 even more special ladies during my Big Mac lunch. And best of all, it wasn't one of their greatest hits. Wannabe, Say You'll Be There, 2 Become 1, etc. etc...they could have been singing to anybody. No. Instead it was Track 7 off of their sophomore album Spiceworld, "Do It." Even I had forgotten that this song ever existed. I may have been sitting their taking in more than half of my daily caloric intake, but mentally, I was back in high school remembering how none of us were too cool for school and that it really was ok to just lay back and have some fun.
The Spice Girls are coming back for a reunion tour that will TAKE THEM ALL OVER THE GLOBE! When I heard about this, I immediately went to the website, registered for my tickets--which will be distributed at random--and sat back, puzzled. Was I really excited about this? For some reason, the sheer insanity of a possible Spice Girls reunion had just gotten the better of my TOEFL-essay-burdened mind and had swept me up into girl power once more.
I do hold a great deal of affection for the Spice Girls. But just about as much affection as I do for spam, McDonald's, topless beaches, Mary Roach Guildbeaux, and all the other ridiculous things on this blog. Sure, I always found Posh quite fetching back in the day with dark hair and was in awe of Sporty's acrobatic skills. Or how about when Scary would create two horns on her head with that wild head of hair? The Spice Girls had invaded the States with a vengeance and I didn't quite mind being recolonized by this 5-some.
I was late jumping onto the spice wagon. When they came out with their debut in the States, I was still into loud alternative, loud ska, loud rock, loudanything. Although my first album purchases were No Doubt's Tragic Kingdom and Alanis Morisette's Jagged Little Pill, respectively, even those were relegated to the back of the cd binder as the Smashing Pumpkins took center stage in the cd player. I was still wearing clothes 3 sizes too big and I was just too angry, too serious, and too insecure to give the Spice Girls even a fleeting glance.
It wasn't until the Spice Girls became the SPICE GIRLS that I jumped head first into the phenomenon. At this point, it was clear that they weren't out there trying to be taken seriously as artists. They were just 5 women--only later to reduced to 4--who were part of some global pop megalomania, out to have a good time. Watching the spice girls fall further and further from their reign as pop royalty, I found myself liking them even more. No matter how bad any subsequent album or single could be, they were and forever would be the SPICE GIRLS. At that point, is it even worth it to care? Is it even worth it to take yourself seriously? Other people lamented the lack of pop ingenuity that defined their early career; I applauded it, as if I, too, were in on the joke.
I'm currently renavigating my way through Proust's Swann's Way. I first read the first installment of In Search of Lost Time my freshman year of college and it all whooshed over my head. Funny how years later, inside a McDonald's eating my weekly Big Mac value meal that my own madeleine materialized. I've already been reminded of my affinity for bad pop music with a recent run-in with S Club 7, but now to have the company of 5 even more special ladies during my Big Mac lunch. And best of all, it wasn't one of their greatest hits. Wannabe, Say You'll Be There, 2 Become 1, etc. etc...they could have been singing to anybody. No. Instead it was Track 7 off of their sophomore album Spiceworld, "Do It." Even I had forgotten that this song ever existed. I may have been sitting their taking in more than half of my daily caloric intake, but mentally, I was back in high school remembering how none of us were too cool for school and that it really was ok to just lay back and have some fun.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Ode to British Cheese
I was just watching a program here in Korea and the opening credits were accompanied by this song:
Never heard it? Probably better that you haven't. It's S Club 7. Same manager as the Spice Girls. Same cheese. But they didn't quite bombard the United States like the Spice Girls. People had to actually seek this stuff out and have it creep up in the bargain bins at music stores, kind of like how rats brought the bubonic plague. It wasn't until they came out with their more adult contemporary pop friendly "Never Had a Dream Come True" that they were allowed American airplay. How quickly we've vaccinated ourselves from this British invasion and opened our doors to British music with a bit more pedigree.
Sad part is, as the show was starting, I found myself singing along to the song. I know all the words to S Club 7's "Bring it All Back."
Am I proud?
No.
It just reminds me of how badly I don't want to become a grown up.
Never heard it? Probably better that you haven't. It's S Club 7. Same manager as the Spice Girls. Same cheese. But they didn't quite bombard the United States like the Spice Girls. People had to actually seek this stuff out and have it creep up in the bargain bins at music stores, kind of like how rats brought the bubonic plague. It wasn't until they came out with their more adult contemporary pop friendly "Never Had a Dream Come True" that they were allowed American airplay. How quickly we've vaccinated ourselves from this British invasion and opened our doors to British music with a bit more pedigree.
Sad part is, as the show was starting, I found myself singing along to the song. I know all the words to S Club 7's "Bring it All Back."
Am I proud?
No.
It just reminds me of how badly I don't want to become a grown up.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Ode to Soul
People really like lyrics. I look at people's facebook profiles and on the favorite quotes section, I often see lyrics. I only know they're lyrics because I've heard the song. Most of the time it's ironic--some terribly cheesy song that's given a dose of gravity due to the sheer absence of any music. Other time's the facebook member is serious. These words are uplifting. They make me happy. They're brilliant. So the facebook member might say.
I've never been one to latch onto lyrics. In fact, I rarely hear the lyrics of a song on first listen. Once I've heard the song several times, I sing along to the song and stumble my way through the lyrics inserting unknown words with a "hmm" or "uhh" in the correct pitch. It all sounds good in my head when I'm driving by myself but I'm sure it appears unsettling to observers.
I don't think a single one of my favorite songs is a favorite because of its lyrics. One song I rediscovered while in Spain was Aretha Franklin's "Giving Him Something He Can Feel." I still don't really know what that "something" is or if it's a love song or a woman-scorned song. I've never had those experiences before. But the introductory bass line was and still is powerful enough to seduce me into the rest of this queen of soul's crooning. This isn't the first time I've been seduced by the powers of soul and rest assured, I have no idea what the lyrics in these favorite songs even mean. I guess I could just take the time to really read through the lyrics, but somehow I feel like that would be taking away part of the mystique.
