I saw a man wearing a Royal Mail jacket the other day. One of those thin blue ones that they used to use in the early 2000's, when that style of uniform was used. You see I follow the uniform trends of the Royal Mail, it’s a natural hobby. And I'll confront anyone with the rough end of a pillow should they say otherwise. They will feel the wrath of my pacifism if they so wish to test me.
I was looking at it for a few seconds before I felt that something was a bit weird. For a brief instance there can sometimes be moments when knowledge of where you are can be toyed with. Did I just forget that I was in Japan and think I was in England? Of course not! How could one item of clothing transport me back home? So there I was slowly coming to the terms with this new oddity this land has thrown at me, an oddity too silly to be repeated.
Two days later it was repeated. This time it was one of those orange and blue affairs, those thicker coats that are worn in the winter by our native postal workers. It's anglophilia gone mad, I tellya!
My phone started beeping in new ways last week. This was no ordinary call, text or alarm alert. This was something new.
“What new devilry is this?” I whispered to myself. It was a Sean Bean from The Fellowship of the Ring moment, if ever one called for it, save the moments before a swarm of Orcs surround you in a dungeon. I immediately picked up the phone to see that it was an earthquake alarm. No more than two seconds later, before I could even react to the alert, the walls began to shudder and I could feel that gentle sway beneath me, much like being moved my the motion of a train.
It would appear that punctuality knows no bounds here, even when it comes to earthquake alerts. No earlier, no later. Personally I would prefer a little earlier, just so I can prepare myself more readily. But who am I to question the most technologically advanced nation in the world? I will just have to learn to find comfort in those last two seconds, should they come.
The second time it happened, the tremor was much worse, with no warning. It was scary to say the least, and when one is pushed to extreme situations, articulation is shaken also. The best way to describe it, is that I felt the ground was angry with me. The very foundation I was standing upon was displeased with me and felt the need to vigorously tell me so.
“Buro-job?”. I am pretty sure that I did hear something like that when I was walking a main road in Shibuya. I did the sensible thing. I let it pass. It could have been anything. Then only a few yards on, again:
“Buro-job?”. Now that was definitely the same thing as before, right? Same words and intonation. This time I couldn’t let it pass. I stopped and walked back to the questionable speaker.
“Excuse me. What did you say?” I enquired.
“Yeah? You wanna bro-job?” she said.
“Ah. Yes. I thought so… er, no sorry. No blowjob tonight thanks.”
I've never scrubbed so much in my life. It was a mistake to buy red wine in the first place. Red wine just asks to be spilled, I do it all the time. I have accused other people before, just to escape the blame of being the wine spiller. There is no one else to blame here. Here is only me, and thus only I spilt the wine. I am told the property owners are fussy here. The slightest stain means uprooting the most comfortable of carpets and most settled of wallpapers. There is no middle ground. I wish there was. I like the middle ground. It means compromise, and I like that. It means give and take. The two parties both win some and also lose some. But I fear, here in Japan, I will be the one losing. And I hate that, especially after scrubbing so hard. I really did try.
There will always be a second time. There always is. I only hope I am more prepared, for whatever decision I may take. Do we not learn from the first time? Are we not always ready with soapy water and a sponge? If not, then a third time will be sure to present itself. No matter how costly, or inconsequential.
Tuesday, 26 June 2012
Saturday, 31 March 2012
Cherry Blossoms and Nikons
It was inevitable that I was going to walk into someone at the Shibuya crossing. That iconic vision of Japan. The patient crowds waiting on the pavements, huge forces on all sides growing rapidly as more people spill out of the underground station. The build-up is immense. And then there is the release. It's in all of us, but we see it best collectively, as the snap strikes through and like a freed animal the crowds surge forward. Were it not so terribly messy and real it could almost be described as artistic as the uniformed masses so naturally press forward to meet so confidently in the middle. People threading through eachother, joining and mixing like some kind of fucked up human osmosis.
I practically rugby tackled a Japanese man in my participation of this phenomenon. I foolishly turned around to talk to a friend. When one does this the surface area in the direction you are going is reduced, as you are side on. Much like advice given to us in our sword-fighting classes at school. This new availability in space is quickly occupied by anyone wise or foolish enough to see an opening. Such a high demand for space increases it value, and in doing so increases the inventiveness and desperation in utilising space (you will hear more of this in later blogs.) As I turned back around to see where I was going I slammed hard into a man so forcefully that he was pushed back, my shoulder hitting his face square on and my arm striking his chest. I mean this was bad. This was an unpleasant clash. The kind where one wonders whether you have caused a bruise, or AIDS, or worse yet... a cold. No amount of apologies could ever remedy the situation. And believe me I tried.
"Sumimasen! Sumimasen! Sumimasen!" I kept shouting as a turned back to see his angry face.
At this point I realised that I was looking behind me again. You can guess what happened next. Whenever you walk the Shibuya crossing, always pay attention to where you are walking.
Given that the greater Tokyo area has about 35 million people living in it, the first thing one notices is that there are a lot of people. Shinjuku station, the busiest train/underground station in the world with literally hundreds of exits, is an apt example of Japan's striking example of human existence. Black suited salary-men wearing straight, smooth, smart overcoats rub shoulders (well not quite) with visitors looking up, searching, attempting to grasp some sense of order and direction in the madness, only to wander out and further baffle their senses as they arc their heads back even more to take in the beautifully monstrous skyscrapers of Shinjuku.
I could go off on one about the absolute efficiency of the train services. The trains pull up, never too early, never too late. The workers know a "fare" amount of English, fairly adjusting fares based on your explanations. Such belief in honesty is a wonderful thing, one that would make me guilty to abuse it, yet open to use it. The workers wear smart navy-blue uniforms complete with a police-man style cap and white gloves. They are always there, on the platforms, behind glass screens, at the front of trains, always ready to help with a knowledge that could challenge that of a London cabbie, such is the expanse of the Tokyo area train system. Sometimes at the end or beginning of a train ride you will see a worker gesticulating and moving his arms around wildly, yet in a very precise manner. I have no fucking idea what they are up to. There seems to be no other workers they are communicating to. Maybe they are communicating to the ancestral spirits of transport.
"Nowt to worry bout. Train arrived on time. All passengers've got off, 'n now tis t'end of me shift." (All in strictly formal Japanese. Well they are talking to their ancestors)
A friend's arrival in Tokyo just five days into my arrival sped up sightseeing. One night we went to the restaurant that was used in the Crazy 88 fight scene in Kill Bill Vol. 1. It looked nothing like it anymore, but when you visualised it you could just perfectly picture a gangster falling from one of the balconies into the pool. The bloodied water splashing up almost into my ramen. The cries of the ghosts of 88 dead Yakuza filtering through the traditional Japanese music. Unfortunately no such gangland showdown was to present itself to me that night. Instead I was to be sat next to a large table full of Japanese and American businemen with their wives and suspiciously young girlfriends.
