Warning: This Sad Tale Is Not Safe For Children

You'd like to think, hey, it's been a couple of weeks. I bet Steve has an exciting story to tell us about his worldly travels. And, you'd be half correct. I do have a story, but it's not mine and it has nothing to do with worldly travels...or does it?

You may have noticed that there was a YouTube video (perhaps part of the video box is cut off depending on your browser/computer/OS/attitude) located directly above my free poetry. This is a song the students listened to today in my 6th grade class. Watch it first and let me tell you why this is a bad video unfit for childrens' eyes. I'll wait. It's only 1:06. You can handle it.

Are you done? Ok, so, yes, the lyrics (I always considered lyrics to contain some semblence of coherent word choice)are atrocious. That's beside the point. The point is that, in the spand of 30 seconds, this song manages to weave a sad tale of love and deceit that no one should ever experience.

First, imagine, as a mother, you're with your daughter at an amusement park. For all my Virginia peeps, let's say you're at Busch Gardens. You're rocking out, maybe you're in the Germany section, waiting in line for your sixth beer. Your daughter has racked up a few toys and things that cost money you so lovingly spent. You realize the time, that the new season of Survivor starts tonight and you need to get home pretty quickly (does that show even come on anymore?).
     "Nami, (your bastard ex-husband insisted on that traditional Korean name, eventhough he's never even been to Korea and only dated a Korean girl once for a month in college) come here. It's time to go home."  
     You realize that your daughter has more of her indignant father's personality in her than yours when she snaps back, "What time is it?"
     You suppress a tear from the memories and say in a motherly tone, "Four forty. It's four forty."
     You barely finish pronouncing the final "ee" syllable when your whole universe unravels before your very eyes.
     "Not now! No way!" she screams and immediately runs off.
     You feel like you're dreaming...or too drunk to function when you find yourself slurring, "Come back!" instead of chasing after her as any decent mother would do. Your limbs don't work, and all you can do is watch awestruck.
     As you follow her with your eyes, you lose her as three fat yokels choking on a Reese's Pieces Ice-Cream Blast coupled with a strawberry syrupped Belgian waffle block your view of your only child, the reason you survived the divorce, your sun and your stars.  Your heart sinks.
     After three eternities of hopelessness, after you were pretty sure she was halfway to Cairo by now, you see her, but she's not looking where she's going.  Her attention was caught by either the Ice-Cream Blast or the waffle, you don't know, but she's headed for inevitable danger and you can't stop from blurting, "Watch out!" just as she turns to see where she's going. 
     The adrenaline and the fear turn everything to a blur, but you can make out your daughter, stopping just before her face was deep fried in a food stand fryer.  She was literally centimeters away from having a face filet for dinner and she doesn't even realize what she's done.  She's single-handedly destroyed a build up of trust that was a lifetime in the making.  You only took her off her leash three months ago.  How could she be so brash and impulsive?  Would she ever wrap her head around why you will eventually stop going outside, why the TV says only scary things, and why you associate her with the feeling of lies and deceit your cheating husband caringly cultivated from mere seedlings years ago?  Can she even grasp it?  Probably not but suddenly you haven't had enough to drink.

This is the story I was forced to teach my 6th graders today.  A story that probably would have melted my students' faces as well but, like Nami, they were too naive to realize the danger they were in.  We had opened the Ark of the Covenant together, only my students managed to close their eyes before their souls were taken (or maybe they were asleep). 

Before, I was reluctant to say that Korean English education needed reform, but now...

iPhone App Commence!

Hey errybody! I just figured out how to post from my phone! Although if I do this it will be more for pictures...like the one posted...

Whassat? Whasher A-Whay!

What's it been, like a month?  Psh, whatever.  Am I here to tell you about my Halloween excursion to Busan (wherein a friend and I went as Hall and Oates)? No.  Am I here to tell you about the Busan Fireworks Festival (still the greatest fireworks show I've ever seen)?  Nah.  What about my trip to Gyeongju, wherein I experienced a series of interesting events concerning Korean culture (like a Korean band full of traditional instruments covering Beatles songs)? Not even close.

I'm back in action to tell you that Mr. Lee struck again.  I suppose this story requires some background.  Here, listen to this while you read:



It'll make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside whilst I weave a tale.  So for the entire time I"ve been here, my washer has been broken.  I've mentioned it on this blog before.  At first, I thought I was doing something wrong.  Barely able to read Korean, I thought there must be some magic button I should push to fix everything that was going wrong whenever I did laundry.  I eventually had my co-teacher come to my apartment and explain to me how to do laundry like a special needs third grader.  I thought the problem was fixed.  That was certainly not the case.  It wouldn't spin, instead opting to make a loud grunting sound as though to say, "Hey, I'm tryin' but I just ate sixteen chalupas from Taco Bell and I ain't movin' cause I can't get up from my Lazy Boy.  Plus the game's on, how you gonna do that to a brotha?"  I knew it was time to say something.

