Update: That picture should have actually taken you to flickr. But it didn't. Because I'm a tool and wrote the link wrong. Doh.
July 10, 2009
Tell me something I don't already know.
Update: That picture should have actually taken you to flickr. But it didn't. Because I'm a tool and wrote the link wrong. Doh.
July 9, 2009
Drinking with Koreans: A Prose in Verse.
I. The evening begins slowly. Joyful. People are together, laughing and eating merrily. Each with their own innocence. A variety of side-dishes line the table ranging in size and texture from jellies to vegetables to scrambled eggs and soups. There is a sense of celebration, mirth and glee simply because friends are together, enjoying each other's company and good food. And then, as if out of nowhere, the waitress approaches with a small green bottle, a ring of light glowing off of it like a sacred idol, it's Soju. Without hesitation or objection, one of the Koreans happily accepts the bottle, as if in slow motion, twists the green cap and it crackles as it opens. As the cap is removed from the neck of the bottle, flowers and butterflies and the sound of birds tweeting escapes the mouth in a psychedelic stream of amazingness. Shot glasses have been delivered along with the bottle and they've been distributed around the table. No one is exempt. With the polite eloquence, the recipient of the bottle offers drink to others who, with equal gaiety and both hands cupping the glass, receive the drink and it it set down in front of them. Smiles abound. With ease, the inaugural bottle is finished. The first cheers of the evening brings commotion as everyone leans in to the table and indiscriminately wishes good health and happiness to all at the table. Small tips are taken from the glasses. It goes down like water. The eating continues.
II. The second shot has come and gone, going down much the same as the first. Nothing is left of the side dishes except for empty dishes and the odd scrap of this or that. In the middle of the table, the grill that cooked chopped bits of pork is grease covered and burnt. Every smells of smoke, sizzled themselves. The badass at the table calls out to the waitress for another bottle. When the shots are poured this time, things have taken a turn, there is a look in his eye, it's not a kiddy's game anymore. One shot, Korean for all or nothing. The game players are separated from the observers. To do one shot now is to make or break social status in the group. To refuse shows weakness. To pass means failure. Even pregnant women put this one back. Everyone eyes each other. Glasses will be check. Hesitantly, the glasses are raised. Brought together. Clink. Some toast in English, others in Korean. Cheers and "t[ch]ombay!" And down. Glasses hit the table, a peacocking. Hisses and groans. Then laughter. More food. Meat. A scarified porker.
III. A piglet has been consumed, easily. Half of the third bottle has passed through figuratively, the first and second, literally. It's become an alpha's game. The weaker stomachs have gone or watch with cautious delight. Those who continue vie to pour for the most senior member at the table, seeking their adoration. The number of shots becomes uncountable, it's a race to consume. A grave yard of bottles stand solemnly, fallen soldiers, collecting where the weaker stomachs used to sit. The proceedings are like a gaytard of baboons clambering together, battling over the last melon or fish. Participants appear and disappear and reappear, empty blattered. Debate ensues about which of the women at the table is the most beautiful, with each of them fawning and denying compliments. This is how scandal is started. There is talk of moving to a new locale. The current place has become stagnant and the help is becoming annoyed. There is some staggering, an argument about who will pay the bill and commotion outside. [ End Round One ]
IV. The second bar is smaller, specializing in bar snacks and swamp water. Others, on the same kind of excursion away from normalcy, gather together at the same watering hole. Beer has come into the mix. Hesitation lingers but inhibition is quickly moving in and making itself at home. The pouring becomes like a free flowing river, the flood gates have been opened. Ettiquette is no longer of any consequence. Politeness was left at the dinner table. The last of the weaker stomachs took leaving the first venue has an opportunity to make a break. Only the strong have prevailed and have moved onto the second round. Soju and beer stand together, lovers in a dangerous time. They mix together in the inactive volcano of the stomach and churn, churn until the heat begins to rise. The magma swells but is kept at bay with peanuts and corn chips. Someone orders fried chicken, a plate of dried octopus, some more scrambled eggs, an enormous fruit platter with apples, oranges, mangoes, brown bananas and soggy strawberries. Bottles of beer come in threes and fours. Charge account.
V. It is no longer a meeting of coworkers, a gathering of friends, the group is a family, a tribe. The most conservative of the clan is first to fall. Their reticence went by the wayside hours ago and they quickly became the prominent pusher of drink, chastising those who lagged behind. They have also become the spokesperson for the group, summoning the barmaid, calling to the liquor Gods, praising shot after shot. They also control the conversation. The subject becomes serious. Complaints and grievances come before a court of inebriated jurors and the pusher is the mediator. Resolutions are gradual, uneasily forthcoming. Someone relents. Disputes are resolved with another shot. Smiles, handshakes, salutes, hugs and the occasional kiss. Personal space is a luxury. The time spent here, at this second spot is short. The turnover is rampant once court is adjourned. Eyes are hazy, bloodshot, speech is becoming muzzled. Everyone has marbles in their mouths.
