"President Obama, It's Time To Fire The TSA"

I just stumbled upon an article that pretty much says what I said yesterday in a much clearer, less self-conscious way. Read on:

President Obama, It's Time To Fire The TSA
By Joel Johnson, Gizmodo.com

Original article appears here

Today, DHS's Napolitano's response to the crotchbomber: "We're looking to make sure that this sort of incident cannot recur." But the TSA's response to Abdulmutalib's attempt makes one thing clear: We must stop pretending the TSA is making us safer.


Security expert Bruce Schneier nails the core incompetency: "For years I've been saying 'Only two things have made flying safer [since 9/11]: the reinforcement of cockpit doors, and the fact that passengers know now to resist hijackers.'"

So what has the TSA done in response to the attempted attack? They've told airlines to make passengers stay in their seats during the last hour of flight. They've made it verboten for passengers to hold anything in their laps, again only during the last hour of flight. Perhaps most hilariously telling, they've forbidden pilots from announcing when a plane is flying over certain cities and landmarks.

There is no other way to interpret it: The TSA is saying clearly that they can't prevent terrorists from getting explosives on airplanes, but by god, they'll make sure those planes explode only when the TSA says it's okay.

I want our government to prevent terrorism and to make flights safer. But we are spending billions of dollars and man-hours to fight a threat that is less likely to kill a traveler than being struck by lightning. In the last decade, according to statistician Nate Silver, there has been "one terrorist incident per 11,569,297,667 miles flown [the] equivalent to 1,459,664 trips around the diameter of the Earth, 24,218 round trips to the Moon, or two round trips to Neptune." (Sadly, this does mean that in the future we can expect one out of every two round-trip flights to Neptune to be hijacked.)

The TSA isn't saving lives. We, the passengers, are saving our own. Since its inception, the TSA has been structured in such a way as to prevent specific terror scenarios, attempting to disrupt a handful of insanely specific tactics, while continuing to disenfranchise and demoralize the citizens who are actually doing the work that a billion-dollar government agency—an agency that received an additional $128 million just this year for new checkpoint explosive screening technology—has failed to do.

We just had the first legitimate attempted attack in years, and the TSA changes the threat level from orange...to orange.

This goes far beyond simple customer satisfaction issues like "Take Back Takeoff." (Although they are of a kind.) It has to do with wildly irrationally response of a government agency in the face of failure. An agency whose leader, Secretary of Homeland Security Janet Napolitano, said at first blush that the attempted attack showed that—here comes the Katrina-class foot-in-mouth—"the system worked." (She shoveled shit in her mouth this morning, while still talking up the asinine new measures that the TSA will be taking to respond to this isolated threat.)

I don't want to die on an airplane. I don't want to die in my home while eating an organic bagel infested with parasites that lay eggs on my liver. I don't want to die from starvation or bad water or a thousand other things that I pay our government to monitor and regulate.

But I also don't expect the government to protect from the literally endless possibilities and threats that could occur at any point to end my life or the life of the few I love. It's been nearly a decade since terrorists used airplanes to attack our country, and last week's attempt makes it clear that the lack of terrorist attacks have nothing to do with the increasing gauntlet of whirring machines, friskings, and arbitrary bureaucratic provisions, but simply that for the most part, there just aren't that many terrorists trying to blow up planes. Because god knows if there were, the TSA isn't capable of stopping them. We're just one bad burrito away from the TSA forcing passengers to choke back an Imodium and a Xanax before being hogtied to our seats.

President Obama, don't let this attack—this one attack that was thankfully stopped by smart, fearless passengers and airline staff—take us further in the wrong direction. I don't think I'm alone in feeling this way. Americans of all stripes and affiliation standing up to say, "This isn't working. We gave you our money. You're not making us safer." We appreciate the attempt to make us safer and acknowledge that it came from an honest attempt to protect American (and the rest of the world's) lives.

But it's a failure. It's wrongheaded. It's a farce. Tear it down. Put the money towards the sort of actions at which our government excels, like intelligence. The failure of the TSA leaves us no choice, but it's okay. The American people are ready to take back the responsibility for our own safety. Really, we already have.

More Restrictions

After the terrorism attempt Friday on a Northwest Airlines flight, federal officials Saturday imposed a new layer of restrictions on travelers that could lengthen lines at airports and limit the ability of international passengers to move about an airplane.

Among other steps being imposed, passengers on international flights coming to the United States apparently will have to remain in their seats for the last hour of a flight without any personal items on their laps. Overseas passengers will be restricted to only one carry-on item aboard the plane, and domestic passengers will probably face longer security lines.

The restrictions, once again, will change the routine of air travel, which has undergone an upheaval since the September 2001 terrorist attacks and three attempts at air terrorism since then.

 Full article here.

Oh, great.

I am in a minority when it comes to those who enjoy air travel. Take away my Green card if you must, I know how much fuel is required for even one flight (and there are thousands happening RIGHT NOW), but I get a thrill from the whole experience. Even getting to the airport, the lines, the beverage cart, the takeoff, the ear-popping landing, everything.

International flights have been historically better. Singapore Airlines to Korea in 2005 was awesome. My very first flight was international, to the Czech Republic. Czech Air, which I believe is either out of business or a subsidiary of someone else and exists in name only now, was never known as a great carrier, yet I enjoyed that trip too, cramped as I was next to my 350-pound forensics (speech and debate) coach for the 11-hour haul. That was in early 2001, before 9/11 and all the new restrictions.

Though I flew before 9/11, I honestly could not tell you the difference, probably because it was my first flight, it was through school (so, they handled most of the paperwork and such), and I just did not pay a whole lot of attention to things back then. I'm pretty sure they didn't do the whole take your shoes off thing. Domestic flights might have been a little nicer (instead of $5 to buy a shitty pair of headphones to listen to the in-flight movie), but that has more to do with economics than terrorists (if you don't pay $7 for an in-flight meal pack with savory crackers, processed cheese and crisp apple wedges, the terrorists win). The security check might have gone a little smoother. But, since all but one of my airplane experiences have been post 9/11, I have nothing to base the newer, more annoying restrictions against, really.

Except for this. Abdul Farouk Abdul Mutallab, you son of a bitch.

Do I think the new restrictions can help? Sure, I think any restriction can help. Will it? The post- 9/11 restrictions didn't seem to stop this guy, they didn't stop Richard Reid, the dude with explosives in his shoes. Maybe you'll see the dude setting up a bomb if you keep the lights on for that last hour in flight, but now that that is in place, why wouldn't he just set it up earlier? Oh, no, now you're going to keep the lights on the whole 14-hour flight? Even though it's the middle of the night? Please, don't take my advice, I hardly get any sleep on planes as it is.

People might say, "well, if it makes me safer, I'll sacrifice some comfort." Fine, I will, too. But, it's the chipping away that bothers me. One thing, one thing, more. And another. Like when I edited newspapers for those two years, no matter how many times I looked over the copy for mistakes before it went to press, somehow, SOMEHOW (the larger the type, the more annoyed I am) I still missed an errant period, a word, SOMETHING (see?). And, even if every single person was strip searched, cavity searched, thought searched (please don't take my advice), somehow, SOMEHOW something seems to slip through. And, when that happens, another restriction is added in an effort to make us safer. When that is somehow circumvented, another restriction is added in an effort to make us safer. Then that is somehow circumvented.

It's very easy to get caught up in Groupthink on something like this. If you're not for these safety measures, does that mean you're for terrorism, does that mean you're anti-American? It's the perception of so-called terrorists and their bombs and their suicide missions and their never ending quest to ruin your day, and the very real possibility that everything can be stripped from you in the name of keeping you safe (and then, on top of all that, the offenders themselves). Richard Reid, Abdul Farouk Abdul Mutallab, and those that took down the Twin Towers were real. "Terrorist" can be pulled out and used whenever convenient to keep people in line. Not saying it has, just that it can. That scares me. You know what else scares me? Talking about this. That I worry that what I say can be misconstrued -- as anti-American, as ignorant, as "conservative" whatever that is, as "liberal" whatever that is, as, above all, paranoid. That this paranoia exists in me bothers me most because it shouldn't be there.

But, really, this might not end up being so bad. Like I said, I haven't had the full-on experience of flight pre- 9/11 before (save that one Czech Air flight). It's easy to accept taking off your shoes when you've always taken them off. Besides, Koreans take their shoes off all the time. But, when I heard the TSA now recommends those on international flights arrive at the airport FOUR HOURS before takeoff, my heart sank. I'm a self-hating Westerner that has it too good to realize how good he has it.

