Sleep can be an inconvenient necessity sometimes, like monitoring dietary habits or looking before you cross the road. Generally things that assist in self-preservation, I find a nuisance. Could it be that I am not long for this world? If so, that only increases my desire to by-pass sleep to make the most of everything. Certainly this feeling had no more arresting quality than it did in Japan. Both nights there involved a club so small and frequented by ex-pats that by the second night I felt I was already a seasoned attendee there, downing cup after cup of rum and coke whilst mesmerised by a middle aged Japanese mans dancing, akin to the writhing motion of a snake suffering from irritable bowl syndrome.
We got to Fukuoka by high speed ferry, a "hovercraft" like machine resting on three pin like poles penetrating the sea, cutting three fine lines, directing an inevitable course to the clean streets of Japan. The city was ordered and tidy, full of hidden codes and rules ordinary to the natives, alien to us, so eager to break thorugh to it. The city-scape from afar possessed the same order as street level views. Buildings were lego blocks in construction and placement, but lego blocks with unique modern character. Yellow, beige, pink, peach paintwork. Large panels of squares seemed to be a design of appreciation here; one curved building, a yellow edifice of pale yellow panels, outlined with black lines, something straight out of Blade Runner. All very cool. Then there are the people.
It is Japan, and with Japan came this sense of confidence and pride, a notion of being able to do what it wants, and no where does this make itself felt more than in the easily visbile form of fashion. Everything is extremely individualistic here. Yes, there are always fashion trends, but here trends are also viewed with a pinch of derision. They will wear jeans sown together from different materials, with one leg rolled up and the other down, clothes appearing where you think no cloth has the right to appear. Hair too has as large amount of stage space for their experimentaion to play with. It's hard not to keep on staring at the unique combinations of otherwise incongruous fashion elements. You can understand why so many art shops around the world have books on Japanese fashion. It's all so fresh and inventive.
There was this shop, a veritable forbidden planet of Japanese oddities, a shop selling games, comics, manga, models, anything that can host the label of some animation or film, from steam-punk to japanese animation porn (hentai). It's five story maze of cramped aisles and silver stairs, smacked of the universal law of these kind of shops all over the world; a cheap attempt at sci-fi futurism, or retro-futurism, I'm not sure entirely, read Rob's blog. However here there were things you may not necessarily see all over the world. One floor was dedicated entirely to hentai, suitably pink with men either anxious for anonimity or confidently browsing, head held high. One traditional style of Japanese porn involves monster like tentacles penetrating every orifice of a girl who, of course, is having a whale of a time. I mean who wouldn't if they were being molested by a tentacled beast.
Of course the next day was hard to get going, having just got a couple of hours sleep, waking up in time for the hotel breakfast. It was so expensive that such an opportunity for food must not be overlooked. When discussing it the night before - watching insane Japanese TV with overly enthusiastic presenters, cut by adverts where everything is sung (I mean why say things when you can sing it?) - as I was saying, as we were talking the night before it at all never occured to us that we could sleep through the breakfast period, it was given that we would have to wake up at 9am. I mean Japan is so fucking expensive! One day, before I realised fully the value of the Yen and the exchange rate, I was just about to buy a wicked hat, feather in brim and all, when just before I got to the counter my friend felt obliged to point out my folly.
"Do you realise how much 7000 yen is?"
"Yeah, that's alright. Its a nice hat." I casually responded.
"It converts to about 100 dollars."
I looked at my friend, a newly introduced tilt to my head, acknowledged the sales assistant politely, nodded softly, "mmmm, right, OK", u-turned as casually as possible with the air of someone who just realised that the hat was not quite to his liking (too much feather) and gently placed it back. Nodded again in grave appreciation and slowly backed out of the shop.
"What the fuck! 55 pounds!" At that point I realised I had to be very careful. Nowhere outside of England have I encountered a place as expensive as Japan. We were getting nailed.
A Godzilla model in the shop cost over 600 pounds. It would appear that the only thing Godzilla destroys now is your bank balance. The post-war nuclear fallout has now metamorphised into a commercial goldmine. Never did get to see the beast. I think he lives off the coast of Tokyo.
Sunday, 22 August 2010
Friday, 6 August 2010
Something Like a Work-out
This city finds new ways to fascinate, not each passing day, for that would be an exaggeration, seeing as some days, especially during my two week holiday I have only left my room to get some bread and ice-cream. But each passing week shall we say. A couple of days ago I went on a hike through some glorious mountainous country, a place where after a few minutes walk you feel truly in the middle of nowhere, but know that the moment you descend and exit the park perimeter you are immediately struck by the massive apartment blocks, white and delightfully dystopian. The utilisation of space is staggering, nothing is spared when housing is in consideration. There is no need to gradually grade the change from country to city, the city is far too important to bother with that. Don't worry there are plenty of parks, nice ones too, for they also value the need for green open spaces, but there is no sense of needing to pander to aesthetic tastes. You will note that if you see the apartment blocks. They all look the same and have large numbers painted on the white painted sides. "I live in room 3, floor 16, block 104" would, I imagine, be a very reasonable response to the question "Where do you live?"
The hiking trail took us under temerous canopies of evergreen trees, past solitary temples, over smooth plateaus of rock where you can catch a hazy view of south Seoul, and past Korean war bunkers sharing the same hazy view, although with markedly destructive leanings, as their barbed-wired entrances embody an historic dispute with current repercussions. The war is ongoing. At certain idyllic points there are watering holes where ladels are laid all over the place for resters dousing themselves with water. All sense of civilised decorum are atavistically eschewed as everyone guzzles water and tips it over themselves. We were particularly careless with the water, paying no heed to the need for dry clothing, cynically mocking colds' armies, as we chucked water all over our already sweat-soaked t-shirts. As we walked on we came to realise that the line between where the water ended and the sweat began was as diffused as the moisture on our clothes.
