expat life

NCAA-Final-Four-Bracket-2012

March Madness

by Pablo Harris

010 or 051. All calls he ever received here always began with these prefixes. So when 006-180-9951-0299 flashed on the vibrating LG in his palm, he didn’t quite know what to think. 006 followed by eleven other digits he didn’t recognize? It  must be from abroad. Thinking the worst, he was expecting to hear some tragic news from back home. Why else would anyone call direct from the US to the ROK?

“Excuse me, I got to take this, Babe,” pardoning himself before stepping through the heady smoke of grilled flesh and cigarettes and the maze of low-lying tables to the door.

*  *  *

“Hello?”

Odelay, Pablocito! Pinche cabron! You should be here. Fuck.”

“Big T, no way! What the, I mean, of course there’s the emails and the Skypes but no one has ever called me from the States. I didn’t think, other than Moms, didn’t think that anyone had my number.”

“You can run but you can’t hide, cabron. You may have dodged a bullet here or there, ran from Bad Michelle, evaded the IRS, but not from us vato.”

“Alright, ha, shit, man. Well, how you doin’? What’s happening?”

“I’m fuckin’ good, brotha. Well, other than some serious fuzz and shampoo effect going on after last night, having fun, man. I got so buzzed out last night couldn’t even count to 21 anymore, would just stare at the shoe waiting for it to shuffle again and make that kind sound. You know that fffllit-ffflliit-ffflliit-ffflliit-ffflliit-flit.Vegas1.jpg

“Oh, yeah, you must be in Vegas for Hutty’s bachelor party, huh?”

“Hell yeah, man. And you should fucking be here, too!”

“Yeah.”

“Anyway, son a bitch man, pit boss came over and asked me to leave. Sucked because we had the whole wedding party on this table. Byrdie, Worm, Chunk, Lung-er, Raj, having a good time, man. Raj is all suited up, clawing at anything that passed by, bringing bitches over to party with us, pretending he’s all Vince Vaughn Swingers and shit. You know how that guy is. He’s a jackass but he knows how to do it up and damnit if he doesn’t smoke some righteous weed. And he paid for last night’s entertainment.”

“True. Wait, what was last night’s entertainment? Where’d you go; Déjà Vu, Olympic Gardens, or my favorite, Spearmint Rhino?”

“Nah, man, in house! We got the Vagitarian Delight delivered up to Hutty’s suite, two of ‘em.”

“There were two of them? Damnit! I thought Hutty insisted on no strippers at the bachelor party?”

“Come on, man, you think Raj is going to let that fly. No dice, Chino. And, shit man, you would have loved one of them. Red hair, kind of petite, natural, came in wearing glasses-”

“You’re making this up.”

“Nah, man, truth. I’ll send you a picture. You can find her ad online. Her name is Ginger, of course.”

“What about the other one?”

“Uh, she was ahh-ight. Good, good enough. You wouldn’t have liked her, though. Blonde, tanned, nice body, big fake tits, a little butterfly tramp stamp, of course. Your average SoCal/Vegas slut. I forget what her name was, something like Jasmine or Devin. But, what the fuck man, where the fuck are you?”

“Um, uh, just finishing up lunch, in this town called Geoje, driving back home. Where you at exactly?”

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“Where am I? Come on, man, it’s Saturday night in March. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten? Where your shit began, where you should be now, where you taught us all how to gamble, how to drink, cocktail waitresses, hooker shoes, all the important shit in life, man.  Caesar’s sportsbook, Bitch!”

“Uh, nice.”25madn600.1.jpg

“Chuck you, Farley, you don’t even know. Nice? Damn, what’s happened to you? It’s Saturday, Caesar’s man, sportsbook! It’s March Madness here, man. There’s games ‘til like midnight, mad action, and they’re running late at Hollywood Park tambien. I know you like them ponies. On one side of the ‘book 30 screens. We got UNC, UCLA, Duke, ‘Zags, ‘Zona, and everybody is going crazy for every Butler basket, looking for another Cinderella. On the other side is that ding-a-ding-ding, ‘And they’re off!, ‘And down the stretch they come!’ Your peoples, all hunched over little desks drinking scotch and bloodies, crunching numbers. Old men jumping around with rolled up newspapers in their hands, shaking their fists; it’s magic I tell you. We’re all looking to cash that ticket, man. Your peoples looking for the Daily Deuce.”