So imagine my surprise when I see this one lazy afternoon in Madrid:
Ok, so it wasn't really this. I saw the music video; this I found while furiously searching for any video recording on youtube. Her name is Beverley Knight. She sings soul. Does anyone really sing soul anymore? I'm sure many die-hards would say no. I'm hesitant to say that she sings soul because then I would feel like I was giving myself some sort of musical authority. So I'll just say that I think this is soul. Only because listening to this song gave me the same shivers, the same confusing goosebumps that I had when listening to some of Aretha's greats. Confusing only because--as I said earlier--the lyrics mean nothing to me. Korean music has never given me shivers or goosebumps. Actually, once I got shivers but I think it was because I was just appalled.
I quickly downloaded every song off of this album, "Music City Soul." I would've purchased it but the album wasn't for sale in the States nor in Spain. So I think my downloading is justified. I also downloaded many of her previous songs; she is, after all, a multi-platinum recording artist in her native England. Her previous work, however, didn't quite move me and feels overproduced--desperate attempts to get sufficient airplay. And even a new single off of this album was just released with the same overproduction that reeks of casio keyboards and bad R&B. Beverley, please stop. You have found a good place with this album which you recorded in live sessions throughout the course of 5 days. I know it. You know it. I know you knew it when you were making this album.
You make me want to do greater things with my voice, Beverley. Greater things that my voice will never achieve, in part because I'm a man and you are a woman and also because I'm just not that great at singing. But I know what it would sound like if I did achieve it. You make me feel like I understand myself even when I'm singing "hm's" and "um's". And that's why I think you--along with aretha, marvin, otis, and al--have and are soul.
I've never been one to latch onto lyrics. In fact, I rarely hear the lyrics of a song on first listen. Once I've heard the song several times, I sing along to the song and stumble my way through the lyrics inserting unknown words with a "hmm" or "uhh" in the correct pitch. It all sounds good in my head when I'm driving by myself but I'm sure it appears unsettling to observers.
I don't think a single one of my favorite songs is a favorite because of its lyrics. One song I rediscovered while in Spain was Aretha Franklin's "Giving Him Something He Can Feel." I still don't really know what that "something" is or if it's a love song or a woman-scorned song. I've never had those experiences before. But the introductory bass line was and still is powerful enough to seduce me into the rest of this queen of soul's crooning. This isn't the first time I've been seduced by the powers of soul and rest assured, I have no idea what the lyrics in these favorite songs even mean. I guess I could just take the time to really read through the lyrics, but somehow I feel like that would be taking away part of the mystique.
So imagine my surprise when I see this one lazy afternoon in Madrid:
Ok, so it wasn't really this. I saw the music video; this I found while furiously searching for any video recording on youtube. Her name is Beverley Knight. She sings soul. Does anyone really sing soul anymore? I'm sure many die-hards would say no. I'm hesitant to say that she sings soul because then I would feel like I was giving myself some sort of musical authority. So I'll just say that I think this is soul. Only because listening to this song gave me the same shivers, the same confusing goosebumps that I had when listening to some of Aretha's greats. Confusing only because--as I said earlier--the lyrics mean nothing to me. Korean music has never given me shivers or goosebumps. Actually, once I got shivers but I think it was because I was just appalled.
I quickly downloaded every song off of this album, "Music City Soul." I would've purchased it but the album wasn't for sale in the States nor in Spain. So I think my downloading is justified. I also downloaded many of her previous songs; she is, after all, a multi-platinum recording artist in her native England. Her previous work, however, didn't quite move me and feels overproduced--desperate attempts to get sufficient airplay. And even a new single off of this album was just released with the same overproduction that reeks of casio keyboards and bad R&B. Beverley, please stop. You have found a good place with this album which you recorded in live sessions throughout the course of 5 days. I know it. You know it. I know you knew it when you were making this album.
You make me want to do greater things with my voice, Beverley. Greater things that my voice will never achieve, in part because I'm a man and you are a woman and also because I'm just not that great at singing. But I know what it would sound like if I did achieve it. You make me feel like I understand myself even when I'm singing "hm's" and "um's". And that's why I think you--along with aretha, marvin, otis, and al--have and are soul.
Friday, June 01, 2007
An Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini
That she only wore HALF of to the beach. I don't think I have to say which half. When I took my weekend away to Alicante I had two things on my mind: the beach and my allergies. I had been told that my allergies would disappear in this coastal port town and lo and behold, they did. It was marvelous. But even more marvelous was Playa de San Juan just a mere 10 minute walk from the place I was staying. Now I'm not much of a beach person and I didn't even go into the water that weekend, but there is something quite remarkable about seeing families and friends gather together under the sun for some rest and relaxation. Perhaps a little TOO much relaxation?
The nation turned upside down when Janet had her wardrobe malfunction and who still doesn't get a good laugh at Tara Reid's red carpet mishap. I mean, jeez louise, they're just body parts. But after my umpteenth encounter with a bare chest I was...not bothered, but...confused. If a couple of ladies can frolic freely bare-chested on the shoreline, if a mother can suntan topless next to her husband and children, all just a pond's length away, what's the big deal?
Growing up there were few things I knew about Europe. All I knew was that there was a place in France where the naked ladies danced and that the European women were known to roam the beaches sans bikini top. We never questioned the fact or fiction of it. In our pre-pubescent/pre-adolescent years, we would take all we could get in a pre-thong song era where a madonna video could send ripples of scandal. By the way, I miss that Madonna. But I guess that's what happens when you have kids and dedicate your life to children's books and third-world adoptions.