I swear I pass a house everday near where I live that I'm sure is haunted. The upper floors look empty and desolate, made the starker by jagged wood and cheap plywood for the sliding doors. There seems to be no decorations. The perfect place for the vengeful spirit of a Japanese girl to just hang around in. Still there's a game shop down the road where I can go in and roam the shelves pretending to have a Playstation to play them on.
I think I have also become more of a man. I recently purchased a wallet you see, and there is something undeniably adult about using a wallet. Being primarily a cash based society, with lots of coins and cards included, I felt it was time for me to discard my well-groomed doubts about wallets and get one. Paying things takes a lot longer now. It was only yesterday when all I had to do was grab a note or coins from my pocket and throw it at the cashier, for them to pick them up and work it out. Now I am a lot more considerate. I now treat them as equals. This is how I have grown. Ah, growth.
I am still learning the value of the Yen. For me it's a slow process. The first week I was constantly converting everything to pounds on my mobile phone calculator. Mobaculator, for short. £5 for a pint. Fuck! £15 for a novel. Shit! Etc, etc. Balls! I eventually gave up this need to compare prices and resigned myself to spend when spending was necessary, or in my case when it was desired. However I have characteristically swung the other way. I recently bought a work bag for £90. Nothing should cost ninety quid! Should've used my mobaculator.
The idea of destruction and regeneration has always been a “thing” with Japan. Its history of disasters due to its location makes it very advanced in preparation and response to such things, but has also fostered over the centuries a sense that everything is transient. What once was built as a testament to a culture can just as easily be taken away, by fire or water. The key to living in such unstable conditions is acceptance, and this acceptance leads to a readiness for what may come, and also a sense that all things must past. Oooh, I love generalising on a country before I've lived long enough to know anything about it. Here's some more!
I've looked into the eyes of men and seen madness. Or probably that would be better described as tiredness. Its often a long ride home after work. And time spent at Pachinko doesn’t help. How best to describe Pachinko? It’s a drug, an entertainment and gambling drug, that comes in the form of small silver balls that you must collect as they slide down a slot-style machine, hitting and bouncing off pins in the process. When you enter one of these neon drowned, metally box-fests you will immediately be numbed by the immense sound. Ridiculous electronic sound effects pointlessly accompany the incessant sound of dropping balls. It's so damn loud, you'd thinks Malice's cousin just revived from a coma after being defeated by Goodwill and decided to reign chaos over my fucking ear drums. Yeah! I told you I've seen madness. Now if the thought of trying to direct a multitude of silver balls into a container doesn’t give you a raging hardon, then you probably don’t get the subtle intricacies of style and technique the game involves. In terms of interest I would place it in-between getting your driving license renewed and scratching your balls. And I'm not talking about the Pachinko balls. There you go! Alright! I did a balls joke!
Cherry Blossom season (Hanami) is in full swing, with the Tokyo parks jam-packed with visitors drinking and eating under the trees. When a strong gust comes the scenery is peppered by floating blossom petals – pinks and whites making a veritable fauvist snapshot of the country. I can understand the fuss. It's beautiful. The trees are crooked and full of character as they bend left and right. Much like fashion in Japan the trees try incredibly hard to be completely individualistic and stand out from the rest. The branches too spread out at all angles, bearing load upon load of fresh buds blossoming. Usually there is one or two low hanging branches reaching out beckoning the passer-bys to look closer. And that they do. Attached to these branches are usually between four to eight long lenses focusing so closely at a particular bud that the camera (which is attached to a keen photographer) is often an extension of the tree. Cherry Blossoms and Nikons.
I practically rugby tackled a Japanese man in my participation of this phenomenon. I foolishly turned around to talk to a friend. When one does this the surface area in the direction you are going is reduced, as you are side on. Much like advice given to us in our sword-fighting classes at school. This new availability in space is quickly occupied by anyone wise or foolish enough to see an opening. Such a high demand for space increases it value, and in doing so increases the inventiveness and desperation in utilising space (you will hear more of this in later blogs.) As I turned back around to see where I was going I slammed hard into a man so forcefully that he was pushed back, my shoulder hitting his face square on and my arm striking his chest. I mean this was bad. This was an unpleasant clash. The kind where one wonders whether you have caused a bruise, or AIDS, or worse yet... a cold. No amount of apologies could ever remedy the situation. And believe me I tried.
"Sumimasen! Sumimasen! Sumimasen!" I kept shouting as a turned back to see his angry face.
At this point I realised that I was looking behind me again. You can guess what happened next. Whenever you walk the Shibuya crossing, always pay attention to where you are walking.
Given that the greater Tokyo area has about 35 million people living in it, the first thing one notices is that there are a lot of people. Shinjuku station, the busiest train/underground station in the world with literally hundreds of exits, is an apt example of Japan's striking example of human existence. Black suited salary-men wearing straight, smooth, smart overcoats rub shoulders (well not quite) with visitors looking up, searching, attempting to grasp some sense of order and direction in the madness, only to wander out and further baffle their senses as they arc their heads back even more to take in the beautifully monstrous skyscrapers of Shinjuku.
I could go off on one about the absolute efficiency of the train services. The trains pull up, never too early, never too late. The workers know a "fare" amount of English, fairly adjusting fares based on your explanations. Such belief in honesty is a wonderful thing, one that would make me guilty to abuse it, yet open to use it. The workers wear smart navy-blue uniforms complete with a police-man style cap and white gloves. They are always there, on the platforms, behind glass screens, at the front of trains, always ready to help with a knowledge that could challenge that of a London cabbie, such is the expanse of the Tokyo area train system. Sometimes at the end or beginning of a train ride you will see a worker gesticulating and moving his arms around wildly, yet in a very precise manner. I have no fucking idea what they are up to. There seems to be no other workers they are communicating to. Maybe they are communicating to the ancestral spirits of transport.
"Nowt to worry bout. Train arrived on time. All passengers've got off, 'n now tis t'end of me shift." (All in strictly formal Japanese. Well they are talking to their ancestors)
A friend's arrival in Tokyo just five days into my arrival sped up sightseeing. One night we went to the restaurant that was used in the Crazy 88 fight scene in Kill Bill Vol. 1. It looked nothing like it anymore, but when you visualised it you could just perfectly picture a gangster falling from one of the balconies into the pool. The bloodied water splashing up almost into my ramen. The cries of the ghosts of 88 dead Yakuza filtering through the traditional Japanese music. Unfortunately no such gangland showdown was to present itself to me that night. Instead I was to be sat next to a large table full of Japanese and American businemen with their wives and suspiciously young girlfriends.