Unfortunately for me, I mentioned my problem after the 30 day grace period stipulated on my contract.  After day 30 of living in my domicile, whatever went wrong with furniture, appliances, or infrastructure was my problem.  This was reinforced by my co-teacher who was apologetic, but basically restated the contract and said I'd have to fix my washing machine if I wanted it to work.  Well, I wasn't going to spend money on a washing machine in some weird Asian country, so for the next year and eight months I washed my clothes in a broken machine, pretending it got them clean.

The actual results varied.  All my white shirts have faded to some dull gray, sometimes the smells of my clothes was a little funny (works great when talking to women), sometimes mystery stains that weren't present when I put the article into the washing machine appeared, and it couldn't even entertain the thought of washing bedsheets.  I couldn't wait to go on vacation so that I could use a real washing machine and a dryer so my clothes would at least be clean twice a year. 

"You're an idiot, Steve," you might say (and rightfully so), "why not just go to a laundromat or dry cleaner to take care of your dirty work?"  Good question, and I like your use of puns.  Well, laundromats don't exist here as far as I know, and I...have this strange phobia of a certain style of Korean shops.  The dry cleaner by my apartment was such a shop.  You step into someone's living quarters that doubles as their shop; a one or two room shack, if you will.  You'll interrupt them eating, sleeping, watching TV, and the living conditions leave something to be desired and you're surprised that something this third world still exists in Korea and you feel guilty about simply being American.  So, besides partially doubting the ability of said dry cleaner to make my clothes clean in questionable conditions, I developed an irrational fear of the establishment itself. 

Is the song over yet?  If it is, play this one, damn you.  It's magical and I'm a moodsmith. 



Ahem, fast forward to about two weeks ago.  I casually mention to my co-teacher how my washing machine is broken in the context of a conversation (not expecting anything to come of it, more explaining why I smell like rotten vegetables every day instead of a snuggle bear).  We go through the whole shabang, "Why didn't you say something about it before?" "I did about a year and a half ago." Blah blah blah. 

This time, the reception was different.  They asked the vice principal and he said the school would pay to get it fixed.  I guess holding a bit of tenure carries some weight (oohhhhh, I get the song choice now...but what's that first one about?).  I was walking on sunshine.  The next step was to call the Daewoo Service Center and get someone to take a look see at me washer.  That involved me pulling some Catherine Zeta-Jones stunts from the movie Entrapment (co-starring Sean Connery) and getting in behind my washing machine to read the faded number off the back panel.  Flash fast forward to Monday (yesterday) when Daewoo Dude finally shows up to my apartment wherein I am patiently waiting with my coteacher.  He takes one look at my machine and says what I can only assume is the equivalent of, "Sumbitch got a brokin gear.  Gon' costya hundert n' thirty, easy."  (Why do all repairmen have this accent?  God only knows...) "Futhamore," he adds, "Ya owe me fifteen bucks fer the consultation visit."  Guess what we paid? 

ZERO.  BAM! Enter Mr. Lee who doesn't like service technicians getting all up in his property without his prior knowledge/consent (for those of you absent from previous adventures of the World Class Flaneur, Mr. Lee is my landlord.  Very kind, Christian man who possesses no English and equally as much tact).  He says a bunch of stuff, Daewoo Dude says a bunch of stuff, my coteacher says a bunch of stuff and it goes on like this for five minutes.  Then everyone leaves, myself last.

"What happened?" I ask, innocently.  "Your landlord will change your washer."  "Mr. Lee strikes again," I whisper....

Microscopic fast forward to when I get home at 4:45.  Things are slightly out of place and I guessed Mr. Lee had been doing some work in there.  I walk to the bathroom and, lo and behold, not only do I have a washer that is clearly an upgrade, Mr. Lee also cleaned my entire bathroom.  Now, I admit, it was getting a little nasty in there.  Mold had been creeping up and spiders had made my bathroom their nesting den of Satan.  Even still, cleaning my entire bathroom was well above and beyond a landlord's call of duty.  Especially since I was totallyplanningondoingit before I moved out. 

The...I'm going to go with...funniest part?  He used my painting rag to clean it.  My painting rag with all the dried paint on it (and some wet paint) that was being used for my painting.  Now it's all wet...

But, I certainly can't complain and completely should thank him and take him out to dinner or something.  No telling how many questionable hairs he found in there.