VI. Staggering has become a complete stumble. Feet barely come off the ground. No one knows who paid the bill but the leader has fallen, fatally wounded and needs to be carried. They have fought a valiant fight but were not match of the enemy. They are hoisted, ceremoniously, onto the back of the strongest man and are carried out of the second venue with a hero's parade. [ End Round Two ]
VII. The glorious leader has been set adrift. A taxi driver, paid extra, has been given the task of assuring they make it home safely. There is some discussion, a memorial. The remaining few, having elected a new chief, are on a hunt. Strolling, arm in arm, there is an occasional pause. A bathroom break in an ally, vomit behind a car. There are cheers for recovery. Everyone is a rockstar. Someone has left something behind: their bag, a coat, a cell phone. They disappear without announcement. Another member notices their absence but already ten minutes have passed. Maybe fifteen, or twenty. Survival of the fittest.
VIII. Through history, tribes have practiced ceremonies reverence. This tribe is no different. In a private room, songs are sung for ninety minutes to the tunes of pop icons and even the most dubious of members are celebrated for their prideful howl. Abba. Madonna. Eninem. The Beach Boys. Janice Joplin. Bohemian Rhapsody is cheered and welcomed and sung in unison. Another warrior has fallen - asleep - in their chair. Their head bobs back and forth and their eyes open to remember where they are. The medic of the tribe has taken to care of them. But, as in many wars in history, the medic, vulnerable and unarmed, is quick to plummet. An order is placed for more beer. When it arrives, it doesn't glow as the first bottle of Soju had. Instead, some are repulsed by the sheer sight of it. Two or three partake. With trepidation.
IX. The mood is somber. No one speaks. The others that have fallen are carried out, numb in the neck. There are no winners in this game. As the tribe disperses in their own directions, each has their own story to tell and each will become a legend in their own right. Some will feel pain, others sorrow and regret. Others will go on to be fruitful, healthy and unharmed. Regardless, they will share their tales. And a common bond.
II. The second shot has come and gone, going down much the same as the first. Nothing is left of the side dishes except for empty dishes and the odd scrap of this or that. In the middle of the table, the grill that cooked chopped bits of pork is grease covered and burnt. Every smells of smoke, sizzled themselves. The badass at the table calls out to the waitress for another bottle. When the shots are poured this time, things have taken a turn, there is a look in his eye, it's not a kiddy's game anymore. One shot, Korean for all or nothing. The game players are separated from the observers. To do one shot now is to make or break social status in the group. To refuse shows weakness. To pass means failure. Even pregnant women put this one back. Everyone eyes each other. Glasses will be check. Hesitantly, the glasses are raised. Brought together. Clink. Some toast in English, others in Korean. Cheers and "t[ch]ombay!" And down. Glasses hit the table, a peacocking. Hisses and groans. Then laughter. More food. Meat. A scarified porker.
III. A piglet has been consumed, easily. Half of the third bottle has passed through figuratively, the first and second, literally. It's become an alpha's game. The weaker stomachs have gone or watch with cautious delight. Those who continue vie to pour for the most senior member at the table, seeking their adoration. The number of shots becomes uncountable, it's a race to consume. A grave yard of bottles stand solemnly, fallen soldiers, collecting where the weaker stomachs used to sit. The proceedings are like a gaytard of baboons clambering together, battling over the last melon or fish. Participants appear and disappear and reappear, empty blattered. Debate ensues about which of the women at the table is the most beautiful, with each of them fawning and denying compliments. This is how scandal is started. There is talk of moving to a new locale. The current place has become stagnant and the help is becoming annoyed. There is some staggering, an argument about who will pay the bill and commotion outside. [ End Round One ]
IV. The second bar is smaller, specializing in bar snacks and swamp water. Others, on the same kind of excursion away from normalcy, gather together at the same watering hole. Beer has come into the mix. Hesitation lingers but inhibition is quickly moving in and making itself at home. The pouring becomes like a free flowing river, the flood gates have been opened. Ettiquette is no longer of any consequence. Politeness was left at the dinner table. The last of the weaker stomachs took leaving the first venue has an opportunity to make a break. Only the strong have prevailed and have moved onto the second round. Soju and beer stand together, lovers in a dangerous time. They mix together in the inactive volcano of the stomach and churn, churn until the heat begins to rise. The magma swells but is kept at bay with peanuts and corn chips. Someone orders fried chicken, a plate of dried octopus, some more scrambled eggs, an enormous fruit platter with apples, oranges, mangoes, brown bananas and soggy strawberries. Bottles of beer come in threes and fours. Charge account.