I swear I pass a house everday near where I live that I'm sure is haunted. The upper floors look empty and desolate, made the starker by jagged wood and cheap plywood for the sliding doors. There seems to be no decorations. The perfect place for the vengeful spirit of a Japanese girl to just hang around in. Still there's a game shop down the road where I can go in and roam the shelves pretending to have a Playstation to play them on.
I think I have also become more of a man. I recently purchased a wallet you see, and there is something undeniably adult about using a wallet. Being primarily a cash based society, with lots of coins and cards included, I felt it was time for me to discard my well-groomed doubts about wallets and get one. Paying things takes a lot longer now. It was only yesterday when all I had to do was grab a note or coins from my pocket and throw it at the cashier, for them to pick them up and work it out. Now I am a lot more considerate. I now treat them as equals. This is how I have grown. Ah, growth.
I am still learning the value of the Yen. For me it's a slow process. The first week I was constantly converting everything to pounds on my mobile phone calculator. Mobaculator, for short. £5 for a pint. Fuck! £15 for a novel. Shit! Etc, etc. Balls! I eventually gave up this need to compare prices and resigned myself to spend when spending was necessary, or in my case when it was desired. However I have characteristically swung the other way. I recently bought a work bag for £90. Nothing should cost ninety quid! Should've used my mobaculator.
The idea of destruction and regeneration has always been a “thing” with Japan. Its history of disasters due to its location makes it very advanced in preparation and response to such things, but has also fostered over the centuries a sense that everything is transient. What once was built as a testament to a culture can just as easily be taken away, by fire or water. The key to living in such unstable conditions is acceptance, and this acceptance leads to a readiness for what may come, and also a sense that all things must past. Oooh, I love generalising on a country before I've lived long enough to know anything about it. Here's some more!
I've looked into the eyes of men and seen madness. Or probably that would be better described as tiredness. Its often a long ride home after work. And time spent at Pachinko doesn’t help. How best to describe Pachinko? It’s a drug, an entertainment and gambling drug, that comes in the form of small silver balls that you must collect as they slide down a slot-style machine, hitting and bouncing off pins in the process. When you enter one of these neon drowned, metally box-fests you will immediately be numbed by the immense sound. Ridiculous electronic sound effects pointlessly accompany the incessant sound of dropping balls. It's so damn loud, you'd thinks Malice's cousin just revived from a coma after being defeated by Goodwill and decided to reign chaos over my fucking ear drums. Yeah! I told you I've seen madness. Now if the thought of trying to direct a multitude of silver balls into a container doesn’t give you a raging hardon, then you probably don’t get the subtle intricacies of style and technique the game involves. In terms of interest I would place it in-between getting your driving license renewed and scratching your balls. And I'm not talking about the Pachinko balls. There you go! Alright! I did a balls joke!
Cherry Blossom season (Hanami) is in full swing, with the Tokyo parks jam-packed with visitors drinking and eating under the trees. When a strong gust comes the scenery is peppered by floating blossom petals – pinks and whites making a veritable fauvist snapshot of the country. I can understand the fuss. It's beautiful. The trees are crooked and full of character as they bend left and right. Much like fashion in Japan the trees try incredibly hard to be completely individualistic and stand out from the rest. The branches too spread out at all angles, bearing load upon load of fresh buds blossoming. Usually there is one or two low hanging branches reaching out beckoning the passer-bys to look closer. And that they do. Attached to these branches are usually between four to eight long lenses focusing so closely at a particular bud that the camera (which is attached to a keen photographer) is often an extension of the tree. Cherry Blossoms and Nikons.
Monday, 2 January 2012
Henry's Similes
A man's quickening step can easily cause alarm among the dampened minds of mind-numbed plebs, and the man who invented the word "like", surely his quickening pace would cause greater alarm, for no other man could have more enemies.
This unassuming young man had all the hallmarks of a person. His two legs propped up his massy body, out of which grew two arms. All limbs were real and not made of plastic. His Romanesque nose ran regular gamuts of emotions, more so than his eyes. When he was angry his nostrils flared wider than 1970s bell-bottoms and when he was sad his nose seemed to grow pointier by the second. His eyes were both round and square, and he had so much hair that it would be pointless to count how many. Anthropologists guess over 197. All the same colour. Brown like wood.
Henry was his name, and he was much kinder to others than himself. Incurably selfless, he had a smile that painted tones of tranquility on peoples hearts. Unfortunately he had much reason to me angry and sad recently. For this reason his nose was both flared and pointy.
In 2022 when he was a student he often thought thoughts. Big ones, squidgy ones. Ones skirting politics, others downright fucking them. Some thoughts were hard and unrelenting, like hard unrelenting objects. Others soft like those ultra-balsam Kleenex tissues, although they didn't leave a thin film of soothing balm upon the mind. A shame that, because when a mind as brilliant as Henry's starts a-thinking, it can be difficult for the mind.
He often liked making comparisons in his thoughts, so he usually employed the word "as". "As" was invented ten years earlier in 2012 and was revealed to the world in a slogan for the London Olympics - "The London Olympics - As exciting as Thorpe Park". Thorpe Park being very exciting at the time, reaching its zenith in 2011. The word was a resounding success and from that moment the English language deepened, as speech and writing could now use comparisons. But the eager and fresh mind of a universitied Henry sort more. For him "as" was as uncouth and short as a racist dwarf, and he thought he could coin a new simile like as, as like when liking as, to like as is sometimes not enough.
His invention had the double-quaffed benefit of having another meaning, similar to that of the meaning of life - "agreeable, satisfactory, finding pleasure in". But this was beside the point, like the last letter in a word at the end of a sentence.
Anyway, as a student, in his last year, the word came to him in a dream as vivid as the London Olympic logo (ironically something Henry rather disliked). And the next morning he had it! Like. Like. Like. Likes growth to international fame mirrored that of a dyspraxic pensioner - slow and with difficulties, but soon the word spread like the super-bug MIRS, and ten years later in 2032 the word "like" became a staple among the world's 3 billion people (half of the population having been killed off in the MIRS pandemic of 2029). It also joined the ranks of "uni-words", words used globally in all languages that were invented by students at uni. Like "bum", "propinquity", and now like "like". But such an invention, like poorly designed cutlery, can have disastrous consequences.
It was these disastrous consequences that Henry was now experiencing as he broke into a run, looking back at the armed strangers that were chasing him.