Four years ago today:

After a whirlwind pilgrimage from Jinju, South Korea, to Middletown, New Jersey, in the space of a day (or so), after 40-plus days writing, after making a life-changing decision then deciding I wanted to change it back, after all this:

Sunday, December 25, 2005

Christmas Day

This weblog has been shut down until further notice.

Posted by John Dunphy at 12/25/2005 08:20:00 AM

It was over.

*
Comment, Dec. 27, 2005:

WATHEWCDC said...

I enjoyed reading your blog. Here are some tips for people who might go to Korea. I spent 27 months in South Korea. I had both good and bad times there. At times I was smiling, others I was tired and angry.

As a teacher you are not valued based on your skills but on your appearance. If teaching children, you are always "on". Always smile, never frown. The parents don't want their children to see you "unhappy". You also have to realize that Korean kids usually have 10-12 hours days before they see you (if you teach at night) Don't bother giving them homework.

If teaching adults, keep thin. Being overweight is a cardinal sin in Korea. You will be told to lose weight and that you are fat on a daily basis. If you are thin, don't worry another fault will be pointed out ;-)

Your work schedule will make you tired. Don't teach a split shift. Because you will start at 6:30 AM and finish by 12:00 PM. Then have to go back for 7:00 PM to 10:00 PM. Thus sleeping in the afternoon and at night. This will cause you no end of misery.

Isolation can also be a factor. Some teachers I knew never made friends with Koreans because they felt that they were "teaching English for free". A dumb move because one can also learn Korean at the same time. So, that just leaves other teachers or just camping out at bars and pc rooms. Myself, I was taking the express train (KTX) to Seoul or Busan to meet friends almost every weekend. I had a life outside of where I worked. It cost money but gave me a necessary balance.

Don't come to Korea if you have a good life where you are now (girlfriend etc). Go at a time when you feel you need a change and have no ties home. Accept that you will be away for the year and make as many Korean friends as possible. By doing so, your time will be well spent.

Travel. Go to Japan or anywhere else in Asia! I managed to visit Fukuoka 4 times. The last time I met up with chap who owns his own record company. He was introduced to me by a friend in Seoul who also has his own label. We spent the day talking about old heavy metal bands, saw Judas Priest at Zepp and then met the band after the show.

That's what you have to accept while you are there. Don't bother getting on the plane if you think it will be too much. It probably will be.

*

Merry Christmas.

Two months

With exactly two months before I take a very long series of flights -- from New Jersey to Seattle, finally to Seoul, South Korea -- I was unexpectedly terminated from my temp job. Well, not really unexpectedly, I knew I would be let go as soon as the proofreading assignment ended, but it stings a little when two days before, you get an e-mail from the temp. agent saying they've extended your assignment until at least mid-January (also stings when you write an ironic blog a couple hours earlier talking about your sweet gig. No, Colleen, they did not see the blog). But, oh well. Getting knocked off your perch gets easier to handle when it's happened a couple times. This is nothing like what happened last year when, in the space of a month, I lost my job, my girlfriend and my apartment. This gives me time to bone up on my Korean. And, my sleep. Did you see that snow out there last night? To hell with digging my car out tomorrow morning -- I'll wait till that shit melts. Suck it, Vertis.

Brrrr....

Irony is:

Sent from the temp agency less than three hours after writing the previous entry:

"John. Please call my cell the position at _______ has ended. You do not need to return Monday.  My cell is 732 ___-____"


Ugh.

Free money?

I am waiting for one of these guys in this IT room that's also the defacto second office for us temps to finally ask, "just what is it you do around here?"

Well, Bob, Bob, I usually stroll in around 9:10, 9:15. I used to try and get here right at nine o'clock but realized there wasn't any point, especially when my direct supervisor sometimes wouldn't even see me until the middle of the afternoon.

I pull out my laptop while loading up the company one, then I take off my layers and toss them on a nearby chair. When my laptop is loaded I log into the wireless service. This is a relatively new thing -- when I started in October I would be thankful there would be a free plug-in in the office that I could get on the Internet, but e-mail and sites like Facebook and this blog were blocked. Occasionally Sylvester, kind of the supervisor temp, would log me into the super-secret wireless network where I had access to everything. But, he wouldn't tell me the password I thought because he didn't want word to get out that he knew it. Eventually, he gave it up and I was able to log in on my own. First, I would play sneaky -- I would still have the plug-in sticking out the side of my laptop but not quite in there so as to confuse the system. Anyone who looked would still think I was on the wired service. One of the IT guys saw this one day and casually remarked, "hmm, I thought you were on the wireless service." From that point on, I dropped the charade. No one, not even the head of the IT department that gave Sylvester the password, made a comment.

At about 9:40 I e-mail Sylvester on the other side of the building to see if there was any change to the Excel grid I have been in charge of maintaining since Darren, another temp, left the job last week. There usually is no change from the grid I send to all involved parties at the end of the day except for the date on the file. By 10 a.m., I send a ZIP file off and wait for any edits for me to come in to proofread.

No edits come in.

Early on in this assignment we would have the occasional slow period. But, after a few days the slow periods got a lot wider. Natalie, a girl that was here then but left to tour Germany with her gospel group, noted this to be the longest periods of downtime she had experienced since coming on board a month earlier. Still, when we did have long periods of nothing they were usually followed by spurts of constant work -- one assignment after another would come in for me to proofread and I usually would find something -- a misplaced period, a comma missing, a paragraph altogether gone -- that needed to be addressed.

But, at some point, maybe a month ago? -- everything seemed to come to a halt. Occasionally an assignment would come through for editing, but it was usually a minor issue and I was finished with it in about 15 minutes. Then, I would sit and wait.

Since Darren left, I have actually had the work of two temps -- proofreader and Excel grid maintenance. Darren noted the worst part of his job had come at the beginning, when he'd actually set up the grid. There are just over 1,800 pieces of sample -- letters this insurance company sends out to its clients saying they were approved, they were not approved, they are out of the coverage area, etc. -- that needed to be recorded into this grid. Once that was done, one could just wait for e-mails and phone calls to come through explaining what needs to be updated. Darren spent most of his day studying for a history class. I spend most of my day studying Korean. Or surfing the Internet, seeing if Rowan sent an e-mail telling everyone EPIK has finally sent over our contracts and he will be shipping them out via FedEx today. Sometimes, I do nothing.

Stacey, our direct supervisor, knows exactly what we're doing -- nothing, that is. On my third day, I sat out in this empty vestibule near the IT room and wrote a blog entry while soaking in some sunshine through the window my muted, off-white colored windowless office substantially lacks. Shortly after, I got a call from her asking if I had been sitting out there. I said I had and she asked if I could not do that again. Why not, I asked, I have nothing to do. She said I could do whatever it was I was doing, just not out there. "Try not to draw attention to yourself," she said. Fair enough.

Early last week, I got a call from Daisy, another supervisor to this project, asking me to come to her office. My natural guilty expectation told me they were calling for me to fire me because I had found out the password to allow me to update my Facebook status, but they were just informing me of a change. There, she and Stacey let me know about Darren's impending departure and asked if I could take over his responsibilities. At first I felt a little apprehensive, admittedly because I had finally gotten over most of the guilt accumulated by a job paid for by a medical insurance company (who is funded by the federal government, so in a sense, a job paid for by you) where my day consisted of doing about 15 minutes of actual work.

I don't even wear dress pants on non-Casual Fridays most of the
time anymore. And I don't think I ever wore a tie. Like, ever.

But, what am I going to say, no? You're a bunch of slave drivers, I do enough work as it is! I was to start Thursday morning.

Noticing my apprehension, Daisy and Stacey looked at each other, Stacey shook her head in a "don't worry" sort of way, and Daisy said, "it's not rocket science."

Occasionally I will hear a "beep" from the company laptop, informing me of an e-mail. Usually, it's something about a "laser live audit," which I have been told to ignore as it has nothing to do with me. Occasionally I edit something. We now don't print out the edits, Sylvester just e-mails me a pdf to look at. It saves a lot of paper, but now feels I work even less.

To think, I almost considered quitting this job and going back to Cherry Grove Farm after the first day.

When Darren left, they first considered getting another temp to take over when someone suggested I do it. As I look over my shoulder at two of the other temps surfing the 'net, I wonder why one of us couldn't do the work of all of us.

Not that I am complaining (well, I guess I am, but isn't that what you're supposed to say?), this is the best paying job I have ever had. Yes, even better than editing the newspaper, where I would come at the crack of noon, complain with the other editors how little we got paid, go get an ice cream cone down the street and then call it a day by late afternoon. It's just kind of odd.