“That would be the Daily Double.”

“Right. What did I say?

“Daily Deuce.”

“Right. Shit. Like my parlay this afternoon. But that’s ok, we still got a dozen games to go. I’m going to cash out a parlay today, hit the tables, then, fuck. Raj is pushing for us to go to one of them gay ass clubs, but whatever, he’s getting the cover. Anyway, what are you doing? Where are you?”

“Geoje.”

“What’s a Geoje?”

“It’s this little island in the south. Ellie and I came down here for the weekend, get out of our claustrophobic little town for a while.”

“Ellie’s that girl you mentioned before, right? That China girl you work with?”

“Yes, my Korean teaching assistant.”

“Teaching assistant? Your teaching assistant butters your corn? That’s some Mad Men shit, yo. That doesn’t sound so bad, I guess. But still, you should be here. Oh Shit! I didn’t tell you the best part about last night, the kind deal, the 1-3-5.”

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“What’s the 1-3-5?”

“After the double-dong show, you know, a la Jennifer Connelly in Requiem for a Dream, these girls offer to go back to our rooms if anyone is interested in a ‘1-3-5’: one hundred for a hand job, three for a blow, five for a bang.”

“What did you opt for?”

“The do-it-yourself with help from the spank bank.”

“What? What are you doing in Vegas then, man? You should go to Yellowstone if all you want is Old Faithful. Terrible.”

“Ha-Ha-Ha, Pablo, but I’ll tell you what’s terrible; you should be here. You should’ve been at this bachelor party last night and you should be standing next to your boy in this wedding coming up, man. You know it’s true. Fuck, now I’m getting pissed.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. If you know, then why the fuck are you over there?”

“Look, can we talk about this later? I got to go, we got to get back on the road, get home.”

“This is your home, Bitch!”

“Hey, have fun out there, bro, but take it easy. I don’t want to hear that you ended up in the drunk tank out by McCarron like the last time.”

“Take it easy? Are you kidding me? You, of all people, are telling me to take it easy? For nearly 20 years I’ve had to fireman carry your drunk ass out of parties, out of bars. Or keep frat boys from pounding your face because you’re playing grab-ass with their ladies. Or had to put up with your moping ass on my couch for months every time you left your old lady and – “

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s why I left.”

“Or maybe you left because you are too much of a pussy to get a real job and tough it out like the rest of us. You want to teach some Chinaman’s kids instead of your Godson. Or your friends’ kids back home, whatever, man. I got your back whatever you want to do, do what you got to do, but don’t forget where your home is, who you’re talking to, and tell me to take it easy.”

“You’re right. I apologize. Have fun. I should’ve left it at that.”

“Damn right, I’m right.”

“Look, I got to go. Thanks for calling. It’s good to hear you all are together, having a good time. Say what up to the guys for me, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, halftime’s over anyway. I guess I’ll talk to you later, Paul.”

*  *  *

He lit a cigarette, took a few long, deep drags, before chucking it down onto the pavement in frustration. No one ever called him by his Christian name. Walking back inside the galbi joint, he feigned a smile to the supple young woman sitting cross-legged on a straw mat, beaming up at him.

“Who was that?”

“My buddy Big T.”

“Cool! Is he coming to visit?”

“Um, uh, I don’t know.”

“I hope so. I hope your best friend comes to visit and I get to meet him. You talk about him so much I feel like I already know him. How is he?”

“Fine.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure? You .  .  .”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Well, I hope you said hi for me?”

“Why would I do that? You’ve never met him, he’s never met you. What’s the point? Why would I say ‘hi’ for you?”

“I just thought that . . . after this weekend . . . I just thought that . . .”

“Thought what?”

“I thought that we were . . . After this weekend . . . We spent the weekend in Geoje together . . . The two of us . . . I guess I thought . . .”294787_120103112430128_STD.jpg

She slunk her head in her lap for a few seconds before springing up and rushing out the door. He threw back his glass of Hite, grabbed the check and paid the ajumma. He met Ellie at the rented sedan and they drove off. Silently they crossed the bridge to the mainland, her virtue left behind on the island, sunk in a seaside love motel. And his confidence, the certainty which he once had when he made the decision to pass on a sure thing, when he decided to fold a winning hand and throw in all the cards in for another draw, abruptly jolted and rattled. The gilding of an inchoate engagement which should have held its luster at least through the spring was now irreparably chipped and tarnished. Silently, they headed for home.

