I came to the PC Bang today to write something about my friend, who passed away one year ago today. I had no idea what I was going to write, how I was going to write it, or what I was going to accomplish by doing this, but I was going to it anyways. It needed to be done.
At no point during the past year have I really shared a story which properly captured his memory. I didn't splash the walls of any of the memorial facebook groups that were created, like many of our friends did. I didn't drop a tale into my blog. I really didn't do anything to characterize what type of person he was at all. I merely rhymed off about how much I drank, how much nail polish I bought, and how dearly I needed a dose of comedy. Because that's what I'm good at.
Being snarky, cracking inappropriate jokes, providing way too much information, unexpectedly dorking out, indulging my own whims and just generally acting like a cartoon character; these are the things at which I rule. The emotional infancy which makes me occasionally, accidentally hilarious, crippled me from addressing this appropriately.
I don't lack Kyle stories. The last time I shared one was the morning that I heard of his death. I was on the train ride home from what was probably another epic night in Daegu, when somehow he came up in conversation. While I kept in touch with him somewhat after first arriving here, I hadn't thrown around too many At Home stories with the New Folk. For whatever reason I was inspired to rhyme off a series of nicknames that he had managed to earn himself, as my train friend stared blankly, wondering why I was thinking out loud again.
When I arrived home an hour or so later, I found The Urgent Email from a former coworker of both of ours demanding that I call home. Unlike another friend of ours, I was fortunate enough to catch the email and learn the news over the telephone before catching one of dozens of affected facebook status messages. Bless Facebook and all the time wasting that she's allowed me, but that's no way to learn of a death.
One of the last times I remember hanging out with Kyle, he was watching a random snippet from Borat. I wasn't that interested and frankly can't remember a thing about that movie. What I do remember is the inexplicable joy that he got from watching Random Scene for the 42nd time.
I came here today to write something in memory of him, and all I've done is spend the last four hours immersing myself in episodes of Seinfeld (Soup Nazi!), Arrested Development (Never nude! Analrapist!), and How I Met Your Mother (Legen...dary!). I read some articles on Cracked and Unreality. I skimmed xkcd. I kept crawling the internet in search of more Funny, thinking that somehow this would make everything okay.
I accidentally came across some laughs in the form of an Avery Taking Meditation Classes headline. First, Sean Avery is an epic, legendary douche. I want to have beers with him, just so that I can listen to him Douche Off for a few hours. My life is as Douche Rich as the next guy's, but Avery takes Awesomely Douchey to a whole new level, one which I can only dream of encountering in the Real World. Still, in spite of the fact that I think Sean Avery is epically awesome in a doucheworthy way... this is what passes as a headline on Sports Illustrated these days? Really? Given that this is coming from the same network of sites that brought us Incest Dungeon Teen Wants to See Ocean, I probably shouldn't feign surprise.
And that brings me to now.
I just spent four hours in a PC Bang searching for words. When my own words failed me, I sought laughter in the words of others. While I undoubtedly failed to find the same level of inexplicable joy that Kyle found in Borat that night, I like to think that I came close. Perhaps this wasn't an exercise in futility after all?
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Monday, January 26, 2009
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Barbie and The Douche Master
Korea Land is every bit as rich with douchebags as Canada Land. Merely existing here has resulted in exposure to the following charmers:
There have been countless others, but these three serve as illustrations of the various types of douchebag that have been known to insist on crossing my path and speaking to me (having said that, there is at least a faint possibility that I invite the attention of douchebags, on account of my being an ass). Now, before somebody gets sad that I'm only picking on men here, I assure you: I have bitch stories, too. Someday, I might even share one. Today, I feel like taking a trip down memory lane and spitting up a tale about the douchiest douche that ever did douche. Going forward, he shall be referred to as The Douche Master (TDM).
It was the last Wednesday in January. I had decided that there was no time like the middle of the work week to run up to Daegu and get inappropriately drunk. I hadn't been entirely sober in about three days, since I'd first learned of Kyle's death. As such, I was on the brink of going from confused to really fucking angry. Had I been aware that there was anger to be unleashed, my dishonourable encounter with The Douche Master could have been avoided.
I met with a few friends of mine, who had darlingly dropped everything on a week night to come out to the bar and watch me respond to crisis by absolutely wrecking myself. At some point during a series of conversations where friends shared their own stories of grief, a man wove his way over to our table and decided to strike up conversation about how spectacular he thought he was. The Douche Master knew how to make an entrance.
As I longed for a distraction, his pompous monologue was initially welcomed. After entertaining us for a few minutes (though not quite in the sense that I suspect he thought he was entertaining us), he wandered off, presumably because he heard word that the rest of the room had been seriously deprived of awesome since he left it.
