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?
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
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...
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Drag Queens, Drama Queens, and an Unbearable Cold
The stars must not have been aligned correctly for this. If I had gone to see one of those fortune tellers in Korea, she probably would have told me NOT to travel in March. It probably wasn't meant to be and perhaps I could have found a wife back home in Dallas. Nonetheless, I ignored the signs, took them as challenges, and made my way to the Spanish gateway to the rest of Europe.
I started with 4 tickets to see the Scissor Sisters in Dallas the night before my departure to NYC. A 4th could not be found, the 3rd had a death in the family, and the 2nd had a last minute cancellation. And the cheese stood alone. So dilemma #1: should I stay or should I go...to the Scissor Sisters? A day spent desperately trying to sell my tickets on craigslist left me with a suitcase to pack and many things still left to buy. Guess who decided to get in the middle of a drag queen sandwich instead of getting a good night's sleep? Ok, so it wasn't a drag queen SANDWICH but some of them got awfully close while trying to get to the front of the stage. I never understood the appeal there. Is there NOT supposed to be appeal? Is that the irony? I have enough trouble worrying about my mohawk on a windy day.
GRIPS?? As in, grips it and doesn't let go? A blessing in disguise, my flight was cancelled and I spent the day catching up on errands. Errands I had somehow created in preparation for my trip to Spain. This was supposed to be my bout of spontaneity. Spontaneous people don't obsess over which guide book to buy, which shoes to bring, and which ties are necessary for a night out. I also had a slight panic attack after reading the deluge of websites warning of gypsies and pickpockets. No drag...just a lot of drama. Unnecessary drama.
3 days with no sleep, a winter storm, and I end up on my Swissair flight as the SICK one. I DESPISE the sick one. The guy who fidgets in his seat and coughs into his hand. Yeah, some good that does in covering up the germs. That flight was just an incubator for my grossness. Travellers to Zurich, Switzerland, please accept my apologies. And now I sit and flood my insides with hot water at night. I need to get better for this weekend. A swedish guy just moved in and he's really into "house". DEEP house. And he says it just like Arnold Schwarz. I love it.
Pictures soon!
I started with 4 tickets to see the Scissor Sisters in Dallas the night before my departure to NYC. A 4th could not be found, the 3rd had a death in the family, and the 2nd had a last minute cancellation. And the cheese stood alone. So dilemma #1: should I stay or should I go...to the Scissor Sisters? A day spent desperately trying to sell my tickets on craigslist left me with a suitcase to pack and many things still left to buy. Guess who decided to get in the middle of a drag queen sandwich instead of getting a good night's sleep? Ok, so it wasn't a drag queen SANDWICH but some of them got awfully close while trying to get to the front of the stage. I never understood the appeal there. Is there NOT supposed to be appeal? Is that the irony? I have enough trouble worrying about my mohawk on a windy day.
3 days with no sleep, a winter storm, and I end up on my Swissair flight as the SICK one. I DESPISE the sick one. The guy who fidgets in his seat and coughs into his hand. Yeah, some good that does in covering up the germs. That flight was just an incubator for my grossness. Travellers to Zurich, Switzerland, please accept my apologies. And now I sit and flood my insides with hot water at night. I need to get better for this weekend. A swedish guy just moved in and he's really into "house". DEEP house. And he says it just like Arnold Schwarz. I love it.
Pictures soon!
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
The OTHER other white meat
I never really had a problem with spam. That is, until I publicly professed my love for it and became the object of disdain among my peers circa high school. Was it because spam was "allegedly" meat from a can? Well I always considered it a step up from the equally delectable Vienna sausages. And the Viennese have good taste, no? Afterall, Mozart's from Vienna.
Whatever the reason, I came to hate spam. I hated the idea of spam and the fact that you had to blot cooked spam with paper towels before even THINKING about touching it with a fork. But coming back to Korea, I've realized that I never stopped loving the smell of it and of course...the taste of it.
It's a funny thing, spam. An offshoot of ham, perhaps, but "sp"? What gives? Do those letters stand for "special"? "Spanish"? "Sparkling"? I suppose I could always just look at the ingredients list on the can, but I think it's better not to know, kind of like a hot dog weiner. And I also never knew how it could be prepared as displayed on the label. My mom always just sliced it up and put it in the frying pan (note the above procedure of paper towel blotting). Spam definitely wasn't prime rib in the Park house, but it was substantial. I think it makes quite a swell companion to white rice. Then again, what doesn't.
On the Lunar New Year, it's customary for businesses to give their employees some sort of gift. I saw men in business suits taking home boxes of juice, others with fruit. We at Hoyah Academy received gourmet olive oil. And of course, there were businessmen with boxes of spam. Decorative boxes. With handles. That included multiple cans of spam.
Nobody frowns upon spam here in Korea. Again, it's no prime rib, but it's not the laughing stock of the "so-called" meats. Nobody cares that it's not kosher, and quite frankly, I don't even think anyone cares that spam is an amalgam of....well, I guess nobody really knows the answer to that. Spam is just spam, and the Koreans let it be.
I don't think my taste buds have danced so happily in quite some time. My aunt prepares fried spam for me every now and then. I think it's because they have a spam gift set and no one else in the family cares too much for it. Could it be that I'm enjoying the spam for old time's sake? I guess I'll just have to find out come 20 years or so from now. Anyone care to join me? I'll supply the paper towels.
Whatever the reason, I came to hate spam. I hated the idea of spam and the fact that you had to blot cooked spam with paper towels before even THINKING about touching it with a fork. But coming back to Korea, I've realized that I never stopped loving the smell of it and of course...the taste of it.
