Finally. I have left my shit hole neighborhood in the dust and moved on to greener pastures. My former neighbors - two love motels, a booking club, and a food n' booze tent - have been replaced by car dealerships and office buildings. My poorly lit, one room closet of a living space, has been replaced by an apartment with high ceilings and a loft. I can finally cook without expecting a sea of cockroaches to flood the sink. Count the Number of People Excreting in Public is no longer a valid game to play on my walk to work in the morning. I can finally leave my apartment, walk a block, and not need a shower. I hardly know what to do with myself anymore.
The week before I was due to leave for my short Canadian vacation, my supervisor stopped me to share the great news: rent in my building was going up 30 bucks by the end of September. My poorly located, cockroach infested, shithole of an apartment was jacking the rent (just because everybody in Seomyeon is jacking rent doesn't mean that this is okay). While my employer subsidizes a significant portion of my rent, unfortunately I have to pick up the rest*.
Before I could even consider huffing, puffing and accidentally blowing a gasket at work, my supervisor suggested that if I didn't want to pay extra for that apartment, that I could move into an apartment that a former coworker had just vacated. No brainer. I didn't even need to look at the new place to know that I was moving (of course, I did look. I'm not a complete idiot).
The truth is, I nearly insisted on a move ages ago. After two days in that apartment, I knew that I wasn't going to like it. I weighed the pros and cons of moving. Then, New Year's happened. Suddenly I had more important things to worry about than the fact that I lived in a craphole. I put the idea of moving on the back burner. I waited. And the second that I was given an out? I moved. Win. Now I just wait and hope that they don't stick one of the new kids in there. Bah.
*There are more than enough contracts floating around that will pay your entire rent here. In that regard, some may say that I have a shitty deal. However, this year I was looking for very specific things in a job and wasn't willing to compromise that - even if it costs me a few bucks a month. If there had been more time to find the "perfect job" (what the fuck is that, even?) I may have found a better deal. Or not. I only had one year's experience and no teaching credentials to speak of; I wasn't really entitled to a better job. Either way, it is what it is and I have absolutely no regrets.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Teacher's Tendency to Natter is a No
I haven't given a straight answer since 1987. It's not that I'm indecisive, it's that I like to examine all possible angles before giving a definitive response. This is probably an exercise that should be done in my head, but my stream of consciousness has been found leaking out of my mouth on more than one occasion.
I natter. The nattering may have purpose and a logical flow, but a natterer is a natterer is a natterer, and no love is lost on natterers. More importantly, it's a terrible habit to exhibit in front of students, some of whom maybe have struggled mightily just to compose a question for me to natter off a response to.
Today, during a discussion on body language and culture, one of my students asked me how much personal space I like to have. What followed was a minute and a half long tirade where I considered different situations, who I might be with, what sort of mood I may be in, and God knows what else. After a minute and a half of this I realized that the time for me to stop talking had come and gone about a minute ago. At the very least, I should have paused at various points in the tirade to ask comprehension questions and ask for the student's opinion. I know better. The ball was dropped.
My tendency to natter is just one of several habits that I need to monitor in my efforts to not be a terrible teacher. It's a struggle not to regularly interrupt students to make comments about their shiny new watch or inquire what kind of cell phone plan they're using. If the clock ticks too loudly, I turn the air conditioner up to drown it out. I've been working on putting kibosh on my incessant fidgeting. I could list countless other manifestations of My Crazy that I leave at the classroom door everyday so that I can lead an effective lesson, but I won't. Another thought on the matter might exhaust me and I have at least one more episode of Entourage that I want to get through before the night is done. I know that it's a terrible show, but it sure is pretty.
I natter. The nattering may have purpose and a logical flow, but a natterer is a natterer is a natterer, and no love is lost on natterers. More importantly, it's a terrible habit to exhibit in front of students, some of whom maybe have struggled mightily just to compose a question for me to natter off a response to.
Today, during a discussion on body language and culture, one of my students asked me how much personal space I like to have. What followed was a minute and a half long tirade where I considered different situations, who I might be with, what sort of mood I may be in, and God knows what else. After a minute and a half of this I realized that the time for me to stop talking had come and gone about a minute ago. At the very least, I should have paused at various points in the tirade to ask comprehension questions and ask for the student's opinion. I know better. The ball was dropped.
My tendency to natter is just one of several habits that I need to monitor in my efforts to not be a terrible teacher. It's a struggle not to regularly interrupt students to make comments about their shiny new watch or inquire what kind of cell phone plan they're using. If the clock ticks too loudly, I turn the air conditioner up to drown it out. I've been working on putting kibosh on my incessant fidgeting. I could list countless other manifestations of My Crazy that I leave at the classroom door everyday so that I can lead an effective lesson, but I won't. Another thought on the matter might exhaust me and I have at least one more episode of Entourage that I want to get through before the night is done. I know that it's a terrible show, but it sure is pretty.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
My Misplaced Monday
I'm not entirely sure what happened to yesterday, how today is Thursday, or what on earth happened to Monday. I suppose that Monday was spent in transit, and that it's really Tuesday I can't properly account for.
Last week, on what was apparently Wednesday, I flew home to Ontario for a wedding. Normally I would have found a way to bail on a wedding halfway across the world, but in this case doing so may have barred me from the family. It's simply against the rules to tell your sister that no, you don't feel like being a bridesmaid. Bridesmaids require good hair, makeup, dresses, and all that other stuff that I'm not too keen on. Thankfully, my sister's refusal to slip into bridezilla mode made for an experience that was not just tolerable, but almost enjoyable. If only it hadn't been a windy day, I could remove almost from the equation.
I believe that I spent much of yesterday (which was apparently Wednesday) sleeping. I'd sort of like to sleep again right now, but it's only 1pm. I'm not 85. Or 5. I can fight this. I do no need a nap. I can be productive. I will eat dry cereal and watch Entourage.
I will eventually wake up in a pool of my own saliva.
Last week, on what was apparently Wednesday, I flew home to Ontario for a wedding. Normally I would have found a way to bail on a wedding halfway across the world, but in this case doing so may have barred me from the family. It's simply against the rules to tell your sister that no, you don't feel like being a bridesmaid. Bridesmaids require good hair, makeup, dresses, and all that other stuff that I'm not too keen on. Thankfully, my sister's refusal to slip into bridezilla mode made for an experience that was not just tolerable, but almost enjoyable. If only it hadn't been a windy day, I could remove almost from the equation.
I believe that I spent much of yesterday (which was apparently Wednesday) sleeping. I'd sort of like to sleep again right now, but it's only 1pm. I'm not 85. Or 5. I can fight this. I do no need a nap. I can be productive. I will eat dry cereal and watch Entourage.