With the welcome distraction gone, one of my friends and I got back on the heartwarming topic of death. The Douche Master, having received imaginary word that now our part of the room was void of awesome, decided to shift back our way within a couple of moments; right in the middle of a good conversation, and perhaps the only moment that night that I didn't want a distraction. Cutting me off as if I didn't exist, he began trying to court my friend by explaining to her how awesome he thought he was. Bored, wanting to get on with the only productive conversation I'd had that night, and knowing that my friend though TDM was a Neanderthal, I politely interrupted and explained that I was having a serious discussion that required completion. While it's grossly unlikely that I was quite that poised and polite in my use of language, the point is that I wasn't yet being an ass.
The Douche Master, in disbelief that somebody would dare interrupt his irresistible barrage of come ons, decided that ignoring me was the best course of action. He was wrong. He moved closer to my friend, cutting me off completely from the conversation. I responded in turn by getting in his face and slightly less politely telling him that he'd interrupted an important conversation, that I would like to continue. The Douche Master advised me that he was now having an important conversation with my friend, and I could wait until they were finished.
And this is about where shit hit the fan.
Drunk, my confusion immediately flipped to rage, and here we had the perfect, most deserving of targets to take it out on: The Douche Master. Slamming my pint down on the table, I said something to the effect of: "If you'd excuse me, my friend just fucking died and I need to talk about it. That, and my friend does not want to fuck you. She has a boyfriend. She's laughing at you. We all are. So fuck off".
Now, in hindsight, drunkenly slamming pints around and yelling at perfect strangers because your friend just died and you're angry, isn't appropriate behaviour. But it's excusable. It's understandable. And it's something that anybody with even a shred of basic human emotion can see and know to let be. What followed my less than admirable behaviour is what separates The Douche Master from the other douches, and moves him into a category of Total Fucking Cunt which is all his own.
The Douche Master examined me for a brief moment, as I gripped my beer mug, blinked back tears, and shook in anger. He then responded with: "Well, I need to talk to her, too. My parents died yesterday".
9 months later, and I still don't know what the fuck you're supposed to say to that. Or how the Hell anybody who has ever felt what it's like to be human could possibly retort in that manner. My response at the time was to tell him what a disgusting pile of excrement I thought he was, splash my beer at him, then run to the bathroom before I tried to throw a table at him, too. Aside from the fact that I would undoubtedly get removed from the bar for doing that, he was a big man who had just demonstrated that he lacked empathy; I have no doubt that he would have snapped me in half. Running to the bathroom is perhaps the most appropriate thing I did over that span of 40 seconds.
One of my friends followed me to the bathroom, where I apologized for my behaviour and concluded that we should probably just empty our drinks and leave. We return downstairs to find The Douche Master talking to the bar tender, attempting to get me kicked out of the bar for "attacking" him. Anger ensued. Seething, I pulled my friend's obituary out of my purse and threw it on the table in of the bar tender and The Douche Master. A friend of mine, who also knows the bar tender, attempted to explain what happened, as The Douche Master interrupted her in order to share his own twisted version of events. Unable to fathom how one could possibly be so bad at life, I grabbed my belongings and fled the bar.
I see The Douche Master out in Daegu from time to time, still. Every time, I turn the other way. He's just vile. I should probably find a more appropriate name for him than The Douche Master, but there really aren't words foul enough to describe him. So, it will do.
As an aside, the friend who he was ruthlessly hitting on would have interjected and gotten rid of him had she not been stunned to silence by his level of douche. She was forgiven immediately.
- Subway Soju Man, who felt that 9pm was an appropriate time to be a drunk ass.
- Random Frat Boy, who felt that a bar fight and threatening text messages were the appropriate response to common courtesy.
- The President of Dyssemia Anonymous (a weak nickname, in hindsight, but what's done is done), who incorrectly interpreted my complete disinterest in knowing him as a cry for help.
There have been countless others, but these three serve as illustrations of the various types of douchebag that have been known to insist on crossing my path and speaking to me (having said that, there is at least a faint possibility that I invite the attention of douchebags, on account of my being an ass). Now, before somebody gets sad that I'm only picking on men here, I assure you: I have bitch stories, too. Someday, I might even share one. Today, I feel like taking a trip down memory lane and spitting up a tale about the douchiest douche that ever did douche. Going forward, he shall be referred to as The Douche Master (TDM).
It was the last Wednesday in January. I had decided that there was no time like the middle of the work week to run up to Daegu and get inappropriately drunk. I hadn't been entirely sober in about three days, since I'd first learned of Kyle's death. As such, I was on the brink of going from confused to really fucking angry. Had I been aware that there was anger to be unleashed, my dishonourable encounter with The Douche Master could have been avoided.
I met with a few friends of mine, who had darlingly dropped everything on a week night to come out to the bar and watch me respond to crisis by absolutely wrecking myself. At some point during a series of conversations where friends shared their own stories of grief, a man wove his way over to our table and decided to strike up conversation about how spectacular he thought he was. The Douche Master knew how to make an entrance.
As I longed for a distraction, his pompous monologue was initially welcomed. After entertaining us for a few minutes (though not quite in the sense that I suspect he thought he was entertaining us), he wandered off, presumably because he heard word that the rest of the room had been seriously deprived of awesome since he left it.