It's a funny thing, spam. An offshoot of ham, perhaps, but "sp"? What gives? Do those letters stand for "special"? "Spanish"? "Sparkling"? I suppose I could always just look at the ingredients list on the can, but I think it's better not to know, kind of like a hot dog weiner. And I also never knew how it could be prepared as displayed on the label. My mom always just sliced it up and put it in the frying pan (note the above procedure of paper towel blotting). Spam definitely wasn't prime rib in the Park house, but it was substantial. I think it makes quite a swell companion to white rice. Then again, what doesn't.
On the Lunar New Year, it's customary for businesses to give their employees some sort of gift. I saw men in business suits taking home boxes of juice, others with fruit. We at Hoyah Academy received gourmet olive oil. And of course, there were businessmen with boxes of spam. Decorative boxes. With handles. That included multiple cans of spam.
Nobody frowns upon spam here in Korea. Again, it's no prime rib, but it's not the laughing stock of the "so-called" meats. Nobody cares that it's not kosher, and quite frankly, I don't even think anyone cares that spam is an amalgam of....well, I guess nobody really knows the answer to that. Spam is just spam, and the Koreans let it be.
I don't think my taste buds have danced so happily in quite some time. My aunt prepares fried spam for me every now and then. I think it's because they have a spam gift set and no one else in the family cares too much for it. Could it be that I'm enjoying the spam for old time's sake? I guess I'll just have to find out come 20 years or so from now. Anyone care to join me? I'll supply the paper towels.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Third time's...an explosion
I don't find explosions quite charming. So no. Third time certainly would not be a charm. Allow me to back track a bit.
I walked into my kitchen to find once again, and to much alarm, the gas switch turned on. At least, I THINK that's the on position. I cook so rarely in the apartment that I don't even remember what is on and off for the little knob. But I'm pretty sure it's in the on position, my stomach does a couple somersaults, and then I quickly open up the windows. Unfortunately, this isn't the first time this has happened. It happened near the beginning of my stay here in Seoul as a one-room attendant. That's a "studio" apartment for those of you who are not familiar with korean lingo--which would mean most all of you. I've grown up my entire life with electric stoves, and so the idea that the energy input isn't TRULY off until you switch off that second gas switch is just completely foreign to me.
The first time I realized the switch was left on all night, it was right before I was about to prepare another batch of ramen noodles. Imagine that. In that split second, I could have been blown to bits alongside my freeze dried noodles.
"All they found of him were his flannel pajamas and ramen."
And believe me, I've been on Backdraft the Ride at Universal Studios, so I know the protocall when you're surrounded by flames. I think the floor falls out from under you too.
Imagine if my legacy had been as that one TOEFL teacher who blew up in his own studio apartment because he left the gas switch on. I've since abandoned the stove almost completely and resorted to eating out.
I have two more weeks here in Korea. One more week of teaching and then one more week of...nothing. I may cut that last week down so I can rest a bit in the States, binge on tex-mex, perhaps take a week of the Master Cleanse, and then catch the Scissor Sisters in Dallas. All before I head off to the Big Apple and the Apple of Cataluna, aka Barcelona.
I'm not about to let another foolish mistake keep me from making to the other side of the world. If I do leave the switch on again, and my apartment does blow up, just like it has in my lethal imagination, rest assured my ass will make it back West.
I walked into my kitchen to find once again, and to much alarm, the gas switch turned on. At least, I THINK that's the on position. I cook so rarely in the apartment that I don't even remember what is on and off for the little knob. But I'm pretty sure it's in the on position, my stomach does a couple somersaults, and then I quickly open up the windows. Unfortunately, this isn't the first time this has happened. It happened near the beginning of my stay here in Seoul as a one-room attendant. That's a "studio" apartment for those of you who are not familiar with korean lingo--which would mean most all of you. I've grown up my entire life with electric stoves, and so the idea that the energy input isn't TRULY off until you switch off that second gas switch is just completely foreign to me.
The first time I realized the switch was left on all night, it was right before I was about to prepare another batch of ramen noodles. Imagine that. In that split second, I could have been blown to bits alongside my freeze dried noodles.
"All they found of him were his flannel pajamas and ramen."
And believe me, I've been on Backdraft the Ride at Universal Studios, so I know the protocall when you're surrounded by flames. I think the floor falls out from under you too.
Imagine if my legacy had been as that one TOEFL teacher who blew up in his own studio apartment because he left the gas switch on. I've since abandoned the stove almost completely and resorted to eating out.
I have two more weeks here in Korea. One more week of teaching and then one more week of...nothing. I may cut that last week down so I can rest a bit in the States, binge on tex-mex, perhaps take a week of the Master Cleanse, and then catch the Scissor Sisters in Dallas. All before I head off to the Big Apple and the Apple of Cataluna, aka Barcelona.
I'm not about to let another foolish mistake keep me from making to the other side of the world. If I do leave the switch on again, and my apartment does blow up, just like it has in my lethal imagination, rest assured my ass will make it back West.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
My heart belongs in...
BARCELONA.
It's official, ladies and gentlemen.
Come March 20th, I will be swimming in paella and drowning my solitude in cafe con leche. It's an odd feeling to be here in Korea and be purchasing a ticket to a destination on the other side of the world. Call it wanderlust. Call it boredom.
Whatever it is...
I've finally crossed something off my life list.
It's official, ladies and gentlemen.
Come March 20th, I will be swimming in paella and drowning my solitude in cafe con leche. It's an odd feeling to be here in Korea and be purchasing a ticket to a destination on the other side of the world. Call it wanderlust. Call it boredom.
Whatever it is...
I've finally crossed something off my life list.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Quiz Show
I've been quite disappointed with Korean television. Every morning I wake up hoping to catch something uplifting and the only comprehensible program I can find is Sesame Street or a random movie on the movie channel. One morning it was Secretary. Another morning, Blade III. It's just a grab bag of good or bad movies in that short time frame between just-woke-up and I'm-late-for-work. When I return home at night it's either a thrilling night of Deal or No Deal, 1 vs. 100 or if I'm lucky I can rinse my tear ducts with an old episode of the Biggest Loser. As for Korean programming, I usually sit there, unaffected by men with bad haircuts and women who really do look the same. It's not just a Caucasian affliction! We really DO look the same!