As I said before, my first reaction to the plethora of bare chests wasn't shock or intrigue, just plain confusion. Now, ALL the women didn't have their tops off but a fair share of them did. What was keeping the others from taking theirs off? After all, who wants that annoying tan line? For instance, if we saw a guy at the beach frolicking beachside with a shirt on, we would think he had something to hide--ok, so the frolicking might be problematic in and of itself but I think anyone's allowed to frolic on the shoreline. But that wasn't really the case with the women who chose to keep them on; those with bikini tops seemed just as much in place at the beach as those without. So I ask again, what is the big deal? Why can't we bare (almost) all like they do in Spain? Are these Europeans really just a bunch of liberal crazies with too much siesta on their hands?
I'm not sure what sort of legislation the United States has on any kind of public nudity but I do know that in Spain public nudity is legal. Technically, you could walk down the Raval in Barcelona completely naked and not be in danger of any public indecency charges. I guess this issue of coverage and lack thereof in history and contemporary culture is a much contested and researched one; no need to go into that now. But while I was in Spain, I did have someone tell me that I was way too uptight. I don't remember exactly what it was I said or what my reaction was to that remark, but I guess it's true that I am prone to having a stick up my arse at times. That stick up my arse may cause me to be uptight but it's that same stick that's allowed me to live a traffic-ticket-free life. And maybe that's why I find a bit of comfort coming here to Korea. Because here, everyone else has a stick up the arse and I'm the one that gets to wear my bikini sans top--figuratively speaking ofcourse.
**I didn't take my camera to the beaches of Alicante for fear that sand would get in my camera but here are pictures of the beaches in Barcelona**
The nation turned upside down when Janet had her wardrobe malfunction and who still doesn't get a good laugh at Tara Reid's red carpet mishap. I mean, jeez louise, they're just body parts. But after my umpteenth encounter with a bare chest I was...not bothered, but...confused. If a couple of ladies can frolic freely bare-chested on the shoreline, if a mother can suntan topless next to her husband and children, all just a pond's length away, what's the big deal?
Growing up there were few things I knew about Europe. All I knew was that there was a place in France where the naked ladies danced and that the European women were known to roam the beaches sans bikini top. We never questioned the fact or fiction of it. In our pre-pubescent/pre-adolescent years, we would take all we could get in a pre-thong song era where a madonna video could send ripples of scandal. By the way, I miss that Madonna. But I guess that's what happens when you have kids and dedicate your life to children's books and third-world adoptions.
As I said before, my first reaction to the plethora of bare chests wasn't shock or intrigue, just plain confusion. Now, ALL the women didn't have their tops off but a fair share of them did. What was keeping the others from taking theirs off? After all, who wants that annoying tan line? For instance, if we saw a guy at the beach frolicking beachside with a shirt on, we would think he had something to hide--ok, so the frolicking might be problematic in and of itself but I think anyone's allowed to frolic on the shoreline. But that wasn't really the case with the women who chose to keep them on; those with bikini tops seemed just as much in place at the beach as those without. So I ask again, what is the big deal? Why can't we bare (almost) all like they do in Spain? Are these Europeans really just a bunch of liberal crazies with too much siesta on their hands?
I'm not sure what sort of legislation the United States has on any kind of public nudity but I do know that in Spain public nudity is legal. Technically, you could walk down the Raval in Barcelona completely naked and not be in danger of any public indecency charges. I guess this issue of coverage and lack thereof in history and contemporary culture is a much contested and researched one; no need to go into that now. But while I was in Spain, I did have someone tell me that I was way too uptight. I don't remember exactly what it was I said or what my reaction was to that remark, but I guess it's true that I am prone to having a stick up my arse at times. That stick up my arse may cause me to be uptight but it's that same stick that's allowed me to live a traffic-ticket-free life. And maybe that's why I find a bit of comfort coming here to Korea. Because here, everyone else has a stick up the arse and I'm the one that gets to wear my bikini sans top--figuratively speaking ofcourse.
**I didn't take my camera to the beaches of Alicante for fear that sand would get in my camera but here are pictures of the beaches in Barcelona**
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Happy Birthday, Blog!
I started this blog as a way to record random goings on during my travels in Korea and one year later I find myself in the very same position. Back in Korea and back to the blog, who knew that in one year I would once again be embarking on my journey to TOEFL education and Korean gym fitness?
But third time's a charm right?
I had plenty of charming experiences the first and second time around so who knows what sort of surprises a third visit will present. I will keep you posted.
Until classes and life start full swing in about a week, I'm going to wax nostalgic about my time in Spain. Because as painful, and lonely, and allergenic as it was at times, I can't help but feel a slight pain in my heart as I look at all my photos from the trip. So maybe my Lonely Planet was right about one thing. I did fall in love with Madrid. I can't say it was always pretty but then again when you're really FALLING for/to/from anything, when is it ever pretty?
In the spirit of my original title for this blog, I'm going to try really hard to stay positive on this blog. Complaints no more. Odes abound.
So here's to you, Madrid. And yes, even to you, Barcelona.
But third time's a charm right?
I had plenty of charming experiences the first and second time around so who knows what sort of surprises a third visit will present. I will keep you posted.
Until classes and life start full swing in about a week, I'm going to wax nostalgic about my time in Spain. Because as painful, and lonely, and allergenic as it was at times, I can't help but feel a slight pain in my heart as I look at all my photos from the trip. So maybe my Lonely Planet was right about one thing. I did fall in love with Madrid. I can't say it was always pretty but then again when you're really FALLING for/to/from anything, when is it ever pretty?
In the spirit of my original title for this blog, I'm going to try really hard to stay positive on this blog. Complaints no more. Odes abound.