With the welcome distraction gone, one of my friends and I got back on the heartwarming topic of death. The Douche Master, having received imaginary word that now our part of the room was void of awesome, decided to shift back our way within a couple of moments; right in the middle of a good conversation, and perhaps the only moment that night that I didn't want a distraction. Cutting me off as if I didn't exist, he began trying to court my friend by explaining to her how awesome he thought he was. Bored, wanting to get on with the only productive conversation I'd had that night, and knowing that my friend though TDM was a Neanderthal, I politely interrupted and explained that I was having a serious discussion that required completion. While it's grossly unlikely that I was quite that poised and polite in my use of language, the point is that I wasn't yet being an ass.
The Douche Master, in disbelief that somebody would dare interrupt his irresistible barrage of come ons, decided that ignoring me was the best course of action. He was wrong. He moved closer to my friend, cutting me off completely from the conversation. I responded in turn by getting in his face and slightly less politely telling him that he'd interrupted an important conversation, that I would like to continue. The Douche Master advised me that he was now having an important conversation with my friend, and I could wait until they were finished.
And this is about where shit hit the fan.
Drunk, my confusion immediately flipped to rage, and here we had the perfect, most deserving of targets to take it out on: The Douche Master. Slamming my pint down on the table, I said something to the effect of: "If you'd excuse me, my friend just fucking died and I need to talk about it. That, and my friend does not want to fuck you. She has a boyfriend. She's laughing at you. We all are. So fuck off".
Now, in hindsight, drunkenly slamming pints around and yelling at perfect strangers because your friend just died and you're angry, isn't appropriate behaviour. But it's excusable. It's understandable. And it's something that anybody with even a shred of basic human emotion can see and know to let be. What followed my less than admirable behaviour is what separates The Douche Master from the other douches, and moves him into a category of Total Fucking Cunt which is all his own.
The Douche Master examined me for a brief moment, as I gripped my beer mug, blinked back tears, and shook in anger. He then responded with: "Well, I need to talk to her, too. My parents died yesterday".
9 months later, and I still don't know what the fuck you're supposed to say to that. Or how the Hell anybody who has ever felt what it's like to be human could possibly retort in that manner. My response at the time was to tell him what a disgusting pile of excrement I thought he was, splash my beer at him, then run to the bathroom before I tried to throw a table at him, too. Aside from the fact that I would undoubtedly get removed from the bar for doing that, he was a big man who had just demonstrated that he lacked empathy; I have no doubt that he would have snapped me in half. Running to the bathroom is perhaps the most appropriate thing I did over that span of 40 seconds.
One of my friends followed me to the bathroom, where I apologized for my behaviour and concluded that we should probably just empty our drinks and leave. We return downstairs to find The Douche Master talking to the bar tender, attempting to get me kicked out of the bar for "attacking" him. Anger ensued. Seething, I pulled my friend's obituary out of my purse and threw it on the table in of the bar tender and The Douche Master. A friend of mine, who also knows the bar tender, attempted to explain what happened, as The Douche Master interrupted her in order to share his own twisted version of events. Unable to fathom how one could possibly be so bad at life, I grabbed my belongings and fled the bar.
I see The Douche Master out in Daegu from time to time, still. Every time, I turn the other way. He's just vile. I should probably find a more appropriate name for him than The Douche Master, but there really aren't words foul enough to describe him. So, it will do.
As an aside, the friend who he was ruthlessly hitting on would have interjected and gotten rid of him had she not been stunned to silence by his level of douche. She was forgiven immediately.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
I Don't Get Invited to Many Funerals
I'm feeling batty again. Nearly five minutes has passed since I last felt the Batty Bug, so I'm due. When the Batty Bug bites I find that I have 5 different things to ramble about and completely lack the ability to stay on one topic long enough to form a coherent thought about any of them.
I'm even worse to have spoken conversation with when the Batty Bug has hit. Tonight I managed to segue from a debate on which surname screams Molester the loudest to pointing out that NHL prospect Alexei Cherapanov had just passed away. My friend, also a huge hockey fan, was saddened to learn of the passing. She was a bit alarmed at the ease with which I jumped from one topic to the next, without warning. There may be some basic communications skills which I lack. It's possible the same thing which fuels my wit has resulted in an inability to properly segue between sensitive topics. Whatever.
On Sunday I took a trip to the United Nations Cemetary with some friends. This is something that I had intended on doing months upon months ago, but put off indefinitely after Kyle died. I just wasn't itching to connect with the dead, you know? Eight months later, I figured that I was in a place where I could disconnect that death from the thousands that lie in the cemetery. So, I went.