There is, however, one program. I don't know when it comes on; it's just happens to come up on the weekends when I sit down with my scrupulously prepared ramen noodles. It's a game show of sorts except the contestants aren't money-grubbing, ass-bearing, aspiring actors; they're middle-schoolers. SMART middle-schoolers. At least the ones left at the end are smart. Kids sit in a grid on the floor and a woman with a pleasing voice calls out questions. Then the students write their answers on their dry-erase boards and hold them up in anticipation of the correct answer. I recall playing a game similar to this. It was called school.
In between certain rounds, the students clear the floor and the teachers of the respective schools and have a competition of their own: jump rope competitions, lip-syncing competitions, who-can-dance-better-in-drag competitions. It's all a big pep rally for...academics. The ousted students cheer on their peers who are left on the grid and eventually the floor clears out save for just one lone student and his/her dry-erase board. I think the point of the game is to get to the final question and answer that correctly, but I've never seen a student reach that level before. The student usually falls just shy of that last question, tears are usually involved, and all of the students surround their champion and console him or her.
Although most of my students lament the extraordinarily strict and rigorous Korean school system, it seems kind of nice that this type of thing is nationally televised in Korea. I've never been on television for playing my clarinet and I certainly didn't get any recognition for my short-lived career as a top UIL speller. My parents never really set me on the track for any sort of televised career. If they had, I'd probably be working out right now instead of releasing meaningless verbal diarrhea onto the world wide web.
There is, however, one program. I don't know when it comes on; it's just happens to come up on the weekends when I sit down with my scrupulously prepared ramen noodles. It's a game show of sorts except the contestants aren't money-grubbing, ass-bearing, aspiring actors; they're middle-schoolers. SMART middle-schoolers. At least the ones left at the end are smart. Kids sit in a grid on the floor and a woman with a pleasing voice calls out questions. Then the students write their answers on their dry-erase boards and hold them up in anticipation of the correct answer. I recall playing a game similar to this. It was called school.
In between certain rounds, the students clear the floor and the teachers of the respective schools and have a competition of their own: jump rope competitions, lip-syncing competitions, who-can-dance-better-in-drag competitions. It's all a big pep rally for...academics. The ousted students cheer on their peers who are left on the grid and eventually the floor clears out save for just one lone student and his/her dry-erase board. I think the point of the game is to get to the final question and answer that correctly, but I've never seen a student reach that level before. The student usually falls just shy of that last question, tears are usually involved, and all of the students surround their champion and console him or her.
Although most of my students lament the extraordinarily strict and rigorous Korean school system, it seems kind of nice that this type of thing is nationally televised in Korea. I've never been on television for playing my clarinet and I certainly didn't get any recognition for my short-lived career as a top UIL speller. My parents never really set me on the track for any sort of televised career. If they had, I'd probably be working out right now instead of releasing meaningless verbal diarrhea onto the world wide web.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Hey you
I haven't forgotten. In fact, I think about ye old blogger almost everyday. Somehow I just can't bring myself to raise my hands to the keyboard and type away to my heart's content. That and a New York Times contributor recently referred to blogging as verbal diarrhea. I must admit, it did make me think twice about complaining about Korea....again.
But you know what? I don't care what a "New York Times" contributor has to say. I just had my first sick day with a bad case of flu/constipation/I-don't-know-what last week and now conjunctivitus has nestled itself nicely into my left eye. If it's diarrhea I have, then by all means, let the verbal diarrhea flow. (that was gross, I know, but I'm not deleting it).
I forgot my USB camera chord once again at my home in Dallas, so pictures won't be in order this time around, unless I can find a relatively cheap USB chord. Dear readers, I like to think that my health is returning and I haven't been pushed under a rock a la LSAT--which by the way, the more I read about Berkeley's law school, the more I want to go.
I hope the USA has been treating you all well. I think of you guys daily while eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and engrossing myself in an episode of Arrested Development.
I promise to complain as much as I can. So much so, that soon enough, all the titles under my "Previous Posts" section will be blog posts written here in Seoul.
See you all real soon.
But you know what? I don't care what a "New York Times" contributor has to say. I just had my first sick day with a bad case of flu/constipation/I-don't-know-what last week and now conjunctivitus has nestled itself nicely into my left eye. If it's diarrhea I have, then by all means, let the verbal diarrhea flow. (that was gross, I know, but I'm not deleting it).
I forgot my USB camera chord once again at my home in Dallas, so pictures won't be in order this time around, unless I can find a relatively cheap USB chord. Dear readers, I like to think that my health is returning and I haven't been pushed under a rock a la LSAT--which by the way, the more I read about Berkeley's law school, the more I want to go.
I hope the USA has been treating you all well. I think of you guys daily while eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and engrossing myself in an episode of Arrested Development.
I promise to complain as much as I can. So much so, that soon enough, all the titles under my "Previous Posts" section will be blog posts written here in Seoul.
See you all real soon.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
A House is Not a Home
I've just completed my first week in my first, very own apartment. It's a studio, with a maroon-tiled bathroom and a shower head that hovers over the sink. The few times I have showered in my own bathroom, it's been basically in the middle of the bathroom holding the shower head as to not have it spray out of control all over the toilet paper and the washer, but thankfully, I take most of my showers at the gym. Yes, my washer is inside the bathroom. And no, I haven't done my first load of laundry yet. And the rarely used kitchen is separated from the rest of the living area by a sliding, translucent door that I guess is supposed to create a barrier between the threatening odors of korean food and the rest of the house. The only odors that have crept out of the kitchen are those of the mountain dew cans, neatly lined up beside the sink. I've yet to take them down to the recycling bin outside. And then there's a floor that heats up when I want, and a bed that is positioned perfectly to have a view of the tv with no working remote. The remote actually just doesn't have functioning batteries, but I'm too cheap to go buy new ones.