I will eventually wake up in a pool of my own saliva.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Goodbye, BS Bank
The last time that BS Bank gave me trouble, they were still going by the far less apt Pusan Bank. An over the top hissy fit, which began and ended with me calling the bank racist, eventually resulted in me getting what I wanted. I swore that the next time PS Bank tried to screw me would be the last time. I didn't swear that I wouldn't have another hissy fit.
A couple of weeks ago, I made my monthly BS Bank visit to pay some bills and wire more than half of my salary home. Were the latter not a possibility, I wouldn't be here. While teaching English in Korea isn't going to bring in the riches, it pays off enough student debt that I can justify still being here when I'm knee deep in yet another I Hate Korea week.
I usually deal with the same teller at BS Bank, and he always asks for the same information: passport, bank book, and details of the account I'm wiring money to. Just in case he happens to fall into a barrel of BS that day, I always make sure to have further proof of my identity, statements from previous transactions, and every single pay stub that my current job has ever given me. He doesn't really need any of this stuff to wire my money home and had never asked before, but BS happens.
On this day, he looked over my account information on my screen and then suspiciously back at me. "You send money home every month." It wasn't clear whether he was stating a fact or inquiring, so I responded as if it were a question. "Yes. That's sort of the point." I've never been good with stupid questions. Or really obvious statements. Which one was it?
Overwhelmed by my charm, the teller tried to tell me that he was going to need to see pay stubs. I handed him the stack of them before he could come up with the words. He eyed them suspiciously, looked back at the screen, and glared at me. "Do you have anything else?", he asked. Deja vu! "Why would I need something else? Pay stub. Deposit. You might notice that the amounts match", I sneered. He wasn't satisfied. "You're going to need.... a certificate.... from work", he told me. Because apparently having official pay slips from the company which not only matches the one on your VISA, but also conveniently coincides with the only deposits ever made into your bank account, isn't quite proof enough that you're not trying to wire drug money out of the country.
"There wasn't a problem here in February, March, or April", I stated. Because I understand that statements are not questions. "Every month. You need... certificate. Yes". Was he asking me a question again? "Yeah... no. That's total BS", I told the teller. The teller looked confused. I wasn't done. "See, I'm just going to find a bank with less discriminatory policies. Close my account. Now." So, he did.
As it turns out, there was no hissy fit to be had this time. Largely because I was so sleepy, but I'd like to think that I've matured enough to realize that there is little use in wasting energy fighting battles that you can't win. Also, I've been sober for what seems like a ridiculously long time. Is it June yet? I said little more than what needed to be said and I was out of there. It was nap time.
My reward for refusing to tolerate BS was to drag my ass across the street with $2,500 in my purse. I don't love doing that nearly as much as I thought I would, so I dumped it all off at the Korea Exchange Bank. KEB opened my account and wired my money home in one sitting, all without asking a single stupid question.
Before anybody wonders why I'm toolishly abbreviating "Busan" and "Pusan" as BS and PS, know that it's not because I think I'm being clever, but that it's what the company would want:
That the brain trust at Pusan Bank think that the logical step after changing from a P to a B is to introduce a BS logo, is terribly amusing. If I'm honest, I might be willing to admit that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for how this logo came to be, and that I only assume that this is yet another glaring example of this institution's retardation because my past relations with the company have been sour and I hate them a whole bunch. And if I'm super lucky, somebody really boring will share this really boring explanation with us in the comments section of this post. But mostly, I'm just going to enjoy the chuckle that I get everytime that I walk by this sign.
A couple of weeks ago, I made my monthly BS Bank visit to pay some bills and wire more than half of my salary home. Were the latter not a possibility, I wouldn't be here. While teaching English in Korea isn't going to bring in the riches, it pays off enough student debt that I can justify still being here when I'm knee deep in yet another I Hate Korea week.
I usually deal with the same teller at BS Bank, and he always asks for the same information: passport, bank book, and details of the account I'm wiring money to. Just in case he happens to fall into a barrel of BS that day, I always make sure to have further proof of my identity, statements from previous transactions, and every single pay stub that my current job has ever given me. He doesn't really need any of this stuff to wire my money home and had never asked before, but BS happens.
On this day, he looked over my account information on my screen and then suspiciously back at me. "You send money home every month." It wasn't clear whether he was stating a fact or inquiring, so I responded as if it were a question. "Yes. That's sort of the point." I've never been good with stupid questions. Or really obvious statements. Which one was it?
Overwhelmed by my charm, the teller tried to tell me that he was going to need to see pay stubs. I handed him the stack of them before he could come up with the words. He eyed them suspiciously, looked back at the screen, and glared at me. "Do you have anything else?", he asked. Deja vu! "Why would I need something else? Pay stub. Deposit. You might notice that the amounts match", I sneered. He wasn't satisfied. "You're going to need.... a certificate.... from work", he told me. Because apparently having official pay slips from the company which not only matches the one on your VISA, but also conveniently coincides with the only deposits ever made into your bank account, isn't quite proof enough that you're not trying to wire drug money out of the country.
"There wasn't a problem here in February, March, or April", I stated. Because I understand that statements are not questions. "Every month. You need... certificate. Yes". Was he asking me a question again? "Yeah... no. That's total BS", I told the teller. The teller looked confused. I wasn't done. "See, I'm just going to find a bank with less discriminatory policies. Close my account. Now." So, he did.
As it turns out, there was no hissy fit to be had this time. Largely because I was so sleepy, but I'd like to think that I've matured enough to realize that there is little use in wasting energy fighting battles that you can't win. Also, I've been sober for what seems like a ridiculously long time. Is it June yet? I said little more than what needed to be said and I was out of there. It was nap time.
My reward for refusing to tolerate BS was to drag my ass across the street with $2,500 in my purse. I don't love doing that nearly as much as I thought I would, so I dumped it all off at the Korea Exchange Bank. KEB opened my account and wired my money home in one sitting, all without asking a single stupid question.
Before anybody wonders why I'm toolishly abbreviating "Busan" and "Pusan" as BS and PS, know that it's not because I think I'm being clever, but that it's what the company would want:
That the brain trust at Pusan Bank think that the logical step after changing from a P to a B is to introduce a BS logo, is terribly amusing. If I'm honest, I might be willing to admit that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for how this logo came to be, and that I only assume that this is yet another glaring example of this institution's retardation because my past relations with the company have been sour and I hate them a whole bunch. And if I'm super lucky, somebody really boring will share this really boring explanation with us in the comments section of this post. But mostly, I'm just going to enjoy the chuckle that I get everytime that I walk by this sign.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Plucking Class
Classroom 43 is far too small. I can't walk from the door to the whiteboard without inadvertently rubbing up against 6 students. I'd rather not spend part of my teaching day contemplating the ass-or-crotch dilemma. Student-Teacher relationships aren't really my thing, making me somewhat of a minority at Barbie Hagwon Version 2.0.