UN Forces Monument
I'm even worse to have spoken conversation with when the Batty Bug has hit. Tonight I managed to segue from a debate on which surname screams Molester the loudest to pointing out that NHL prospect Alexei Cherapanov had just passed away. My friend, also a huge hockey fan, was saddened to learn of the passing. She was a bit alarmed at the ease with which I jumped from one topic to the next, without warning. There may be some basic communications skills which I lack. It's possible the same thing which fuels my wit has resulted in an inability to properly segue between sensitive topics. Whatever.
On Sunday I took a trip to the United Nations Cemetary with some friends. This is something that I had intended on doing months upon months ago, but put off indefinitely after Kyle died. I just wasn't itching to connect with the dead, you know? Eight months later, I figured that I was in a place where I could disconnect that death from the thousands that lie in the cemetery. So, I went.
UN Forces MonumentSomething about taking photos in a graveyard felt wrong. I did it anyways.
United Nations Memorial Cemetery in Korea
Inappropriate laughing fit in the Memorial Service Hall aside, I managed to conduct myself accordingly for the duration of the visit. Unfortunately, people tend to forget about the 2 hours during which you were totally awesome. They remember the 10 seconds during which you fell on your ass or the one time that you fell just short of hilarity. Trying to remind anybody about the other 2 hours is practice in futility. Especially when you're me, and you lace said reminders with anecdotes about all of those other inappropriate times where you deemed it fit to toss out a giggle.
When I was ten, my friend's father accidentally ran over a cat. My friend, her sister, and her sister's friend all immediately started wailing. They just couldn't believe that we had been a part of the death of Random Cat. They couldn't bear how horrible her father felt as he moved the cat off the road. And there I was, sitting in the middle of all of this: trying not to laugh. It wasn't funny. It was just heavy. And awkward. And thoroughly uncomfortable. I stifled my giggles.
My friend occasionally references that story as a loss-of-innocence anecdote from our childhoods. For me, it's probably the first time that I realized that the wiring in Barbie's Attic might be a little off.
United Nations Memorial Cemetery in KoreaInappropriate laughing fit in the Memorial Service Hall aside, I managed to conduct myself accordingly for the duration of the visit. Unfortunately, people tend to forget about the 2 hours during which you were totally awesome. They remember the 10 seconds during which you fell on your ass or the one time that you fell just short of hilarity. Trying to remind anybody about the other 2 hours is practice in futility. Especially when you're me, and you lace said reminders with anecdotes about all of those other inappropriate times where you deemed it fit to toss out a giggle.
When I was ten, my friend's father accidentally ran over a cat. My friend, her sister, and her sister's friend all immediately started wailing. They just couldn't believe that we had been a part of the death of Random Cat. They couldn't bear how horrible her father felt as he moved the cat off the road. And there I was, sitting in the middle of all of this: trying not to laugh. It wasn't funny. It was just heavy. And awkward. And thoroughly uncomfortable. I stifled my giggles.
My friend occasionally references that story as a loss-of-innocence anecdote from our childhoods. For me, it's probably the first time that I realized that the wiring in Barbie's Attic might be a little off.
As for the surname which screams Molester the loudest? Glen. Or maybe Lester. I'd apologize to anybody reading this named Glen or Lester - after all, you didn't ask for a skeevy name; your parents simply lacked taste. It happens - but apologies of the "I'm sorry for acting like such a dick. Now, if you'd excuse me, I'm going to continue acting like a dick" persuasion are a waste of perfectly good words.
That's a rant for another day. Probably not tomorrow.
That's a rant for another day. Probably not tomorrow.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Bananas and Other Kinds of Happy
There was a time, a few months back, when I just completely crapped out emotionally. It was probably a few months after my friend had died, a time during which I was doing relatively stupid things in order to deal with my shit. I was drinking in excess, making friendships that teetered a weird line between too friendly and not even remotely friendly, and just generally fucking up everything in my path. Just because I could. During one particular weekend, I finally just lost it.
I was at some random bar in Daegu. Something or other occurred which apparently bothered me. Whatever it was, what followed is a thoroughly embarrassing blur. I started rambling incoherently to the first available ear about how my self esteem was in the dumps. I then jumped out of my chair so that I could go throw stuff at the wall in the bathroom, then ran out of the bar. This is clearly one of those weeks where I wasn't getting very many hugs, and I'm quite fortunate and thankful that the available ear bothered to associate with me in the days following my embarrassing display of Crazy.
Apparently I carried on the display of Crazy outside of the bar, where I ran into another available ear that I happened to know, by continuing to ramble that I hadn't gotten enough hugs that week and then beating the shit out of my umbrella (or, rather, the umbrella that I had grabbed when I left the bar. It turns out that mine was still there when I returned the next day).
Kind of like this guy. Except that this is Korea, where the only green you'll see in an alleyway is vomit.
I was at some random bar in Daegu. Something or other occurred which apparently bothered me. Whatever it was, what followed is a thoroughly embarrassing blur. I started rambling incoherently to the first available ear about how my self esteem was in the dumps. I then jumped out of my chair so that I could go throw stuff at the wall in the bathroom, then ran out of the bar. This is clearly one of those weeks where I wasn't getting very many hugs, and I'm quite fortunate and thankful that the available ear bothered to associate with me in the days following my embarrassing display of Crazy.