As you can see, this studio that I would sell my soul to have at this price in New York City is little more than just a place that I can have some peace and quiet after a day of work. I remember being so determined to get a place of my own if I ever did return to Seoul, and now I've got it. I must admit that it is a bit lonely, and I often look at my Subway, McDonalds, or other unfortunate substitute for a home-cooked meal and I can't help but feel like something's amiss. I never envisioned my future as an independent to be riddled with big macs and take out. In fact, not even my summer in New York was reduced to that. That was because I didn't have any money, but I guess we won't go there. I came here chasing money and placing all my eggs in a basket full of middle schoolers. Middle schoolers. That toxic stage of adolescence when you're in the perpetual state of too cool and yet not cool enough. I suppose if I just sat down and thought about that, I would have known that it wouldn't be so much fun.
But it really isn't so bad. I've already had the class from hell and really, it couldn't get any worse (right?). It's just that at times when I'm sitting alone in my apartment, dreaming of what under-5-dollar meal I'll consume the next day, I kind of wish I was sitting on my bed at home, knowing that my dad is watching tv in his room, my brother is incessantly checking his myspace, my mom is rereading the Joel Osteen book, and that in the next few minutes, I'll feel the vibrations from the next plane landing at the airport near our house.
As you can see, this studio that I would sell my soul to have at this price in New York City is little more than just a place that I can have some peace and quiet after a day of work. I remember being so determined to get a place of my own if I ever did return to Seoul, and now I've got it. I must admit that it is a bit lonely, and I often look at my Subway, McDonalds, or other unfortunate substitute for a home-cooked meal and I can't help but feel like something's amiss. I never envisioned my future as an independent to be riddled with big macs and take out. In fact, not even my summer in New York was reduced to that. That was because I didn't have any money, but I guess we won't go there. I came here chasing money and placing all my eggs in a basket full of middle schoolers. Middle schoolers. That toxic stage of adolescence when you're in the perpetual state of too cool and yet not cool enough. I suppose if I just sat down and thought about that, I would have known that it wouldn't be so much fun.
But it really isn't so bad. I've already had the class from hell and really, it couldn't get any worse (right?). It's just that at times when I'm sitting alone in my apartment, dreaming of what under-5-dollar meal I'll consume the next day, I kind of wish I was sitting on my bed at home, knowing that my dad is watching tv in his room, my brother is incessantly checking his myspace, my mom is rereading the Joel Osteen book, and that in the next few minutes, I'll feel the vibrations from the next plane landing at the airport near our house.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Right Back Where We Started From
A mere 7 hours before my first class, I find myself...nervous. Nervous?! Nervous about something I did 30+ hours a week throughout the summer and had eventually willed myself to do on 0 hours of sleep. Not to say that I was necessarily good at what I did, but my nerves certainly had a break for the summer.
Maybe it's just being back in Seoul. Maybe it's my cheap, should-have-been-fine-but-is-now-a-disaster haircut. Or maybe it's just having to deal with my uncle who wants me to stay with him in his comfy apartment with satisfying dialy meals instead of moving into a studio next to the academy.
I'm just ready for things to get moving. And for my hair to start growing. Fast.
Maybe it's just being back in Seoul. Maybe it's my cheap, should-have-been-fine-but-is-now-a-disaster haircut. Or maybe it's just having to deal with my uncle who wants me to stay with him in his comfy apartment with satisfying dialy meals instead of moving into a studio next to the academy.
I'm just ready for things to get moving. And for my hair to start growing. Fast.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Convert
Ladies and gentlemen, I am officially a mac user. No longer am I a stodgy, bald man in a faded suit. I'm a young twenty-something in a hoodie and dissheveled hair.
So this may have been retail therapy pushed to the extreme, but let me just say that it was an educated purchases with consulting help from my own father.
I also purchased the new iPod shuffle.
take a look at me now.
So this may have been retail therapy pushed to the extreme, but let me just say that it was an educated purchases with consulting help from my own father.
I also purchased the new iPod shuffle.
take a look at me now.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
The misanthrope
It's official. I hate everybody in my LSAT class. Ok, so that's a bit of an exaggeration, but the people that I do hate, I hate them enough to make it seem like I hate the entire class. Don't tell me that I haven't tried. I've tried everything. Alternating deep breaths with my daily affirmation not to hate people and to be thankful for what I have, eating complimentary mints by the handfull, trying to focus on these hopeless logical reasoning questions that have been plaguing me for the past year. It's all useless. I'm a hater.
Like I said, I don't hate everyone. My teacher is incredibly sweet. She says "shucks and jive" and she has funky, thin dreadlocks that don't trigger my gag reflex like caucasian-dreads. And there is another man in the class who is always so earnest and eager to get the questions right, that it kind of makes me want to be a better person. He's trying to get into law school so he doesn't have to be a fast food manager anymore. And that's just about where my capacity for amity stops. It's just so frustrating because I didn't pay $1000+ dollars to spend 6 hours a day with a botched version of the brat pack. Sure it would be fun if we all shared sushi, danced on tables, and stuck it to "the Man," but instead I leave every class feeling like my heart is being pushed up against the front of my chest.