So here's to you, Madrid. And yes, even to you, Barcelona.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Afternoon Delight
After one beer, two enchiladas, three chicken fajitas, and two scoops of quite possibly the most incredible mango ice cream ever...
I am satisfied.
'Twas time that I gave into my gastronomic desires and did something to distract myself from my first ever allergy attack. Too bad I forgot my camera.
Now time for a siesta.
I am satisfied.
'Twas time that I gave into my gastronomic desires and did something to distract myself from my first ever allergy attack. Too bad I forgot my camera.
Now time for a siesta.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Breaking Down...Almost
I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. And I've seen Almodovar's rendition of what women do when they are on the verge: they burn things, throw phones through windows, try to jump off buildings, and put prescription drugs in gazpacho. I only searched frantically for return trips home a week or two early had somehow arrived at the point where spending that amount of money actually seemed worth it. Maybe it would have been worth it. I only have a week in the States before it's off to Korea again and I've already scheduled a short trip to Austin. It'll all be a New York minute in sleepy Texas.
I'm better now. And by "better" I mean that I've decided to stay and save myself the trouble of a wallet full of airline woes. People troubles, language troubles, and roommate troubles aside, I'm not going to give up like this. One hamburger and a side of fries and onion rings later, I was planning out my last couple weeks in Madrid and pining over overpriced clothes and shoes online.
I've already gotten over the fact that I'm not as extroverted as I want to be. I keep thinking of certain friends and asking myself, "What would ______ do?" But thought never follows through to execution and I resign myself to going to the park alone or searching for a good movie to watch. What troubles me the most is how close these "tough" times have gotten into breakdown territory. I don't think I've ever really had a breakdown, but then has any of us?
When I first read about the Virginia Tech shootings on the New York Times, I was completely shocked. And then I continued to check the Times as the saga unraveled over the course of the following days/weeks in what seemed a disturbingly formulaic manner. Were they releasing the information as an imitation of a previous law & order episode, or was the media frenzy inadvertently setting up the next perfect episode? Nevertheless, an unfortunate soul had been pushed beyond the verge and America had to deal with another "breakdown" with devastating consequences.
A couple days ago I had the sudden craving for Taco Cabana. It was intense. Like pregnant lady intense. There was no tex-mex trigger; it just happened on my walk home from class. I could picture the haphazard wrapping of aluminum foil, the bean and cheese mix inside the warm tortilla...the smell...the touch...everything. Whilst salivating ravenously, I had the urge in my fingers, tingling sensations running up arms, to grab someone by the neck and yell, "GET ME SOME TACO CABANA!!!!!!!!" It was all really uncalled for and ofcourse I didn't strangle anyone.
Earlier in the week I had the burning desire to throw my notebook at a group of girls in my Spanish class. This isn't completely unwarranted. On certain days, there are up to 5 German girls--in a class of about 8 total. Mind you, this is a Spanish class and yet these girls speak in German among themselves, WHILE the teacher is speaking. And ofcourse to me, it's all talk of "streudel" and "bratwurst"; who knows what they're saying? I contemplated telling them to shut up but somehow a notebook to the face and perhaps a pen to follow up seemed more appropriate. Remember...I was just on the verge.
Almodovar has an incredible way of making the crazy and abnormal seem completely humane and compelling. Even when a woman tries to kill her husband in the airport, you don't want to send her to an insane asylum; you just want to give her a hug and tell her everything's going to be ok. But I wonder. How long will it be until my nerve tinglings catch up with my brain and I'm suddenly pushed over the edge? It would comfort me to know that I'm not the only that may potentially get my gun license revoked because of taco torture and classroom hit and run.
I'm better now. And by "better" I mean that I've decided to stay and save myself the trouble of a wallet full of airline woes. People troubles, language troubles, and roommate troubles aside, I'm not going to give up like this. One hamburger and a side of fries and onion rings later, I was planning out my last couple weeks in Madrid and pining over overpriced clothes and shoes online.
I've already gotten over the fact that I'm not as extroverted as I want to be. I keep thinking of certain friends and asking myself, "What would ______ do?" But thought never follows through to execution and I resign myself to going to the park alone or searching for a good movie to watch. What troubles me the most is how close these "tough" times have gotten into breakdown territory. I don't think I've ever really had a breakdown, but then has any of us?
When I first read about the Virginia Tech shootings on the New York Times, I was completely shocked. And then I continued to check the Times as the saga unraveled over the course of the following days/weeks in what seemed a disturbingly formulaic manner. Were they releasing the information as an imitation of a previous law & order episode, or was the media frenzy inadvertently setting up the next perfect episode? Nevertheless, an unfortunate soul had been pushed beyond the verge and America had to deal with another "breakdown" with devastating consequences.
A couple days ago I had the sudden craving for Taco Cabana. It was intense. Like pregnant lady intense. There was no tex-mex trigger; it just happened on my walk home from class. I could picture the haphazard wrapping of aluminum foil, the bean and cheese mix inside the warm tortilla...the smell...the touch...everything. Whilst salivating ravenously, I had the urge in my fingers, tingling sensations running up arms, to grab someone by the neck and yell, "GET ME SOME TACO CABANA!!!!!!!!" It was all really uncalled for and ofcourse I didn't strangle anyone.
Earlier in the week I had the burning desire to throw my notebook at a group of girls in my Spanish class. This isn't completely unwarranted. On certain days, there are up to 5 German girls--in a class of about 8 total. Mind you, this is a Spanish class and yet these girls speak in German among themselves, WHILE the teacher is speaking. And ofcourse to me, it's all talk of "streudel" and "bratwurst"; who knows what they're saying? I contemplated telling them to shut up but somehow a notebook to the face and perhaps a pen to follow up seemed more appropriate. Remember...I was just on the verge.