V. It is no longer a meeting of coworkers, a gathering of friends, the group is a family, a tribe. The most conservative of the clan is first to fall. Their reticence went by the wayside hours ago and they quickly became the prominent pusher of drink, chastising those who lagged behind. They have also become the spokesperson for the group, summoning the barmaid, calling to the liquor Gods, praising shot after shot. They also control the conversation. The subject becomes serious. Complaints and grievances come before a court of inebriated jurors and the pusher is the mediator. Resolutions are gradual, uneasily forthcoming. Someone relents. Disputes are resolved with another shot. Smiles, handshakes, salutes, hugs and the occasional kiss. Personal space is a luxury. The time spent here, at this second spot is short. The turnover is rampant once court is adjourned. Eyes are hazy, bloodshot, speech is becoming muzzled. Everyone has marbles in their mouths.
VI. Staggering has become a complete stumble. Feet barely come off the ground. No one knows who paid the bill but the leader has fallen, fatally wounded and needs to be carried. They have fought a valiant fight but were not match of the enemy. They are hoisted, ceremoniously, onto the back of the strongest man and are carried out of the second venue with a hero's parade. [ End Round Two ]
VII. The glorious leader has been set adrift. A taxi driver, paid extra, has been given the task of assuring they make it home safely. There is some discussion, a memorial. The remaining few, having elected a new chief, are on a hunt. Strolling, arm in arm, there is an occasional pause. A bathroom break in an ally, vomit behind a car. There are cheers for recovery. Everyone is a rockstar. Someone has left something behind: their bag, a coat, a cell phone. They disappear without announcement. Another member notices their absence but already ten minutes have passed. Maybe fifteen, or twenty. Survival of the fittest.
VIII. Through history, tribes have practiced ceremonies reverence. This tribe is no different. In a private room, songs are sung for ninety minutes to the tunes of pop icons and even the most dubious of members are celebrated for their prideful howl. Abba. Madonna. Eninem. The Beach Boys. Janice Joplin. Bohemian Rhapsody is cheered and welcomed and sung in unison. Another warrior has fallen - asleep - in their chair. Their head bobs back and forth and their eyes open to remember where they are. The medic of the tribe has taken to care of them. But, as in many wars in history, the medic, vulnerable and unarmed, is quick to plummet. An order is placed for more beer. When it arrives, it doesn't glow as the first bottle of Soju had. Instead, some are repulsed by the sheer sight of it. Two or three partake. With trepidation.
IX. The mood is somber. No one speaks. The others that have fallen are carried out, numb in the neck. There are no winners in this game. As the tribe disperses in their own directions, each has their own story to tell and each will become a legend in their own right. Some will feel pain, others sorrow and regret. Others will go on to be fruitful, healthy and unharmed. Regardless, they will share their tales. And a common bond.
[ End ]
July 8, 2009
How do Men Design Their Blogs?
It would seem, they don't.
In roaming around the net trying to find my design muse, I've tried to look to my blogosphere brothers for some inspiration but as it appears, most male bloggers have opted to remain neutral about changing the provided template of their blogs. For the most part, male bloggers, when they do edit their layout, maintain a more minimalistic approach. There's a lot of white space out there on the Internet and it's being produced by my brethern. It would seem that when it comes to design and building something that is asthetically pleasing, it's you women, especially all you lovely mommy bloggers, who have taken a shine to producing something that looks good.
Men, as in life, re-produced on the web: simple creatures. Perhaps it's time for a revolution.
In roaming around the net trying to find my design muse, I've tried to look to my blogosphere brothers for some inspiration but as it appears, most male bloggers have opted to remain neutral about changing the provided template of their blogs. For the most part, male bloggers, when they do edit their layout, maintain a more minimalistic approach. There's a lot of white space out there on the Internet and it's being produced by my brethern. It would seem that when it comes to design and building something that is asthetically pleasing, it's you women, especially all you lovely mommy bloggers, who have taken a shine to producing something that looks good.
Men, as in life, re-produced on the web: simple creatures. Perhaps it's time for a revolution.
Grace in Small Things Part 29 of 365
1. Really soft bread. I really hate it when bread gets so hard that when you make a sandwich, and then you eat it, which is typically what you do with sandwiches, it's like you're biting into a crouton at which point I'm like, "Man, peanut butter would go great on some croutons."
2. Robin. I mean Batman's Robin. Whenever I think about how shit life is, I think about Robin and about how he lost his parents in a circus accident and how crappy it must be to be Batman's sidekick: to be kidnapped all the time and be the bait and be helpless and need Batman come and save your ass. On top of that, Batman gets all the chicks and even has one name herself after him. No woman ever named herself Robingirl. That's pretty shiity.