This unassuming young man had all the hallmarks of a person. His two legs propped up his massy body, out of which grew two arms. All limbs were real and not made of plastic. His Romanesque nose ran regular gamuts of emotions, more so than his eyes. When he was angry his nostrils flared wider than 1970s bell-bottoms and when he was sad his nose seemed to grow pointier by the second. His eyes were both round and square, and he had so much hair that it would be pointless to count how many. Anthropologists guess over 197. All the same colour. Brown like wood.
Henry was his name, and he was much kinder to others than himself. Incurably selfless, he had a smile that painted tones of tranquility on peoples hearts. Unfortunately he had much reason to me angry and sad recently. For this reason his nose was both flared and pointy.
In 2022 when he was a student he often thought thoughts. Big ones, squidgy ones. Ones skirting politics, others downright fucking them. Some thoughts were hard and unrelenting, like hard unrelenting objects. Others soft like those ultra-balsam Kleenex tissues, although they didn't leave a thin film of soothing balm upon the mind. A shame that, because when a mind as brilliant as Henry's starts a-thinking, it can be difficult for the mind.
He often liked making comparisons in his thoughts, so he usually employed the word "as". "As" was invented ten years earlier in 2012 and was revealed to the world in a slogan for the London Olympics - "The London Olympics - As exciting as Thorpe Park". Thorpe Park being very exciting at the time, reaching its zenith in 2011. The word was a resounding success and from that moment the English language deepened, as speech and writing could now use comparisons. But the eager and fresh mind of a universitied Henry sort more. For him "as" was as uncouth and short as a racist dwarf, and he thought he could coin a new simile like as, as like when liking as, to like as is sometimes not enough.
His invention had the double-quaffed benefit of having another meaning, similar to that of the meaning of life - "agreeable, satisfactory, finding pleasure in". But this was beside the point, like the last letter in a word at the end of a sentence.
Anyway, as a student, in his last year, the word came to him in a dream as vivid as the London Olympic logo (ironically something Henry rather disliked). And the next morning he had it! Like. Like. Like. Likes growth to international fame mirrored that of a dyspraxic pensioner - slow and with difficulties, but soon the word spread like the super-bug MIRS, and ten years later in 2032 the word "like" became a staple among the world's 3 billion people (half of the population having been killed off in the MIRS pandemic of 2029). It also joined the ranks of "uni-words", words used globally in all languages that were invented by students at uni. Like "bum", "propinquity", and now like "like". But such an invention, like poorly designed cutlery, can have disastrous consequences.
It was these disastrous consequences that Henry was now experiencing as he broke into a run, looking back at the armed strangers that were chasing him.
Tuesday, 6 December 2011
Confirmity vs. Convenience
Don't you just love Christmas shopping? It's so relaxing and easy. You can even bypass the hassle of reaching over and grabbing your card holder (I don’t do wallets) from the table, because with your details saved on the website you needn’t tap in the numbers. I remember the early part of the century where I had to look at my card, carefully finger my way through the digits to make sure the they were all correct and matched up with my orginal bank details. God the inconvenience! Such barbaric times! Then after all the number tapping, you had to go through an endless amount of confirmation pages. Confirming. Confirming the confirmation. Confirm that your confirmation confirm was authentic. Then just to be sure, confirm that you can confirm. Do you know the meaning of confirm? Can you spell confirm? Can you confirm these random swirly numbers and digits? No? Well try these ones instead. (Maybe if you make the fucking things legible, then I can confirm). Are you sure you want to confirm the confirmation of the the confirmation, verified my the squiggly letter code, of the confirmation? If not, then we urge you to re-assess your last couple of hours. Of course I want to fucking confirm!
But now, how we have progressed. A long way we have come. I can now buy with one click! One click. This is not new, it's been around a while, and for that I am glad. I would hate to think that something so practical and efficient should be held away from the public, so that it couldn't shape the minds of children to come. Makes me want to make babies, just so I can share with them the joy. I couldn’t give two Christmas-dinner-smelling shits whether it's too easy to spend money on things you don’t actually want, or if it's easier for hackers to take your personal bank details. I have made that choice to use the function and have my details saved for one glorious reason. Convenience. And when people start questioning such ease, it angers me that people are regressing to a baser for of atavism. We live in a a world where risk comes in many forms, and to exaggerate the fear of online security is only another way of spiking doubt into apprehensive minds. We all know. How hard has it been for us to encourage our elders to shop online, only to be confronted by stupid horror stories of how a hacker took your details to buy fat-people body suits. Or something like that.
And for those that claim that it encourages needless spending and purchasing mistakes? Well that’s just silliness. If you ened up spending all your money, or buying things you don’t want, you only have yourself to blame. I have no sympathy for people that rely on convenience to the point of debilitation. Just imagine a sales assistant repeating to you constantly if you were sure you wanted to buy a thing you wanted. You'd end up braining them really hard. I mean, it would be sickly satisfying stuff; easily done in a DIY shop. But even if you were in a soft toy shop, you'd find a way. You'd eventually shove the stuffed meerkat teddy, you wanted to buy for your two-year-old nephew, down the person's throat so hard that as the person turned blue and slowly died with bloodshot eyes of terrified bewilderment, the meerkat's head would diligently poke up out of the dead persons mouth, asking:
“Are you sure you wanted to do that?”
Human laziness has been such a fertile ground for creativity, born out of our need for convenience. It's how we are evolved, there's no need fighting it. That’s why we have corner shops (aptly named convenience stores in America!) Oh wait. Come to think of it, corner shops are dangerous. They breed angry, capped youths with dirty trainers and dirtier mouths who shout out racial slurs at old ladies. We should start closing them down. Trains too! They're dangerous. They kill teenage youths and old ladies alike. The former because of their daring stupidity playing chicken on the tracks with their mates, and the latter because of their slowness in getting away from the tracks when the barriers come down. End result – two stratas of society carelessly culled. We should have far fewer trains. One-click internet shopping! Your stolen money could be used to fund the next series of The Inside Lives of Britain's Masterchef Quarterfinalists. We really should limit that.