Almodovar has an incredible way of making the crazy and abnormal seem completely humane and compelling. Even when a woman tries to kill her husband in the airport, you don't want to send her to an insane asylum; you just want to give her a hug and tell her everything's going to be ok. But I wonder. How long will it be until my nerve tinglings catch up with my brain and I'm suddenly pushed over the edge? It would comfort me to know that I'm not the only that may potentially get my gun license revoked because of taco torture and classroom hit and run.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Hello, Yellow
When I was an elementary student and a lone asian face in middle of nowhere texas, the other kids had a little saying. They would pull the corners of their eyes and move them in time to a sing-song of "Chinese, Japanese, Korean." For Chinese they would push their fingers up creating a downward slant with their eyes; for Japanese they would pull the corners of their eyes down creating an upwards slant; and for Korean they would pull the corners back up to normal creating a horizontal slit with their eyes.
I was never really offended by this routine. I was too young to know what racism was and I was more confused why Korean eyes were somehow a half-way point between Chinese and Japanese. Since then, I've yet to experience the feeling of being the lone Asian...until now. That's a bit of a lie. But I'll explain.
There's an expression here in Spain: "Trabajar como un chino." Work like a Chinese person. Virtually all of the Asians here in Madrid are Chinese and fairly recent immigrants who live in the "seedy" neighborhood of Lavapies--which borders my street. They live here with all the other immigrants from Latin America, Africa, and the Middle East. And as far as I've seen, and confirmed by Spaniards that I've met, they keep to themselves. The middle-aged couples run wholesale stores, convenient stores, or restaurants that serve bar-style Spanish food. Someone told me that there are laws that keep businesses from staying open all day, but if there weren't, the Chinese surely wouldn't stop working. These Chinese immigrants are Spaniards. They are Madrilenos. Just not the ones I had come to know via my Lonely Planet.
On one night out, a stocky girl in semi-goth waddled over to me and asked in a thickly accented English,"Where are you from?" I told her in Spanish, "I'm from Texas!!!!!" (I was a little tipsy). I knew exactly what she wanted to know, but I wasn't going to give it to her that easily. She asked again (this time in Spanish) "No, no, where are your parents from?" "They're from Los Angeles," I replied. She kept on asking me where "I was from" and finally I conceded and told her Korea because quite frankly I had lost interest in the conversation on first waddle. "Oh ok! Korean. We think you look very Tokyo. My friends and I bet that you were from Tokyo." I hope the winners of the bet got a good deal.
I should have been flattered. I love Tokyo. I've never been, but I'll admit a sense of pride when people in Korea tell me I dress like a Japanese. But it wasn't flattering. I've been called chino on the streets in the most endearing of tones--"chinito!!!"--as if I were a Japanese school girl. And I've also been muttered to as a chino or given sideways glances as if I were the SARS. I'm often the only Asian person in an entire club or bar, and by the way I've been treated at times, I could see why the Chinese here don't make more efforts to assimilate.
Ah, I just used the word assimilate. I promise I won't delve too far into issues yellow. But here in Spain, it's all downward and upward slanted eyes; the only exposure they have of koreans is a potential nuclear threat. There's no room for a Korean that's not an immigrant Chinese or a high-rolling Japanese tourist. But every time I walk by a small bar/grill on the way home and see the chinese owners behind the counter with the Spanish customers, I can't help but think of my mom back at home in her own deli with all her customers. I definitely feel a connection with this community, further evidenced by fleeting moments of eye-contact with other Chinese on the streets, and at the same time I feel the need to dissociate myself from this group that's so looked down upon by the hard-partying madrilenos. The story of my life: wanting to belong, but having to reject. After all wouldn't you rather be, as the Spaniards would put it, a funky Tokyo than a seedy Chinese?
I was never really offended by this routine. I was too young to know what racism was and I was more confused why Korean eyes were somehow a half-way point between Chinese and Japanese. Since then, I've yet to experience the feeling of being the lone Asian...until now. That's a bit of a lie. But I'll explain.
There's an expression here in Spain: "Trabajar como un chino." Work like a Chinese person. Virtually all of the Asians here in Madrid are Chinese and fairly recent immigrants who live in the "seedy" neighborhood of Lavapies--which borders my street. They live here with all the other immigrants from Latin America, Africa, and the Middle East. And as far as I've seen, and confirmed by Spaniards that I've met, they keep to themselves. The middle-aged couples run wholesale stores, convenient stores, or restaurants that serve bar-style Spanish food. Someone told me that there are laws that keep businesses from staying open all day, but if there weren't, the Chinese surely wouldn't stop working. These Chinese immigrants are Spaniards. They are Madrilenos. Just not the ones I had come to know via my Lonely Planet.
On one night out, a stocky girl in semi-goth waddled over to me and asked in a thickly accented English,"Where are you from?" I told her in Spanish, "I'm from Texas!!!!!" (I was a little tipsy). I knew exactly what she wanted to know, but I wasn't going to give it to her that easily. She asked again (this time in Spanish) "No, no, where are your parents from?" "They're from Los Angeles," I replied. She kept on asking me where "I was from" and finally I conceded and told her Korea because quite frankly I had lost interest in the conversation on first waddle. "Oh ok! Korean. We think you look very Tokyo. My friends and I bet that you were from Tokyo." I hope the winners of the bet got a good deal.
I should have been flattered. I love Tokyo. I've never been, but I'll admit a sense of pride when people in Korea tell me I dress like a Japanese. But it wasn't flattering. I've been called chino on the streets in the most endearing of tones--"chinito!!!"--as if I were a Japanese school girl. And I've also been muttered to as a chino or given sideways glances as if I were the SARS. I'm often the only Asian person in an entire club or bar, and by the way I've been treated at times, I could see why the Chinese here don't make more efforts to assimilate.