Sometime last week as I was going into class, I noticed a white hair sticking out on top of Reba Student's head. Were I not impulsive and just plain big mouthed, I could have let this go. As it is, I immediately blurted out, "Reba Student, you have a white hair." I then poked her in the head to indicate exactly where the hair was.
The other five students giggled for longer than was probably necessary (whether it was at Reba's expense or mine remains to be seen). Reba Student took a mirror out of her purse and frantically began inspecting the top of her head for a white hair. "Rebecca, I don't see it". She put her mirror down, defeated.
I apologized for the comment and suggested that we just pretend that never happened. I pointed out that my head is full of white hairs (not entirely true) and attempted to move on with the day's lesson. Over the next five minutes, as I tried to get the class engaged in some activity about food or something or other, Reba and Jackie Students worked together to find and remove the white hair. Jackie Student would find it, then fail to rip it out, then lose it. This process repeated itself three times before I accepted that I had no choice but to intervene.
"Reba, do you want me to rip it out?"
"Yes, yes please! And thank you."
"Really? It's just a white hair. I have some, too. Really. I swear."
"I want it out"
"Now?"
"Yes, now. It's fine."
Sigh.
I went to my purse to retrieve a pair of tweezers and plucked the hair right from her scalp. In the middle of class. With the other students watching. She yelped then examined the hair that I placed on her desk. "But it's black", she insisted. Then she noticed the tiny hair beside it. "Oh. It's white". Yes, it was. It was also totally unnoticeable to anybody who doesn't have to crawl over her on a daily basis to get to the whiteboard. Yet, for some reason, she thanked me afterwards and insisted that my repeated apologies were totally unnecessary.
Sometime last week as I was going into class, I noticed a white hair sticking out on top of Reba Student's head. Were I not impulsive and just plain big mouthed, I could have let this go. As it is, I immediately blurted out, "Reba Student, you have a white hair." I then poked her in the head to indicate exactly where the hair was.
The other five students giggled for longer than was probably necessary (whether it was at Reba's expense or mine remains to be seen). Reba Student took a mirror out of her purse and frantically began inspecting the top of her head for a white hair. "Rebecca, I don't see it". She put her mirror down, defeated.
I apologized for the comment and suggested that we just pretend that never happened. I pointed out that my head is full of white hairs (not entirely true) and attempted to move on with the day's lesson. Over the next five minutes, as I tried to get the class engaged in some activity about food or something or other, Reba and Jackie Students worked together to find and remove the white hair. Jackie Student would find it, then fail to rip it out, then lose it. This process repeated itself three times before I accepted that I had no choice but to intervene.
"Reba, do you want me to rip it out?"
"Yes, yes please! And thank you."
"Really? It's just a white hair. I have some, too. Really. I swear."
"I want it out"
"Now?"
"Yes, now. It's fine."
Sigh.
I went to my purse to retrieve a pair of tweezers and plucked the hair right from her scalp. In the middle of class. With the other students watching. She yelped then examined the hair that I placed on her desk. "But it's black", she insisted. Then she noticed the tiny hair beside it. "Oh. It's white". Yes, it was. It was also totally unnoticeable to anybody who doesn't have to crawl over her on a daily basis to get to the whiteboard. Yet, for some reason, she thanked me afterwards and insisted that my repeated apologies were totally unnecessary.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Barbie Does The Seoul Podcast
Shortly after announcing to Blog Land that I had been invited to join a discussion on Busan e-FM (90.5 MHz), the folks who do The Seoul Podcast asked if I'd be interested in joining them for a recording on April 21st. My initial response to this was to point out that words are hard and that I rarely say anything of value. They saw no reason for that to stop me and swore that they don't say anything of value either.
Confession: I had never listened to The Seoul Podcast prior to being invited on the show. I was only aware that The Seoul Podcast existed in the first place because I occasionally check out Zen Kimchi. And the only reason that I've heard of anything in the Korean Blogosphere, period, is from talking to my friend Diana. It's not that I'm not interested in what other migrant workers in Korea have to say, or that my sphere of dweebery doesn't extend to the Internet. It's just that between doing this, following hockey, running a mediocre tennis messageboard, keeping up on my 15 shitty television shows of choice, What's Alan Watching?, Unreality Magazine, Television Without Pity, and checking the daily news to make sure that nothing important has blown up that day, it hadn't dawn on me to find the time. Now that I know better, I may or may not find the time. Change is hard.
Regardless of whether or not I start making an effort to keep up on some of the better Korean blogs out there, I had a great time recording The Seoul Podcast with Joe, Stafford, and Jennifer. They're a fun group. Between planning a weekend group flash and discussing various asshats, they did actually say some things of value. In other words, they told me a fib. I'm willing to forgive them for their little white lie, if they forgive me for falling asleep on the floor and saying about two words over the last 40 minutes of the show. I fell asleep on the floor because I had been awake for almost 19 hours; not because The Seoul Podcast folk weren't thoroughly entertaining. It wasn't them, it was me.
While I imagine that I don't come off much better than I did on the radio (I have an mp3 of that which I can email to anybody at home who desires to listen; I refuse to listen to myself), the show, Seoul Podcast #52, will be posted on The Seoul Podcast sometime over the next few days. Feel free to use this space to comment on the show or mock me for being me.
Confession: I had never listened to The Seoul Podcast prior to being invited on the show. I was only aware that The Seoul Podcast existed in the first place because I occasionally check out Zen Kimchi. And the only reason that I've heard of anything in the Korean Blogosphere, period, is from talking to my friend Diana. It's not that I'm not interested in what other migrant workers in Korea have to say, or that my sphere of dweebery doesn't extend to the Internet. It's just that between doing this, following hockey, running a mediocre tennis messageboard, keeping up on my 15 shitty television shows of choice, What's Alan Watching?, Unreality Magazine, Television Without Pity, and checking the daily news to make sure that nothing important has blown up that day, it hadn't dawn on me to find the time. Now that I know better, I may or may not find the time. Change is hard.
Regardless of whether or not I start making an effort to keep up on some of the better Korean blogs out there, I had a great time recording The Seoul Podcast with Joe, Stafford, and Jennifer. They're a fun group. Between planning a weekend group flash and discussing various asshats, they did actually say some things of value. In other words, they told me a fib. I'm willing to forgive them for their little white lie, if they forgive me for falling asleep on the floor and saying about two words over the last 40 minutes of the show. I fell asleep on the floor because I had been awake for almost 19 hours; not because The Seoul Podcast folk weren't thoroughly entertaining. It wasn't them, it was me.
