No one needs big things

Upon the renewal of my second-year contract here in Daegu, I took the opportunity to upgrade my apartment to a 14th-floor deluxe apartment, presumably, in the sky. Of course, I share it with two other fine gentlemen, as not even a man with the greatest of bowel movements has a need for two bathrooms. For the past week or so, I've been alone in said apartment while the Los Angelian and Saffa are on their respective vacations, leaving me to share the apartment with nothing more than a meowbox with a foot fetish whose owner is also away on vacation.

Tonight, as I sat in front of the futon I've been sleeping on in our living room watching shows from my laptop connected to my TV from the table I've moved from the kitchen to eat my dinner while I watched, it became evident that I have taken a some 12000sq. foot apartment and smashed it back down to everything I was so eager to get away from in the first place.

If I never moved, however, I wouldn't be signing autographs for the local children and parents who think I'm an athlete from the World Athletic Games, whom are being housed just down the road.

"Shoot for the stars!" I wrote to them.

Singapore and Indonesia

Singapore is expensive.

Bill Gates has to wait .000435 seconds before he can afford a beer, that's how!

A Singaporean man yelled at us for bringing a dog into the park with monkeys everywhere. "It upsets them," he said. We left right before the alpha-monkey made the first strike. The sign had a dog within a circle. We thought that meant allowed. There was no cross-through.

I ate at a hawker run by a single mom, a blind guy, a metal-challenged teenager, and an autistic girl. Dignity Diner, it was called. It was the only hawker cart open at 11am.

I murdered two Subway subs. In Subways in Singapore, the drink refill machine is easily accessible to the patrons seated in the restaurant area. In Subways in Singapore, refills cost $1.

The subway warned me that it would be a challenge in enter the car from one specific door. Easiest thing I'd ever done.

I ate a durian. Including the part I probably wasn't supposed to eat. It was vile.

In Indonesia I didn't do anything.

I got a suit tailored to my abnormally shaped body. Donnie Osmond bought a suit at the very same place. Bill Clinton perused.

Right after that, a chili crab craw slipped out of my hand and rocketed towards my clean blue shirt at a very high velocity and, upon impact, splattered all over to make a very clear "I just vomited on myself" statement.

Don't worry. I wasn't wearing the suit yet.

Please, don't ask me about my camps.

There is an unspoken agreement amongst fellow Native English Teachers here in Korea. It is quickly realized within the first few weeks of employment and will steadily continue throughout your entire time here. This agreement entails writing a facebook status every time your school does something very negative towards you, or something very positive towards you. You may not, I repeat, may not, write about average things. These mundane occurrences may include a fairly delicious lunch, a reasonable and understanding co-teacher, a fair contract negotiation, or, as is my topic today, a run-of-the-mill camp experience.

Camps are what the schools have to continue English classes in the summer/winter off months to keep the native teachers working and to keep bragging about how great their English program is. Essentially they are extra work for everyone. Except me. I don't have camps. Ever. My school ha had their plan in action long before I got here and must think that any Greg involved will jeopardize their flawless work. I don't complain because I don't complain about not having to do anything until August.

I write this now from Andrea's apartment, waiting for her to be released from her substantial work day. I am eager because she wants to throw a frisbee around. My school has been closed for two weekdays after the final exams finished. Closed as in if I try to go in and deskwarm, as per my contract requirements, I will have to curbwarm instead.

I got lost in her area of Daegu, because it's not the east end and thus not the back of my hand, looking for Homeplus. I was looking for a voltage converter so I could play MarioKart on her Wii that she, oddly, hasn't used yet. I was unsuccessful and later confused at the layout of the streets, so I went back and read a book while watching a movie piece by piece while it loaded on her slow internet.

At one point I bought a slice of pizza. I was asked for my phone number to buy it. I was texted a coupon of some sort, then later an escort service ad.

I have recently dismissed the idea of refreshing her milk reserve that I have exhausted because of my hunger for Cheerios.

Yesterday I took a four, non-sequential, hour nap during "Good Morning Vietnam," which was on my on-demand for free. I then placed a chair near the window, made a cup of tea, and listened to the piano-playing of the person in the apartment across from me.

I will be happy to talk about summer camps and/or work with you. But please don't hate me when I answer. It usually seems to be the first choice of words. You started it, after all.

Tomorrow I have to go to work again and will continue going in for the summer days, but I think I can leave at noon.

I think I'll grow a beard. No one at my school will see it anyway.

Great Idea

I thought this was a great idea...

...until the first time I used it.

Bus Battle '11

Every Monday and Thursday evening I am very far from my apartment. Three other almost-men and myself gather at our shanty little studio space nestled deep in Daegu's industrial district to make noise and backsweat together. I have to take two buses to get there, which isn't really a problem, unless antics ensue. Which happens. It happened on Monday.