At the top of mountains, hills or parks in Korea there is always what you would call an outside gym, a very Korean thing seen in all parks. An array of weights, bars, walking devices (why would you need them after an epic hike? It shares a similar logic to Jack Bauer feeling the need to have a go at Metal Gear Solid) and stretching devices. You also have big wooden poles stuck in the ground which serves the specific purpose of hitting yourself against it. Yeah, I've seen it, it's the done thing, no fuss, men boldly striking their arms out at the poles, thumping their backs against it, generally bruising themselves all in the name of fitness. I think it's the idea of resilience and toughening up your frame that is the underlying purpose behind it. It also explains another painful exercise in these gyms; that of hoola-hoops with studs running on the inside. I've tried it and for a brief moment as the pain made me yell out in comic bewilderment, I tried to think "why?" Why would someone do this to themselves? The idea that it is good for you in the long run, possibly making you live even longer, is no way near a good enough reason for doing it. It helps circulation apparently, that and bruising. It also helps you feel a little bit wrong.
Another aspect of this typical Korean workout, that I try and do every once in a while, is the humiliation I feel when a seventy year old man is pushing 40kg weights while I struggle with 10kg. I try and act nonplussed by it, but it troubles me as I am sure it would you too. Such a reversal of strength serves only to remind me of my greatly limited mortality in comparison, and when I finish my set of exercises I don't get that sense of self-satisfaction that should accompany physical exertion, instead I just get a sense of personal shame and embarrassment. Maybe I should just stick to the star-jumps in my bedroom.
The hiking trail took us under temerous canopies of evergreen trees, past solitary temples, over smooth plateaus of rock where you can catch a hazy view of south Seoul, and past Korean war bunkers sharing the same hazy view, although with markedly destructive leanings, as their barbed-wired entrances embody an historic dispute with current repercussions. The war is ongoing. At certain idyllic points there are watering holes where ladels are laid all over the place for resters dousing themselves with water. All sense of civilised decorum are atavistically eschewed as everyone guzzles water and tips it over themselves. We were particularly careless with the water, paying no heed to the need for dry clothing, cynically mocking colds' armies, as we chucked water all over our already sweat-soaked t-shirts. As we walked on we came to realise that the line between where the water ended and the sweat began was as diffused as the moisture on our clothes.
At the top of mountains, hills or parks in Korea there is always what you would call an outside gym, a very Korean thing seen in all parks. An array of weights, bars, walking devices (why would you need them after an epic hike? It shares a similar logic to Jack Bauer feeling the need to have a go at Metal Gear Solid) and stretching devices. You also have big wooden poles stuck in the ground which serves the specific purpose of hitting yourself against it. Yeah, I've seen it, it's the done thing, no fuss, men boldly striking their arms out at the poles, thumping their backs against it, generally bruising themselves all in the name of fitness. I think it's the idea of resilience and toughening up your frame that is the underlying purpose behind it. It also explains another painful exercise in these gyms; that of hoola-hoops with studs running on the inside. I've tried it and for a brief moment as the pain made me yell out in comic bewilderment, I tried to think "why?" Why would someone do this to themselves? The idea that it is good for you in the long run, possibly making you live even longer, is no way near a good enough reason for doing it. It helps circulation apparently, that and bruising. It also helps you feel a little bit wrong.
Another aspect of this typical Korean workout, that I try and do every once in a while, is the humiliation I feel when a seventy year old man is pushing 40kg weights while I struggle with 10kg. I try and act nonplussed by it, but it troubles me as I am sure it would you too. Such a reversal of strength serves only to remind me of my greatly limited mortality in comparison, and when I finish my set of exercises I don't get that sense of self-satisfaction that should accompany physical exertion, instead I just get a sense of personal shame and embarrassment. Maybe I should just stick to the star-jumps in my bedroom.
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
Workings of a Holiday - Daegu/Busan
"The 16th most desirable place to live in the world." Not 17th not 15th, but 16th. Interesting I thought when I was checking up on my holiday destination, Fukuoka, in Daegu, a large city in central Korea where my friend Sebastian works. What criteria must be in the ranking process for such specific numbers to be issued out to places in the world; life-span, education system, refuse collection, whether officials doff their caps for you, how few drunks there are per square meter, how ridiculous you can dress, how expensive it is for an apple, beer, noodles, or whatever takes your fancy. The place is Fukuoka, and it's in Japan. I finally made it there, a desire I have had for the greater part of my life, I think. The land of the rising sun and Godzilla, and all that. But first before we get to the final destination we must build up in classic literary fashion what happened before, and how I found myself in Japan.
It was wednesday when I got the KTX train to Daegu to see my friend for an end of week/weekend holiday. I will not describe the train now, for you will see at a later point why I have chosen to leave it for a later time. I had the classic misfortune of waiting in the queue to realise that my card would not work, and I'd have to take out some cash and queue all over again, but embarking on a break from Seoul I decided to weather such inconvenciences with an unnatural smile on my face. The night in Daegu consisted of visiting the local ex-pat hang-outs, rock bars where you could choose your music, pool bars where every wall is covered with a Pink Floyd album cover, and the Korean girl who keeps looking at me who has "fucked nearly every westerner in town." Best steer clear I thought to myself. The final club we attended had an open mic night going on, refreshingly different at the end when a Hip-Hop act did some Roots covers. The rapper, a man so fat that you applaud when you see him perform the most basic of functions, like walking or drinking. "How does he do it?" I think to myself. More circle than man basically. It was exciting as Sebastian and I were talking about what plans we should make for the weekend, a real sense that we were sailors in a grimy bar, making plans for the revelry ahead whilst on shore leave. Maybe I've read too many nautical novels. I sat, necking more beer, when he went off to follow a friend. He sat back down again with a smile on his face.
"Do you want to go to Japan on Friday?"
Such statements must surely be met with the word "yes", and I was not going to differ. It turned out that the friend he followed was on a visa run, and knew of a good deal for two nights in a hotel and hovercraft there and back.
But before Japan, there is always another step, that stepping stone, a gradual immersion into a hedonism that softly prepares you for what is to come, or what ones expectations of what is to come. How can I explain my expectations of Japan? It has always been of fascination and exoticism, but not one influenced by the abundance of bizarre popular culture and rich history (although these are undeniably points of great attraction) but more an idea that despite all this, it is also just another place, another place to live in at the end of the day, much like my fascination of the north of England, Manchester and Leeds in particular. The idea of what you imagine a place to be like, the fantasies, and the idea of it being an actual currently existing place where people work and live, are two ideas usually kept separate. Ones wonder and awe does not wish to be pragmatised with notions of infrastructure, working hours, and the behind the scenes functionings of a city. On the other hand, ones basic day-in day-out living does not wish to be distracted by the beauty you may find yourself living in. This is how people manage to walk past The National Gallery without looking up. However it is this marriage between the two that I find most fascinating, for it is here that you can transgress any preconceived notion of "place". You can feel on holiday when you are at work, something I felt a lot when working in the shop in the West End, and when you are on holiday you can also feel strangely at home, that this here place is as much your home, a place to live in, as the natives. Its quite a liberating feeling.