However, with every advance there is always a setback, and trust the banks to find a way to bring it all down. I recently had forced upon me a security number generating pad from my bank that you need now to access your online bank details. I always thought online banking was a nice step forward for banks. A good move. It takes a lot for me to say that, because I hate banks with a passion that equals the hatred of penguins towards BBC wildlife cameramen who get in their way. And then what do the banks do? They take all the convenience away, in the re-upholstered and hideous new form of the the word “security”. I mean it's all too easy to rip on banks. They're evil, we all know that, well at least I know that. I see the truth you see. It's an uncanny gift of mine, bestowed upon me through my hatred of the indirectness and obfuscation of banks. But the banks new move makes the machinations of Mao merely misguided mischief. Instead of simply accessing and easily performing banking transactions, now I have a new set of numbers and confirmations to contend with, ones that don’t even result in the payoff of things bought. The only thing that is bought is another slice of misery. HSBC - Horrible Shitty Banking Crap . I would rather have convenience at the risk of having all my money stolen, than have to carry cards, keys, numbers and patience, all in the name of security.
But now, how we have progressed. A long way we have come. I can now buy with one click! One click. This is not new, it's been around a while, and for that I am glad. I would hate to think that something so practical and efficient should be held away from the public, so that it couldn't shape the minds of children to come. Makes me want to make babies, just so I can share with them the joy. I couldn’t give two Christmas-dinner-smelling shits whether it's too easy to spend money on things you don’t actually want, or if it's easier for hackers to take your personal bank details. I have made that choice to use the function and have my details saved for one glorious reason. Convenience. And when people start questioning such ease, it angers me that people are regressing to a baser for of atavism. We live in a a world where risk comes in many forms, and to exaggerate the fear of online security is only another way of spiking doubt into apprehensive minds. We all know. How hard has it been for us to encourage our elders to shop online, only to be confronted by stupid horror stories of how a hacker took your details to buy fat-people body suits. Or something like that.
And for those that claim that it encourages needless spending and purchasing mistakes? Well that’s just silliness. If you ened up spending all your money, or buying things you don’t want, you only have yourself to blame. I have no sympathy for people that rely on convenience to the point of debilitation. Just imagine a sales assistant repeating to you constantly if you were sure you wanted to buy a thing you wanted. You'd end up braining them really hard. I mean, it would be sickly satisfying stuff; easily done in a DIY shop. But even if you were in a soft toy shop, you'd find a way. You'd eventually shove the stuffed meerkat teddy, you wanted to buy for your two-year-old nephew, down the person's throat so hard that as the person turned blue and slowly died with bloodshot eyes of terrified bewilderment, the meerkat's head would diligently poke up out of the dead persons mouth, asking:
“Are you sure you wanted to do that?”
Human laziness has been such a fertile ground for creativity, born out of our need for convenience. It's how we are evolved, there's no need fighting it. That’s why we have corner shops (aptly named convenience stores in America!) Oh wait. Come to think of it, corner shops are dangerous. They breed angry, capped youths with dirty trainers and dirtier mouths who shout out racial slurs at old ladies. We should start closing them down. Trains too! They're dangerous. They kill teenage youths and old ladies alike. The former because of their daring stupidity playing chicken on the tracks with their mates, and the latter because of their slowness in getting away from the tracks when the barriers come down. End result – two stratas of society carelessly culled. We should have far fewer trains. One-click internet shopping! Your stolen money could be used to fund the next series of The Inside Lives of Britain's Masterchef Quarterfinalists. We really should limit that.
However, with every advance there is always a setback, and trust the banks to find a way to bring it all down. I recently had forced upon me a security number generating pad from my bank that you need now to access your online bank details. I always thought online banking was a nice step forward for banks. A good move. It takes a lot for me to say that, because I hate banks with a passion that equals the hatred of penguins towards BBC wildlife cameramen who get in their way. And then what do the banks do? They take all the convenience away, in the re-upholstered and hideous new form of the the word “security”. I mean it's all too easy to rip on banks. They're evil, we all know that, well at least I know that. I see the truth you see. It's an uncanny gift of mine, bestowed upon me through my hatred of the indirectness and obfuscation of banks. But the banks new move makes the machinations of Mao merely misguided mischief. Instead of simply accessing and easily performing banking transactions, now I have a new set of numbers and confirmations to contend with, ones that don’t even result in the payoff of things bought. The only thing that is bought is another slice of misery. HSBC - Horrible Shitty Banking Crap . I would rather have convenience at the risk of having all my money stolen, than have to carry cards, keys, numbers and patience, all in the name of security.
Saturday, 20 August 2011
The Confused and Damned
I find myself in Brighton now. It's small and the people are scruffy. It's very different to Seoul. I have found a place where the wealthy enjoy to dress like bums. The worst kind of wealth. Wealth that robs garments of poverty from the poor is one of the worst kinds of things. I dont know who is who anymore! It's very confusing to not be able to have the safety of traditional class boundaries to base your prejudices on. Not that I am saying these Brightonians are breaking any boundaries. They are whitewashing an ever increasing fence made of stupid antique bric-a-brac stores and staffordshire bull terriers, with misunderstood liberalism and petty green codes as a cover for their vices. The rest are alright though. Peoples faces here have a reddish hue and thickened texture to it, a susceptibility to the coastal exposure and summer sun. And what with the smoking and drugs I have seen many wrinkled ones here.
Luckily we have a mix of people here. More often than not you will here the loud wails of Spanish and Italian teenagers who understand only that more noise = more fun. I am glad they are having a good time, bring 'em on! Without them I wouldn't have a job. Strangely enough some of my Spanish students dislike their own kind though, wishing a curtailment of Spanish human importation.
"There is too many Spanish people." Laura (pronounced Lowra) says.
"There are too many Spanish people", I correct.
"Yeah, everywhere."
"No. I was correcting you, you should have said there are."
"Yeah, they are everywhere."
"No, you... are, for more than one person."
"Yes, many more Spanish persons than one." She looks at me like I'm stupid. Maybe I am, I think. I decide to give up.
"So homework!" I announce.
"Ah! Why do you hate us so much Teacher Ameen!" Manuel, a Spaniard from Granada, says.
"Because I was badly beaten as a child. And the Spanish are too lazy, you need to do some work."
Entrepreneurial inclinations possessed me at the famous gay pride festival in Brighton; so with 40 packets of Saudi's finest Marlboros, fierce intent, eyes to read the street and ears to hear the buzz of the fuzz, I crossed the paths of eastern European hard-men loitering at the bus stop (drunken and altogether less ambitious versions of Nico Bellic), young Spanish girls thrilled to shout some more, pilled up men with rainbows on their faces and people like myself trying to get a cheap deal on cigarettes for their girlfriends - all the while ducking and diving from the drunks that wanted to try on my trilby.
Two guys did cause your humble blogger some distress as they tried to take my hat and glasses from me.
"Go away! Leave me alone!"
"What! It's the least you can do. We gave you some money." One chap slurred.
"For fucking cigarettes... which you have!"
"Yeah but you still have my money." he replied. I was desparately trying to claw a pathway to his logic, but the clever fuck kept on eluding me with his stupidity.