Apparently I carried on the display of Crazy outside of the bar, where I ran into another available ear that I happened to know, by continuing to ramble that I hadn't gotten enough hugs that week and then beating the shit out of my umbrella (or, rather, the umbrella that I had grabbed when I left the bar. It turns out that mine was still there when I returned the next day).
Kind of like this guy. Except that this is Korea, where the only green you'll see in an alleyway is vomit.When I eventually woke up in my own bed the next day, I could hardly bring myself to look in the mirror. Of course, when I finally did, I probably said something like: "suck it up, asshole". And suck it up, I did. I convinced myself that the worst was over, and now I just needed to buy some ice cream and everything would get better.
The ice cream never happened. When I got to the store, I found a display of magnificently ripe bananas. I decided that they were the most perfect, vibrant colour of yellow ever, and that I absolutely had to have them. I realized how silly it was to get so happy over the colour of bananas, but it didn't matter; I had sucked it up and found a way to salvage the day with a smile.
I'm recalling this now, because lately I've been fighting off similar levels of emotion. Leaving Korea in 5-6 weeks puts me about 5-6 weeks from unemployment and uncertainty. And while the first thing I'm going to do when I get home is see everybody that matters (and have a roast beef sandwich at Arby's), I have a grave to visit, too.
Today, when I could have easily smashed another umbrella or found some other unproductive source for my anger, I found something to smile about instead. Like the bananas, it was silly and simple, but it saved my day. As I was exiting the subway car, ready to bolt to my apartment where I would crash and debate throwing things, I saw a little old lady coming down from the escalator. She saw that the subway was about to close it's doors, and ran for it. This woman had the hugest grin on her face the entire time, and giggled like a bloody school girl and waved her hands in victory when she successfully got on the car, just in time for the doors to close behind her. It was like making the train was not just the best part of her day, but the most awesome thing that had happened to anybody. Ever.
If Random Subway lady can be that happy about making the train, I can suck it up and smile today, too.
The ice cream never happened. When I got to the store, I found a display of magnificently ripe bananas. I decided that they were the most perfect, vibrant colour of yellow ever, and that I absolutely had to have them. I realized how silly it was to get so happy over the colour of bananas, but it didn't matter; I had sucked it up and found a way to salvage the day with a smile.
I'm recalling this now, because lately I've been fighting off similar levels of emotion. Leaving Korea in 5-6 weeks puts me about 5-6 weeks from unemployment and uncertainty. And while the first thing I'm going to do when I get home is see everybody that matters (and have a roast beef sandwich at Arby's), I have a grave to visit, too.
Today, when I could have easily smashed another umbrella or found some other unproductive source for my anger, I found something to smile about instead. Like the bananas, it was silly and simple, but it saved my day. As I was exiting the subway car, ready to bolt to my apartment where I would crash and debate throwing things, I saw a little old lady coming down from the escalator. She saw that the subway was about to close it's doors, and ran for it. This woman had the hugest grin on her face the entire time, and giggled like a bloody school girl and waved her hands in victory when she successfully got on the car, just in time for the doors to close behind her. It was like making the train was not just the best part of her day, but the most awesome thing that had happened to anybody. Ever.
If Random Subway lady can be that happy about making the train, I can suck it up and smile today, too.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Barbie and the International Beer Menu That Wasn’t
I had just purchased 5 bottles of nail polish from 4 different stores; this was not one of my better moments. In spite of how silly this was, trying to purchase a bottle of nail polish from every cosmetics shop in Deokchun struck me as hilarious, so I gave it a serious go. Given that you will find one of these shops on every corner, this would actually have been an impressive feat. Alas, I fell just short of my frivolous goal. I blame this entirely on Shanna and Speedy. They had the audacity to actually show up on time for our impromptu Monday night out, preventing me from running in another circle and spotting the only cosmetics shop I had yet to hit! If I hadn’t desperately needed some company that evening, I would still be holding this against them.
During our meal, Speedy and Shanna tried to carry on real conversation. I frequently interrupted so that more pressing matters could be discussed, such as all of the free swag that I got for purchasing 57 bottles of nail polish! Surprisingly, neither of them was particularly interested in hearing about this. They were probably jealous. I got cotton balls and whitening cream!
Our next location had not yet been determined. We didn't bother discussing this matter while we were still in the restaurant. It made infinitely more sense to stand outside in the rain and share our thoughts on the matter. I’ve been told that I have many thoughts and would be best off keeping these to myself. Blasphemy! My thoughts are deep, carefully deliberated and frequently lead to fantastic things. That particular Monday a few weeks back was no exception.