My first bus back to the far stretches of eastern Daegu is hassle free. I have my choice of not one, not two, but three buses that stop immediately in front of our door. I mosey over the the stop while Kyle and Daniel make mad dashes to their respective points of departure (Kyle runs when he sees his bus, Daniel crosses the street at the same point where I got nailed by a scooter. Both mad, you see). I have such a low regard for the first ride that I don't even sit down. It's a time for my shirt to dry.

The second bus, however, is a fifty minute ride. Luckily for me only the foolyish of the foolish live as far away from anything substantial as I do so I am always guaranteed not just a seat, but a seat where my knees are not at my own personal eye level. This is typically the second seat from the front on either side of the bus. Here is where I park myself, turn on some soothing tunes, and doze until I am blasted awake by the two immediate stops made by the driver before my stop.

On this Monday, however, a few stops after departure, our bus community was joined by two very drunken adjosshi. They stumble onto the bus and one of them immediately empties his coin purse onto the ground. Baek wons everywhere. As the second man faceplants to the floor in a futile attempt to pick up the coins I decide it would be best to help him collect as to shorten the length of the scene happening. In hindsight I wouldn't have done this. If there's one thing a drunk adjosshi loves to do, it's harrass a male foreigner. Let alone a tall male foreigner. Helping this man to clean up his mess only made him aware of my presence, and as his friend lifted himself up from his earlier tumble, they appeared to be in total glee of their new discovery.

These two are immediately hung over me shouting, and I do mean shouting, and waving their arms. My first thought is that they want my seat, which is bizarre because there are two of them and also because there are open seats in the back meant for two people to sit next to each other. But I suppose they never made it that far back, anyway.

I moved to another seat, eliminating my legroom but, alas, they followed. Man-wearing-hat begins to light a cigarette. This is where the bus driver has no more and began shouting at the men. This greatly upset man-in-hat and he shoots forward to the glass box that encases the driver and begins pounding on it and shouting. Suddenly the bus is stopped and the bus driver is out of his cubicle, face-to-face with man-in-hat. He motions at me two levers near his steering wheel. I'm not going to lie. I know exactly what the levers do. My typical second-row seat gives me direct vision into a bus driver's cockpit and I study that area. I imagine that someday I'll be in a Speed 2-esque situation, except with a bus instead of a boat. I'm obviously not the ideal candidate in his eyes, but I'm the closest, and this is a matter of urgency.

He points to me, points to the exit door, points to the man, points to the lever, points to the exit door again, rolls up his sleeves and charges forward like a soldier in the Civil War. He grabs man-in-hat and drags him to the door. My instinct kicks in and I flip that lever like it were the switch to turn on the god damn sun in the morning. The driver, quite literally, throws the man off of the bus and shouts at me. I hit the lever again and the door closes. The bus became eerily quiet as the driver walked calmly back to the driver's seat. Can I give him a high five? We were just a team. A damn good one at that. But it's all too late. He's already driving again.

What happened to the other man? He fell asleep on the floor in the back of the bus during this fiasco, and that's where he remained as I got off at my stop.

I'll ask for the video footage the next time I'm on the 618.

Tuesdays are Death

I'm not a big fan of Tuesdays. I consider Tuesday the Red Sox of the days of the week. Unfortunate scheduling mixed with unfortunate student combinations makes for a homerun of misery, if you'll allow me to continue with baseball analogies. I don't have a first class on Tuesday, which I hate. The silent wait. It's like being sent to your room to think about what you've done, but all you can think about is how you've done nothing and are still about to get beat down by a miserable day. Sometimes I tell myself that I'll just come in late. Sleep in a bit. Strafe my way into my office at 9am unnoticed. I never do it, though. I'm what the Koreans would call a pussy.

I do stop by the Paris Baguette on Tuesdays, though. It makes me slightly late. Just enough to feel like a real rebel risking deportation on the grounds of teaching incompetence. I get a muffin or sandwich, depending on my mood, and more often than not a coffee. I've noticed that when I get the muffin, which is wrapped in plastic, they will not offer me a bag. However, when I get the sandwich, which is in a clear plastic box, the clerk will begin to bag it. Regardless of my purchase I decline the bag because it will go into the one I'm already carrying anyway.

The first time I bought a sandwich, and only a sandwich, she began to bag it. I told her "Gwenchanayo," which means "That's OK," or more contextually "Don't worry about it." She gave me the same look she would probably give a dog that just said hello to her and immediately gave me a free coffee.

I still say gwenchanayo but I get no more coffee.

Life as of Late

The students needed to translate 게포크 to English recently. General consensus: Fork for eating crap easily.

Here are some photos from a three-day school trip to Tanyang, where I was assigned my official Korean name - 한태평(Han Tae-Pyeong) Han is the closest family name they could coordinate with Henny and Tae-Pyeong means "calm man." Or, more literally, "Pacific Ocean."

Here are five more photos from various Korean places.

Until next time, who will bell the cat?