While I imagine that I don't come off much better than I did on the radio (I have an mp3 of that which I can email to anybody at home who desires to listen; I refuse to listen to myself), the show, Seoul Podcast #52, will be posted on The Seoul Podcast sometime over the next few days. Feel free to use this space to comment on the show or mock me for being me.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
The Seomyeon Diddler
I go to Dunkin' Donuts more than I ought to, but there really isn't anywhere else near work that I can find a satisfactory morning sandwich. Satisfactory morning sandwiches are composed of bread, eggs, bacon, and cheese. Nothing more. Nothing less. Satisfactory morning sandwiches do not include pickles, random sauce, or "fruit" of questionable quality. They are not made at McDonalds. Nine in the morning is not a time to get cute with my food. I suppose that I could cook my own damn morning sandwich and bring it to work, but the odds of me having a temper tantrum and throwing my toaster oven at a wall are quite high before noon.
As I've noted in previous posts, Seomyeon is a disgusting cesspool littered with pissants. Not a day goes by here that I don't feel the urge to regurgitate as I pass by some of the degenerate, sojued-up locals. That being said, even my low expectations of Seomyeon couldn't have prepared me for what happened today.
Most of the folks that I pass on my walk to Dunkin's Donuts are students, workers, shoppers, running around, bumping into one another and everything, trying to get somewhere or other. Every now and then one of the local pissants can be found passed out near the curb or looking gross while hanging out in one of the doorways to a closed shop. What the pissants are not usually doing, is standing in one of the doorways facing the main street, masturbating towards everybody walking by.
Were it not for my habit of suspiciously eyeing up every other person I walk by, I probably wouldn't have even noticed The Diddler. Were I at home, I could have called the police or subtly alerted other passersby. I would like to make this story awesome by telling you that I responded to this perversion in a violent manner which rendered The Diddler impotent, but obviously I didn't. Had I responded in that fashion, I'd probably be spending less time on the blog and more time dealing with legal matters at the moment. As it is, I am what I am, I am where I am, and I did nothing.
I continued to Dunkin' Donuts as usual, fought back some very confused tears, and opted for the usual breakfast sandwich. I was confused as to what the crying thing was all about. I also wasn't particularly hungry at this point, but I'll be damned if The Diddler is going to ruin my breakfast sandwich. I contemplated talking a detour back to work in order to avoid him, but I'll be damned if The Diddler is going to inconvenience me. So, I bought my damn sandwich and walked it back to work. I kept my eyes ahead of me the entire time. Little time had passed, so it's likely that he was still there but I can't say for sure.
When I returned to work I checked in with a coworker to vent about the incident and get over being alarmed before proceeding to class 15 minutes later. Throughout the day I alerted the rest of my coworkers to keep an eye out for this sort of thing. A few of them giggled uncomfortably, because that's what people do. It's what I did, after the initial shock wore off. One of them advised me that were I to poll my students I might be surprised to find how many of them have similar experiences. I'll take her word for it, for now. A few of us ended up debating what the correct slang for somebody who masturbates in public is. I could have gone with flasher and it may have been most appropriate, but my mind had already labeled him The Diddler at that point, so it stuck.
This experience was hardly just my own; easily 100 people pass by The Diddler's chosen spot every couple of minutes. There are probably more diddlers running around Seomyeon being repulsive, and there are certainly countless diddlers exposing themselves elsewhere. I'd been fortunate enough not to notice, until now.
As I've noted in previous posts, Seomyeon is a disgusting cesspool littered with pissants. Not a day goes by here that I don't feel the urge to regurgitate as I pass by some of the degenerate, sojued-up locals. That being said, even my low expectations of Seomyeon couldn't have prepared me for what happened today.
Most of the folks that I pass on my walk to Dunkin's Donuts are students, workers, shoppers, running around, bumping into one another and everything, trying to get somewhere or other. Every now and then one of the local pissants can be found passed out near the curb or looking gross while hanging out in one of the doorways to a closed shop. What the pissants are not usually doing, is standing in one of the doorways facing the main street, masturbating towards everybody walking by.
Were it not for my habit of suspiciously eyeing up every other person I walk by, I probably wouldn't have even noticed The Diddler. Were I at home, I could have called the police or subtly alerted other passersby. I would like to make this story awesome by telling you that I responded to this perversion in a violent manner which rendered The Diddler impotent, but obviously I didn't. Had I responded in that fashion, I'd probably be spending less time on the blog and more time dealing with legal matters at the moment. As it is, I am what I am, I am where I am, and I did nothing.
I continued to Dunkin' Donuts as usual, fought back some very confused tears, and opted for the usual breakfast sandwich. I was confused as to what the crying thing was all about. I also wasn't particularly hungry at this point, but I'll be damned if The Diddler is going to ruin my breakfast sandwich. I contemplated talking a detour back to work in order to avoid him, but I'll be damned if The Diddler is going to inconvenience me. So, I bought my damn sandwich and walked it back to work. I kept my eyes ahead of me the entire time. Little time had passed, so it's likely that he was still there but I can't say for sure.
When I returned to work I checked in with a coworker to vent about the incident and get over being alarmed before proceeding to class 15 minutes later. Throughout the day I alerted the rest of my coworkers to keep an eye out for this sort of thing. A few of them giggled uncomfortably, because that's what people do. It's what I did, after the initial shock wore off. One of them advised me that were I to poll my students I might be surprised to find how many of them have similar experiences. I'll take her word for it, for now. A few of us ended up debating what the correct slang for somebody who masturbates in public is. I could have gone with flasher and it may have been most appropriate, but my mind had already labeled him The Diddler at that point, so it stuck.
This experience was hardly just my own; easily 100 people pass by The Diddler's chosen spot every couple of minutes. There are probably more diddlers running around Seomyeon being repulsive, and there are certainly countless diddlers exposing themselves elsewhere. I'd been fortunate enough not to notice, until now.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Just Like a Barbie Doll
Debbie Student stared at me for a period of time which would have become uncomfortable about 20 seconds earlier had it been just about anybody else. I tried not to giggle at her. She doesn't mean to be creepy. It just takes her a while to find the words. And sometimes, when she finds them, and still comes across as creepy? It's not entirely her fault.
"You look like a... you know... ", Debbie Student looked towards the other women frantically and spat out a few Korean words. They giggled. One of them looked at her, confused, then looked to me and said "Barbie doll?" Debbie Student slammed the table with her hand and nodded emphatically. "Yes! You look like a Barbie Doll." She paused, searching for more words. "You must have been very popular in high school." She looked pleased, having finally found the means to express herself in a way I'd understand, and looked away.