Ah, I just used the word assimilate. I promise I won't delve too far into issues yellow. But here in Spain, it's all downward and upward slanted eyes; the only exposure they have of koreans is a potential nuclear threat. There's no room for a Korean that's not an immigrant Chinese or a high-rolling Japanese tourist. But every time I walk by a small bar/grill on the way home and see the chinese owners behind the counter with the Spanish customers, I can't help but think of my mom back at home in her own deli with all her customers. I definitely feel a connection with this community, further evidenced by fleeting moments of eye-contact with other Chinese on the streets, and at the same time I feel the need to dissociate myself from this group that's so looked down upon by the hard-partying madrilenos. The story of my life: wanting to belong, but having to reject. After all wouldn't you rather be, as the Spaniards would put it, a funky Tokyo than a seedy Chinese?
Friday, April 20, 2007
Stomping Grounds
The summer before I started college I was determined to be able to run a mile without stopping. During my breaks from work, I would go to the nearby park and push myself to finish a mile. Just one little mile under the oppressive heat of the midday Texas sun.
I remember struggling to finish that one lap around the park and thinking to myself, "how did this happen?" I used to be quite the star athlete back in the day--don't laugh. I'm serious. I was a force to be reckoned with on the kickball and wallball circuit back in elementary school. I won several sprints at the Aledo Intermediate School Field Day AND...if that weren't enough, I won the Barnyard Race with my partner in crime (combination of potato sack race, wheelbarrow race, and balance-a-potato-on-a-spoon race). So yes, I will toot my own horn and say that I was on the fast track to high school jock-dom. And here I found myself, the lone runner, in a grass field park, showered in my own sweat, trying to finish...a mile.
Suffice it to say that I can run a mile now. More than a mile if you want. I'm no cross-country star or marathoner but I've taken quite a liking to running. I don't know what about it I like so much; perhaps the fact that you're constantly moving, trying to get somewhere. Something about it feels very much "at home." I don't know why. Falling into rhythm, listening to my ipod, sweating in the sun. It's all very comforting. Even when I look at my anorexic (as the tabloids would say of Nicole or Lindsay) wrists and arms and think "i could really use some more upper body work," it's still comforting.
Since my amateur days pre-college I've been able to feel this comfort, this feeling of being "at home" all over the world. There's nothing better than putting yourself into a routine, whether it be for a mere 30 minutes or over the course of an entire year. A list of my past stomping grounds: Austin, TX; Amherst, MA; Boston, MA; Manhattan, NY; San Francisco, CA; Seoul, Korea...
And now Madrid, Spain. Some pictures of where I've spent time pumping endorphins.
I remember struggling to finish that one lap around the park and thinking to myself, "how did this happen?" I used to be quite the star athlete back in the day--don't laugh. I'm serious. I was a force to be reckoned with on the kickball and wallball circuit back in elementary school. I won several sprints at the Aledo Intermediate School Field Day AND...if that weren't enough, I won the Barnyard Race with my partner in crime (combination of potato sack race, wheelbarrow race, and balance-a-potato-on-a-spoon race). So yes, I will toot my own horn and say that I was on the fast track to high school jock-dom. And here I found myself, the lone runner, in a grass field park, showered in my own sweat, trying to finish...a mile.
Suffice it to say that I can run a mile now. More than a mile if you want. I'm no cross-country star or marathoner but I've taken quite a liking to running. I don't know what about it I like so much; perhaps the fact that you're constantly moving, trying to get somewhere. Something about it feels very much "at home." I don't know why. Falling into rhythm, listening to my ipod, sweating in the sun. It's all very comforting. Even when I look at my anorexic (as the tabloids would say of Nicole or Lindsay) wrists and arms and think "i could really use some more upper body work," it's still comforting.
Since my amateur days pre-college I've been able to feel this comfort, this feeling of being "at home" all over the world. There's nothing better than putting yourself into a routine, whether it be for a mere 30 minutes or over the course of an entire year. A list of my past stomping grounds: Austin, TX; Amherst, MA; Boston, MA; Manhattan, NY; San Francisco, CA; Seoul, Korea...
And now Madrid, Spain. Some pictures of where I've spent time pumping endorphins.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Who's in Your Lonely Planet?
On the cover of my Lonely Planet Madrid is a picture of a young man and woman kissing passionately in the rain contrasted with a photo of a hallway of some old, traditional building, symmetrical columns leading to some unknown destination. Madrid: the perfect mix of contemporary passion and all things traditionally Spanish. I knew this well before I set foot in Madrid, even before I got on board my flight to Spain. Nights before my adventure to Spain, Lonely Planet had already assured me that my 7 weeks would be the best 7 weeks of my life.
People: "The young, laid-back and sassy Madrid of the 21st century is a radically different world to that of the parents and grandparents...Liberated from the shackles that bound their parents, those who grew up in the post-Franco years did so believing that theirs was a world without limits."
Ok, so I'm not quite convinced that every madrileno lives life with a carpe diem attitude, but now I'm curious. If Lonely Planet came make madrilenos sound this good, let's see what it has to say about some other people.
Korea: "Koreans are a people obsessed with nature, and with mountains in particular. Where you travel, you'll see Koreans out in the open air, clad in the latest adventure fashions, pushing ever onward and upward."
I hate climbing mountains.
Barcelona: "...it's always on the biting edge of architecture, food, fashion, style, music and good times...The people, with their exuberance, their creative spirit, their persistent egalitarianism, will fascinate you."
I respectfully disagree. Too many dreadlocks.
Dallas: "Dallas is the most mythical city in Texas, with a past and present rich in all the stuff of which American legends are made."
Only if Tex-mex is considered a legend.
North Korea: North Korea is one of the world's most bizzare countries...a slew of quirky Kim-centric sights are the reasons to visit."
???