"What!?" I said, at which point he lunged at me. I managed to duck and swerve. The good old duck 'n swerve, a maneuver that has stood me in good stead in my old childhood fighting days, where I threw not punches but exhibitions in nimbleness. As I ran away I looked behind me at the guys who were now not following me, already tired of teasing me.
"You're lucky I don't tweet!" I shouted. This time it was his turn to look at me with confusion, clearly trying to decipher the threat behind my words.
"But I do blog" I thought to myself, "I do blog."
Inconvenience has been my karmic return. The monster under my bed deems it necessary to attack me with tiny scratches. I wake up with a new one all the time. Yesterdays was particularly visible, a thin scratch right across the tip of my nose.
"Playful beast, wont you harness your mischievous ways," I wonder. "Your power knows no bounds, and instead of planting wicked thoughts into my mind whilst dreaming, like making me think that rap music is the cause of social unrest or thinking it is somehow alright to point and stare at a girl you like on the street (ah, you may have done that one) - instead of inflicting a disability upon me, like fat hair/small follicles, you find it amusing to cast confusion upon me, as every morning in the mirror I see the footprints of your fingernails.
It's little consolation that the night terrors I never receive are only the shattered forms of half desired nightmarish adventures that may, in their thrilling capacity, force me to sometime focus and write down the ideas I have. But maybe shoving my face full of puffs of salty nothingness, only to suffer the intestinal pangs of undigested kernels, will help. I doubt somewhat, as the very kernels in my head remain dormant, undigested, eager to agonise a mind that finds little relief in its shared plight as my stomach.
I know! The monster needs to eat my head like a popcorn! Just pop it into it's head, like that. Just like that! Scratch me no more you vile fiend of taunting persuasion. Finish me off, so that I too may fulfil a dream that in your now troubled stomach, becomes a nightmare for us all!
Luckily we have a mix of people here. More often than not you will here the loud wails of Spanish and Italian teenagers who understand only that more noise = more fun. I am glad they are having a good time, bring 'em on! Without them I wouldn't have a job. Strangely enough some of my Spanish students dislike their own kind though, wishing a curtailment of Spanish human importation.
"There is too many Spanish people." Laura (pronounced Lowra) says.
"There are too many Spanish people", I correct.
"Yeah, everywhere."
"No. I was correcting you, you should have said there are."
"Yeah, they are everywhere."
"No, you... are, for more than one person."
"Yes, many more Spanish persons than one." She looks at me like I'm stupid. Maybe I am, I think. I decide to give up.
"So homework!" I announce.
"Ah! Why do you hate us so much Teacher Ameen!" Manuel, a Spaniard from Granada, says.
"Because I was badly beaten as a child. And the Spanish are too lazy, you need to do some work."
Entrepreneurial inclinations possessed me at the famous gay pride festival in Brighton; so with 40 packets of Saudi's finest Marlboros, fierce intent, eyes to read the street and ears to hear the buzz of the fuzz, I crossed the paths of eastern European hard-men loitering at the bus stop (drunken and altogether less ambitious versions of Nico Bellic), young Spanish girls thrilled to shout some more, pilled up men with rainbows on their faces and people like myself trying to get a cheap deal on cigarettes for their girlfriends - all the while ducking and diving from the drunks that wanted to try on my trilby.
Two guys did cause your humble blogger some distress as they tried to take my hat and glasses from me.
"Go away! Leave me alone!"
"What! It's the least you can do. We gave you some money." One chap slurred.
"For fucking cigarettes... which you have!"
"Yeah but you still have my money." he replied. I was desparately trying to claw a pathway to his logic, but the clever fuck kept on eluding me with his stupidity.
"What!?" I said, at which point he lunged at me. I managed to duck and swerve. The good old duck 'n swerve, a maneuver that has stood me in good stead in my old childhood fighting days, where I threw not punches but exhibitions in nimbleness. As I ran away I looked behind me at the guys who were now not following me, already tired of teasing me.
"You're lucky I don't tweet!" I shouted. This time it was his turn to look at me with confusion, clearly trying to decipher the threat behind my words.
"But I do blog" I thought to myself, "I do blog."
Inconvenience has been my karmic return. The monster under my bed deems it necessary to attack me with tiny scratches. I wake up with a new one all the time. Yesterdays was particularly visible, a thin scratch right across the tip of my nose.
"Playful beast, wont you harness your mischievous ways," I wonder. "Your power knows no bounds, and instead of planting wicked thoughts into my mind whilst dreaming, like making me think that rap music is the cause of social unrest or thinking it is somehow alright to point and stare at a girl you like on the street (ah, you may have done that one) - instead of inflicting a disability upon me, like fat hair/small follicles, you find it amusing to cast confusion upon me, as every morning in the mirror I see the footprints of your fingernails.
It's little consolation that the night terrors I never receive are only the shattered forms of half desired nightmarish adventures that may, in their thrilling capacity, force me to sometime focus and write down the ideas I have. But maybe shoving my face full of puffs of salty nothingness, only to suffer the intestinal pangs of undigested kernels, will help. I doubt somewhat, as the very kernels in my head remain dormant, undigested, eager to agonise a mind that finds little relief in its shared plight as my stomach.
I know! The monster needs to eat my head like a popcorn! Just pop it into it's head, like that. Just like that! Scratch me no more you vile fiend of taunting persuasion. Finish me off, so that I too may fulfil a dream that in your now troubled stomach, becomes a nightmare for us all!
Friday, 29 April 2011
Plunging the Depths
Last night I became a man. 26 years of nurturing, education, love, and encouragement has successfully led me to this moment, and it was beautiful! Last night I attempted to fix a blocked pipe on my own. I didn’t fix it of course; such miracles cannot possibly fall out of the womb without cosmic repercussions. But I did however take a thorough look, and even went so far as to taking apart a pipe. In all honesty, I think I did more damage than repair, but what is important here is that I tried! I went on a plumbological voyage, and boy did I discover!
What you all will be interested to know is that there actually exists a world past that black hole, the plug hole. It is not a majestic world, and there is little grace and finesse to it. It is a tough world, a dark one, full of aqua related perils. It is dirty and squalid, requiring a firm mind and stomach. It takes a strong man, willing and brave to discover this world, and fully prepared he should be. Doffing all unnecessary clothing (such things are an encumbrance in this world) I squatted in my pants and plunged behind the ceramic front cover (technical term I might add) to assess the piping situation.