Not wanting to embarrass Debbie Student, after she had worked so hard to put that one together, I refrained from hysterical laughter. I thanked her for what may or may not have been a compliment, explained that I was a horribly awkward looking teenager, and left it at that. Of course, I also look absolutely nothing like a Barbie Doll, unless they've started making Barbie Dolls that look more or less like That Girl Who is Scarcely Distinguishable From Others, but Debbie Student doesn't need to know that. Just like my coworkers last year didn't need to know that no, in fact, I hadn't heard that I look just like Anne Hathaway. Being compared to random white celebrities lost it's lustre sometime after my first month here. Being given an excuse to embrace my inner narcissist and ask "have you been reading my blog?" was a whole new kind of funny to me. Or it would have been, had I actually opted to confuse Debbie Student by saying that. I did not.
As noted, aside from my inability to tan, I do not resemble a Barbie Doll. My moniker is not meant to be associated with any sort of plastic doll. I chose Big White Barbie as a moniker because I didn't want to use my real name, I'm relatively tall, pasty, and desired a first name which properly captured my vapid dopiness. In other words, I needed a stripper name. Big White Kiki and Big White Candy didn't roll off the tongue quite as nicely as Big White Barbie, so Barbie won out.
When asked on the radio program a few weeks ago why I use the moniker Big White Barbie, I believe that my answer was something similar to "er, uh, tall. Words are hard. Hee!" So, there you go.
"You look like a... you know... ", Debbie Student looked towards the other women frantically and spat out a few Korean words. They giggled. One of them looked at her, confused, then looked to me and said "Barbie doll?" Debbie Student slammed the table with her hand and nodded emphatically. "Yes! You look like a Barbie Doll." She paused, searching for more words. "You must have been very popular in high school." She looked pleased, having finally found the means to express herself in a way I'd understand, and looked away.
Not wanting to embarrass Debbie Student, after she had worked so hard to put that one together, I refrained from hysterical laughter. I thanked her for what may or may not have been a compliment, explained that I was a horribly awkward looking teenager, and left it at that. Of course, I also look absolutely nothing like a Barbie Doll, unless they've started making Barbie Dolls that look more or less like That Girl Who is Scarcely Distinguishable From Others, but Debbie Student doesn't need to know that. Just like my coworkers last year didn't need to know that no, in fact, I hadn't heard that I look just like Anne Hathaway. Being compared to random white celebrities lost it's lustre sometime after my first month here. Being given an excuse to embrace my inner narcissist and ask "have you been reading my blog?" was a whole new kind of funny to me. Or it would have been, had I actually opted to confuse Debbie Student by saying that. I did not.
As noted, aside from my inability to tan, I do not resemble a Barbie Doll. My moniker is not meant to be associated with any sort of plastic doll. I chose Big White Barbie as a moniker because I didn't want to use my real name, I'm relatively tall, pasty, and desired a first name which properly captured my vapid dopiness. In other words, I needed a stripper name. Big White Kiki and Big White Candy didn't roll off the tongue quite as nicely as Big White Barbie, so Barbie won out.
When asked on the radio program a few weeks ago why I use the moniker Big White Barbie, I believe that my answer was something similar to "er, uh, tall. Words are hard. Hee!" So, there you go.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Found: Fountain of Life
I couldn't bring myself to go in. Reality would have crushed the dream. It always does.
I imagine a soju fountain in the waiting room. The main event, a magical vitamin shot in the ass, promises eternal youth.
My lofty expectations are largely a result of misreading "Life" as "Youth".
This is most interesting thing that I've come across in the past two weeks. This is laregly a result of leaving the apartment as little as possible lately, in the hopes of avoiding people so disgusting that immediately want to puke in their face (these people tend to be drunk, unshowered, wearing piss on their leg, and think that I wish to keep them in my line of sight for any longer than is absolutely necessary). Earlier today I caved and went to the store, because drinking water is important. I only encountered two individuals who we would all be better of without. This would be encouraging were the store not 10 meters away from my building.
I imagine a soju fountain in the waiting room. The main event, a magical vitamin shot in the ass, promises eternal youth.
My lofty expectations are largely a result of misreading "Life" as "Youth".
This is most interesting thing that I've come across in the past two weeks. This is laregly a result of leaving the apartment as little as possible lately, in the hopes of avoiding people so disgusting that immediately want to puke in their face (these people tend to be drunk, unshowered, wearing piss on their leg, and think that I wish to keep them in my line of sight for any longer than is absolutely necessary). Earlier today I caved and went to the store, because drinking water is important. I only encountered two individuals who we would all be better of without. This would be encouraging were the store not 10 meters away from my building.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
What Happened to Random Street Food Man?
Screw mandu's nonexistent magical properties.
I have magical properties!
I haven't seen hide nor hair from Random Mandu Man since I last complained about him. My desire to be talented, interesting and sexy has finally come to fruition: I can make people disappear, just by thinking it!
(He probably just moved his tent down the street or something lame. Also, now that I've made note of this, he'll probably reappear tomorrow, selling mandu. My original explanation was superior. Let's stick with that.)
I have magical properties!
I haven't seen hide nor hair from Random Mandu Man since I last complained about him. My desire to be talented, interesting and sexy has finally come to fruition: I can make people disappear, just by thinking it!
(He probably just moved his tent down the street or something lame. Also, now that I've made note of this, he'll probably reappear tomorrow, selling mandu. My original explanation was superior. Let's stick with that.)
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Mandu is Not Actually Hilarious.
I just ran into one of the Random Street Food Men who usually park down the street from my apartment. He was suited-up and wandering around, his food tent nowhere in sight, so I assume he had the day off and lives in the neighborhood.
When he saw me approaching he shouted HIIII and began asking me stuff in rapid Korean. As always, this was futile. As always, when I couldn't come up with much of an answer to whatever he was babbling on about, he laughed. He then asked where I was going, because that's clearly his business. This is one of few things that he says to me that I actually understand, so I answered anyways: Mandu. I was getting some mandu in the hopes that it would have the magic properties needed to remedy my cold. Spoiler: It doesn't. He laughed at me again, because mandu is fucking hilarious, and carried on in the opposite direction.
Five minutes later, when I was waiting in the kimbap shop for my not-magical-at-all mandu, Random Street Food Man came in the door. He said HIIII again, asked me my name, and then asked the kimbap shop lady what I was having. When she told him I was getting mandu, he laughed, because mandu is just so funny. And then he left.
Time to start taking another route home from work.
When he saw me approaching he shouted HIIII and began asking me stuff in rapid Korean. As always, this was futile. As always, when I couldn't come up with much of an answer to whatever he was babbling on about, he laughed. He then asked where I was going, because that's clearly his business. This is one of few things that he says to me that I actually understand, so I answered anyways: Mandu. I was getting some mandu in the hopes that it would have the magic properties needed to remedy my cold. Spoiler: It doesn't. He laughed at me again, because mandu is fucking hilarious, and carried on in the opposite direction.