I'm not really sure why the series is called "Lonely Planet." According to the Lonely Planet series, everyone everywhere is pretty alright, even in "quirky" North Korea. So what more is there to these guides than a little bit of reassurance for those pre-travel jitters?
Not to say that my Lonely Planet Madrid hasn't been completely useless. But despite the wealth of insider tips, it's failed to explain to me that yes, you will feel lonely regardless of how extensively we gush about the sights and frights. I'm not going to go too much into this, lest this become another complaint box a la summer 2006, but truth be told this past week has been quite lonely. Not just alone; lonely. The one thing that my Lonely Planet didn't really prepare me for. Anyone could have told me this and my mom did question my desires to come here for 7 weeks but somehow I was already lost in my fantasies of livin' la vida loca with these "laid-back and sassy" Madrilenos.
But all is not in vain. Getting to spend enough time to get to the point of "lonely" has taught me that flying solo into all parts of this lonely planet isn't so much fun. I don't if I'm just getting older, bored, antsy to speak english, or hormonal; life is better with a familiar face, if not to make out with in the rain, then to just have by your side.
Pictures of my street and apartment:
People: "The young, laid-back and sassy Madrid of the 21st century is a radically different world to that of the parents and grandparents...Liberated from the shackles that bound their parents, those who grew up in the post-Franco years did so believing that theirs was a world without limits."
Ok, so I'm not quite convinced that every madrileno lives life with a carpe diem attitude, but now I'm curious. If Lonely Planet came make madrilenos sound this good, let's see what it has to say about some other people.
Korea: "Koreans are a people obsessed with nature, and with mountains in particular. Where you travel, you'll see Koreans out in the open air, clad in the latest adventure fashions, pushing ever onward and upward."
I hate climbing mountains.
Barcelona: "...it's always on the biting edge of architecture, food, fashion, style, music and good times...The people, with their exuberance, their creative spirit, their persistent egalitarianism, will fascinate you."
I respectfully disagree. Too many dreadlocks.
Dallas: "Dallas is the most mythical city in Texas, with a past and present rich in all the stuff of which American legends are made."
Only if Tex-mex is considered a legend.
North Korea: North Korea is one of the world's most bizzare countries...a slew of quirky Kim-centric sights are the reasons to visit."
???
I'm not really sure why the series is called "Lonely Planet." According to the Lonely Planet series, everyone everywhere is pretty alright, even in "quirky" North Korea. So what more is there to these guides than a little bit of reassurance for those pre-travel jitters?
Not to say that my Lonely Planet Madrid hasn't been completely useless. But despite the wealth of insider tips, it's failed to explain to me that yes, you will feel lonely regardless of how extensively we gush about the sights and frights. I'm not going to go too much into this, lest this become another complaint box a la summer 2006, but truth be told this past week has been quite lonely. Not just alone; lonely. The one thing that my Lonely Planet didn't really prepare me for. Anyone could have told me this and my mom did question my desires to come here for 7 weeks but somehow I was already lost in my fantasies of livin' la vida loca with these "laid-back and sassy" Madrilenos.
But all is not in vain. Getting to spend enough time to get to the point of "lonely" has taught me that flying solo into all parts of this lonely planet isn't so much fun. I don't if I'm just getting older, bored, antsy to speak english, or hormonal; life is better with a familiar face, if not to make out with in the rain, then to just have by your side.
Pictures of my street and apartment:
Friday, April 06, 2007
A Large Popcorn with EXTRA Butter, Please
I was walking around Barcelona in Parc de la Ciutadella trying to think of something to describe my experience and then I came up with it: movie theater popcorn. This may have been a result of a foul smell and my sudden craving for popcorn. With artificial butter. So hear me out.
Going to the movies has become an EXPERIENCE. Sitting in uncomfortable seats, crying babies in rated-R films, cell phones ringing, and to track back a little further, standing awkwardly in the parking lot post-movie for the parentals. What would American adolescence be without the movie theater? And who hasn't had their share of a collective bucket of popcorn greased, and greased, and greased, and then shaken for equal saturation, and then greased one more. I remember when our local theater put out the do-it-yourself butter machines where you could push a button and saturate to your gastronomic desires.
I've never REALLY been of fan of this popcorny. My mom would never let me touch that shit whenever we went to the movies. In fact, we never got to partake in any of the concessions; only snacks from home that we had to smuggle in like contraband. So how could I not, after years and years of health food snobbery, scoff at those who stand in line for edible styrofoam and butter that could just as well be massage oil?
I think that's how it was in Barcelona. I felt like the non-Spaniards that had all come to live in Barcelona, attracted by the warmer mediterranean weather and the no-worries attitude, were taking part in something foul and excessive. Barcelona is renowned for it's nightlife, but it's the tourists that bring the vigor, not the locals. In fact, the many British, Dutch, German ex-pats I met were just...TOO laid-back for my tastes. These would be those poor souls who don't think twice about the buttered popcorn and finger lick without any guilt. Sure going away to the beach and a land of siestas is nice for a vacation, but to use it as a permanent haven from the work and grind in my own country? No thanks. I'll get on that treadmill and count the miles and calories, i.e. go back to America and worry about what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. A life without worries? I'm sorry...I live by the maxim of worrying about life.
I remember the first time I got movie theater popcorn sans parental supervision. I found it extremely difficult to spread the butter evenly and quite overpriced. But that's what you do when you go to a movie theater right? It's time to escape. But not for me. Too much escaping to a land of overt paradise and you just might throw up. Literally. In a bar. In front of your friends (I still really can't let that one go).
I don't really need Barcelona to get any better for me. In fact, I don't really even want it to get better. But at least now I can say I've tried it. It's part of the whole Europe "experience" right?