Allow me to illustrate...there's the recent college grad who overenunciates the beginning and end of his "ums." There's the overenthusiastic Indian man,who says "number A, B, C..." and premise as "pre-mice"(not something I hate him for, just an amusing quirk) and can't control the volume of his voice. There's the woman who always wears velour track/sweat pants and feels the need to tell us every superfluous detail of her life. She even told our teacher after lending her a dollar for a snack, "Don't worry about paying me back. I'm a financial planner. I make money for a living." Maybe that's how she's been able to take this course more times than the rest of us combined. And then there's my nemesis. I don't really know how this girl got pegged as my nemesis, but she is and I'm incredibly ashamed of it. She's smart. LSAT smart. She makes getting the questions right look as effortless as clipping toenails. Yeah, so I didn't say it was pretty. This girl, who unfortuantely is an alumni of my would-be alma mater, talks in monotone, laughs through the roof of her mouth, and blurts out answers before we've even had a chance to talk about the question. She smiles at me when we happen to make eye contact. I don't smile back.
I promise I won't complain about my LSAT anymore after this. I may have said that in a previous post; if I did, disregard it and take my word on this one. But as the course nears its end, I can look at it in two ways. 1) This is a clear sign that I will never be happy in a world of lawyers, both in training and established. Or 2) This is just another obstacle course in life for me that will end in what I hope will be me opening my email to find an LSAT score that will subsequently have me doing a happy dance in my apartment in Seoul. And it's obvious that there's only source of all this hatred. The church would have me call it the Devil, and I'm inclined to agree with them on this one. Ok, so maybe all this bargaining and making decisions in life for the wrong things wasn't the greatest choice, and the Devil may have gotten my $1000. But if all goes well--and I'm talking beyond the LSATs here--none of this will even matter.
*****
On a lighter note, I'm getting my hair cut tomorrow.
And Gwen Stefani's album comes out December 5th.
Like I said, I don't hate everyone. My teacher is incredibly sweet. She says "shucks and jive" and she has funky, thin dreadlocks that don't trigger my gag reflex like caucasian-dreads. And there is another man in the class who is always so earnest and eager to get the questions right, that it kind of makes me want to be a better person. He's trying to get into law school so he doesn't have to be a fast food manager anymore. And that's just about where my capacity for amity stops. It's just so frustrating because I didn't pay $1000+ dollars to spend 6 hours a day with a botched version of the brat pack. Sure it would be fun if we all shared sushi, danced on tables, and stuck it to "the Man," but instead I leave every class feeling like my heart is being pushed up against the front of my chest.
Allow me to illustrate...there's the recent college grad who overenunciates the beginning and end of his "ums." There's the overenthusiastic Indian man,who says "number A, B, C..." and premise as "pre-mice"(not something I hate him for, just an amusing quirk) and can't control the volume of his voice. There's the woman who always wears velour track/sweat pants and feels the need to tell us every superfluous detail of her life. She even told our teacher after lending her a dollar for a snack, "Don't worry about paying me back. I'm a financial planner. I make money for a living." Maybe that's how she's been able to take this course more times than the rest of us combined. And then there's my nemesis. I don't really know how this girl got pegged as my nemesis, but she is and I'm incredibly ashamed of it. She's smart. LSAT smart. She makes getting the questions right look as effortless as clipping toenails. Yeah, so I didn't say it was pretty. This girl, who unfortuantely is an alumni of my would-be alma mater, talks in monotone, laughs through the roof of her mouth, and blurts out answers before we've even had a chance to talk about the question. She smiles at me when we happen to make eye contact. I don't smile back.
I promise I won't complain about my LSAT anymore after this. I may have said that in a previous post; if I did, disregard it and take my word on this one. But as the course nears its end, I can look at it in two ways. 1) This is a clear sign that I will never be happy in a world of lawyers, both in training and established. Or 2) This is just another obstacle course in life for me that will end in what I hope will be me opening my email to find an LSAT score that will subsequently have me doing a happy dance in my apartment in Seoul. And it's obvious that there's only source of all this hatred. The church would have me call it the Devil, and I'm inclined to agree with them on this one. Ok, so maybe all this bargaining and making decisions in life for the wrong things wasn't the greatest choice, and the Devil may have gotten my $1000. But if all goes well--and I'm talking beyond the LSATs here--none of this will even matter.
*****
On a lighter note, I'm getting my hair cut tomorrow.
And Gwen Stefani's album comes out December 5th.
Friday, November 03, 2006
I'm not dead...yet
To all (2) of my blog readers,
I apologize for the dearth of blog posts this past month. I can't believe it's been almost a month without any updates; again, my most sincerest apologies. I've noticed while reading many of your own blogs that you've used this as a mechanism for diversion. My sources of diversion in these perilous days of the LSAT, unfortunately, have been sulking, watching movies in bed, and falling asleep, upright in my bed, with the lights on. No blogging.
Please allow me to gather my thoughts a little bit as I pull myself out of this rut. I've already established myself a set of affirmations that I hope, upon daily--or perhaps even hourly-- repetitions will bring me back to my blog-dependancy.
Soon enough, you too/two (o, how I crack myself up) will come to understand these deep feelings of doubt and pain that I've been enduring at home, the clinic and at my LSAT class. Prepare to be dazzled.
Just know that looking at your own blogs have warmed my heart many a times throughout this past month.
Love,
Paul
I apologize for the dearth of blog posts this past month. I can't believe it's been almost a month without any updates; again, my most sincerest apologies. I've noticed while reading many of your own blogs that you've used this as a mechanism for diversion. My sources of diversion in these perilous days of the LSAT, unfortunately, have been sulking, watching movies in bed, and falling asleep, upright in my bed, with the lights on. No blogging.
Please allow me to gather my thoughts a little bit as I pull myself out of this rut. I've already established myself a set of affirmations that I hope, upon daily--or perhaps even hourly-- repetitions will bring me back to my blog-dependancy.
Soon enough, you too/two (o, how I crack myself up) will come to understand these deep feelings of doubt and pain that I've been enduring at home, the clinic and at my LSAT class. Prepare to be dazzled.
Just know that looking at your own blogs have warmed my heart many a times throughout this past month.