5 Things I Specifically Hate About Korea

complainingBy Larry Lawrence

“Man alone is born crying, lives complaining, and dies disappointed.” ~Samuel Johnson


Like fans of a bloodsport worthy of Caesar, a great many expats residing in Korea find immense pleasure in complaining about all the things they hate about being here. Whether minor or major, “troublesome” or “alarming,” nearly all who pass through the turnstiles soon carry some sort of gripe, and they anxiously await entrance to the pissed off parties being held at the local bar, the myriad blogs or in the howl-led halls of the Facebook Colosseum.

It’s really quite the thing, you know?

I might well have exceeded the age where trends are a concern or current style is more than a wink and a nod, but I refuse to miss out on this one. So, with your indulgence, I would like to gain admittance to the party.

The Top 5 things that I specifically hate about Korea, in no particular order:

1.  Nothing
2.  Nothing
3.  Nothing
4.  Nothing
5.  Expats complaining about Korea

There you go.


Let’s examine my top five one by one.

Number 1: There’s nothing particularly bothersome about everyday life in Korea that I haven’t been bothered by elsewhere in the world. Be it the full demographic of citizens standing in my way on the escalator like it was a geriatric thrill ride at the amusement park; morning vomit in the elevator, obnoxious drunks who created the vomit the night before, cigarette burns in the stairwell, pools of spit on the sidewalk, pushy people on the subway, insane bus drivers, racist glares or blind nationalism. I’ve seen it all before, at home and abroad, and there’s nothing I hate about it more in Korea than anyplace else I’ve been.

Number 2: The strikingly shoddy journalism sometimes witnessed in the Korean English media is anything but unique. Crappy reporting and writing disgraces the pages of news outlets around the world. Much like here in Korea, I have elsewhere been peeved by “unnamed sources,” a lack of context, ideological slant, sensationalism and by a complete absence of objectivity. I have also witnessed such a worldwide abundance of bad grammar and piss-poor prose that I expect any day now the entire planet will break out into a chorus of We is da World.

Number 3: Fashion and style are, of course, amongst the many “beauty in the eye of the beholder” concepts. Being as I am said “beholder,” I find nothing any more “hateable” in Korea than I have found in other places I’ve traveled. Be it couple outfits, short skirts in the winter, bandannas, heavy makeup, facial reconstruction, lens-less glasses, obsessive dieting, overdone piercings or metrosexual males, I share an equal distaste for them all, no matter where they are.

I also harbor no bias in my disregard for people who dress up their dogs, dye their fur or carry them around in the streets—regardless of what street they are on, in whatever country it may be, and whether they plan to eat them or not.

Number 4: Bad driving exists everywhere I go and, from my experience, the difference between Korean drivers and the rest of the world is negligible. Be it senior citizens’ lack of familiarity with the rear-view mirror in Florida, pistol-wielding commuters on the LA Freeway, meth-infused Tuk Tuk drivers on the streets of Bangkok or piranha-like swarms of cyclists in Vietnam. And yet, cries ringing forth from the cheap seats in Expat Arena make it sound like the Korean roadway is in the midst of an automobile apocalypse.

Number 5: Much like the previous four above, expat bitching and moaning is neither unique nor special to Korea—people will turn nada into whine no matter where the podium rests. But, as I am living in Korea, and my stream of media is mostly based here, I am immersed in Korea-themed bickering on a regular basis. “I hate this!” and “I hate that!,” “Why can’t they do it this way?” or “Why don’t they do it that way?”

At the risk of stumbling on the metaphysical tripwire: You are they, they are you, we are all each other. And, as best I can assess, the aliens are likely waiting for a higher-evolved monkey before dropping in for dinner. In short, according to the universal scheme of things, we all kind of, you know, suck.

* * *

In retrospect, if I could add a sixth category, it would be my loathing of locals who say, “If you don’t like it here, then go somewhere else!”

The source of my distaste for this common utterance, heard the world round, is my belief that it is wrong to inflict upon the inhabitants of “somewhere else” another voice in the continuing chorus of global bitching by people doing the same damned things everywhere.

Get over it, because overall, life is mostly quite good and we’re mostly all the same—no matter where we are.

Actually, I hate it when people say that, too.