When ones hands is not accustomed to the rigour of manual labour, it is easy to cut and fray such tender skin, but such is the sacrifice a man must make on such a voyage, and what I lacked in actual physical practice in labour and conquest I certainly made up for with a knowledge in the Classics. Homer and Virgil themselves would be humbled at the sight.
I pushed up my glasses and squinted into the darkness that was more a reflection on my sudden atavism.
The situation was grim and my hands alone could not conquer this savage environment. I had to fashion tools, thus increasing my manliness. From the clothes rack I forced out one of the poles with a strength I never knew I possessed; but it is at times like this that you learn new things about yourself. For this was as much a journey of self-discovery as simply fixing a blocked pipe.
With this long stick thingy I rammed it down the hole and immediately felt the resistance I was expecting. But it was hard, stubborn and reluctant to easily yield to my efforts. And so I met my foe, and like with many foes I could not see its face. Its elusiveness pressed a more fervent image on my mind. But I would not give in, I was in too deep, and backing out now would only bring shame upon me and my family. I forced down again, harder.
Like the seppuku-ed bowels of a disgraced samurai in a violent 70s Japanese action film, the splash was loud.
And like a child that kicked his friend’s balls who was trying to steal his skipping rope, only to discover that he had had testicle surgery a few days before, I felt I had gone too far.
Squatting again with more emergency I discovered that I had in fact forced apart the pipe by shoving against it with my stick, with all the accumulated water in the basin splashing onto the bathroom floor. What I thought was my enemy was merely the apparatus in this new world, and like a new-world coloniser what I believed was the block in my path to a restored world order was actually the new environment. And I was violating it. Should I have just let it be? At nights I ask myself that question a lot.
But through hasty violations, one can also learn. And With this newly freed pipe part new realms of piping knowledge revealed itself to me. I affixed it again to its right place, yet everything was not quite in its right place. I was a changed man. I had been to that place that we only hear of in legendary plumbing bawdy talk. I had marched past that place seen only in the ass-crack of a bending plumber, plumb plunging, and experienced myself the watery world of this misunderstood land.
And when the actual plumber comes around to fix what I had undeniably broke, I can be treated like a deserved equal as we swap stories of our piping voyages. I too can share with him a bond deeper than any pipe may wish to plunge.
What you all will be interested to know is that there actually exists a world past that black hole, the plug hole. It is not a majestic world, and there is little grace and finesse to it. It is a tough world, a dark one, full of aqua related perils. It is dirty and squalid, requiring a firm mind and stomach. It takes a strong man, willing and brave to discover this world, and fully prepared he should be. Doffing all unnecessary clothing (such things are an encumbrance in this world) I squatted in my pants and plunged behind the ceramic front cover (technical term I might add) to assess the piping situation.
When ones hands is not accustomed to the rigour of manual labour, it is easy to cut and fray such tender skin, but such is the sacrifice a man must make on such a voyage, and what I lacked in actual physical practice in labour and conquest I certainly made up for with a knowledge in the Classics. Homer and Virgil themselves would be humbled at the sight.
I pushed up my glasses and squinted into the darkness that was more a reflection on my sudden atavism.
The situation was grim and my hands alone could not conquer this savage environment. I had to fashion tools, thus increasing my manliness. From the clothes rack I forced out one of the poles with a strength I never knew I possessed; but it is at times like this that you learn new things about yourself. For this was as much a journey of self-discovery as simply fixing a blocked pipe.
With this long stick thingy I rammed it down the hole and immediately felt the resistance I was expecting. But it was hard, stubborn and reluctant to easily yield to my efforts. And so I met my foe, and like with many foes I could not see its face. Its elusiveness pressed a more fervent image on my mind. But I would not give in, I was in too deep, and backing out now would only bring shame upon me and my family. I forced down again, harder.
Like the seppuku-ed bowels of a disgraced samurai in a violent 70s Japanese action film, the splash was loud.
And like a child that kicked his friend’s balls who was trying to steal his skipping rope, only to discover that he had had testicle surgery a few days before, I felt I had gone too far.
Squatting again with more emergency I discovered that I had in fact forced apart the pipe by shoving against it with my stick, with all the accumulated water in the basin splashing onto the bathroom floor. What I thought was my enemy was merely the apparatus in this new world, and like a new-world coloniser what I believed was the block in my path to a restored world order was actually the new environment. And I was violating it. Should I have just let it be? At nights I ask myself that question a lot.
But through hasty violations, one can also learn. And With this newly freed pipe part new realms of piping knowledge revealed itself to me. I affixed it again to its right place, yet everything was not quite in its right place. I was a changed man. I had been to that place that we only hear of in legendary plumbing bawdy talk. I had marched past that place seen only in the ass-crack of a bending plumber, plumb plunging, and experienced myself the watery world of this misunderstood land.
And when the actual plumber comes around to fix what I had undeniably broke, I can be treated like a deserved equal as we swap stories of our piping voyages. I too can share with him a bond deeper than any pipe may wish to plunge.
Monday, 11 April 2011
Yellow Malaise
Like the hoary scales of a bourgeois flapjack, the yellow dust penetrates and wrecks the lungs' capacity to breath. Shallow and raspy, is the breath, with a sore throat as rough as the words of an outspoken atheist and as red as Gorky's pen, which in all probability was just plain black.
I was a chocolate biscuit once, violated by a crooked teethed cockney boy, dipping me too much in sugary tea, and even then my sense of deterioration was not as strong as now.
All in all, I've not been feeling too well lately. My acid is playing havoc with my oesophagus and unknown bumps and bruises are distorting the topography of my arms. I hate it when that happens. Got a yellow bruise that taunts me with words of Zionism. Should have got a mask, and look like a proper Korean. Can't see the yellow dust though! Is it real? Maybe its just a ploy to scare the people into correct behaviour. What would that be I wonder? Understand the bus drivers point of view? Knowing how many pretzels or nuts to consume at the pub? Eat your greens, and other colours too? But be sure to use a tootpick, and stab out those stubborn seeds of organics. Bastards.
It rained the other day, only a little bit mind. Took my white and black polka dotted umbrella to work for appearances sake. Show my Korean colleagues that I may not be a user, but at least I possess. The bosses at the front door gasped in disbelief, gesturing for me to use my umbrella as I walked past to the side entrance. I gestured back, “it's only a little bit of rain, I'm alright.” When I left with some colleagues after work, I walked out from the shelter with my neglected umbrella by my side, when I heard an uproar behind me.
“Ameen, your umbrella!” For fucks sake, I thought to myself. It's a little bit of rain. You're being silly. Like sausages that think they're frankfurters, because of their sketchy and rushed inner-city education. Inner city sausages. It's a sad state of affairs.
“It's only a little bit of rain.”