Liberation can also come in much simpler forms, like stepping outside of a train station when you arrive at a coastal town for a holiday, and Korea's second biggest city, Busan, lying on the south east coast, is a massive holiday destination. First things first though, we must book the tickets for Japan, so away from the sunny square with a drunk man lying on the floor with his bum literally hanging out, and the children standing over fountain jets, waiting for water to spray them. All very fun looking, but we had to get the tickets. It took a while and with each passing second as we were being told by the travel agent man in broken English what our beds would be like, I got more and more impatient to go to the beach and into the water.
"If room change on second night bed not 120 but 105, OK?" He looked up at me imploringly and kind. I was not quite sure what he meant, and when he took out a measuring tape I realised he was informing me of the width of my bed. THE WIDTH OF MY BED! Like I could give a fuck how wide my bed was, whether it was a grand king size bed, fit for what can only be used for Roman orgies, or a slim bench like bed fit for skinny unfussy people like myself. Now I could not exactly say this to the guy, so I just dismissively waved my hand, saying "its OK."
The beach was short lived, as we got there near the end of the day. I managed to get in a few dips before the lifeguard told me "no more swimming", then when he looked the other way I quickly ran in again. I think he soon cottoned on to what I was up to when I was always dripping wet when he walked past. What was most fun was that night and meeting the guy, Shawn, who planned to go to Japan in the first night, and the laddish exploits we got up to. Lots of beer drunk, we walked up and down the main boardwalk. Now this boardwalk is a catwalk for horny men and sexy girls, it's a marketplace in the true sense of the word, no matter how vulagr it sounds. The girls dress up to the max and walk up and down the boardwalk showing off their legs to the hungry men on the lookout. They walk with their friends maintaining reserve, pretending to enjoy the scenery, but all the while keeping a sly eye open to see if they are being watched, waiting to be approached. Very 1950's ish, impeccably made up, waiting for a man to chat them up, with all the power seemingly at their hands.
"Its like a sushi conveyer belt." said Sebastian, as my head was turned in another direction. That happened a lot on the boardwalk; conversation between the three of us, but eyes always averted to someone else, usually a girl who gave us a smile in return.
The night ended with fireworks, gin and fried chicken. We fell asleep in a Korean box room; just a floor with mattresses and pillows, a TV and sink also. Worthit though as it is very cheap and is the perfect kind of budget room for people like us. Very little sleep. Hard floor. Plenty of water. Even more snoring. Japan tomorrow.
It was wednesday when I got the KTX train to Daegu to see my friend for an end of week/weekend holiday. I will not describe the train now, for you will see at a later point why I have chosen to leave it for a later time. I had the classic misfortune of waiting in the queue to realise that my card would not work, and I'd have to take out some cash and queue all over again, but embarking on a break from Seoul I decided to weather such inconvenciences with an unnatural smile on my face. The night in Daegu consisted of visiting the local ex-pat hang-outs, rock bars where you could choose your music, pool bars where every wall is covered with a Pink Floyd album cover, and the Korean girl who keeps looking at me who has "fucked nearly every westerner in town." Best steer clear I thought to myself. The final club we attended had an open mic night going on, refreshingly different at the end when a Hip-Hop act did some Roots covers. The rapper, a man so fat that you applaud when you see him perform the most basic of functions, like walking or drinking. "How does he do it?" I think to myself. More circle than man basically. It was exciting as Sebastian and I were talking about what plans we should make for the weekend, a real sense that we were sailors in a grimy bar, making plans for the revelry ahead whilst on shore leave. Maybe I've read too many nautical novels. I sat, necking more beer, when he went off to follow a friend. He sat back down again with a smile on his face.
"Do you want to go to Japan on Friday?"
Such statements must surely be met with the word "yes", and I was not going to differ. It turned out that the friend he followed was on a visa run, and knew of a good deal for two nights in a hotel and hovercraft there and back.
But before Japan, there is always another step, that stepping stone, a gradual immersion into a hedonism that softly prepares you for what is to come, or what ones expectations of what is to come. How can I explain my expectations of Japan? It has always been of fascination and exoticism, but not one influenced by the abundance of bizarre popular culture and rich history (although these are undeniably points of great attraction) but more an idea that despite all this, it is also just another place, another place to live in at the end of the day, much like my fascination of the north of England, Manchester and Leeds in particular. The idea of what you imagine a place to be like, the fantasies, and the idea of it being an actual currently existing place where people work and live, are two ideas usually kept separate. Ones wonder and awe does not wish to be pragmatised with notions of infrastructure, working hours, and the behind the scenes functionings of a city. On the other hand, ones basic day-in day-out living does not wish to be distracted by the beauty you may find yourself living in. This is how people manage to walk past The National Gallery without looking up. However it is this marriage between the two that I find most fascinating, for it is here that you can transgress any preconceived notion of "place". You can feel on holiday when you are at work, something I felt a lot when working in the shop in the West End, and when you are on holiday you can also feel strangely at home, that this here place is as much your home, a place to live in, as the natives. Its quite a liberating feeling.
Liberation can also come in much simpler forms, like stepping outside of a train station when you arrive at a coastal town for a holiday, and Korea's second biggest city, Busan, lying on the south east coast, is a massive holiday destination. First things first though, we must book the tickets for Japan, so away from the sunny square with a drunk man lying on the floor with his bum literally hanging out, and the children standing over fountain jets, waiting for water to spray them. All very fun looking, but we had to get the tickets. It took a while and with each passing second as we were being told by the travel agent man in broken English what our beds would be like, I got more and more impatient to go to the beach and into the water.
"If room change on second night bed not 120 but 105, OK?" He looked up at me imploringly and kind. I was not quite sure what he meant, and when he took out a measuring tape I realised he was informing me of the width of my bed. THE WIDTH OF MY BED! Like I could give a fuck how wide my bed was, whether it was a grand king size bed, fit for what can only be used for Roman orgies, or a slim bench like bed fit for skinny unfussy people like myself. Now I could not exactly say this to the guy, so I just dismissively waved my hand, saying "its OK."