Five minutes later, when I was waiting in the kimbap shop for my not-magical-at-all mandu, Random Street Food Man came in the door. He said HIIII again, asked me my name, and then asked the kimbap shop lady what I was having. When she told him I was getting mandu, he laughed, because mandu is just so funny. And then he left.
Time to start taking another route home from work.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Where's Your Beer?
The inevitable Friday/Saturday night exchange that I've had to suffer through over the past month goes as follows:
Mon Ami: Where's your beer? points at my cup
Me: This is ginger ale. points at cup
Mon Ami: Yeah... so, where's your beer?
Me: I'm not drinking beer.
Mon Ami: Why aren't you drinking beer?
Me: I'm off the sauce.
Mon Ami: You're not off the sauce. Have a beer.
Me: Ginger ale is delicious.
Mon Ami: So is beer.
Me: I don't want a fucking beer. If I wanted a beer, this would be beer. points at cup. Conversation. Over.
There are a couple of things wrong with this.
First of all, beer is not delicious. Nobody starts drinking beer because it's delicious. People drink beer because it's cheap. Also, their older brother Bobby drank beer, so it must be cool (Bobby is also responsibly for many a popped collar). After beginning to drink beer for reasons that have nothing to do with it's flavour, people acquire a taste for it. They then forget how totally fucking gross beer actually is, which allows them to spit out such lies as "Beer is delicious!" No. It decidedly is not.
The main thing wrong with this conversation is that I simply don't want a fucking beer. As I say every time: If I wanted a beer, I would have one. When I wanted to go to Korea, I went. When I wanted to take yoga, I signed up. When I want to stay in bed all day reading books and watching movies, I do. When I want a beer, I have a fucking beer. I don't want one this month. Or possibly next. After that, we'll see.
I love my people. Really, I do. And I understand that they only say ridiculous things like "Beer is delicious!" so that I'll stay out with them for longer. This doesn't really make it any less tiresome.
Socializing sober is not as easy as I anticipated. But, it could be.
Mon Ami: Where's your beer? points at my cup
Me: This is ginger ale. points at cup
Mon Ami: Yeah... so, where's your beer?
Me: I'm not drinking beer.
Mon Ami: Why aren't you drinking beer?
Me: I'm off the sauce.
Mon Ami: You're not off the sauce. Have a beer.
Me: Ginger ale is delicious.
Mon Ami: So is beer.
Me: I don't want a fucking beer. If I wanted a beer, this would be beer. points at cup. Conversation. Over.
There are a couple of things wrong with this.
First of all, beer is not delicious. Nobody starts drinking beer because it's delicious. People drink beer because it's cheap. Also, their older brother Bobby drank beer, so it must be cool (Bobby is also responsibly for many a popped collar). After beginning to drink beer for reasons that have nothing to do with it's flavour, people acquire a taste for it. They then forget how totally fucking gross beer actually is, which allows them to spit out such lies as "Beer is delicious!" No. It decidedly is not.
The main thing wrong with this conversation is that I simply don't want a fucking beer. As I say every time: If I wanted a beer, I would have one. When I wanted to go to Korea, I went. When I wanted to take yoga, I signed up. When I want to stay in bed all day reading books and watching movies, I do. When I want a beer, I have a fucking beer. I don't want one this month. Or possibly next. After that, we'll see.
I love my people. Really, I do. And I understand that they only say ridiculous things like "Beer is delicious!" so that I'll stay out with them for longer. This doesn't really make it any less tiresome.
Socializing sober is not as easy as I anticipated. But, it could be.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Reason 11 Why Teaching Adults is Better Than Teaching Children
Jack Student: He's weird. (nods towards Sawyer Student)
Sawyer Student: (shrug)
Me: Uh... (turns back to the pair which is actually doing work)
Jack Student: (eyes boring into the side of my head) He asked me a weird question.
Me: (blink)
Sawyer Student: (shrug)
Jack Student: (stern face)
Me: (loud sigh) What did he ask you?
Jack Student: I don't know. (glares at Sawyer Student)
Me: Seriously?
Sawyer Student: Sorry. (giggle)
Me: (turns back to the other pair in the hopes that Jack stops acting like a whiny bitch)
This happened today. And this? Is about as bad as it gets. Were I still working at Barbie Hagwon and had been dealing with real children here, as opposed to adults posing as infants, I'd have needed to do some combination of the following:
1) If the other students are still following the lesson, ignore Jack and Sawyer Students in the hopes that they'll stop acting like infants soon.
2) Insist that Sawyer Student share his comment with the rest of the class.
3) Insist that Jack Student stop being a tattle tale. Nobody likes a tattle tale.
4) Force Sawyer Student to apologize.
5) Force Jack Student to accept said apology.
6) Force Jack Student to apologize for being a tattle tale. Nobody likes a tattle tale.
7) Separate Jack and Sawyer Students.
8) Put the least cooperative student in the hallway.
9) Threaten to call their mother.
10) When all else fails, get a Korean to yell at them.
At any point there is a 43% chance that the less cooperative child will wag their ass at you, and a 83% chance that he will sass you in Korean. This will probably be Jack Student, because it's a proven fact that Sawyer is the more awesome of the two.
So, while adults clearly have the capacity to act infantile, I got to roll my eyes and treat my student's behaviour with the disdain that it deserved. This is an improvement on wasting "Why must you act 8?" thoughts on 7 year olds.
The Radio Blunder
I reported last week that I had agreed to participate in the taping of Let's Talk Busan, a radio show on Busan e-FM (90.5 MHz). I incorrectly started that it would air on March 8th; the show went on last night. Apologies for the mix up, but the important thing is that I got the radio station correct, right? If you're around Busan and want to hear local English programming, that's the place to go.
Due to some out of town affairs I had to tend to, I didn't catch the show. I imagine that everybody else sounded great and I sounded ridiculous. This is more or less how I imagine things in Real Life, so why shouldn't that translate to radio? Public speaking, or any variation of it, just isn't my thing. The only time that I'm comfortable speaking to an audience is when I'm most certain that I know more about my topic of choice than at least 90% of those listening (hence why this whole Being a Teacher thing has worked out).
Topics that we covered included brief discussions of our own blogs, whether or not the Busan Blogosphere is serving expat needs, responsibilities of expat bloggers, various issues encountered by expats living in Busan, and some other stuff that will probably come to me later. Aside from my occasional rambling, I think that some of the discussion had was quite decent. Feel free to disagree if you actually tuned in.