Originally, I was told the job would likely run until the end of November and I was glad to have that. Then, they said we would be needed until the end of the year and I was ecstatic. Now, as I breeze through the "Beginner" section of KoreanClass101.com, talk to Pickle on GChat, ask Rowan again if my contract came in yet on Skype and bite the hand that feeds me here, I have been informed I'll be kept on the payroll at least until mid-January. Maybe longer.

What a country

I've been told several times by several people -- mostly those currently without jobs or those with jobs they wish they didn't have -- I shouldn't complain. It's free money. I guess it is. But, I can't seem to shake the feeling, at any moment, someone is going to turn a corner and yell "gotcha!" before throwing my broke ass into the street. But, it hasn't happened yet. It's like I'm committing a crime in plain sight and everyone is in on it.

Everything is Balance

I spent the entire weekend studying Korean and playing video games. It was great.

There was a potluck party Saturday night in Trenton. I ended up not going; drinking and darts with the boys Friday night was enough. I didn't have a lot of that for a lot of years. No network, just sporadic friends located far too far to just pick up and go out with on short notice. It's nice.

I could have gone to Brooklyn Sunday with an old friend to see an old friend but the weather sucked.

I always have something going on, it seems. When I don't, I appreciate the quiet moments of solitude. Mostly. Sometimes. It was not always this way. I look at my filled weekends, which validates my social existence. And yet, I am still the child that thinks he's easily forgotten. I still get surprised when someone recognizes me.

Over this past weekend of leisure, there were moments when, laying in bed in my pajamas, sipping coffee and playing Castlevania: Aria of Sorrow, I thought, "shouldn't I be doing something?" I always feel like I should be doing something. 

Something is good, but something can also be a lot of noise made to disguise something else. What is so wrong with nothing sometimes? Quiet moments in a quiet house. Just give me 15 minutes, 10 minutes. What's wrong with that?

I canceled a "friend" request to Madeleine, a Canadian I met in Jinju a week before I left on Christmas Eve 2005. This is the girl I met at Zio Ricco's and, sitting alone in a corner of the bar, talked and talked and talked with until everyone else had left and it was time to go home. I used to paint this image as something mutually participant. Truth is, I was pretty drunk; I don't know if she was genuinely interested in our conversation or being polite. I'd like to think it was the former.

Madeleine did not reply to an e-mail I sent a couple weeks after coming home. I don't blame her. Now, at least. Only just now do I remember calling her up in Korea from New Jersey before sending that e-mail. We talked, I can't remember about what. I was still loopy... I sometimes wish I could have been on the receiving end of my words. Was I as out of it as I think I was, or was that all in my head? My memory says it all feels off, my perceptions telling me something is wrong, whether or not there was, and attempting to fill any empty mental space with validation that would never come because I could not see it even if it did. Was her electronic silence her retaliation for someone she found distasteful, or what my rational 2009 mind tells me is true: her retaliation for someone she barely knew, she would never see again, now living on the other side of the world while she wondered if South Korea wasn't right for her, too? Did this girl really make me feel something or was I clutching at straws?

Time bends. Some things about South Korea could have happened yesterday. Others? Madeleine might as well be a million years old.

When I went to cancel the Facebook request that had gone unfilled for over a month, I noticed a professional-looking photo of her and some guy. Married, maybe? There's a lot of that going around lately. Good for her if he's the right one.

A lot of somethings can take place over four years. Even nothing can be something. Everything is balance.

I Dream of 한 국

When a person gets consumed in something, it tends to invade every part of their brain. Suddenly, you're dreaming about spreadsheets, quarterly reports, and the girl in the other department that you see in the lunchroom playing with her hair.

I do not dream about my temp job. What I do dream about is Korean. Specifically, I had my first dream last night about the Korean language.

This is very exciting, because every part of my brain is beginning to want to successfully process the language. I am studying Korean now online at a site called KoreanClass101.com. It's very good. The premium site offers not only audio lessons and their accompanying study guides, but also review questions, word banks, a dictionary, and more. I dropped $135 for a year's access. Sure beats Rosetta Stone's $550.

The dream itself was not very exciting. Mostly, it was just visions of pages of Korean characters and my attempts in the dream to remember which one is which. What was great is that I was getting characters correct. ㅅ has an "s" sound, for example. Couple that with a vowel, like "ㅣ" and get the word "ㅆㅣ", pronounced "ssi," which is the honorific for "Mr., Mrs., or Ms." Use it for any of them. So, for example, I would be John ssi, or John ㅆㅣ. This is what I was dreaming about last night.

I was talking with Panda earlier on Skype and she asked me what is different between the preparations this time and the preparations before. I was not sure if she meant in August or in 2005 so I answered it both ways. In both, I was unprepared. In 2005, I had very little life experience and really could not prepare all that much for things that were completely unknown to me -- obviously not for South Korea, but also for living truly on my own. Alfred University was nothing compared to Central Asia.

I could have tried to learn Korea but I didn't, not really. In July, when I accepted the offer to teach on Imja island, I did purchase Rosetta Stone Korean. It was OK. Not $550 OK, but OK. I didn't use it very much. I was feeling rushed, though: I had a month from acceptance to flight to prepare. Everything was jumbled, everything was chaos. This time, things are moving at a much leisurely pace. I have given people (and myself) time to absorb this idea of going to South Korea again. And I am actually working toward being as ready as possible (though you are never truly ready for any big change until you're in the middle of it). The option to leave if I can't hack it again is always available. I'm not going to prison. But, like my shifted perception when I put money into my savings account, I am not leaving the easy escape so easily available. The money is still mine but it's not mine. It's my savings account's. Likewise, I can leave, but, really, do I want to do that again? Then what?

Someone who got offended when I made fun of SnapOn Tools hats (that's a generalization) told me recently it was time for me to grow up, get a real job. Sweat and suffer like the rest of us. For me, going back to South Korea and leaving too soon is not growing up. Going back, experiencing it, the comfortable and uneasy, and going there with a mental suitcase full of knowledge, is my kind of maturity.

안 영 (I think I spelled that right...)!

Charmed

In the continuing adventures of "Eating Korean Food Here to Compare it to Eating Korean Food in Korea (Have to Work on That Title)", I met up with my good friend LNT for a nosh at Nassau Sushi in Princeton last night and ordered the Jae Yuk Bokum, a heaping plate of pork and vegetables stir-fried in a spicy bean paste. Accompanying it were the usual banchan accoutrement: kimchi, cucumbers marinated in some sort of sesame oil mixture and greens in sesame seeds and garlic, as well as a bowl of miso soup. LNT got the Stone Pot Bibimbap with beef, which she housed, but was disappointed that the "beef" option was ground beef instead of what one might get in, say, Korean BBQ. This will be something to examine when I am in Korea.

Jae Yuk Bokum. A close approximation but it did not look this good.

Sadly, much of what Nassau Sushi offers from its Korean lineup pales to anything I have had in New York, Korea or Edison Township. Woojeon, in Edison, in fact is probably the best Korean I have had anywhere, even in South Korea. I wholly admit some of this might be my own bias since it also was the very first Korean I ever ate.

At the Korean-owned Nassau Sushi (which used to be named Nassau Sushi and Bagel for some reason), more attention seems to be paid to the Japanese end of the menu. The kimchi tends to be a little more sour and a lot less spicy (and you only get three banchan no matter how big your party it seems. At Woojeon, two people get at least eight!), there are no hot boxes at your table to enjoy traditional Korean BBQ -- instead, the Bulgogi menu item is cooked in the back and brought to you. The only time I ordered it, the meat was mealy and kind of gross. That's not to say I do not enjoy my meals there, and nothing is finer than a mid-afternoon solo trip, where the pace is leisurely and the service excellent. Plus, the alternative was to drive in Route 1 rush hour traffic to Edison, which is about as appealing as something that's not very appealing.

I have been thinking about my current situation and how I sometimes feel I live a charmed life. No boasting, and others might look at my situation (temp job, no girlfriend, living in my Dad's girlfriend's guest bedroom, no health insurance, the inability to kick cigarettes once and for all) unfavorably, but I do not. Which is why I think it's charmed. We touched on this last night over beers after seeing Precious at the Garden Theater (really great performances, including Mariah "Glitter" Carey of all people, but too many reviewers went into autopilot groupthink and called it a masterpiece. It is not, and Oprah is a narcissist). We concluded it came down to perception (or did I come to that conclusion on my own, LNT?). If something bad happens and you dwell on it, it shades everything else good or bad a shade of shit. But, if you can let it go, you look at the good and wonder how all this good (best paying job I ever had where I can pay off my bills before leaving the country, the ability to communicate with my father on a one-on-one level, good friends and family, a lot of stories to tell and the ability to tell them) seems to fall upon you. It's like whenever anything gets really bad, something comes along to balance everything out, like I'm on The Truman Show or something (yes, I really think about this).