The beach was short lived, as we got there near the end of the day. I managed to get in a few dips before the lifeguard told me "no more swimming", then when he looked the other way I quickly ran in again. I think he soon cottoned on to what I was up to when I was always dripping wet when he walked past. What was most fun was that night and meeting the guy, Shawn, who planned to go to Japan in the first night, and the laddish exploits we got up to. Lots of beer drunk, we walked up and down the main boardwalk. Now this boardwalk is a catwalk for horny men and sexy girls, it's a marketplace in the true sense of the word, no matter how vulagr it sounds. The girls dress up to the max and walk up and down the boardwalk showing off their legs to the hungry men on the lookout. They walk with their friends maintaining reserve, pretending to enjoy the scenery, but all the while keeping a sly eye open to see if they are being watched, waiting to be approached. Very 1950's ish, impeccably made up, waiting for a man to chat them up, with all the power seemingly at their hands.
"Its like a sushi conveyer belt." said Sebastian, as my head was turned in another direction. That happened a lot on the boardwalk; conversation between the three of us, but eyes always averted to someone else, usually a girl who gave us a smile in return.
The night ended with fireworks, gin and fried chicken. We fell asleep in a Korean box room; just a floor with mattresses and pillows, a TV and sink also. Worthit though as it is very cheap and is the perfect kind of budget room for people like us. Very little sleep. Hard floor. Plenty of water. Even more snoring. Japan tomorrow.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Eating by the Riverside
I wish monsters existed. It would make life a lot more exciting. Yes, we have mosquitoes and dishonest bus drivers, but I mean beasts with many legs, long tails that can flick you in the face, sharp teeth, angry faces, a taste for flesh, ambitions of self-propogation, and a general disregard to road traffic laws. OK, there'll be a lot of blood, tears, familial distress, and the customary increase of body parts, but if all humans exert their efforts into a war on the monsters, then there will probably be a general reduction of death, as we would not be fighting each other. Maybe scientists should focus on creating a breed of monsters, or many breeds.
The Han, a massive river snaking its way though the middle of Seoul, traversed by many bridges. The banks lining this river are fascinating locations of public parks, 7-11s, toilets, exercise machines, greenery and foot and cycle paths. They are raised a little higher than river level, but if you so wish you can wander to the riverside and picnic by the polluted filth that you so choose as your setting, something that I have been doing of late with friends. The huge bridges that you frequently encounter along the riverside parks can provide shelter in the rain, large white pillars thrusting high into the air, cradling the weight of concrete, directing the course of the city's vehicles. Its a novel industrial setting for a picnic.
Teenagers "shoot the hoops", is that right, shoot the hoops? And if so, did I convincingly pull it off? Anyway, there they are playing basketball (thats better), friends and families lounge on blankets, drinking Soju and having fun. People mill around the 7-11s, eating noodles. You can do that, for here each 7-11 has a little counter with a microwave and hot water dispenser, where you can choose to eat your noodles, should your laziness and desire to be stared at, allow you to. The separate cycle, foot and motorcycle paths are not adhered to as I cycle with laid back ease, overtaken by cyclists, hardcore and fast. They have all in one body suits, goggles and masks over their nose and mouth. They try to focus on the burn, but need to negotiate with the mirth-makers, zigzagging with bold dominance across the cycle path. Speeding black phantoms that paint dark lines across a landscape dotted with people content to remain where they are. I am somewhere in between, as I make my way to a 7-11 to stock up on more beer and crisps.
There's a screaming in the distance, and everyone turns to its direction. Bounding along the path right next to the water is a river dwelling monster, usually well fed by the authorites to warrant infrequent land visits, but today the Han river monster is rapacious in its quest for human flesh. It's quite large, the size of a bus, with shiny amphibious skin, glistening from the moisture of a river sparkling with gentle irridescene in a setting sun. It is also fast, and many people unfortunately cannot outrun it, and the sorry individuals in its direct path are ruthlessy snapped up. Terror stricken faces, as their lives cut horrificly short, scar the souls of their loved ones whose hands they were holding but moments ago. The crunch can still be heard over the screams, and now blood adds new dimensions to a previously idyllic scene. Some people are caught by the fast flailing tail, one person sent arcing poetically into the river, soundtracked by a piercing scream that seems to be calling from an afterlife that has not yet been reached.
The beast has a large mouth, pouches in the side, large enough to store many human bodies, for later feasting. Its not yet full, so theres more food to get. People instinctivley run for cover in buildings, some clamber up stairways leading up to the bridge, but there's too much pushing and shoving, as the weak fall meekly to their crumpled death. Many find refuge in the outdoor toilets, large RV-like outbuildings, but they are only serving themselves as a convenient dish. The beast shrewdly sees this easy collection of people. He swerves catching a schoolgirl under foot, extinguishing a life worth chronicling; all she wanted was an ice-cream after her English classes. The beasts broad battering ram forehead slams into the side of the toilet, caving the flimsy wall in. Luckily I have found cover behind a large bridge pillar, hugging the white edifice with a fervour of hope that I will not be seen, the large spiders crawling over my hands with curiosity over this newly added landscape. I peek out and see the beasts head buried in the toilet building, body writhing in violent ecstasy as he chooses to take time and eat there. The wailing and high pitched screams seem like cries from hell's minions as the scene descends into a Dante-esque portrait of misery.
Soon military vehicles arrive with bullets that slam into the monsters back. Immediately it bounds away, and with a second glance all you see in the final splash of water as it makes its escape, leaving only a messy scene of broken lives. A scene that the army personnel begins to bring back to order.
In the next installment:
As the country mourns the dead of that fateful day, it is discovered that the little girl was the daughter of the Agricultural Minister. An unlikely love blossoms in the unlikeliest of places. And scientists work around the clock to create a chemical that poured into the river can kill the beast.
Anyway, if you like that you should watch a great monster film called The Host, a quintessentially Korean film, taking the monster film template and adding it own unique twist on things, where mobile phone companies and Soju saves the day.
The Han, a massive river snaking its way though the middle of Seoul, traversed by many bridges. The banks lining this river are fascinating locations of public parks, 7-11s, toilets, exercise machines, greenery and foot and cycle paths. They are raised a little higher than river level, but if you so wish you can wander to the riverside and picnic by the polluted filth that you so choose as your setting, something that I have been doing of late with friends. The huge bridges that you frequently encounter along the riverside parks can provide shelter in the rain, large white pillars thrusting high into the air, cradling the weight of concrete, directing the course of the city's vehicles. Its a novel industrial setting for a picnic.