Some great flatmates who were biding their time in Barcelona before moving on with their lives:
A German, a belgian, a swede, an italian, a dutch, and a fellow american.
Going to the movies has become an EXPERIENCE. Sitting in uncomfortable seats, crying babies in rated-R films, cell phones ringing, and to track back a little further, standing awkwardly in the parking lot post-movie for the parentals. What would American adolescence be without the movie theater? And who hasn't had their share of a collective bucket of popcorn greased, and greased, and greased, and then shaken for equal saturation, and then greased one more. I remember when our local theater put out the do-it-yourself butter machines where you could push a button and saturate to your gastronomic desires.
I've never REALLY been of fan of this popcorny. My mom would never let me touch that shit whenever we went to the movies. In fact, we never got to partake in any of the concessions; only snacks from home that we had to smuggle in like contraband. So how could I not, after years and years of health food snobbery, scoff at those who stand in line for edible styrofoam and butter that could just as well be massage oil?
I think that's how it was in Barcelona. I felt like the non-Spaniards that had all come to live in Barcelona, attracted by the warmer mediterranean weather and the no-worries attitude, were taking part in something foul and excessive. Barcelona is renowned for it's nightlife, but it's the tourists that bring the vigor, not the locals. In fact, the many British, Dutch, German ex-pats I met were just...TOO laid-back for my tastes. These would be those poor souls who don't think twice about the buttered popcorn and finger lick without any guilt. Sure going away to the beach and a land of siestas is nice for a vacation, but to use it as a permanent haven from the work and grind in my own country? No thanks. I'll get on that treadmill and count the miles and calories, i.e. go back to America and worry about what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. A life without worries? I'm sorry...I live by the maxim of worrying about life.
I remember the first time I got movie theater popcorn sans parental supervision. I found it extremely difficult to spread the butter evenly and quite overpriced. But that's what you do when you go to a movie theater right? It's time to escape. But not for me. Too much escaping to a land of overt paradise and you just might throw up. Literally. In a bar. In front of your friends (I still really can't let that one go).
I don't really need Barcelona to get any better for me. In fact, I don't really even want it to get better. But at least now I can say I've tried it. It's part of the whole Europe "experience" right?
Some great flatmates who were biding their time in Barcelona before moving on with their lives:
A German, a belgian, a swede, an italian, a dutch, and a fellow american.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Welcome to Barcelona-land
A while ago I proclaimed my love for Barcelona, in fact the locale for my "heart," and a haven for me to "swim" in paella and "drown my solitude in cafe con leche." I'm in Madrid now. My memories of Barcelona consist of having dipped my foot into too-salty paella and drowning my solitude in absolute embarrassment (ok, so I threw up for the FIRST time, IN a bar but only a LITTLE bit, and hey cut me a break; it's barcelona).
It's funny how we create these obsessions with random locations. I just had a talk with a friend of a friend here in Madrid and he has a crazy desire to see things in China. He's British and lives on a farm and is obsessed with China. I on the other hand have no desire whatsoever to set foot in that country. I would rather cradle koalas and box kangaroos in Sydney, Australia.
I think my obsession with Barcelona began before I saw "The Spanish Apartment." I knew they spoke Catalan, but I still loved it. Having battled Catalan, stumbled in Spanish, guarded my belongings from "gypsies" and dabbled in a little bit of nightlife, Barcelona's a-ok. Obsessed? No longer. My feelings for barcelona are, I would say, similar to my feelings for movie theater popcorn. It's there. It's nice. It's comfortable. Beautiful in its outlandish artificial butter and while I enjoy it, I love to scorn those who love it more.
That's the thing about barcelona. It wasn't the city itself that bothered me too much; it was the people, rarely natives. It seemed like everyone and their mother, father, extended family had made the journey to Barcelona. Not only that, hordes of student groups, EVERYWHERE. Italian teenagers with too much gel in their hair, French teenagers with too much gel in their hair, British men with not enough gel or soap...It's as if everyone had bought his ticket to this fantasy land, and I was just another person strapped in for the pretty scenery and thrill rides. Don't get me wrong; Barcelona is beautiful. The weather was a little chillier than usual, but the architecture, the beach...(the park on the other hand smelled AWFUL).
A few pictures of the movie-theater-popcorn magnificence that is Barcelona. An extension of my weak analogy to come soon...
It's funny how we create these obsessions with random locations. I just had a talk with a friend of a friend here in Madrid and he has a crazy desire to see things in China. He's British and lives on a farm and is obsessed with China. I on the other hand have no desire whatsoever to set foot in that country. I would rather cradle koalas and box kangaroos in Sydney, Australia.
I think my obsession with Barcelona began before I saw "The Spanish Apartment." I knew they spoke Catalan, but I still loved it. Having battled Catalan, stumbled in Spanish, guarded my belongings from "gypsies" and dabbled in a little bit of nightlife, Barcelona's a-ok. Obsessed? No longer. My feelings for barcelona are, I would say, similar to my feelings for movie theater popcorn. It's there. It's nice. It's comfortable. Beautiful in its outlandish artificial butter and while I enjoy it, I love to scorn those who love it more.
That's the thing about barcelona. It wasn't the city itself that bothered me too much; it was the people, rarely natives. It seemed like everyone and their mother, father, extended family had made the journey to Barcelona. Not only that, hordes of student groups, EVERYWHERE. Italian teenagers with too much gel in their hair, French teenagers with too much gel in their hair, British men with not enough gel or soap...It's as if everyone had bought his ticket to this fantasy land, and I was just another person strapped in for the pretty scenery and thrill rides. Don't get me wrong; Barcelona is beautiful. The weather was a little chillier than usual, but the architecture, the beach...(the park on the other hand smelled AWFUL).
A few pictures of the movie-theater-popcorn magnificence that is Barcelona. An extension of my weak analogy to come soon...
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