Love,
Paul
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
The little things
I think I've finally got it. I've finally fallen into a certain groove, a daily routine that gets me from week to week. Sadly enough, it is week to week, as opposed to day to day. Staying at home just doesn't have the daily surprises that come with attending school or teaching kids. As a result, I've had to find other things to keep me entertained and moving to the weekends which have fortunately been a pleasant refuge from dialysis and LSATs. I've spent all summer complaining about...everything. So perhaps it's time for a change. And now, ladies and gentlemen, the little things that before may have seemed mundane and unimportant but are now the reasons I wake up in the morning...
...driving past the crossguard who waves at me for no reason after I drop off my brother at school
...finding a stack of papers at the clinic to file in the records room. The records room happens to be the only room in the clinic that I can be alone and sing to myself
...eating lunch in the break room where I can listen in on conversations spoken in English, Korean, and Spanish
...putting my Sun Chips inside my turkey sandwich during said lunch time
...slipping out of the clinic without saying goodbye to the mean head nurse with chronically pursed lips and the belief that the male patients are trying to flirt with her
...the glorious complimentary mints at the LSAT class
...Sunday evening Amazing Race
...Sunday evening rerun of America's Next Top Model
...Sunday evening Brothers & Sisters
...waving at strangers who are running opposite me at the park
...exercising my vocal chops in the Toyota Cressida en route to Fort Worth and Dallas.
Screw the little things for now though. This Saturday I get to see Yo Yo Ma and Joshua Bell in concert at a big gala at the Meyerson. I just need to get my bow tie to finish off my black-tie outfit. Just one little accessory in preparation for what I hope will be a BIG event.
...driving past the crossguard who waves at me for no reason after I drop off my brother at school
...finding a stack of papers at the clinic to file in the records room. The records room happens to be the only room in the clinic that I can be alone and sing to myself
...eating lunch in the break room where I can listen in on conversations spoken in English, Korean, and Spanish
...putting my Sun Chips inside my turkey sandwich during said lunch time
...slipping out of the clinic without saying goodbye to the mean head nurse with chronically pursed lips and the belief that the male patients are trying to flirt with her
...the glorious complimentary mints at the LSAT class
...Sunday evening Amazing Race
...Sunday evening rerun of America's Next Top Model
...Sunday evening Brothers & Sisters
...waving at strangers who are running opposite me at the park
...exercising my vocal chops in the Toyota Cressida en route to Fort Worth and Dallas.
Screw the little things for now though. This Saturday I get to see Yo Yo Ma and Joshua Bell in concert at a big gala at the Meyerson. I just need to get my bow tie to finish off my black-tie outfit. Just one little accessory in preparation for what I hope will be a BIG event.
Monday, September 25, 2006
When life turns to lemonade...
I am now 22 years old. A week into this new adventure, may I add. I'm sure we've all heard that saying about when life gives you lemons, then make lemonade. Something like that? Lemons --> lemonade. Simple. I've certainly had my share of lemons in life and looking back, I think I've made my own share of homemade lemonade. Not good lemonade. But good enough. I mean...I'm here. Alive.
As I leave behind my undergraduate years, I've decided to take one extra plunge. Why not take lemons and make lemonade? Literally. And drink it. 10 glasses a day. Nothing else. Just...lemonade. That's right, ladies and gentlemen. I've taken on the master cleanse! Also known as "detoxification." I've always been one for spiritual detox, but now I'm undergoing a physiological detox! Well, I think only my intestines and colon will be fully aware of the effects but that's a different blog post.
So here I am. 12 hours into the master cleanse. And I'm miserable. Absolutely miserable. I suppose detoxing isn't supposed to be a pleasant experience, but why on earth did I think that denying myself the pleasures of solid food would be a worthwhile experience? First, I have to clarify and say that this isn't any old Country Time. It's a homespun concoction including fresh lemon juice (I've opted for the bottled lemon juice because I'm too lazy to squeeze), organic grade b maple syrup, water, and a dash of cayenne pepper. Not to mention a quart of water mixed with non-iodized sea salt every morning for--as the website purports--"enhanced bowel movement." All the cues to this endeavor were red flags telling me to stay away and enjoy a toxic lifestyle. Nevermind that my friend quit after 3 days and a subsequent nose-bleed, nevermind the no-food rule, nevermind the CAYENNE PEPPER, which may I add tastes horrendous. I've embarked on a new stage of my life and I'm determined to follow this thing through...Friday. Maybe.
Not only does the lemonade taste like the bastard child of bad lemons and a cajun entree, but the first day has been excruciating. I certainly didn't receive the memo, but it must have been doughnuts day at the dialysis clinic today. There were doughnuts pouring out of every orifice of that bleach-scented clinic. Doughnuts were offered to me by the patients, the other secretaries, the head nurse...there were even some mysterious doughnuts just lying in a chair in the break room. I know the sensual experience of eating original glazed doughnuts inside and out. Thank the Lord these weren't Krispy Kremes because I may have had to gnaw on my hand all day long. But original glazed doughnuts...I know their sticky touch to the fingers, their sugary smell, the feel of that first bite all the way to that doughy after-taste that can only be resolved with a cold glass of milk. I grew so anxious throughout the day that by the time I'd left at 3 pm, I just had to touch one doughnut with my finger. I hope nobody ate that.
Four more days. Four more days to make these damned lemons I've picked for myself and somehow make lemonade that'll go down and enhance bowel movement. Because that's what you do in life, right? Now if I could only get as much publicity for my detox as Kate Moss. What sweet lemonade that would be...
As I leave behind my undergraduate years, I've decided to take one extra plunge. Why not take lemons and make lemonade? Literally. And drink it. 10 glasses a day. Nothing else. Just...lemonade. That's right, ladies and gentlemen. I've taken on the master cleanse! Also known as "detoxification." I've always been one for spiritual detox, but now I'm undergoing a physiological detox! Well, I think only my intestines and colon will be fully aware of the effects but that's a different blog post.