Teenagers "shoot the hoops", is that right, shoot the hoops? And if so, did I convincingly pull it off? Anyway, there they are playing basketball (thats better), friends and families lounge on blankets, drinking Soju and having fun. People mill around the 7-11s, eating noodles. You can do that, for here each 7-11 has a little counter with a microwave and hot water dispenser, where you can choose to eat your noodles, should your laziness and desire to be stared at, allow you to. The separate cycle, foot and motorcycle paths are not adhered to as I cycle with laid back ease, overtaken by cyclists, hardcore and fast. They have all in one body suits, goggles and masks over their nose and mouth. They try to focus on the burn, but need to negotiate with the mirth-makers, zigzagging with bold dominance across the cycle path. Speeding black phantoms that paint dark lines across a landscape dotted with people content to remain where they are. I am somewhere in between, as I make my way to a 7-11 to stock up on more beer and crisps.
There's a screaming in the distance, and everyone turns to its direction. Bounding along the path right next to the water is a river dwelling monster, usually well fed by the authorites to warrant infrequent land visits, but today the Han river monster is rapacious in its quest for human flesh. It's quite large, the size of a bus, with shiny amphibious skin, glistening from the moisture of a river sparkling with gentle irridescene in a setting sun. It is also fast, and many people unfortunately cannot outrun it, and the sorry individuals in its direct path are ruthlessy snapped up. Terror stricken faces, as their lives cut horrificly short, scar the souls of their loved ones whose hands they were holding but moments ago. The crunch can still be heard over the screams, and now blood adds new dimensions to a previously idyllic scene. Some people are caught by the fast flailing tail, one person sent arcing poetically into the river, soundtracked by a piercing scream that seems to be calling from an afterlife that has not yet been reached.
The beast has a large mouth, pouches in the side, large enough to store many human bodies, for later feasting. Its not yet full, so theres more food to get. People instinctivley run for cover in buildings, some clamber up stairways leading up to the bridge, but there's too much pushing and shoving, as the weak fall meekly to their crumpled death. Many find refuge in the outdoor toilets, large RV-like outbuildings, but they are only serving themselves as a convenient dish. The beast shrewdly sees this easy collection of people. He swerves catching a schoolgirl under foot, extinguishing a life worth chronicling; all she wanted was an ice-cream after her English classes. The beasts broad battering ram forehead slams into the side of the toilet, caving the flimsy wall in. Luckily I have found cover behind a large bridge pillar, hugging the white edifice with a fervour of hope that I will not be seen, the large spiders crawling over my hands with curiosity over this newly added landscape. I peek out and see the beasts head buried in the toilet building, body writhing in violent ecstasy as he chooses to take time and eat there. The wailing and high pitched screams seem like cries from hell's minions as the scene descends into a Dante-esque portrait of misery.
Soon military vehicles arrive with bullets that slam into the monsters back. Immediately it bounds away, and with a second glance all you see in the final splash of water as it makes its escape, leaving only a messy scene of broken lives. A scene that the army personnel begins to bring back to order.
In the next installment:
As the country mourns the dead of that fateful day, it is discovered that the little girl was the daughter of the Agricultural Minister. An unlikely love blossoms in the unlikeliest of places. And scientists work around the clock to create a chemical that poured into the river can kill the beast.
Anyway, if you like that you should watch a great monster film called The Host, a quintessentially Korean film, taking the monster film template and adding it own unique twist on things, where mobile phone companies and Soju saves the day.
Monday, 12 July 2010
The Washing Cycle
The heat was stifling, sticky and persistant in its clamour to make discomfort out of everything. No amount of layers removed could alleviate this. And it was still the time when I had not ventured to use the air conditioning, hoping I could hold out as long as possible, see if I could manage things the old fashioned way. Plus I thought if I use it, a new standard would be set, one of easy luxury where even if it was just a little bit warm, I would whack on the air conditioning and still leave the window open, a kind of "fuck you" to the earth, "look at me, I'm still cool even with the window open. Do your worst!" Such a negligent attitude towards conservationism is still far off for me. However, feel free to judge, things are done a bit differently here with regard to waste disposal. Recycling is still done here and making sure to separate the rubbish, I feel like I'm doing my part, however due to the mass of waste produced here there is more rubbish to put out than is actually accomodated for in the rubbish areas. So inevitably rubbish is frequently put on the floor around the bins, or sometimes on the corner of a road. It feels refreshingly naughty, putting your rubbish out like that, like smoking indoors, things accepted here as the norm, but at home is viewed on a naughty scale just below murder but still higher than beating up old people. However I would like to maintain, to assuage the concsiences of fellow ex-pats, that gently placing your filthy rubbish on the road is infinitely better than throwing it aside. Substitute cavalier nonchalence with meticulous concern and your mind can conquer any doubts of wrong-doing that may assail it, and you can continue counting the pizza boxes piled on high in the street with a safe smile and a clean conscience. One may say that it doesn't matter how you do it, the result is still the same, and I would reply "leave me alone, I want to be on my own. I dont want to fight you." Then after a bit of a lie down I would highlight that the waste disposal business here is very good. With the more waste created and left out, it stands to reason the better the refuse collection service is. Very regular and expansive, seeking out all the side-streets and alleyways in the city, dirty men shoving dirtier bags into the shitty back-sides of rubbish trucks.