It was only a year ago I decided to go on anti-depressants, it was only five months ago that I decided to stop. It was in late 2005 when I felt everything was the worst I thought it could possibly be and I gave up on a dream. And, look where we are now.

Things can surely suck. And, yet, what a life. It really is all about perception and perspective.

Watching the Dow Jones stock drop from Korea

I have just found a Web site where I can listen to Korean radio broadcasts and even watch Korean television live. As I watched the MBN (listed as "NBN" on the Web site) broadcast, I saw the Dow Jones was down 90 points. On other "channels," gray screens and color bars hummed since it was 14 hours ahead there, nearing 3 a.m. All I can say is, this is so cool.

This Web site also has pages for radio and TV broadcasts from Japan, Thailand, China, even Denmark, the Czech Republic and Israel. I watched a program last night from the Republic of Congo, a religious show where people in robes sang in front of a very poor green screen, like something from cable access.

Korean radio and television feeds.

This Island Isolation

I worry about you.

I worry about all of you depressed. I speak from experience. Sometimes it seems like the whole world wants to blow its brains out.

The grip in the mind. The stranglehold. The choke. Nothing matters. Nothing will help. It's all to shit. Fuck the world.

A mind completely full of negativity has no room for anything else. Good. Bad. We're full up in here, can you come back later if I haven't scattered what's left in this head of mine across the wall?

It is like the grip, for me at least, of a cigarette. Nothing else matters at that moment and nothing else could possibly coat the throat quite like a lovely Dunhill or Esse right now. That's all I need. Except it isn't. It never is.

Not even alcohol fills that void for me. Alcohol has never been a problem (good thing, because I like to drink it). Neither have drugs. Well, except maybe pills.

Pills are so easy. With alcohol, you have to open the bottle, pick up the glass, pour the drink (or pay the man behind the bar to do it for you). You have to think about the shot, or the mixer, or the twelve ounces as they slide down your throat and into your waiting belly. But, one will never do. So, you have another. Of course, you think about the consequences a little less with that next drink. And, the next.

With a cigarette, you have to buy the pack, unwrap the pack, pull out the smoke, put it between your lips, light it up and suck it down. You have to think about how good you were and how terrible a person you are now because you're smoking a cigarette, you dirty smoker, you. Cough. Cough.

Pills are so easy. Ow. My tooth. This is OK, I just have a toothache, that's all. This will fix me up. I'm no drug addict, drug addicts have track marks across their arms and rotten teeth. My teeth just look this way because I really like coffee.

Pop. Gone. Be careful, boy.

But even if a cigarette is harder, it's the only one that has continued to come back. Come back, baby, why have you been gone so long? Puff, puff, there that's better, you dirty smoker, you.

I know the grip. I speak from experience. I smoked a lot of cigarettes because of it. Puff, puff, give me more of the stuff. Am I out? Well, we better just get down to the corner convenience store, the one where the old lady and her husband sleep behind a curtain behind the counter, watching TV and waiting for a late-night customer. Esse? Dunhill? 2,300 won, putakhamnida. There, that's all I need.

Except it isn't. It never is.

Depression itself can become an addiction. I don't care if it hurts, and how could you possibly understand? Puff, puff, give me more of the stuff. 

It's hard for those outside of it to have any concept of what those inside feel. You want to give advice (I heard it's a "guy" thing, whatever that means) and hope they take it. I didn't take advice.

You cannot possibly know how I feel right now, and don't try to tell me you know, you asshole.

You're right. This island mind is a lonely place.

The best advice I ever got was the admission that, you know what, life sucks sometimes. Sometimes, it crushes you. And then, somehow, you wake up. You pull yourself out. A little bit of hard mental work. A little bit of luck. A little bit of the tide washing you back to shore. You get better.

Or, you don't.

I have been there. It's somewhere I do not want to be again. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. Having been there helps provide perspective, though I am sure most who have visited this isolated island would rather have never gone there for the sacrifice of a little perspective. Perspective, perschmecktive, give me a reason to smile, baby.

"If death is certain, and the time of death is uncertain, what is most important?" - Pema Chodron

Gojae-do, the second meal

For the first meal, go here.

Photo courtesy Google Images

I'm hungry.

Emily's brother says we are to meet their other brother and his family in town for a nice dinner before we head back to Jinju. Emily mentions, for the first but certainly not last time, that their other brother is “very rich,” an even bigger deal in Korea than it is in the United States. In the United States, we try to pretend things like money and good looks aren't looked upon with favorability to those of lesser means. We say those who do are shallow and we would never do such a thing, when we do it all the time. Here, it's out in the wide open. Which is more tasteful?

A slick covers the road from an earlier shower, reflecting the street lights along the town's main road. We turn a corner into a lot crushing with little Korean cars. Somehow, Emily's brother's small tan sedan squeezes into a spot and Emily, her brother, his wife and I inch our way out and into the restaurant.

Before the door attendant can ask the migook to take off his shoes, they are in the shoe cubby and replaced by a pair of supplied slippers. No need to remind me, I love this about your culture.

Are there fish in the glass wall? Is this the same restaurant I remember? Is this a scene from another restaurant, another meal? Where have you gone in my head four years later?

All around people chatter in Korean over meats, fish and rice. No one pays the foreigner any mind. We take our seats and wait for Emily's other brother and his family to arrive soonafter.

The meal begins, and does it really end? Every time a few dishes are brought out, consumed, a few more replace it, accompanied by a few more. Emily, who is sitting next to me, beams and says, “our brother is very rich.”

That same brother orders a bottle of soju, which is placed between us at the table. “You like soju, John?”

When two men share a nip of soju, that Korean beverage that tastes like watered-down vodka, each is supposed to pour the other's drink into the small soju glasses, just slightly larger than standard shot glasses. They each shoot the first, then quickly pour second drinks and take a dignified sip, as if to say, “I'm not afraid of no hangover-producing soju! In fact, I quite like its subtle taste.” Or, something like that.

I shoot the first glass with as much vigor as Emily's brother, we each pour the other a second drink, sip, and return to our banchan. Emily's other brother (the not-so-rich?) points to a sidedish I never saw at Woojeon, a fish concoction of some kind, marinating in what can be described as looking like very dirty water.

“This is very delicious, good for health,” he says. I'm game, taking a piece of soft, almost snot-like sea creature from the brine and quickly putting it in my mouth. It's sandy, murky and very much of the ocean. I leave the rest for others.

Emily's rich brother, now finished with his second glass and seeing mine running low, pours me another and signals for me to do the same. We shoot, then refill. Seeing the devil in his eyes, perhaps, Emily advises me not to drink too much. “He can drink a lot,” she says, pointing to Richie.

After over an hour of eating banchan, soups, stews and other delicacies, a plate of fish is placed on the table. But, this is not just any old fish; she is whole, head, tail, everything. She is ice cold, her body sliced into bite-sized pieces. Her tail twitches, I think because it's still alive at first but later think maybe it's nerves giving us one last instinctive defense before finally giving up the ghost for our sustenance.

Feeling a little heat from the soju, I tear off a piece and eat it plain. Absolutely delicious.

“Absolutely delicious,” I say to no one in particular. Emily smiles.

Language has kept our true motivations hidden, but I do not believe this trip was entirely for leisure, Emily. Your motives might be partially benevolent, but also practical; how do we keep the teacher from making a run for it? Why not show him what he will be missing? Well done.

Sundown is several hours old as Emily's not-so-rich pulls his car to the side of the road leading to my apartment. He hands me the bag of oranges I received earlier as a welcome gift. I got them nothing. I hope they understand.

Emily gets out of the car, looks at me and asks in halting English, “You will stay?”

I cannot remember if I said I would still have to think about it or if I lied and said,“yes”. I think I gave myself until the next class on Monday to give her a definitive answer. I think. If I didn't, I apologize, Emily. Shame and saving face are so important there. I am sure it was hard trying to explain to your rich brother why the migook made a break for it on Christmas Eve. Though, you never once showed me disrespect for my decision. Thank you.

I say my goodbyes to Emily, her brother, his wife and walk the few blocks to my apartment, but not before stopping at the little shop on the corner for a pack of cigarettes.

As I head up the stairs to my place, I wonder if this is enough? If this experience, these people, this hospitality, these oranges, if all this is enough to dissuade this bug clenched firmly inside my ear?

Four years later, I still wonder.

Worlds Apart

Malissa is going to be a mother.

A girl.

Feels like only a year ago we still slept in the same bed. Wait a minute.

I only found out because she posted something on Facebook. We haven't talked since she gave me back the cable box in August, shortly before I was supposed to leave for Imja island.