I briefly humour Shanna and Speedy with the idea that what they want to do from here actually matters with the following: “So what are you two feeling? Which bar do you want to go to?” As it turns out, Shanna and Speedy are not sock puppets that I picked up at the market one morning. They’re Real Live People, with real thoughts and everything. I’ve been told that they also have feelings, though I remain unconvinced. Either way, the fact that I was being rather pretentious at this juncture was not lost on them. After briefly taking the moment to point out how transparent I am, they come to the conclusion that they like alcohol every bit as much as I do.
The three of us ended up at the Wa Bar; it was the closest venue that was undoubtedly a bar. I was in the midst of a beer drinking phase, so this suited me just fine. Shanna is not a beer drinker; she was completely unfazed by the unbelievable array of international beers offered on the drink menu. Two full pages of options, hitting up every continent that matters! It was beautiful. The beer drinkers among us required a couple of minutes to mull over the variety before committing to just one choice. I don’t even commit to brands of deodorant. Or toothpaste. This menu presented quite the challenge for me.
After brushing the server away the first time they came over, we were finally ready to guzzle some random brand of beer. Unless you were Shanna, in which case you had settled for some Ass In A Bottle, also known as Random Korean Cooler. I wasn’t feeling particularly experimental, so I settled on the good and familiar Stella Artois. Speedy had selected something-or-other. Upon requesting both from the server, we were informed that they didn’t actually have either. Assuming this was a coincidence, because the possibility that the entire menu existed as decoration and nothing more was simply too stupid to process, we tried two other beers. Again, we were told that neither was available.
The server was soon joined by another server, and the two of them chatted and giggled at one another uncomfortably as we continued picking through the menu. Speedy finally wizened up and asked what our options actually were, given that the menu was clearly Just Kidding. They pointed at the small list of Korean beers. Speedy decides to be difficult with them and select the only Korean beer on the menu that nobody has ever heard of. More uncomfortable giggles followed by an admission that they don’t actually have that beer either. At this point I cave and try to order Hite, which is my standard awful-but-cheap Korean beer. More uncomfortable giggles. They were totally just kidding about Hite, too!
The Wa Bar is broken.
At this point I’m starting to think that this is the only Wa Bar in Korea that doesn’t serve beer. A more satisfying explanation would be that they simply didn’t understand us. If reality, this would do well to ease my mind. Sadly, I think that they understood us perfectly well; they simply didn’t know how to convey to us that the only beer they could serve at that particular time was their house brew. A good start would have been to not provide us with one of the most impressive beer menus we’d seen in Korea.
For what it’s worth, the house brew did the trick.
During our meal, Speedy and Shanna tried to carry on real conversation. I frequently interrupted so that more pressing matters could be discussed, such as all of the free swag that I got for purchasing 57 bottles of nail polish! Surprisingly, neither of them was particularly interested in hearing about this. They were probably jealous. I got cotton balls and whitening cream!
Our next location had not yet been determined. We didn't bother discussing this matter while we were still in the restaurant. It made infinitely more sense to stand outside in the rain and share our thoughts on the matter. I’ve been told that I have many thoughts and would be best off keeping these to myself. Blasphemy! My thoughts are deep, carefully deliberated and frequently lead to fantastic things. That particular Monday a few weeks back was no exception.
I briefly humour Shanna and Speedy with the idea that what they want to do from here actually matters with the following: “So what are you two feeling? Which bar do you want to go to?” As it turns out, Shanna and Speedy are not sock puppets that I picked up at the market one morning. They’re Real Live People, with real thoughts and everything. I’ve been told that they also have feelings, though I remain unconvinced. Either way, the fact that I was being rather pretentious at this juncture was not lost on them. After briefly taking the moment to point out how transparent I am, they come to the conclusion that they like alcohol every bit as much as I do.
The three of us ended up at the Wa Bar; it was the closest venue that was undoubtedly a bar. I was in the midst of a beer drinking phase, so this suited me just fine. Shanna is not a beer drinker; she was completely unfazed by the unbelievable array of international beers offered on the drink menu. Two full pages of options, hitting up every continent that matters! It was beautiful. The beer drinkers among us required a couple of minutes to mull over the variety before committing to just one choice. I don’t even commit to brands of deodorant. Or toothpaste. This menu presented quite the challenge for me.
After brushing the server away the first time they came over, we were finally ready to guzzle some random brand of beer. Unless you were Shanna, in which case you had settled for some Ass In A Bottle, also known as Random Korean Cooler. I wasn’t feeling particularly experimental, so I settled on the good and familiar Stella Artois. Speedy had selected something-or-other. Upon requesting both from the server, we were informed that they didn’t actually have either. Assuming this was a coincidence, because the possibility that the entire menu existed as decoration and nothing more was simply too stupid to process, we tried two other beers. Again, we were told that neither was available.
The server was soon joined by another server, and the two of them chatted and giggled at one another uncomfortably as we continued picking through the menu. Speedy finally wizened up and asked what our options actually were, given that the menu was clearly Just Kidding. They pointed at the small list of Korean beers. Speedy decides to be difficult with them and select the only Korean beer on the menu that nobody has ever heard of. More uncomfortable giggles followed by an admission that they don’t actually have that beer either. At this point I cave and try to order Hite, which is my standard awful-but-cheap Korean beer. More uncomfortable giggles. They were totally just kidding about Hite, too!