The heat is stifling, sticky and persistant in the way it never makes you feel completely clean. My aggressor would claim that it's just my karma catching up with me for littering the planet. At this point I would feel slightly nervous that the person clearly can't see that I just cannot be bothered to argue after my lie down following the person's first exclamation of displeasure. "Its too hot to fight, lets just be friends" I would suggest. Then I would have another shower. I'm having a lot of them lately, another point for my aggressor to find contention with. However to my credit they are cold showers, so with a triumphant grin I can boast conservationism on my side, and hopefully if the twat that just wont leave me alone is still around, I'd spray the fool with cold water. Maybe that would dampen their antagonism. As is expected with regular self-cleansing, my clothes thus must follow suit, and since I've been here in the intense Korean summer, my washing machine has seen as much action as Don Giovanni on one of those sleazy sex holidays. My shirts rarely see it past a day, so I have to regularly rotate my clothing system. Maybe this is something that's not so interesting, I'll admit, but it does lead me on to an odd curiosity here. The washing machines, the air conditioners, the school water dispenser, hell, pretty much any electronic device has a peculiar habit of beeping the shit out of you. Now there is a certain amount of beeps a human can withstand on a daily basis, and here in Korea the threshold is pretty fucking high. No electronic device turns on or off without declaring to you and your immediate surroundings that "hey you have turned me on! Now I am working!" or "you have just turned me off! You no longer require my services, but just to let you know this I'll beep like a crazy man!" Its mental! And its not just a single monotone beep, no dear friends, what foolish assumptions though hast made if you believe such folly. The on/off beeps are usually a five note minimum medley that attempts to span as much of the musical scale as possibly, and in the certain case of my washing machine its......yeah, its got to be at least thirty seconds long, a song I'll claim, I've heard shorter songs, so yes, this is song length material that is blasting out of my Hauzen (Korean brand) washing machine. It's enough for me to give it up and just wear dirty clothes.
The heat will be stifling, sticky and persistant in a way that'll be new to me. I've never drank as much water as I have now, and it certainly doesn't feel like it's helping. I'll go to bed now and sweat loads, soak my sheets, wash them, listen to more washing machine beeps, go to work and drink more water, cold and treated. I'll sweat more whilst increasing the air conditioning to soften the swell of relentless heat that will only make me consume more fluids and solids, and all I'll do is create more waste, washing more and throwing out the rubbish. The cycle will continue, as it always does, regardless of the accumulation of waste, this is a side product that will be dealt with in time, and when it does the end will come with necessary conclusion. We will want those beeps then, but they will have no consequence. We will be too long gone to care.
The heat is stifling, sticky and persistant in the way it never makes you feel completely clean. My aggressor would claim that it's just my karma catching up with me for littering the planet. At this point I would feel slightly nervous that the person clearly can't see that I just cannot be bothered to argue after my lie down following the person's first exclamation of displeasure. "Its too hot to fight, lets just be friends" I would suggest. Then I would have another shower. I'm having a lot of them lately, another point for my aggressor to find contention with. However to my credit they are cold showers, so with a triumphant grin I can boast conservationism on my side, and hopefully if the twat that just wont leave me alone is still around, I'd spray the fool with cold water. Maybe that would dampen their antagonism. As is expected with regular self-cleansing, my clothes thus must follow suit, and since I've been here in the intense Korean summer, my washing machine has seen as much action as Don Giovanni on one of those sleazy sex holidays. My shirts rarely see it past a day, so I have to regularly rotate my clothing system. Maybe this is something that's not so interesting, I'll admit, but it does lead me on to an odd curiosity here. The washing machines, the air conditioners, the school water dispenser, hell, pretty much any electronic device has a peculiar habit of beeping the shit out of you. Now there is a certain amount of beeps a human can withstand on a daily basis, and here in Korea the threshold is pretty fucking high. No electronic device turns on or off without declaring to you and your immediate surroundings that "hey you have turned me on! Now I am working!" or "you have just turned me off! You no longer require my services, but just to let you know this I'll beep like a crazy man!" Its mental! And its not just a single monotone beep, no dear friends, what foolish assumptions though hast made if you believe such folly. The on/off beeps are usually a five note minimum medley that attempts to span as much of the musical scale as possibly, and in the certain case of my washing machine its......yeah, its got to be at least thirty seconds long, a song I'll claim, I've heard shorter songs, so yes, this is song length material that is blasting out of my Hauzen (Korean brand) washing machine. It's enough for me to give it up and just wear dirty clothes.
The heat will be stifling, sticky and persistant in a way that'll be new to me. I've never drank as much water as I have now, and it certainly doesn't feel like it's helping. I'll go to bed now and sweat loads, soak my sheets, wash them, listen to more washing machine beeps, go to work and drink more water, cold and treated. I'll sweat more whilst increasing the air conditioning to soften the swell of relentless heat that will only make me consume more fluids and solids, and all I'll do is create more waste, washing more and throwing out the rubbish. The cycle will continue, as it always does, regardless of the accumulation of waste, this is a side product that will be dealt with in time, and when it does the end will come with necessary conclusion. We will want those beeps then, but they will have no consequence. We will be too long gone to care.
Thursday, 24 June 2010
Only Connect
What a world we live in, where only now do I feel at one with the planet, truly connected, spiritually and technologically, for I write this now not in a PC-Bang, but the comfort of my own air-conditioned room. No one should feel this much joy and completion when they see those multicoloured letter of Google. These are surely the emotions reserved for such lofty situations of having met your soulmate, the person you are gladly going to spend the rest of your life with. Well I claim that this too is a situation of lofty bearings. The internet is someone you are going to spend the rest of your life with, yes you heard me, I'm personifying the internet. It's a relationship that requires mutual respect and understanding. I accept the power she has in providing me with knowledge and entertainment and she too accepts the complete domination I have in looking up whatever I want, following my every whim, however sick or wholesome it may be. Mostly sick.... mostly.
Its a kind of one-way relationship, but sometimes the most effective and long-standing relationships possess this uneven dynamic. I once learnt from South Park that you should "treat the internet with the respect it deserves" (Randy 12:6). And, yes, although he speaks words of truth, the internet can also be something to be abused and taken advantage of. I suppose this is where my analogous human relationship commentary comes to an abrupt end, for I in no way condone abusive relationships. The internet is so hard to treat with respect when you have it. You flirt with so many pages at once, racing through them with libertine-like abandon, a funny you-tube clip, streaming a new Family Guy, checking the ratings of your favourite album (the white one), downloading a film, emailing friends, sorting out your finances with on-line banking. There's so fucking much that we cannot possibly have time to fully appreciate it all! It just is. We have blinkers on that makes this wonder of technology seem normal, even mundane.
But when it leaves us, oh, how we crumble! We look forward to work, so you can check your emails or see if your favourite album rating has changed. We look upon the people walking and sitting with portable computer machines (laptops) with envy and longing. We even start thinking about heading west to California where there must be internet in that golden land. Or I do anyway. The lamentations are all consuming as you reminisce about the fun you had together. That time when you went to the cinema and shared a fondle in the darkness. That lazy sunshining Sunday afternoon, sitting in the park, frolicing in the grass. Caressing the screen and kissing the keypad, knowing that through these gestures of affection, you are only tickling the ego of the laptop, not the internet, but you do it anyway. For the internet is not a thing we can make love to, however much we want to. It's intangible, untouchable, an idea in the ether, and all fantasies of physical intimacy lies in the imagination only.