We broke up in September 2008, I moved out of the apartment just over a year ago. Not a lot of time has passed, but we are so many worlds apart.

I don't wish in any way that was me about to become the father of that child (though I would be pretty prepared with all the writing I have been doing lately for the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit booklet). I do not hold any illusions we were a happy couple that had a rough patch that could have been smoothed. But, when your mind accepts a world, no matter how unsatisfying, it leaves a mark when it's time to leave. When something pulls you back in, even briefly, you cannot help but feel nostalgic.

It was swift when she told me over beers that she and Bob were getting married in September. But, this? Worlds apart.

I was satisfied with my three parts milk to one part coffee drink before the news. When something like this is announced, however, you must pay proper respect. I tip my hat and raise a glass of 2008 Silver Decoy Chardonnay to you. Congratulations, Missy.

The Experience Collector

When I was younger, maybe 12 or 13, I had a fantasy one night while laying in bed that as I was about to fall asleep, someone burst into my room with some sort of crises easily solved by someone who had been in that situation before. Someone like me. I would be an adviser, a guide, what I would later realize might be the equivalent to a dorm's resident director, perhaps? In my mind, I was Charles from Charles in Charge. Somehow, I thought Charles from Charles in Charge was cool.

I would later fulfill that role to some degree in high school after I had stayed back in 9th grade. I was a year older than many of my new friends. I grew my hair long, could finally grow a respectable beard and subsequently looked older than my 15 going on 16 years. Looking back, I did not fully enjoy my role as wizened elder, because I was still trying to find my place in the crowd. I had not experienced enough to consider myself satisfied, thus comfortable to give advice and guide from the sidelines when necessary. I was only a kid.

It would be fair to call myself sheltered (I mean, c'mon, I thought Charles in Charge was cool). I grew up in central New Jersey and did not stray far from it until I was almost 22 and the Brookdale Community College forensics (speech and debate) team participated in a tournament in the Czech Republic. I did not lose my virginity until later that summer, the summer before I went away to Alfred University. I did not vote until I had finally left home and moved into a shared house in Princeton in late 2006. I wanted to catch up.

South Korea was a way to meet that need. What a way. Even though no one had called me on being sheltered, wet behind the ears, green around the gills (or does that mean you're about to get sick?), to me it stood out like the kid who pooped himself in class. No, that never happened to me. Instead of moving to the big city, I'll move to the other side of the world. That'll show'em.

At some unrecognizable point in personal history, I redoubled my efforts to see things, do things, experience things I never had before and that I felt I never would have done in another life, in that life prior to that unrecognizable point in personal history. Before the point, I let the tide figure it out for me. It could be easy to say the shift occurred when my mother died in 2000, but one: that is too easy a place marker, and two: it's untrue and would only be used for the sake of literary tidiness. Though, it might have served as a precursor – a “soft” turning point. She died, my father very nearly died the year before. It was not a good time to be a kid. It changes you.

Going to the Czech Republic could be another good place marker. I was the first in my immediate family to get a passport, to leave the country, to see things I and they had never seen before.

Sex? No, that first time was terrible. My fault.

Going away to college, to Alfred, could be a good one. I was living out of state for the first time, six hours away in western New York. Though I was in a bubble (the auspices of the Alfred University dormitory system), I was separate from my family and its bubble for the first time. I was my own man, man!

Or it could very well be when I went to South Korea in 2005. Looking back four years on, I remember myself very naive, at 26 a man by most standards, but still a boy in my eyes. Four years from now, I might look at my present self in the same light. No experience experienced now would be the same were it experienced four years ago, or four years later. And every moment has its own luster, even when the moment is dirty.

The decision to leave Jinju on Christmas Eve 2005 might have been the final “soft” turning point over a period of five-plus years of experiences that finally flipped the switch, from letting things happen as they may, to becoming the aggressor, to taking the passive voice off the table. From there, I rode my first century (100 miles) on my bike in Lake Tahoe. I moved out of my family's house. I rode 500 miles from Lake Ontario to New Jersey. I traveled to Vegas solo. I moved in with a girlfriend (not every experience is a wise one. But, it's still an experience. This is important). I did less glamorous but no less important things like set up a mutual fund and begin paying off my credit card debt. Late in high school, Matt, one of my best friends, chastised me for not even having a savings account set up and blowing any little money I made at the gas station on cigarettes, fast food and comic books. Look at me now, Matt, look at me now.

I once went on a videogame-buying binge, around 1996-97, when all it did was reduce the amount of comic books I could get that week. Sega's 32X add-on for the Genesis was a confirmed flop and the prices of games had dropped to $20 a pop. Who cares if 98 percent of them were complete crap, I had to have them. I had to have them. So, I did. Today, they are in some box up in my dad's attic, among the other pack-ratted crap, collecting mold and corrosion on its components. How was I to know 10 years later I would be able to download every single game for free? Though I am grateful for every experience I have had (the wise and not-so-wise), I sometimes wonder if I run the risk of not just having experiences but becoming “The Experience Collector,” a man whose goal in life is to do everything, see everything, experience everything for the sake of being able to say I experienced it, but never stopping to see if some of the experiences are worth lingering over a little longer.

It is a quality I find unhealthy in myself and others, the need for something for the sake of having it, not because you want or need it. Experiences, collected exclusively for the sake of collection, gather dust just like trinkets. Somewhere later in life, you're left with a stuffy hope chest of memories but no one to share them with. And you realize Charles was not cool, only a creepy manchild who liked ogling a teenage Nicole Eggert before Baywatch made her get a boob job.

We are not special

I am not special because I'm going to South Korea.

Leigh is not special because she is going to Cambodia.

I did not spend 10 years in school, pulling all-nighters with pots of black mud coffee in the library so I could teach English in an Asian country. I didn't pull all-nighters, period. I got my bachelor's degree. And that was enough.

Leigh likes fashion and trends and style. She worked in New York. She met some good people. Later on, one of those good people referred her to another good person operating an NGO in Siem Reap and asked if Leigh wanted to come work for them for a year. Is a bear Catholic? Does the Pope shit in the woods?

Tonight, I took my friend out for some going away drinks. A week from today, she will take a very long series of flights from New Jersey, to Seoul, South Korea, then finally to Cambodia, where she will live and work for the next year. She's nervous, obviously, and excited, obviously. She is making the rounds now, the last minute dash, catching up, sewing up, wrapping up. She will pack what she must, dispose of what she can. But, she will admit, she's a chick. And black dresses just don't go with brown shoes, even in Cambodia. But, no matter how hard you try, you won't get to see everyone, do everything and be everywhere you want to be before you leave. So, just let it all go.

Leigh and I are not special because we get to go to foreign countries, live rent-free, get paid to do it. Certain opportunities and events might have made the path a little straighter, a little clearer, a little easier. A connection here, a degree there. Things take time. Patience. Work. But, she did not work in New York thinking it would land her a sweet gig in Cambodia, as I did not go to college thinking I would one day be known as "John teacher" in South Korea. I wanted to write the American masterpiece. I still can if I choose to do so.

It is politically correct to say anyone can do anything if you put your mind to it. That is a lie. Not everyone can do anything. I will never have a baby, for instance. 

Failure straddles success in a twisted love knot. One cannot be appreciated without the other. But no one definition is true. Which is why getting a 2.76 GPA in college, a failure to some, was a success because I considered dropping out of high school once. Lasting only 40 days in South Korea in 2005, a failure to me once, was a success because it opened me to a new experience, one that could not be closed. And the two together have allowed me the opportunity to go back.

Leigh begins her own adventure soon. She will see sites, meet people, eat foods, place her feet on roads millions have walked over before. But, she herself will experience them for the first time.

And that is what is special.

Sick

Note: This was written while at work on Tuesday. I'm feeling quite a bit better now, thank you.

Hopefully this entry makes sense. I'll clean it up in post.

As I type this, my body fights off what is likely the flu. Last night I woke about an hour after fitfully falling asleep (my stomach already felt a little off, gurgly, like the food was not digesting) only to feel the coldest I have ever felt (almost. Earlier this year, I took some long-expired Tylenol with codeine and thought I had an adverse reaction). Any excess movement brought shivers, and I had to race across my bed and to the outlet where that goddamn fan was blowing cold air right in my face. Oh, God, is this what it feels like when a place is haunted? I thought to myself.

I tried to keep movements as minimal as possible. Two comforters, two blankets, one fleece, was not enough. Where are my fleece sleep pants with the polar bears on them? Dammit, why am I such a slob?

At this point, the only symptom was the incredible cold. No sniffles, no stomach pains, no puffy eyes. It makes it even scarier when it is one isolated symptom and not the usual suspects. Did I eat something bad? What the hell is wrong with me?