The Wa Bar is broken.
At this point I’m starting to think that this is the only Wa Bar in Korea that doesn’t serve beer. A more satisfying explanation would be that they simply didn’t understand us. If reality, this would do well to ease my mind. Sadly, I think that they understood us perfectly well; they simply didn’t know how to convey to us that the only beer they could serve at that particular time was their house brew. A good start would have been to not provide us with one of the most impressive beer menus we’d seen in Korea.
For what it’s worth, the house brew did the trick.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Barbie Declares Barbie Broken.
There’s a point at which that one has to drop all their defenses and just fucking own up to the fact that they’re not okay. I almost did that on New Year’s. I’m fully doing it right now. I’m not okay. I will be okay, but I’m currently not okay. Not even a little bit.
There is a reason that I occasionally refer to Korea as LaLa Land. Canada Land is this far off place that I intermittently refer to as The Real World. In my mind, it’s a place that was supposed to remain frozen in time. Prior to my departure, I carefully distributed “Nothing of Note is to Happen until October 2008” flyers. Sadly, I didn’t do this nearly thoroughly enough. As it turns out, sometimes three and a half months is a long time. Sometimes, some things do change.
My residency in La La Land gives me the option of whether or not I want to deal with those things that are changing back home. Since my arrival in Korea three and a half months ago, some things back home have…. apparently… changed. The memos, people! Why didn’t you all get the fucking memo? Christ.
A life long friend of mine found out that she was pregnant about a month after I left. In case you hadn’t noticed by now that the sun rises in the east, I am grossly self centred. Hence, my initial reaction to this was: “Dude! I’m going to miss the whole thing!” I later dealt with this by getting inappropriately drunk in Daegu and making what should probably be considered as regrettable decisions. I mean, I still have a kidney infection to show for it! Months later! Damn you, bacteria. Damn you.
Perspective is a funny thing. I would have been just fucking dandy if my life-long friend getting pregnant was going to the biggest change to happen back home while I was in Korea. But, again: the memos! They weren’t evenly distributed! The memo distribution system is broken!
I found out Sunday morning that another friend of mine has passed away.
Passed. A. Fucking. Way.
Are you kidding me? That only happens to other people! Like, people I know sometimes know other people who died. I don’t know people who die. This has sort of been a rule of mine for, well, life. And frankly, it’s worked out fantastically for me. Not having to deal with death has been wonderful!
I don’t mean to minimize the deaths within the family that have occurred during my lifetime; I was just too young to have the privilege to have built any serious rapport with my uncle, aunt or grandmother. So, while their deaths were deeply moving events that touched many of those who are close to me, they were relatively easy for me to deal with; as far as these things can be, that is. I also don’t mean to minimize past deaths of a couple acquaintances, whom happened to be very close to friends of mine. I was certainly affected by both of those events. It’s just that I didn’t truly appreciate what it’s like to lose a friend whom you have some sort of history or rapport with until it happened to me.
And now it’s happened to me.
I’m not going to eulogize or act as if I was any closer to the deceased than is reality. While it’s come to my attention throughout the years that many people do this, that’s just not how I roll. That’s not my grieving style. Or something. Frankly, I’m not sure what my grieving style is.
I first received news after returning to Busan from a 12-hour Daegu party night. It was 10:30 in the morning. I napped. I tried to get really into a tennis match when I woke up later. It was the Australian Open Final. Novak bloody Djokovic, my second favourite player (behind the mighty Nadal, of course), was on the brink of his first Grand Slam title. And I didn’t care. I tried to care. I really did. This is generally the sort of thing that has me sitting directly in front of the television screen and fist-pumping over amazing points. Those of you haven’t been exposed to Tennis Fan Barbie maybe grossly confused to learn that she occasionally embraces her inner jock in this manner, but it totally happens! I followed up the match with some coffee with a friend. I had to get out of the apartment. I felt tears and didn’t want them to flow. The next day was my first day of the work week. I decided that there was no time like Monday night to go drinking until 4am. Prior to meeting a couple of my Busan friends, both of whom have somehow avoided a tacky Barbie nickname, I purchased nail polish from 4 different stores. Within 15 minutes. I don’t even like painting my nails.
And now it’s Tuesday. Okay, it's actually Wednesday at this point. Whatever. I went out drinking. Again. With the same friends, plus two. Among other things, they put up with my whipping out the obituary over drinks. Who does that? Apparently I do. I received an email at work today with the obituary attached. I printed it off, put it in my purse, and glanced at it over drinks at the bar. Who does that? I’m not really sure what else to do with it at this point. Do I leave it in my purse? Throw it out? Put it with my other important papers at my apartment? Somehow, it’s easiest to just leave it in my purse.