But now it's with me again! It's returned and more shall we share precious moments of sweet nothings that I shan't go into now, but lets just say I'm making a list now of all the albums I'm going to listen to, films to watch, and new television series to get into. It's gonna be sweeeeeet! And I have the godsend internet installer to thank for. I think they hold the same level of respect and gratitude, in the world, as doctors do. They bring life into the world, remedy faulty connections, and generally make happy the lives of others by maintaining their beloved lines. I was so glad, shaking the guys hand constantly and incessantly plying him with loads of orange juice, that he probably thought it was an important English custom. "Always offer internet installers orange juice", goddamn it, they need the strength, bearing joy to the world and all. Forgive the excess, I'm still reeling from those letters - G, O, O, G, L, E.
Its a kind of one-way relationship, but sometimes the most effective and long-standing relationships possess this uneven dynamic. I once learnt from South Park that you should "treat the internet with the respect it deserves" (Randy 12:6). And, yes, although he speaks words of truth, the internet can also be something to be abused and taken advantage of. I suppose this is where my analogous human relationship commentary comes to an abrupt end, for I in no way condone abusive relationships. The internet is so hard to treat with respect when you have it. You flirt with so many pages at once, racing through them with libertine-like abandon, a funny you-tube clip, streaming a new Family Guy, checking the ratings of your favourite album (the white one), downloading a film, emailing friends, sorting out your finances with on-line banking. There's so fucking much that we cannot possibly have time to fully appreciate it all! It just is. We have blinkers on that makes this wonder of technology seem normal, even mundane.
But when it leaves us, oh, how we crumble! We look forward to work, so you can check your emails or see if your favourite album rating has changed. We look upon the people walking and sitting with portable computer machines (laptops) with envy and longing. We even start thinking about heading west to California where there must be internet in that golden land. Or I do anyway. The lamentations are all consuming as you reminisce about the fun you had together. That time when you went to the cinema and shared a fondle in the darkness. That lazy sunshining Sunday afternoon, sitting in the park, frolicing in the grass. Caressing the screen and kissing the keypad, knowing that through these gestures of affection, you are only tickling the ego of the laptop, not the internet, but you do it anyway. For the internet is not a thing we can make love to, however much we want to. It's intangible, untouchable, an idea in the ether, and all fantasies of physical intimacy lies in the imagination only.
But now it's with me again! It's returned and more shall we share precious moments of sweet nothings that I shan't go into now, but lets just say I'm making a list now of all the albums I'm going to listen to, films to watch, and new television series to get into. It's gonna be sweeeeeet! And I have the godsend internet installer to thank for. I think they hold the same level of respect and gratitude, in the world, as doctors do. They bring life into the world, remedy faulty connections, and generally make happy the lives of others by maintaining their beloved lines. I was so glad, shaking the guys hand constantly and incessantly plying him with loads of orange juice, that he probably thought it was an important English custom. "Always offer internet installers orange juice", goddamn it, they need the strength, bearing joy to the world and all. Forgive the excess, I'm still reeling from those letters - G, O, O, G, L, E.
Saturday, 19 June 2010
The Classification of Koreans (Part I)
So I've been reading about whales and their classifications lately. I first came upon it reading Moby Dick. Then there was quite a relevant BBC news article about whaling, which included a classification of whales. Then I realised that something was wanting me to know about whales. Then did some more reading online. Then I got-a-thinking I should try my own piece of half-assed classification. This one will not be about whales, despite my new found knowledge of them, no, instead it will be about the different groups of people I have found here. This will not take into account individualism, for the purpose of classification seeks to cut out such niggling inconsistencies in favour of broad sweeping generalisations that makes the reader happy with easy managable knowledge when it comes to animals, but maybe a little suspect when you transfer this upon social human groups. You will not read a fair account of how people can be different, reflecting subtle deviances from social types, no, this will be a shameless and ill researched piece on the stereotypes, that I will help perpetrate in classic fashion. Everyone does it. So here we go:
There are the Hajimas, the middle aged housewives where, when you get a chance to see underneath their sun visors, large enough to eclipse anything the sun may have to offer, you will see a shrewd face, eyes narrowed, a puckered mouth, and a general scowl that will make you think twice to ask them for help, even if you were run down by a truck with you gathering your exposed guts into a managagable pile, in order to be sown up by a doctor later. Best wait for another passer-by. They are always about, either buying onions and cabbages from street stalls or power walking with extra weights added to their wrists and ankles, bum forced to swing left and right in a shockingly hypnotic vision. I suppose they like to be outside rather than couped up inside. They're like little Carmella Soprano's I suppose, bored at home, intent on activity, and with an irrational fear of death, which explains the vegetables and exercise I suppose, oh, and their unreasonable look of suspicion at everything they see. Usually solitary creatures of habit, but when meeting a friend they can be seen in pairs talking for hours. They feed on cabbages and fear from children.
The person you would want to call for help when you are coming to terms with your own mortality, trying not to let your intestines slip out of your fingers, are the schoolkids. Mainly because they are so helpful. They'd just enjoy the opportunity to converse in English to this dying foreigner. About 80% of them wear thick black rimmed glasses, often tiltled uncomfortably on their noses, something that personally I have serious issues with. I feel like asking them why they don't just get them fixed, levelled so its not assymmetrical. There are plenty of opticians. Anyway I digress. They wear fitted white shirts that end at the waist, too short to tuck in, with blue bands on the collar, usually, depending on the school, with obligatory grey skirts/trousers. They pay no heed to their open fascination of a westerner and honestly look at me and giggle with their friends. I don't mind, whatever makes them laugh. Once I went in a traditional Korean cafe and having difficulty in explaining what I wanted to eat to the waitress, a group of four Korean schoolboys of English, dove in like the trigger-happy white boys of the American midwest, only their bullets were words of rapid assistance as they eagerly translated what I wanted. "Excellent", I thought, "now that I know the word I can come back again and request it." Yeah, you would think that. Only the next time I went in and asked the lady slowly and clearly what I wanted to eat, she just stared at me. An infuriating stare that had the audacity to imply that I was the idiot, even though her open mouth and vacant eyes claimed otherwise. Anyway you can find schoolkids in groups of three to five. Sometimes they are seen solitary, but rarely do they remain so for long, for fear of social ostricisation. Groups of six or more are also rare, as it is physically impractical to keep together in such a highly populated city. Depending upon the season they feed on fried stall snacks and ice lollies.