I try to avoid getting panicky. At least when this happened earlier this year, I was still insured. Even if you never use it, it's nice to know it's there if you need it. Now, I'm flying blind. And naked, apparently. It's so cold, like being stripped and thrown into a snow drift. I think how scary something like this would be in South Korea, alone in a small apartment 13 time zones away, the subtle hint of leftover seaweed salad in the garbage can making me want to puke. At least I will have health insurance.

Eventually, I get the idea to crank up the heat. But, not just crank up the heat, crank up the heat and cocoon myself in the tiny second bathroom that turns into a boiler. But, it is going to take some time to get up the courage. Seriously, it feels like being in the arctic, in a tent that barely keeps you from freezing to death, and then finding out you need to go outside to turn on the generator, or you're going to just freeze to death tomorrow.

I calm myself, breathing steady. It's only one room to the thermostat, two to the bathroom. You can do this. Wrapping the blankets around my bare legs (oh, why can't I find those sleep pants with the polar bears?!), I make a run for it. As I open the door to the hallway, I can hear Rose Red's room's familiar hum of a sports channel. ESPN? The MLB Network? No time, no time. I do not break to pick up a blanket that has fallen from the mass and, in as smooth a motion as I can, move the thermostat dial to the right and keep moving, into the kitchen, into the bathroom. But, it's still going to be so cold in there. So cold. So cold. I turn around and go back to the living room, wrap myself as tight as I can and wait a few minutes more, on the floor, the doggie fence separating Samantha and the kitchen from myself.

OK, that's enough waiting. It will be as cold in there as it is out here, I think as I head into the bathroom, close the door. I lay down some of the blankets to separate myself from the freezing tiles. My maroon, queen-sized comforter touches the bottom of the toilet. Ew, I instinctively think, then quickly think, “fuck it, I don't care.”

I try to settle in but realize I did not turn the heat up enough. I am desperate for heat. Heat, heat. I steel myself and move, sans blankets, back through the kitchen and into the hallway. I crank the thermostat.

As an aside, can I just say as I was walking back from the other side of the building a wave of not bad feeling came over me. I think the Aleve I took about an hour ago just kicked in. As I was standing in the doorway of my supervisor, Stacey's, office I felt like a complete cotton head. My eyes were heavy on all sides and thick, as if they wanted to slide out. Now, I am actually not too bad. This does not happen too often. I am glad for that.

So, with the heat turned up to 80 degrees, I make my way back to the bathroom. I close the door, slip into my covers in a ball (it's a very small bathroom) and lean my head into the side of the sink. When you are exhausted from your body rebelling against you, it is amazing how comfortable sleeping on a floor with the edge of a sink as your pillow can be.

I think I sleep about 20 minutes. Time is moving very slowly tonight. It feels like an entire evening has passed but it's only been a few hours. I think my fever has broke because I am noticing the warm air a lot more now. I go to stand up. Everything, my legs, my arms, my head, feel like they weigh double. I feel like 450 pounds of dead weight.

I will myself back into my room, close the door. I don't remember now if it was at this point that I plugged the fan back in or not, or checked to see if Rowan at ESL-Planet might have sent out an e-mail since it would be late afternoon in Seoul. Unfortunately, the night is not over. It's not yet time to fall peacefully to sleep. And there is still work to be done.

It's a good thing I don't get sick very often.

 

Modern History

Whenever I write about South Korea and my history with it, it tends to be about what happened in 2005. Though I have not set foot in the country since, a lot of modern history has developed on this side of the world.

This weekend, I am headed for New York to see Colleen, one of my best friends. We haven't hung out since early August (how time flies), since the fateful afternoon when sometime just before 5 p.m., I got the e-mail.

Hello John,

It's Shane Finnie from Canadian Connection. I'm afraid we have a bit of a situation. It has come to our attention that you provided some false information on the personal medical assessment form of your application package.

The school boards take these situations very seriously and it clearly states on the Application for English Language Instructor form that withholding information requested or giving false information may cause you to become ineligible for a position within the Jeollanamdo Office of Education. It also states on the medical assessment that teachers will bear full legal and financial responsibility for any errors or falsehoods contained herein

As a result of submitting this false information, I'm afraid the offer of employment will be withdrawn.

You'll be able to call Donna Kim to get a refund for your ticket, minus a cancellation fee.

I'm sorry we are unable to proceed with helping you find a position in Korea and I wish you the best of luck in your endeavours.

Sincerely,

Shane Finnie, Director
Canadian Connection

There is a feeling when the rug of reality gets pulled from under you. It is a feeling of the moment just before your head or your ass hit the floor. The moment when you're in midair and the two realities – the one where you're safe and standing, the other when you're licking your wounds – are somehow mixed and your brain cannot figure out which should dominate. Clicking on that e-mail sent me flying for the rest of the evening. I didn't even want to get drunk. No point. No fun.

Colleen and I talked while she walked her dog. “What a fucking asshole!” I can hear very clearly in her annoyed tone. She asked what I was going to do now. Pickle and I sent texts back and forth in rapid succession. This news came only shortly after Shane Finnie had (after much prodding) let us know that she had not been selected to teach. She asked what I was going to do now. What are you going to do, John? What are you going to do?

I'm not sure. I'm still somewhere between standing and crashing.

To be honest, and this is in no way reflective of Colleen as entertainer, but I am not sure what happened after that walk along the water in Harlem, my head in a fog, the time to heal from the fall not yet reached. I think we went to a small Italian restaurant near her apartment. I think that was that night. I know I sat outside the apartment building for a long time smoking cigarettes, talking with Pickle on the phone or trying not to think, or trying to think about something else, trying to think too much, replaying the e-mail word-for-word in my head and cursing Shane Finnie for sending it to me just at closing time on a Friday afternoon. So cliche. I was pretty sure it had to do with the – you know what. But, who knew? What now? My health insurance is gone because I stopped making payments to COBRA. I quit my job at Whole Earth Center, who knows if they will take me back (they didn't). I bought a $1,000 plane ticket just days ago, what of that? My head is already 13 timezones away, what of that? For the moment, all I could do was think, and try and brace myself for impact.

Colleen and I will hang out this weekend under far different circumstances. But, as that e-mail proved, guarantees are not always guaranteed.

Too Big to Fail

We are fucked.

That eloquent three-word summary generally sums up my opinion of our world situation. I am far from a fatalist (nihilist?): I am pretty happy lately, what with most of my health besides a couple quirks (ow, my foot, ow, my torn bicep, ow, my teeth) and a journey to South Korea now just three months away. I am paying off bills nicely with this temp. gig. I have a family that loves me, good friends and a stable sense of myself, more than I have ever had in my 30 years.

But, we are still fucked.

It comes down to our lifestyle, what we have grown accustomed to, what our neighbors (globally speaking) are growing accustomed to and what this planet can tolerate from its most prolifically reproducing bipeds. Whether you believe in global warming or not, whether you believe free-trade and the allowance of an American-style of life worldwide is good or not, whether you believe in God or not and some bigger, greater plan for us all beyond this life, unless you are in some sort of self-sustaining delusion because any other conclusion would be far too much to handle, our planet in this life continues to move apace toward catastrophe and there are not enough “carbon offsets,” “regulations,” “green technology” or the like to stop it because, like the big banks last year, we have become “too big to fail.”

Remember that? When banks and investment firms so tightly tied to not only American finance but to the world's had reached such dire straits (money for nothing?) that the United States government needed to hand them bailouts to survive on the theory that they were “too big to fail,” meaning everything, from your business to your house, would burst into flame if they bit the big one? That isn't just about Manny Fae and Macky Fack. It's your disposable diapers.

I would not begrudge any new parent the seemingly small luxury of dumping junior's poopy pants in the trash instead of cleaning and cleaning and cleaning cloth diapers like they did in the olden days before individually wrapped prunes and reality television. New parents already have a lot of shit to deal with than to deal with that shit, too. But, where do those diapers go? What would a world look like if every single new parent on the entire planet was throwing their child's crap-filled Huggies into landfills? There are some biodegradable diapers out there that you can flush or compost, but they're more expensive and not widely available. But, is the majority of overtired new parents, especially those with severely stretched incomes, thinking about that? Can you blame them?

So much of everything in this world is now tied to everything else. If we all stop driving our cars, the auto industry fails and tens of thousands of people are out of work. If they are unemployed, they don't buy as much stuff, which then causes other businesses to go under, laying more people off. People collect unemployment checks for months, sometimes beyond a year and beyond, which causes governments to go deeper into debt, forcing them to borrow more money, which increasingly loses value. And so on.