To pick on myself just one last time (today), I failed to eloquently detail the differences between teaching adults and children (I sincerely hope that part was edited out), why I use Big White Barbie as my moniker, and I struggled to "sell" my blog at the end of the program. Thankfully, I was only a fifth of the show.
I'll use future posts to address those questions which I failed to address eloquently. Unless I find some hair from 1987 in the other drain.
Due to some out of town affairs I had to tend to, I didn't catch the show. I imagine that everybody else sounded great and I sounded ridiculous. This is more or less how I imagine things in Real Life, so why shouldn't that translate to radio? Public speaking, or any variation of it, just isn't my thing. The only time that I'm comfortable speaking to an audience is when I'm most certain that I know more about my topic of choice than at least 90% of those listening (hence why this whole Being a Teacher thing has worked out).
Topics that we covered included brief discussions of our own blogs, whether or not the Busan Blogosphere is serving expat needs, responsibilities of expat bloggers, various issues encountered by expats living in Busan, and some other stuff that will probably come to me later. Aside from my occasional rambling, I think that some of the discussion had was quite decent. Feel free to disagree if you actually tuned in.
To pick on myself just one last time (today), I failed to eloquently detail the differences between teaching adults and children (I sincerely hope that part was edited out), why I use Big White Barbie as my moniker, and I struggled to "sell" my blog at the end of the program. Thankfully, I was only a fifth of the show.
I'll use future posts to address those questions which I failed to address eloquently. Unless I find some hair from 1987 in the other drain.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
I Believe This Belongs to You?
I cleaned the bathroom drain today. It appears that the occupants from 1987 left some hair behind.
I have nothing further to add. Possibly ever.
I have nothing further to add. Possibly ever.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Barbie Does the Radio
I can't remember the last time that I intentionally listened to the radio. Hence, it should come as no surprise that I had absolutely no idea there was an English radio station in Busan. For all, I know there may be more. These may be things that I ought to know more about, having been here a year and a half. Perhaps by the end of this contract I will have wiped my mind clear of The Unofficial Bar Map of Busan and replaced it with useful information. I'm hopeful that it's going to work out that way.
As a shove in the right direction, I was contacted earlier this week by Brian Myers, the host of a local radio program called "Let's Talk Busan", to see if I'd be interested in joining a discussion regarding the state of the Busan blogosphere. Admittedly, I was somewhat hesitant. I write much better than I speak; this is either totally acceptable or really quite sad, depending on your opinion of my writing. In the end, I accepted, because this what Yes People do. The program will air on Busan e-FM radio (90.5 MHz) Sunday, March 8, from 7-8pm.
The other individuals involved in the discussion were:
James, author of The Grand Narrative, Kelly, author of Annyeong, and Tess, photo contributer of Sapi na 'ko.
I'm grateful, and still somewhat surprised, that I was given the opportunity to participate. If it wasn't for the fact that I occasionally struggle with the spoken word, it's something that I'd do again. Sometime over the next couple of days, when I'm afforded with the time, I will post about the experience in further detail. As much as I enjoy the new job, juggling split shifts, sleep, a social life, and my various hobbies has resulted in a serious lack of Me Time.
As a shove in the right direction, I was contacted earlier this week by Brian Myers, the host of a local radio program called "Let's Talk Busan", to see if I'd be interested in joining a discussion regarding the state of the Busan blogosphere. Admittedly, I was somewhat hesitant. I write much better than I speak; this is either totally acceptable or really quite sad, depending on your opinion of my writing. In the end, I accepted, because this what Yes People do. The program will air on Busan e-FM radio (90.5 MHz) Sunday, March 8, from 7-8pm.
The other individuals involved in the discussion were:
James, author of The Grand Narrative, Kelly, author of Annyeong, and Tess, photo contributer of Sapi na 'ko.
I'm grateful, and still somewhat surprised, that I was given the opportunity to participate. If it wasn't for the fact that I occasionally struggle with the spoken word, it's something that I'd do again. Sometime over the next couple of days, when I'm afforded with the time, I will post about the experience in further detail. As much as I enjoy the new job, juggling split shifts, sleep, a social life, and my various hobbies has resulted in a serious lack of Me Time.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Did You Really Just Say That?
Consider this Reason 31.
I expect children to say absurd, inappropriate, or otherwise inane things. When they do, hilarity almost never fails to ensue. Add a language barrier to the equation and you have a formula for Guaranteed Awesome.
I expect adults to have developed tact filters, a sense of shame, and to have lost the naivety which allowed their ridiculous childhood utterances. In other words, I expect most adults to succeed where I have failed. Every now and then I come across a student that seems to have also failed at one or all of these things, and the following results in Barbie's English class:
1) A student may respond to my inquiry into her well being by proudly declaring that she's constipated. While the pride probably stems from having learned a new word, the student has failed to appreciate that there are some words you don't share with such nonchalance.
2) Several students may share stories of the good old days, when they used to run behind Pesticide Trucks and inhale deeply. Apparently Pesticide Trucks smell great. And just like that, I never again had to ask that class what had happened to them as children that made them this way.
3) A student may politely inform me that my face is looking a lot better. The student then follows this up by explaining that this is largely because he switched sides so that he no longer has to sit in view of the scary scarred side of my face.
All in all, I have a "Did you really just say that?" moment a couple of times per week. While this is quite the cut back from last year, where I'd be blessed a couple of times per class, the impact of the moment is so much greater when it comes from a fellow so-called adult.
I expect children to say absurd, inappropriate, or otherwise inane things. When they do, hilarity almost never fails to ensue. Add a language barrier to the equation and you have a formula for Guaranteed Awesome.
I expect adults to have developed tact filters, a sense of shame, and to have lost the naivety which allowed their ridiculous childhood utterances. In other words, I expect most adults to succeed where I have failed. Every now and then I come across a student that seems to have also failed at one or all of these things, and the following results in Barbie's English class:
1) A student may respond to my inquiry into her well being by proudly declaring that she's constipated. While the pride probably stems from having learned a new word, the student has failed to appreciate that there are some words you don't share with such nonchalance.
2) Several students may share stories of the good old days, when they used to run behind Pesticide Trucks and inhale deeply. Apparently Pesticide Trucks smell great. And just like that, I never again had to ask that class what had happened to them as children that made them this way.
3) A student may politely inform me that my face is looking a lot better. The student then follows this up by explaining that this is largely because he switched sides so that he no longer has to sit in view of the scary scarred side of my face.