So here I am. 12 hours into the master cleanse. And I'm miserable. Absolutely miserable. I suppose detoxing isn't supposed to be a pleasant experience, but why on earth did I think that denying myself the pleasures of solid food would be a worthwhile experience? First, I have to clarify and say that this isn't any old Country Time. It's a homespun concoction including fresh lemon juice (I've opted for the bottled lemon juice because I'm too lazy to squeeze), organic grade b maple syrup, water, and a dash of cayenne pepper. Not to mention a quart of water mixed with non-iodized sea salt every morning for--as the website purports--"enhanced bowel movement." All the cues to this endeavor were red flags telling me to stay away and enjoy a toxic lifestyle. Nevermind that my friend quit after 3 days and a subsequent nose-bleed, nevermind the no-food rule, nevermind the CAYENNE PEPPER, which may I add tastes horrendous. I've embarked on a new stage of my life and I'm determined to follow this thing through...Friday. Maybe.
Not only does the lemonade taste like the bastard child of bad lemons and a cajun entree, but the first day has been excruciating. I certainly didn't receive the memo, but it must have been doughnuts day at the dialysis clinic today. There were doughnuts pouring out of every orifice of that bleach-scented clinic. Doughnuts were offered to me by the patients, the other secretaries, the head nurse...there were even some mysterious doughnuts just lying in a chair in the break room. I know the sensual experience of eating original glazed doughnuts inside and out. Thank the Lord these weren't Krispy Kremes because I may have had to gnaw on my hand all day long. But original glazed doughnuts...I know their sticky touch to the fingers, their sugary smell, the feel of that first bite all the way to that doughy after-taste that can only be resolved with a cold glass of milk. I grew so anxious throughout the day that by the time I'd left at 3 pm, I just had to touch one doughnut with my finger. I hope nobody ate that.
Four more days. Four more days to make these damned lemons I've picked for myself and somehow make lemonade that'll go down and enhance bowel movement. Because that's what you do in life, right? Now if I could only get as much publicity for my detox as Kate Moss. What sweet lemonade that would be...
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Wedding Crashers
This past weekend marked the second wedding featuring people who in my mind actually matter. It would be useless to go into the details of what happened, who was wearing what, and how unbelievably happy everyone was for the couple. So I won't. After all, what decent wedding movie actually focuses on the wedding itself or the couple at hand? Nobody cares about that stuff because everyone already knows what's going to happen; it's the stuff that happens on the periphery that matters. My Big Fat Greek Wedding? Who actually gave a flip what happened to that main Greek woman and long-haired Aiden from Sex and the City? It was the supporting cast that made the movie.
So if the bride and groom were perfect, the dinner was perfect, and the artificial reunion with friends was perfect...that leaves the other stuff, which was not so perfect. Ofcourse i was expecting the barage of questions about what I was doing, how Korea was, and "what? LSATs? I didn't know you wanted to be a lawyer." But leave it to just one person to let those questions sour your mood. After I told a friend's mother that I didn't have a job, she let out one of those shrill can't-tell-if-she's-faking-it laughs and proceeded to tell me how her daughter had not only found a job, but graduated from college, AND gotten married. There it was. The ultimate trifecta of success as measured by Texan mothers, and I'd only checked off one. She didn't stop there. She flashed her own left hand and brazenly announced that she too had gotten married just several weeks before her daughter. She stopped herself and laid her limp wristed hand on my arm and asked, "Well did you atleast graduate?" "Yes," I answered sheepishly. I would have judo-chopped her face with a "...PHI BETA KAPPA, you biatch!" but somehow it still pales in comparison to a wedding ring and a steady cash flow.
I'd already been dreading the reception, seeing as how my best friends were all members of the wedding party and that left me with...no one. I purposely arrived a little late and walked in with a friend of mine who'd luckily come to the wedding plus none. We quickly helped ourselves to glasses of wine and sat at the only remaining table, so far in the back that we didn't even have the privilege of sitting in the main hall. May I also mention how this was the only table located in the serving room/bar. Adding insult to injury, the one person I didn't want to sit with us mingled over to our table. I don't know what it is about tax auditors or people in accounting, but you just get the impression that these people are really fit for these ungodly jobs and nothing else. You have a conversation with these people (2 in this case) and think to yourself, "I'm really glad I'm not in accounting." Even if there's a healthy paycheck in it, it's just not worth it. I had the good fortune of being surrounded by people hellbent to avoid that route for the majority of my college career and atleast for this past summer, I surrounded myself with, well...interesting people.
So really just two crashes at an otherwise fine wedding. I don't see myself going to another one for quite sometime. And next time I'll follow through with the wise choice to bring a date.
So if the bride and groom were perfect, the dinner was perfect, and the artificial reunion with friends was perfect...that leaves the other stuff, which was not so perfect. Ofcourse i was expecting the barage of questions about what I was doing, how Korea was, and "what? LSATs? I didn't know you wanted to be a lawyer." But leave it to just one person to let those questions sour your mood. After I told a friend's mother that I didn't have a job, she let out one of those shrill can't-tell-if-she's-faking-it laughs and proceeded to tell me how her daughter had not only found a job, but graduated from college, AND gotten married. There it was. The ultimate trifecta of success as measured by Texan mothers, and I'd only checked off one. She didn't stop there. She flashed her own left hand and brazenly announced that she too had gotten married just several weeks before her daughter. She stopped herself and laid her limp wristed hand on my arm and asked, "Well did you atleast graduate?" "Yes," I answered sheepishly. I would have judo-chopped her face with a "...PHI BETA KAPPA, you biatch!" but somehow it still pales in comparison to a wedding ring and a steady cash flow.