So, we continue to create need. The need for a car (and the batteries that power it, the tasteful leather appointments that accentuate its interior, the electronic components for the sweet sound system), need for entertainment (when times are tough, who would fault anyone for a little escapism?), the need for clean diapers (and the adhesives that keep Junior from giving the neighbors an impromptu peep show), the need for food beyond the essential (do the Dew). That food needs to be packaged to be shipped across the world, so those Gala apples from New Zealand get packed into cardboard boxes. If we stop eating apples from the other side of the world, both that apple farmer and box maker go out of business. Some want to eat locally but it costs twice as much for the apple two towns over as it does from the farm 10,000 miles away because that one has been subsidized to death. We want to be good stewards to the planet and I want my siblings' children not to inherant a planet where the disadvantages outweigh the advantages and there is trash up to their assholes but what am I to do, Whoppers are $1.50 this week at Burger King. A man's gotta eat.

Am I exaggerating? Beyond their election campaign platitudes, would any large enough group of influential people in this world try and test the theories? What is their motivation, really?

Look at Tata and Chery (sic) Motors of India and China, respectively. Until only a few decades ago, much of these large countries were lightyears behind the standard Western technologies we have grown accustomed to, nay, demand today. Much of both countries remain deeply rural and “behind the times,” yet each has begun to significantly get onboard with a Western way of thinking. Tata and Chery have made strong pushes toward becoming globally viable automobile manufacturers, with India's Tata introducing the Nano, a car made so affordable as to allow everyone the opportunity to own one. Truly, the people's car.

On its surface it sounds great; and, perhaps, to the many poor who might see the automobile as a way out of poverty it is. While there has always been a disparity between the very rich and very poor, that gulf has narrowed over just the last several decades as we have become a much more global society. And with each passing year, the gulf's distance between the two islands narrows faster. Again, the poor person in India might not see anything wrong with this. And there is the problem.

There isn't anything wrong with this. Who am I to say you cannot buy this car or that house or that plasma-screen television or those apples from New Zealand or those disposable diapers? And even if I have that right, who is going to listen?

Which is why we are fucked. Because, as the somewhat smug but well-pointed Thomas Friedman declared in a recent New York Times opinion piece, “The world keeps getting flatter — more and more people can now see how we live, aspire to our lifestyle and even take our jobs so they can live how we live. So not only are we adding 2.5 billion people by 2050, but many more will live like 'Americans' — with American-size homes, American-size cars, eating American-size Big Macs.”

In a section in my Lonely Planet travel guide to South Korea, in the section on Busan, it mentions a particularly chi-chi portion of the city that actually has, gasp, Western-style, single family homes. I feign a gasp because anyone around these parts would ask what the big deal is. Having been to Korea once already, I can attest that I saw absolutely no Western-style houses. Most people in cities tend to live in large apartment complexes. In rural communities, most live in smaller, more traditional homes. While the Korean McMansion is an oddity rare enough to get a travel book bullet point, imagine if families beyond one tony neighborhood in that one city decided they wanted to live like we do, eat like we do, travel like we do, drive like we do (wait, they already are doing that). Now, imagine every developed nation thinking like that. Now, imagine every nation thinking like that.

Whenever I get into this sort of mood I think about the Mike Judge movie Idiocracy. If you have not seen it, you really should. Like Office Space, it has quietly amassed a pretty faithful cult following. While Office Space touched on the sort of inane, pointless business culture that I see throughout this temp. job – where we argue whether “web” should be spelled “Web” and then have our clients change their minds in the next edit. While it keeps me employed just a little longer, none of it really matters if you allow yourself a moment or two more to think about it – Idiocracy, taking place 500 years in the future, presents an exaggerated, but still very plausible world. Almost everyone is soft and dumb, an energy drink is sprayed on crops because it has electrolytes and advertisers have proclaimed “it's what plants crave” and the same seat that you use when watching the hit television show “Ow! My balls!”, a show of shots of people getting kicked in the crotch (America's Funniest Home Videos?), is also the same seat where you relieve your bowels. You know what I did this morning while taking a dump? I checked my e-mail on my laptop. And I loved it.

Which is why we are fucked. Because all of us, if given the opportunity, would do the very same thing. And there's nothing, and everything, wrong with that.

But, after all this, I am still in a good mood. Why not? I do some of what I can, I try to be aware of what is going on in the world and know the consequences of my actions and know that, ultimately, none of it matters all that much. It doesn't mean I stop trying. But, when you know things are so completely out of your control, it takes a little of the pressure off. If only the leaders of nations, of stupid little companies, thought this way, maybe things would be a little more pleasant more often. But, they can't -- because everything is too big to fail, and those diapers aren't going to change themselves.

Flying, falling

I had one of those lovely flying dreams last night.

Perhaps it was caused by the condition I had put my body in during the day. I was attempting to conduct a five-day raw fruit and vegetable cleanse. With preparation, these can be of great benefit. But, with a handful of lettuce leaves, some broccoli slaw, two apples, and lots of “Sleepytime” tea they create a very, very bad headache and a desire for eggplant rollatini. It probably was the best ShopRite-brand eggplant rollatini I have ever had.

Besides a two-hour layover around midnight, where I walked the dog, had a bowl of Life and sent e-mails, I slept from 7:30 p.m. until 6 a.m. It was great, absolutely great.

Sometime around the final leg of slumber I dreamed DwD. and I were players on the New York Jets. This is particularly amusing because: a) neither of us is a fan of the New York Jets and: b) DwD. is not noted for being a particularly dedicated football fan. But, there we were, in an apartment building in something I guess resembling a football uniform. We had helmets on but I think I had underneath my helmet my dog-eared wooly hat.

It is apparently the beginning of the quarter and we are supposed to return to the field. DwD. exits the apartment and I follow, only to be slowed by a pair of fellow former students from high school: Frank, who did play on the football team, and some little guy who I think might have been named Chris (then again, who wasn't named Chris in high school?). They are surrounded by several attractive girls and all seem to be headed to the game as well. At first I feel apprehension (the armchair psychologist in me would call it “high school hangover”) at talking to them, which is unnecessary since they both seem to be perfectly fine folk. I remember that I am on the New York Jets and, with a mild sense of self-importance, let them know I must be on my way and set off at a jog toward to stadium.

It is at this point I begin to feel like I am floating a few inches off the ground, which helps me move faster, I think. My legs spin like I am on a bike. I hear what sounds like a PA system from the stadium though no stadium is in sight. I rise a few more inches, a few more, a few more still, to the point where I can see what amounts to a tropical forest along the edge of a beach, and clear blue water beyond. I am still in my faux-football uniform as I climb higher and higher, as if in a plane, until I see everything along the water's edge, my arms flapping like a bird. Then I begin to descend.

At first the drop is slow, and it appears I will be able to guide my fall onto the beach. But, no matter how much I move my body in that direction, I cannot seem to reach land. The descent is picking up speed now and I am beginning to worry that I will fall into that clear water which, no matter how pretty it appears, will still kill me.

Just before I fall in, I see a crest on the side of a steep stone wall, declaring that piece of property owned by the family of Colleen, which is amusing since I am seeing her in New York this weekend and have not seen her since August, when I checked my e-mail on her new laptop and found out my teaching assignment had been pulled.

Then I fall in. No splash, not a crash, or with any kind of intense impact. I move right into the water effortlessly.

I look around. It is so stunning and I can see everything. Is that coral? An underwater city? It seems like I can breathe, but my sense of panic at being unable to swim takes over too fast. I wiggle my toes, then my arms, then everything, and I wake up a little after 6 a.m.

I panicked, I think to myself. I didn't even give it a chance.

A Convoluted Series of Unrelated Related Events

Tonight I dined alone at Nassau Sushi Korean/Japanese Restaurant in Princeton because Lisa, the person I was supposed to meet, had to cancel and had sent texts earlier in the evening informing me of as much. But, I did not receive those texts because my phone had been shut off because, in August, I had requested Verizon suspend my service for the maximum six months it could while I was in South Korea, since they refused to hold it for the entire year. I had removed the first of the three-month holds in August, but the second was long forgotten by me and apparently never lifted by them. Oops! While I could have avoided the 30-minute drive into Princeton in the rain, the dinner (Hwe Gup Bap, a mound of raw fish atop veggies and rice, topped with shredded dried seaweed. And, of course, accompanied by copious kimchi) did inspire in me a lovely project for the rest of the time I am in the states involving eating as many different Korean dishes here as I can so I can compare them to their South Korea counterparts over there. More as this develops.

As an aside, tonight was the second time this week I was ditched, intentional or not, at a restaurant, which led me to having a lovely Korean dinner by myself instead. The first came when I was supposed to interview the owner of an Italian restaurant in Pennington (an Italian restaurant in New Jersey? You don't say) who forgot about the interview (and our phone call scheduling the interview, too, apparently) and said I could drive to his other location in Langhorne, Pa., since he was going to be there for the rest of the evening. For a $45 article? No, thanks, sir.