All in all, I have a "Did you really just say that?" moment a couple of times per week. While this is quite the cut back from last year, where I'd be blessed a couple of times per class, the impact of the moment is so much greater when it comes from a fellow so-called adult.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Should Tragedy Ensue...
and the dullness of your scissors makes you blue,
there is a place in Seomyeon just for you:
I found this spot while walking home from Burger King a while ago. This would be the same Burger King that thinks mayonnaise, which is totally a sauce, by the way, belongs on Whoppers. Burger King is wrong.
My horrid display of rhyming and digression into Burger King's folly ways aside, I wonder if people who have never seen ice on the ground find ice skate sharpening facilities as funny as I find "hairdressing scissors sharpening centers"?
there is a place in Seomyeon just for you:
I found this spot while walking home from Burger King a while ago. This would be the same Burger King that thinks mayonnaise, which is totally a sauce, by the way, belongs on Whoppers. Burger King is wrong.
My horrid display of rhyming and digression into Burger King's folly ways aside, I wonder if people who have never seen ice on the ground find ice skate sharpening facilities as funny as I find "hairdressing scissors sharpening centers"?
Monday, February 16, 2009
Seomyeon: Disorder Restored
A few events over the past week and a half have left me assured that Seomyeon is over it's midlife crisis, which involved being broken in an awesome way, and returned to just being broken.
First, they've been ripping up the intersection in front of my apartment. At 2am. Because if 2am isn't a good time to do really loud construction, when is? In spite of my obvious noise complaints, I'm going to concede that this particular event actually makes sense. Due to the many ways in which Seomyeon is broken - disasterous pedestrian and motor traffic, illogically connected roadways - there is simply no way that they could rip that intersection up during the day. Having said that, I suppose it's even possible that they do this in Toronto and New York City. Do they? I have no idea. Still. I refuse to overlook the fact that they're doing really loud construction in the middle of the city at 2am. This strikes me as an inconvenient irritant, no matter the location.
Second, it takes me exactly 5 minutes longer to get to work after dinner if I don't violently elbow at least three people in the neck. I don't aim for the neck, that's just the way it works out. I'm tall. If I don't violently elbow anybody in the neck on my way to work, I'm twice as likely to end up shoved down a flight of stairs. Given that I'm perfectly good at falling down the stairs all by myself, I think that I'll pass on this opportunity.
Finally, on my way to work the other morning I saw one guy pissing on a store front and another one puking over the curb. This was all within a one block span. Needless to say, a day where you witness both public pissing and puking before 7am is bound to be awesome.
Broken Seomyeon is far more entertaining and less confusing than Unbroken Seomyeon.
First, they've been ripping up the intersection in front of my apartment. At 2am. Because if 2am isn't a good time to do really loud construction, when is? In spite of my obvious noise complaints, I'm going to concede that this particular event actually makes sense. Due to the many ways in which Seomyeon is broken - disasterous pedestrian and motor traffic, illogically connected roadways - there is simply no way that they could rip that intersection up during the day. Having said that, I suppose it's even possible that they do this in Toronto and New York City. Do they? I have no idea. Still. I refuse to overlook the fact that they're doing really loud construction in the middle of the city at 2am. This strikes me as an inconvenient irritant, no matter the location.
Second, it takes me exactly 5 minutes longer to get to work after dinner if I don't violently elbow at least three people in the neck. I don't aim for the neck, that's just the way it works out. I'm tall. If I don't violently elbow anybody in the neck on my way to work, I'm twice as likely to end up shoved down a flight of stairs. Given that I'm perfectly good at falling down the stairs all by myself, I think that I'll pass on this opportunity.
Finally, on my way to work the other morning I saw one guy pissing on a store front and another one puking over the curb. This was all within a one block span. Needless to say, a day where you witness both public pissing and puking before 7am is bound to be awesome.
Broken Seomyeon is far more entertaining and less confusing than Unbroken Seomyeon.
Its Not Always About You Korea. Again.
If you hate Korea so much, why don't you just leave?
This is a profoundly stupid question.
I've seen it not only on my blog, but hundreds of times over on Dave's ESL Forums. Every time that I see this question, my brain swells in horror. Everybody that I've ever been involved with purposely pops their collar; I was already quite dumb enough, thanks. The students and business folk of Busan are counting on Barbie to have a functioning brain. The further that you lower her intelligence by asking questions such as this, the less likely she is to remember her native tongue. Given that she already struggles to spell "ambulance" correctly and regularly speaks in the third person, this is problematic.
This question is stupid for at least two reasons (and probably many more, but I have an ice pack and The Office waiting for me):
First of all, with very few exceptions, Korea does not make people miserable. Occasionally miserable folk come to Korea, where they remain miserable. Korea is not a magic misery removing elixir. Arriving at Incheon airport doesn't suddenly make you a more interesting, better looking, jovial individual with killer wit. Conversely, awesome people don't suddenly become less awesome because they started eating kimchi. If you sucked prior to Korea, there is a good chance that you're going to suck here, too. To ask why these people don't just leave Korea is to miss the entire fucking point.
Second, being critical about the place that you live is not the same thing as hating it. It pains me to think that there are actually people older than 8 can't distinguish between the two. Criticism is healthy. Lacking the ability to handle criticism with grace is not. Disagreeing with criticism is healthy. Curling up into fetal position and screaming loudly, without bothering to directly address said criticism, is neither healthy nor productive.
Once again: it's not always about you, Korea. Really, it's not. Chill out.
This is a profoundly stupid question.
I've seen it not only on my blog, but hundreds of times over on Dave's ESL Forums. Every time that I see this question, my brain swells in horror. Everybody that I've ever been involved with purposely pops their collar; I was already quite dumb enough, thanks. The students and business folk of Busan are counting on Barbie to have a functioning brain. The further that you lower her intelligence by asking questions such as this, the less likely she is to remember her native tongue. Given that she already struggles to spell "ambulance" correctly and regularly speaks in the third person, this is problematic.
This question is stupid for at least two reasons (and probably many more, but I have an ice pack and The Office waiting for me):
First of all, with very few exceptions, Korea does not make people miserable. Occasionally miserable folk come to Korea, where they remain miserable. Korea is not a magic misery removing elixir. Arriving at Incheon airport doesn't suddenly make you a more interesting, better looking, jovial individual with killer wit. Conversely, awesome people don't suddenly become less awesome because they started eating kimchi. If you sucked prior to Korea, there is a good chance that you're going to suck here, too. To ask why these people don't just leave Korea is to miss the entire fucking point.
Second, being critical about the place that you live is not the same thing as hating it. It pains me to think that there are actually people older than 8 can't distinguish between the two. Criticism is healthy. Lacking the ability to handle criticism with grace is not. Disagreeing with criticism is healthy. Curling up into fetal position and screaming loudly, without bothering to directly address said criticism, is neither healthy nor productive.
Once again: it's not always about you, Korea. Really, it's not. Chill out.
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