“No! The rain is radioactive. It's from Japan!” How come it's not green then? Can't be that radioactive. Turns out it wasn't that strong, hence the lack of green on this front.
Ah! Fukushima. I put up my umbrella this time. Faint thoughts, quietly depressing, for that place that can't quite seem to catch a break. Airborne particles, painted as threats, but in reality only tokens of deserts in the west and radiation in the east. Come here to meet and broker new ideas of air quality.
I ate lot of red the other day, you know, apples, strawberries. Ate a whole box of strawberries, and boy did my farts declare new artistic directions of potency. The kind of farts that builds dynasties and topples empires, founds charities and cracks down on organised crime with newly researched online techniques, all the while entertaining friends with words of decadent witticisms. All these and more were my farts capable of that night.
Being ill at work can turn me into a thoroughly temperamental bastard sometimes. A kid shows me that he has ink on his hand.
“Ameen Teacher! Blue! Blue!”
“Yeah yeah, I know, blue. But you're not going to the bathroom. That's life you know, people get blue on their hands.”
One book with pictures of China in it of course has a picture of Mao in it, to my displeasure.
“And here Chairman Mao, one of the greatest mass murderers of all time, still revered and idolised. Sickening.”
“Teacher? No understand.”
“Me too Hyeon, me too.” I shake my head.
“No, thats not how you spell me Hyeon. It's M, E. Like the disorder.”
“Teacher? No understand.”
“Me too Hyeon, me too.” I shake my head.
Needless to say I am tiring of the lack of appreciation for my jokes. The kids are too busy with their colouring and bogeys to let my jokes thrive. Why cant they let them live?
First summery-feeling day popped up its yellow energetic head last Sunday, and I took some time with friends to lie in a park, with all the crouton-like accompaniments; shit beer, shit sandwiches, music from an iPhone, saying “Anyong” to cute Korean children that walk to us, drawn towards the vocals of Damon Albarn telling us how boys like girls and visa versa.
That sunny day helped out on the whole eastern front of my health. Stalingrad is gradually being retaken, but the western front's not been opened yet! Lazy fucking allies. Maybe the vitamin C tablet I got will help out in the west. Huge orange lozenges of latent tenderness, unclear of it's directives (not sure if they are having any affect on me) , yet certain of it's destination (stuck halfway down my acidic oesophagus). I can also get some pro-biotic drinks every day. In Korea they are sold by yellow clad ladies with be-fridged motorised carts and hats with brims. These yellow petals of femininity provide the nation with their necessary supply of pro-biotic yogurt drinks. And who the fuck am I to refuse them! I don’t, I just drink.
I was a chocolate biscuit once, violated by a crooked teethed cockney boy, dipping me too much in sugary tea, and even then my sense of deterioration was not as strong as now.
All in all, I've not been feeling too well lately. My acid is playing havoc with my oesophagus and unknown bumps and bruises are distorting the topography of my arms. I hate it when that happens. Got a yellow bruise that taunts me with words of Zionism. Should have got a mask, and look like a proper Korean. Can't see the yellow dust though! Is it real? Maybe its just a ploy to scare the people into correct behaviour. What would that be I wonder? Understand the bus drivers point of view? Knowing how many pretzels or nuts to consume at the pub? Eat your greens, and other colours too? But be sure to use a tootpick, and stab out those stubborn seeds of organics. Bastards.
It rained the other day, only a little bit mind. Took my white and black polka dotted umbrella to work for appearances sake. Show my Korean colleagues that I may not be a user, but at least I possess. The bosses at the front door gasped in disbelief, gesturing for me to use my umbrella as I walked past to the side entrance. I gestured back, “it's only a little bit of rain, I'm alright.” When I left with some colleagues after work, I walked out from the shelter with my neglected umbrella by my side, when I heard an uproar behind me.
“Ameen, your umbrella!” For fucks sake, I thought to myself. It's a little bit of rain. You're being silly. Like sausages that think they're frankfurters, because of their sketchy and rushed inner-city education. Inner city sausages. It's a sad state of affairs.
“It's only a little bit of rain.”
“No! The rain is radioactive. It's from Japan!” How come it's not green then? Can't be that radioactive. Turns out it wasn't that strong, hence the lack of green on this front.
Ah! Fukushima. I put up my umbrella this time. Faint thoughts, quietly depressing, for that place that can't quite seem to catch a break. Airborne particles, painted as threats, but in reality only tokens of deserts in the west and radiation in the east. Come here to meet and broker new ideas of air quality.
I ate lot of red the other day, you know, apples, strawberries. Ate a whole box of strawberries, and boy did my farts declare new artistic directions of potency. The kind of farts that builds dynasties and topples empires, founds charities and cracks down on organised crime with newly researched online techniques, all the while entertaining friends with words of decadent witticisms. All these and more were my farts capable of that night.
Being ill at work can turn me into a thoroughly temperamental bastard sometimes. A kid shows me that he has ink on his hand.
“Ameen Teacher! Blue! Blue!”
“Yeah yeah, I know, blue. But you're not going to the bathroom. That's life you know, people get blue on their hands.”
One book with pictures of China in it of course has a picture of Mao in it, to my displeasure.
“And here Chairman Mao, one of the greatest mass murderers of all time, still revered and idolised. Sickening.”
“Teacher? No understand.”
“Me too Hyeon, me too.” I shake my head.
“No, thats not how you spell me Hyeon. It's M, E. Like the disorder.”
“Teacher? No understand.”
“Me too Hyeon, me too.” I shake my head.
Needless to say I am tiring of the lack of appreciation for my jokes. The kids are too busy with their colouring and bogeys to let my jokes thrive. Why cant they let them live?
First summery-feeling day popped up its yellow energetic head last Sunday, and I took some time with friends to lie in a park, with all the crouton-like accompaniments; shit beer, shit sandwiches, music from an iPhone, saying “Anyong” to cute Korean children that walk to us, drawn towards the vocals of Damon Albarn telling us how boys like girls and visa versa.
That sunny day helped out on the whole eastern front of my health. Stalingrad is gradually being retaken, but the western front's not been opened yet! Lazy fucking allies. Maybe the vitamin C tablet I got will help out in the west. Huge orange lozenges of latent tenderness, unclear of it's directives (not sure if they are having any affect on me) , yet certain of it's destination (stuck halfway down my acidic oesophagus). I can also get some pro-biotic drinks every day. In Korea they are sold by yellow clad ladies with be-fridged motorised carts and hats with brims. These yellow petals of femininity provide the nation with their necessary supply of pro-biotic yogurt drinks. And who the fuck am I to refuse them! I don’t, I just drink.
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