Another group large in numbers are the trendy types, usually teenagers and young adults. You'll find none of your disgraced fifty-year olds dressing in teen clothing that you sometimes see back in England. You'll find the usual suspects of tight trousers for girls and boys alike, the white t-shirts with a black and white print of some other fashionably dressed person, possibly an ironic comment on fashion, but I don't think so, and the necessary display of converses. Girls also wear extremely short hotpants, but not so revealing tops. Its more customary here to cover up shoulders and chest and reveal legs and bums. A different take on fashion, which I would not call modesty, for modesty never really had a home in fashion, more a reflection on the need to maintain whiter skin here. Boys can be seen with plain coloured t-shirts or ones sporting some obscure reference to a British or American.... thing, I think. On special occasions when attempts are made to court a female, they can sometimes wear a smart black vest jacket. A fashion accessory, usually seen with girls, are little white dogs. The ones that are seen in many fashionable areas of cities all over the world, in an ever increasing phenomenon. These "accessory-dogs" also have accessories of their own. Little dogs with little fucking shoes on! Red with white stripes on the side, K-Swiss probably, bought from K-Swiss Dogs, and jackets that match the colour code of the high-legged, high-heeled, high-maintenenced style of the Korean beauty that haughtily walks past you, under her fancy parasol, whimpering in the heat, like the tired sighs of neglected Sirens. It can't be easy to keep all that up. They are usually seen in pairs, due to more developed friendship connections from their school days, however their eating habits are less developed, usually seen with frappucinos or ice-creams, brand names preferable. In a world of mutual disinterestedness from others in their social group, they feed on the stares of strangers and procurement of new fashions from New York. They are creatures of both day and night.
There are more, but for now I will leave the classification of Koreans lazily half completed.
There are the Hajimas, the middle aged housewives where, when you get a chance to see underneath their sun visors, large enough to eclipse anything the sun may have to offer, you will see a shrewd face, eyes narrowed, a puckered mouth, and a general scowl that will make you think twice to ask them for help, even if you were run down by a truck with you gathering your exposed guts into a managagable pile, in order to be sown up by a doctor later. Best wait for another passer-by. They are always about, either buying onions and cabbages from street stalls or power walking with extra weights added to their wrists and ankles, bum forced to swing left and right in a shockingly hypnotic vision. I suppose they like to be outside rather than couped up inside. They're like little Carmella Soprano's I suppose, bored at home, intent on activity, and with an irrational fear of death, which explains the vegetables and exercise I suppose, oh, and their unreasonable look of suspicion at everything they see. Usually solitary creatures of habit, but when meeting a friend they can be seen in pairs talking for hours. They feed on cabbages and fear from children.
The person you would want to call for help when you are coming to terms with your own mortality, trying not to let your intestines slip out of your fingers, are the schoolkids. Mainly because they are so helpful. They'd just enjoy the opportunity to converse in English to this dying foreigner. About 80% of them wear thick black rimmed glasses, often tiltled uncomfortably on their noses, something that personally I have serious issues with. I feel like asking them why they don't just get them fixed, levelled so its not assymmetrical. There are plenty of opticians. Anyway I digress. They wear fitted white shirts that end at the waist, too short to tuck in, with blue bands on the collar, usually, depending on the school, with obligatory grey skirts/trousers. They pay no heed to their open fascination of a westerner and honestly look at me and giggle with their friends. I don't mind, whatever makes them laugh. Once I went in a traditional Korean cafe and having difficulty in explaining what I wanted to eat to the waitress, a group of four Korean schoolboys of English, dove in like the trigger-happy white boys of the American midwest, only their bullets were words of rapid assistance as they eagerly translated what I wanted. "Excellent", I thought, "now that I know the word I can come back again and request it." Yeah, you would think that. Only the next time I went in and asked the lady slowly and clearly what I wanted to eat, she just stared at me. An infuriating stare that had the audacity to imply that I was the idiot, even though her open mouth and vacant eyes claimed otherwise. Anyway you can find schoolkids in groups of three to five. Sometimes they are seen solitary, but rarely do they remain so for long, for fear of social ostricisation. Groups of six or more are also rare, as it is physically impractical to keep together in such a highly populated city. Depending upon the season they feed on fried stall snacks and ice lollies.
Another group large in numbers are the trendy types, usually teenagers and young adults. You'll find none of your disgraced fifty-year olds dressing in teen clothing that you sometimes see back in England. You'll find the usual suspects of tight trousers for girls and boys alike, the white t-shirts with a black and white print of some other fashionably dressed person, possibly an ironic comment on fashion, but I don't think so, and the necessary display of converses. Girls also wear extremely short hotpants, but not so revealing tops. Its more customary here to cover up shoulders and chest and reveal legs and bums. A different take on fashion, which I would not call modesty, for modesty never really had a home in fashion, more a reflection on the need to maintain whiter skin here. Boys can be seen with plain coloured t-shirts or ones sporting some obscure reference to a British or American.... thing, I think. On special occasions when attempts are made to court a female, they can sometimes wear a smart black vest jacket. A fashion accessory, usually seen with girls, are little white dogs. The ones that are seen in many fashionable areas of cities all over the world, in an ever increasing phenomenon. These "accessory-dogs" also have accessories of their own. Little dogs with little fucking shoes on! Red with white stripes on the side, K-Swiss probably, bought from K-Swiss Dogs, and jackets that match the colour code of the high-legged, high-heeled, high-maintenenced style of the Korean beauty that haughtily walks past you, under her fancy parasol, whimpering in the heat, like the tired sighs of neglected Sirens. It can't be easy to keep all that up. They are usually seen in pairs, due to more developed friendship connections from their school days, however their eating habits are less developed, usually seen with frappucinos or ice-creams, brand names preferable. In a world of mutual disinterestedness from others in their social group, they feed on the stares of strangers and procurement of new fashions from New York. They are creatures of both day and night.
There are more, but for now I will leave the classification of Koreans lazily half completed.
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