3. Redesigning this blog. Avid readers will notice that the layout of Traveling Circus doesn't stay the same for more than a couple days, if a week and that's because of my OCD. This blog allows me to work on something, change it and seek perfection and because I have this as an outlet, I don't lose my concentration on things like preparing lesson plans at school, teaching, etc. So, I appreciate all of your patience when it comes to the fact that I change things around almost every day.
4. Sound advice from your mom. [I don't mean that as in like a "your mom" joke although if you read it like that, it's pretty funny; if it was like, "Hey, who gave you that advice?" "You mom! Booyah bitch!"
5. Planning a trip to Vietnam for a week at the end of the month.
P.S. So, just out of curiosity I went and looked up Robin on Wikipedia and everybody knows that Robin's real name is Dick Grayson. What people don't know is that there were actually four Robins and that Dick Grayson was actually the first and the latest Robin is Bruce Wayne's son, Damian.
P.P.S. I have just read that Bruce Wayne is actually dead and that Dick Grayson, who was the first Robin is the new Batman and Bruce's son is Robin. DUDE, THE BATMAN UNIVERSE HAS BEEN TURNED ON IT'S HEAD! Next thing that's going to happen is it's going to come out that Catwoman is a transvestite and she and Poison Ivy are having some weird cat-weed hybrid baby.
P.P.P.S. But if it turned out that Catwoman and Poison Ivy were lesbians, I'd be okay with that.
2. Robin. I mean Batman's Robin. Whenever I think about how shit life is, I think about Robin and about how he lost his parents in a circus accident and how crappy it must be to be Batman's sidekick: to be kidnapped all the time and be the bait and be helpless and need Batman come and save your ass. On top of that, Batman gets all the chicks and even has one name herself after him. No woman ever named herself Robingirl. That's pretty shiity.
3. Redesigning this blog. Avid readers will notice that the layout of Traveling Circus doesn't stay the same for more than a couple days, if a week and that's because of my OCD. This blog allows me to work on something, change it and seek perfection and because I have this as an outlet, I don't lose my concentration on things like preparing lesson plans at school, teaching, etc. So, I appreciate all of your patience when it comes to the fact that I change things around almost every day.
4. Sound advice from your mom. [I don't mean that as in like a "your mom" joke although if you read it like that, it's pretty funny; if it was like, "Hey, who gave you that advice?" "You mom! Booyah bitch!"
5. Planning a trip to Vietnam for a week at the end of the month.
P.S. So, just out of curiosity I went and looked up Robin on Wikipedia and everybody knows that Robin's real name is Dick Grayson. What people don't know is that there were actually four Robins and that Dick Grayson was actually the first and the latest Robin is Bruce Wayne's son, Damian.
P.P.S. I have just read that Bruce Wayne is actually dead and that Dick Grayson, who was the first Robin is the new Batman and Bruce's son is Robin. DUDE, THE BATMAN UNIVERSE HAS BEEN TURNED ON IT'S HEAD! Next thing that's going to happen is it's going to come out that Catwoman is a transvestite and she and Poison Ivy are having some weird cat-weed hybrid baby.
P.P.P.S. But if it turned out that Catwoman and Poison Ivy were lesbians, I'd be okay with that.
July 6, 2009
Grace in Small Things Part 28 of 365
1. Relief from this heat. I swear to God that I've lost like a million pounds just from sweating. I used to look like (this) and now I look like (this). My thighs are like waterfalls. I don't mean that in a perverted way. I could have just as easily said that my forehead is like a waterfall but it's not. Truly, my thighs.
2. Richard Dreyfuss. But not Jaws Richard Dreyfuss. Like, Mr. Holland's Opus Richard Dreyfuss. And definitely not Dick Cheney Richard Dreyfuss Richard Dreyfuss. Stupid friggin' Dick Cheney Richard Dreyfuss.
3. Barbequed anything. I swear to God that I don't care what it is, if it's barbequed I'll eat it. It could be barbequed epileptic canary and I totally eat it. It's being away from something for so long and than having it one time that messes you up and you're like "Oh my God, I forgot how good real barbeque was."
4. Koreans with initial names.
5. Anyone who, when being challenged, would say, before their mother or their child or their grandmother or whomever, "I swear on the life of your Chihuahua."
2. Richard Dreyfuss. But not Jaws Richard Dreyfuss. Like, Mr. Holland's Opus Richard Dreyfuss. And definitely not Dick Cheney Richard Dreyfuss Richard Dreyfuss. Stupid friggin' Dick Cheney Richard Dreyfuss.
3. Barbequed anything. I swear to God that I don't care what it is, if it's barbequed I'll eat it. It could be barbequed epileptic canary and I totally eat it. It's being away from something for so long and than having it one time that messes you up and you're like "Oh my God, I forgot how good real barbeque was."
4. Koreans with initial names.
5. Anyone who, when being challenged, would say, before their mother or their child or their grandmother or whomever, "I swear on the life of your Chihuahua."
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