Given my lack of experience when it comes to dealing with death, I’m unsure as to where exactly I’m supposed to go from here. Do I reevaluate? Didn’t I just fucking do that at New Year’s? Do I reevaluate again? I chatted with the friend who passed away just one week ago, and we both concluded that what I was currently doing was awesome. I am living my life to the fullest, more or less. I should probably take better care of my health and not lean on the bottle for support so much. Aside from that, I’m not sure which way to lean.
I will find a way. Somewhere, there is Direction just waiting for me to find it. Right? Of course.
There is a reason that I occasionally refer to Korea as LaLa Land. Canada Land is this far off place that I intermittently refer to as The Real World. In my mind, it’s a place that was supposed to remain frozen in time. Prior to my departure, I carefully distributed “Nothing of Note is to Happen until October 2008” flyers. Sadly, I didn’t do this nearly thoroughly enough. As it turns out, sometimes three and a half months is a long time. Sometimes, some things do change.
My residency in La La Land gives me the option of whether or not I want to deal with those things that are changing back home. Since my arrival in Korea three and a half months ago, some things back home have…. apparently… changed. The memos, people! Why didn’t you all get the fucking memo? Christ.
A life long friend of mine found out that she was pregnant about a month after I left. In case you hadn’t noticed by now that the sun rises in the east, I am grossly self centred. Hence, my initial reaction to this was: “Dude! I’m going to miss the whole thing!” I later dealt with this by getting inappropriately drunk in Daegu and making what should probably be considered as regrettable decisions. I mean, I still have a kidney infection to show for it! Months later! Damn you, bacteria. Damn you.
Perspective is a funny thing. I would have been just fucking dandy if my life-long friend getting pregnant was going to the biggest change to happen back home while I was in Korea. But, again: the memos! They weren’t evenly distributed! The memo distribution system is broken!
I found out Sunday morning that another friend of mine has passed away.
Passed. A. Fucking. Way.
Are you kidding me? That only happens to other people! Like, people I know sometimes know other people who died. I don’t know people who die. This has sort of been a rule of mine for, well, life. And frankly, it’s worked out fantastically for me. Not having to deal with death has been wonderful!
I don’t mean to minimize the deaths within the family that have occurred during my lifetime; I was just too young to have the privilege to have built any serious rapport with my uncle, aunt or grandmother. So, while their deaths were deeply moving events that touched many of those who are close to me, they were relatively easy for me to deal with; as far as these things can be, that is. I also don’t mean to minimize past deaths of a couple acquaintances, whom happened to be very close to friends of mine. I was certainly affected by both of those events. It’s just that I didn’t truly appreciate what it’s like to lose a friend whom you have some sort of history or rapport with until it happened to me.
And now it’s happened to me.
I’m not going to eulogize or act as if I was any closer to the deceased than is reality. While it’s come to my attention throughout the years that many people do this, that’s just not how I roll. That’s not my grieving style. Or something. Frankly, I’m not sure what my grieving style is.
I first received news after returning to Busan from a 12-hour Daegu party night. It was 10:30 in the morning. I napped. I tried to get really into a tennis match when I woke up later. It was the Australian Open Final. Novak bloody Djokovic, my second favourite player (behind the mighty Nadal, of course), was on the brink of his first Grand Slam title. And I didn’t care. I tried to care. I really did. This is generally the sort of thing that has me sitting directly in front of the television screen and fist-pumping over amazing points. Those of you haven’t been exposed to Tennis Fan Barbie maybe grossly confused to learn that she occasionally embraces her inner jock in this manner, but it totally happens! I followed up the match with some coffee with a friend. I had to get out of the apartment. I felt tears and didn’t want them to flow. The next day was my first day of the work week. I decided that there was no time like Monday night to go drinking until 4am. Prior to meeting a couple of my Busan friends, both of whom have somehow avoided a tacky Barbie nickname, I purchased nail polish from 4 different stores. Within 15 minutes. I don’t even like painting my nails.
And now it’s Tuesday. Okay, it's actually Wednesday at this point. Whatever. I went out drinking. Again. With the same friends, plus two. Among other things, they put up with my whipping out the obituary over drinks. Who does that? Apparently I do. I received an email at work today with the obituary attached. I printed it off, put it in my purse, and glanced at it over drinks at the bar. Who does that? I’m not really sure what else to do with it at this point. Do I leave it in my purse? Throw it out? Put it with my other important papers at my apartment? Somehow, it’s easiest to just leave it in my purse.
Given my lack of experience when it comes to dealing with death, I’m unsure as to where exactly I’m supposed to go from here. Do I reevaluate? Didn’t I just fucking do that at New Year’s? Do I reevaluate again? I chatted with the friend who passed away just one week ago, and we both concluded that what I was currently doing was awesome. I am living my life to the fullest, more or less. I should probably take better care of my health and not lean on the bottle for support so much. Aside from that, I’m not sure which way to lean.
I will find a way. Somewhere, there is Direction just waiting for me to find it. Right? Of course.
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