I'd already been dreading the reception, seeing as how my best friends were all members of the wedding party and that left me with...no one. I purposely arrived a little late and walked in with a friend of mine who'd luckily come to the wedding plus none. We quickly helped ourselves to glasses of wine and sat at the only remaining table, so far in the back that we didn't even have the privilege of sitting in the main hall. May I also mention how this was the only table located in the serving room/bar. Adding insult to injury, the one person I didn't want to sit with us mingled over to our table. I don't know what it is about tax auditors or people in accounting, but you just get the impression that these people are really fit for these ungodly jobs and nothing else. You have a conversation with these people (2 in this case) and think to yourself, "I'm really glad I'm not in accounting." Even if there's a healthy paycheck in it, it's just not worth it. I had the good fortune of being surrounded by people hellbent to avoid that route for the majority of my college career and atleast for this past summer, I surrounded myself with, well...interesting people.
So really just two crashes at an otherwise fine wedding. I don't see myself going to another one for quite sometime. And next time I'll follow through with the wise choice to bring a date.
Friday, September 08, 2006
How much is "not much"?
Several days after a flight to Chicago, a connecting flight to Boston, a round-trip bus journey to and from Amherst, a much delayed flight from Boston to Atlanta, and a post-midnight flight to DFW, I find myself right back where I started: in front of my computer in my pajamas at 9 AM. I had a great time visiting friends and feeling as if this brief visit was but a mere prelude to packing my belongings and moving into my friends' dorms. I wish I hadn't been such a moron and forgotten to put my newly charged batteries into my digital camera, but suffice it to say, this weekend was simply...great.
I never realized just how much I say "Not much." Especially following the overly banal, conversation-starter "What's goin' on?" And ofcourse you have to respond to such a dull question with "Not much." I think I said that about fifty times over the course of the weekend. "What are you up to now, Paul?" "Oh, not much." I sat around and watched a lot of reruns of My Super Sweet Sixteen, Next, Two-A-Days, and Project Runway. If you asked me, my reunion with cable television was hardly "not much." ButI should really stop kidding myself; I was on the verge of useless, while my friends ran around preparing for their last year of college. I spent an entire two years with Colin's run-down futon (God rest its soul) and somehow felt equally acquainted with the new futon, rainbow tie-dyed mattress and all.
This "not much" doing was, however, exactly what I needed. I really needed this time to actually verbalize my plans for the next several months and convince people that my entire "I have no clue what to do in life" front was just a cover up for a minor plan that would get me through the next few months. And not only did I reacquaint myself with cable television, but also with the eggs from Valentine (both scrambled and over-easy) and the Peter Pan Bus. The latter is something I actually vowed never to do again, but it was really the only way to get from Boston to Amherst.
Now I'm back, and somehow the same answer of "not much" isn't sounding so great. No worries. I do have several prospects for part-time jobs to keep me occupied during the day with LSAT classes in the evenings. And thank the Lord, I've got a couple friends still around the DFW metroplex who will take me around the sights and excites of downtown Dallas--something I never really did get a chance to experience. But every hour that I spend thinking about which gift off the registry to buy or which room in the house deserves to get vacuumed first, I can't help but feel that something went terribly wrong. Something in that plan that started when I filled out all those Ivy League college applications back in my senior year of high school, dreaming of extravagant paychecks on the east or west coast.
I really have no excuse to be so negative. It's just that I'm still on an awful sleep schedule that puts me to bed around 7:30 pm and wakes me up at 4 am. This isn't jet lag. This is me having "not much" to do. That "not much" which was so much fun just a week ago has now turned into a funk that I'm relying on tonight and tomorrow to fix.
Tonight: dinner and drinks
Tomorrow: the wedding
I never realized just how much I say "Not much." Especially following the overly banal, conversation-starter "What's goin' on?" And ofcourse you have to respond to such a dull question with "Not much." I think I said that about fifty times over the course of the weekend. "What are you up to now, Paul?" "Oh, not much." I sat around and watched a lot of reruns of My Super Sweet Sixteen, Next, Two-A-Days, and Project Runway. If you asked me, my reunion with cable television was hardly "not much." ButI should really stop kidding myself; I was on the verge of useless, while my friends ran around preparing for their last year of college. I spent an entire two years with Colin's run-down futon (God rest its soul) and somehow felt equally acquainted with the new futon, rainbow tie-dyed mattress and all.
This "not much" doing was, however, exactly what I needed. I really needed this time to actually verbalize my plans for the next several months and convince people that my entire "I have no clue what to do in life" front was just a cover up for a minor plan that would get me through the next few months. And not only did I reacquaint myself with cable television, but also with the eggs from Valentine (both scrambled and over-easy) and the Peter Pan Bus. The latter is something I actually vowed never to do again, but it was really the only way to get from Boston to Amherst.
Now I'm back, and somehow the same answer of "not much" isn't sounding so great. No worries. I do have several prospects for part-time jobs to keep me occupied during the day with LSAT classes in the evenings. And thank the Lord, I've got a couple friends still around the DFW metroplex who will take me around the sights and excites of downtown Dallas--something I never really did get a chance to experience. But every hour that I spend thinking about which gift off the registry to buy or which room in the house deserves to get vacuumed first, I can't help but feel that something went terribly wrong. Something in that plan that started when I filled out all those Ivy League college applications back in my senior year of high school, dreaming of extravagant paychecks on the east or west coast.
I really have no excuse to be so negative. It's just that I'm still on an awful sleep schedule that puts me to bed around 7:30 pm and wakes me up at 4 am. This isn't jet lag. This is me having "not much" to do. That "not much" which was so much fun just a week ago has now turned into a funk that I'm relying on tonight and tomorrow to fix.
Tonight: dinner and drinks
Tomorrow: the wedding
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