More Musings

There are advantages to being a temporary employee. I get as much overtime as I want. I won't be ruining a career when it's time to move on. The pay is pretty decent.

The obvious disadvantages: lack of health insurance (ow, my foot, ow, my torn bicep, ow, my teeth), lack of security (though its absence can make thing oh, so exciting). Add to that, about 10 minutes ago, lack of chair as the somewhat hurly burly 6' + tall woman with the unflattering curly mullet came in and said all the maroon-backed chairs needed to go back into the conference room because a client was coming and they wanted them all to match. Then Mike, one of the IT guys in the room the temps have been dumped in decided to come in on the day he usually works from home, and I was sent back to the gray plastic table in the middle of the room sans chair.

Oh, the indignity.

Luckily Amy, the lovely HR director next door, gave up one of her chairs for me. Hey, it could be worse: this could be my career.

Oh, the indignity.

In other news, it looks like this job will be guaranteed until the end of the year.

*

Losing weight is effortless when you're depressed.

That is a blanket statement, but I think it usually applies to me. I recall when, while dating Malissa, there was one of the many episodes involving something to do with her mentally unstable father. Her brother was at the apartment she shared with her parents and a lot of hand-wringing, raised voices and frantic behavior was taking place. We had ordered pizzas. Malissa was noted for going basically cold turkey on food when she was stressed and/or depressed and didn't have a bite. Feeling a bit frantic myself, I housed three slices of mushroom and onion before I knew what they tasted like.

That was stress. In Korea, it was depression, and the weight melted right off. R. had noted in an e-mail then that her “topoloo,” chubby in Farsi, was gone. If my calculated conversion from the European scale to pounds in my apartment there was accurate, I had gone from 230 pounds when I left the U.S. to 209 pounds shortly before I left South Korea. That could be a little off, and the only photographic evidence is a headshot I took around that time. It's the same one R. made the “topoloo” comment about, so perhaps you can get an idea.

December 2005

I only think of this now because I sit in this IT room in a shirt that is perhaps one size too small (perhaps I am too kind), trying in vein (vain?) to keep the sleeves from riding up my arms, the tail from getting untucked. Topoloo, indeed.

On a positive note, I'm not depressed.

Molly Reminded Me

In celebration of WaltOr's birthday, a bunch of people met at the overpriced and thoroughly stuffy (my kind of place) Yankee Doodle Tap Room in Princeton last night. Since moving out of Princeton over a year ago, and since time aged a lot of us a shade above 30, meetings have become fewer and farther between across the general spectrum of what became known as the “Princeton friends,” regardless of whether or not they had ever lived in Princeton or just passed through from time to time.

Looking back, I greatly enjoyed the experience of living in a shared house on Mount Lucas Road from Dec. 2006 through May 2008. It was a growing experience that, like everything, has helped to shape who I have become since. And, hopefully, will help shape my reaction to living away from home in another country.

One of the few Princeton-friend gatherings this year came in early August (late July?) when word went out that I was leaving for Imja island in two weeks and to meet at the Ivy (the Divey) for drinks, karaoke and general “have a nice life”-ness. Cristina, a saucy woman I had become fast friends with, couldn't stay long but wanted to give me a present: a journal to write my thoughts in when the urge to type got old.

As the evening continued, the idea emerged for people to write in the journal that night, high school yearbook style. As drinks were consumed, songs were sung and hours passed, a pen was passed along with a colorfully-covered notebook, and people scrawled notes.

Then came the e-mail a week later pulling the teaching job.

I told Pickle I might just throw the book out. Or did she suggest that to me? In either case, the previous plan to read the entries on the plane trip to Korea had obviously been scrapped, and the book now lay somewhere between a drawer and the garbage can in my bedroom. Why torture myself with comments like, “we're so proud of you!” and “I'm so jealous” when a casual blog entry had turned my international adventure into just another Thursday morning? Why put myself through that?

Time passed and the book stayed where it was. It was never completely forgotten, but dismissed. I contacted a new recruiter, I had a new interview, got a new approval, am now waiting for a new teaching assignment, and the rest, as they say, was history.

So last night, while enjoying conversation with several friends, Molly, a good friend and WaltOr's main squeeze, mentioned what has become known (to me, at least) as the going away party dress rehearsal, and the book a bunch of people wrote in. I said I hadn't read it.

“You haven't read it? Why not,” she asked. I explained my reason, which she understood. But, as they also say, times had changed. In August, I had no idea if I would bother trying again or assume fate had different plans for me. Now, as friends emptied mugs of Samuel Adams, made jokes and raised voices over the ever-expanding crowd, it was clear that, barring any other cases of foot-in-mouth disease, everything that had prompted friends to transport me back to Middletown High School South circa 1998 was back on.

“You should definitely read it,” she said.

And, so, I did.

The Man from the Planet Marzipan

Why does “The Man from the Planet Marzipan” evoke memories of a place I was last in three years before the song was publicly released?

Before I finish thinking the question, I already know the answer but still ask for the sake of completion.

Only three times can I recall feeling really, truly crazed (or maybe just a little bored?). The first came in 2000, a month or so after mom died. I worked the midnight shift at the local Amoco. Sitting in its claustrophobic booth, waiting for the next customer, waiting for sunrise, I would reach for my trusty pack of Marlboro Lights and smoke, smoke, smoke, until one morning I said “enough,” and actually quit amidst the vacancy in my mind, the pounding of singular emotions again and again and again, a 21-year-old made now to feel impossibly old, the long, white hairs in his mind spreading around his face, his head. Everything he remembered nine years on was covered in fog.

The second came in 2005, in South Korea, when I could not (would not?) bring myself back to the moment and instead ran wild inside my head, ignoring gestures of good will, calling them isolated incidents. This time, trying not to smoke didn't stick, and 26-year-old's throat was torn and scratched every morning as if an alley cat somehow found its way into his small apartment and jumped through his open mouth because the cigarettes made it difficult for him to breathe from his nose.

The third came a year ago. A milestone: it has been just over a year now since moving out of the apartment I shared with Malissa for barely four months and into Rose Red's spare bedroom. It was supposed to only be for a couple months, until I was back on my feet, until the 29-year-old was back in his head. And then the newspaper laid him off, and a year passed effortlessly.

On one of those chilly late mornings in November 2008, something caused me to pause and reflect on the sudden change in my life, the mental shock of going from living with someone you might have considered living with for the rest of your life just a few months before, to being a memory. Back then, lapses such as this would be common, too frequent and too strong to ignore. At 11 a.m. sometime in the 11th month, I went for a drive.

DwD., my oldest brother, had recently given me the latest Marillion album, the 2-CD “Happiness is the Road,” and I was listening to it religiously. The first disc, “Essence,” featured the concept of a person endlessly searching for a goal in life and being continuously unsatisfied with staying rooted in one place, with one person at any one time, a nomad, learning ultimately that all of it, from the anticipation to the conclusion to the start of a new adventure, everything was a part of marking a satisfactory life.

“Happiness ain't at the end of the road... happiness is the road.”

But, it was from disc two that “The Man from the Planet Marzipan” put my mind several years in reverse. The man, an alien perhaps, looking over the human world and its oddities, a part but apart.

“There's so much that I can't take in. There's so much I daren't take in.”

Like the call for a cigarette anytime I get upset enough, that emotional trial I put myself through on many mornings, like when I drove to Lawrence Township's Mercer County Park Northwest, drove along the quiet gravely road and stopped, stepped out of my dusty, unkempt car and stared into the plains, rocketing myself back to vulnerable moments in Jinju, South Korea. “The Man from the Planet Marzipan” meanwhile drifted from the car, and I wondered aloud whether I would ever feel well again (did I really wonder aloud or did I just write that for story's sake? I was alone, so I very well might have).

And the 30-year-old wonders now if it was the song, the moment, or the combination of the two that establishes these connections to music and time and place, or if 50 Cent's “In da Club” could evoke a similar mental bookmark. It would be so easy to say “no,” but maybe we give our minds too much credit. Much of it comes from patterns. I happen to listen to Marillion because my oldest brother introduced them to me almost 20 years ago.

But, there are specific places, rooms, environments, scenes in the loop in this head “The Man from the Planet Marzipan” recalls. It is not just the moments when I felt so low, and all the moments tend to be dark. Not grim, but actually lacking light.

A walk along a quiet side road, dusk an hour past, guiding a bike uphill. Headlights from behind briefly shining the path forward, then gone.

“Music only does me in, my skin is so thin... so thin...”