Cattle Skin

OK. Slats.

We are tying our kismet to the nuclear ink blot. The moon is the color of a fat dudes face having a heart attack. The wind is as shrill as the the screeeeeeching belts of a poor car that is tortured by cold weather.

All my rowdy friends have settled down. Except for one, who I rarely hear from, but could just as easily be repairing an oil pipeline in Azerbaijan as sticking a banana in an anteater's ass.

The last time I posted this I did some editing and somehow managed to completely destroy the format. So I took it down. Here it is again.

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In a few hours I’ll begin my Chinese odyssey. Chris and I will be arriving in Shangers a man down, as Steve will not be joining us on this preliminary stage. Earlier this month it dawned on Steve that his passport would need to be renewed before he could secure a new work visa here in Korea. He arranged for a super rush job that has worked somewhat, but not without a few snags. If it’s possible for him to join us in Shanghai then great, otherwise we expect to rendezvous in Xian. From there we travel to Golmud and this is precisely the point in our journey were my imagination stops functioning. The places beyond Golmud are utter mysteries; there is no stock imagery I can retrieve to help me speculate. It will be hot, this I know. The good and the bad about this trip is the near complete lack of expectation. It could turn out to be woeful slog through a hot and bleak desert; grumpy and disenfranchised Uygurs could kidnap us and feed us to their mongrel pups. I’m not worried about it being boring, but maybe a bit about it totally sucking ass.

A very rough itinerary here:


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We received our Chinese VISA’s today. I’m eminently stoked and eager to unearth ancient relics in the worlds largest kingdom of forgotten asbestos mines.

It’s been raining all night; being the first day of the monsoon season it seems a fitting day for the rain to fall. I have a hole in the sole of my left shoe so when I walk around outside my foot gets wet. This, in spite of the piece of duct tape I covered the hole with a few weeks back. Nowadays that piece of duct tape is little more than a layer of glue. I also bought another umbrella today because I can’t seem to keep an umbrella for more than one storm. Off the top of my head, right now, I estimate that I've lost around 35 umbrellas since I arrived in Korea. I figure if each umbrella costs an average of eight dollars I could have feasibly built an Umbrella Bridge all the way to Barbecue Land by now.

The spring semester is winding down. In August I plan to traipse through a bleak swath of western China to Kyrgyzstan with my colleague and office mate Showbiz Chris Tharp, my spirit horse Angry Steve Feldman, and perhaps even Caf will accompany us part of the way. I’m really excited for this trip, although I’m aware it has the potential to be riddled with moments of purified suck. I foresee mangled plans triggering unsatisfying tantrums and semi-clumpy rivulets of poo tracing down an unfortunate’s leg at a vulnerable moment.

The trip's itinerary is still inchoate so I’m not sure how much of the devastation wrought by the recent wave of earthquakes in China we’ll be able to observe, or how it will affect our plans. I’d like to take the train from Shanghai to Golmud and from Golmud follow the Southern Silk Road, via bus and taxi, to Kashgar, and then punch into Kyrgyzstan through the Torugart Pass.

The Torugart pass is famous for being a dust-choked post apocalyptic checkpoint perched on the top of the world in the middle of nowhere where bearded mountain guards eat radiated dog food and drink bullets. Kyrgyzstan, however, is supposed to be a gorgeous nation relatively unmolested by cheeseburgers and porn studios. My ultimate goal anymore in regards to travel is to go to the few places that haven’t been ruined by the toxic banality of commercial capitalism. Travel is wasted in places where “Girls Gone Wild” videos are filmed, or anyplace where the laughter of children can be heard.

If you’re from the US then you probably have no idea that Korea is in the process of resuming beef imports from America. Beef imports from the US were halted in Korea after beef officials detected a madly infected cow somewhere in America. Along with this they’ve also relaxed strict standards on what kind of cuts (no brains or spinal columns) and the age of the cattle being imported (younger than 30 months). However, with a new evil looking pro-American president, and looming FTA talks, the Korean government has reconsidered its narrow stance in this bathroom stall of diplomacy. So a few weeks ago a Korean news program, citing scientific sources, claimed Koreans, due to a genetic predisposition, are at a vastly higher risk than are white people of contracting mad cow disease. Many Koreans actually believe such bullshit. Almost daily there are demonstrations with thousands of people wearing evil cow masks and shouting anti-America deadly beef slogans. One Korean pop star was quoted as saying that she would rather eat poison than American beef. Fair enough, I would rather listen to her vomiting blood clot than listen to her music. Anyway, it’s old-world-hocus-pocus-witchcraft-superstition that Koreans so often exhibit when they are unwilling to be reasonable.

Been a bit uninspired lately. Sadly, my love affair with Jewel Quest has come to an undramatic conclusion. I tried to play today and there was no élan anymore, it’s as if what we once had never existed. Hopefully the new cell phone I bought today will help fill the void Jewel Quest’s absence has wrought.

Hate to be a downer, but the world is coming to an end, I’m basically sure of it at this stage. There's a global food crisis, oil prices are exploding, China is killing monks, the Austrian, Myanmar. So to help buoy your spirits in such bleak times, some Korean humor for your enjoyment.

On the internet today I read a story about 18 pork plant workers in the midwest who appear to have contracted a mysterious neurological disorder while removing brains form slaughtered pigs.

I quote: “The first cases of the condition were reported in November of last year at Quality Pork Processors Inc in Austin, Minnesota, where workers had been using compressed air to blow pork brains out of the skull cavity.”

The story goes on to explain that tiny bits of airborne pork brain enter the employee’s blood stream through their butt holes. It is believed this process triggers an abnormal neurological reaction causing the immune system to attack healthy nerve cells. Workers at Quality Pork Processors have been complaining of inflamed spinal columns, numbness and tingling in their extremities, and brackish discharge.

This is clearly another black eye for the notoriously inhumane compressed air industry.

Congratulations to Chris Tharp and I for winning today. I won my NCAA tournament bracket which guarantees me a few hundo, and Chris won the The Pulitzer Prize for Online Travel Writing for his piece about riding through Laos on a really shitty motorcycle. It's really good, and if you haven't read it you should check it out. I was perimetrically involved (meaning not at all, but I met him and his dysentery immediatly after in Phnom Phen) with the trip that incited the story, and later, back in Korea, I watched him write it. It was back in the wake of Babopalooza when I was homeless after having just lost my job and livliehood. I was crashing at his pad for a few days before I returned to the States. I remember him spending a few days hammering away while I laid on his floor hungover with unbelievably large sheets of dead skin sluffing off my back from a deep sunburn.

Here's the link since I can't seem to anchor it.

http://travelerstales.com/carpet/002550.shtml

I don't mind when twats like this create bad press for Idaho.  I really don't.

The dust from the Gobi desert has arrived. It blows in this time of year and covers Pusan in a yellow haze of dust and radiation. I bag on Asia sometimes for being poor stewards of the environment, but no one is worse than the lazy fat-cat Americans with their tanks and their bombs.

Yesterday morning when I checked into the infinitesimal nook of the blog-o-shpere I inhabit I read no less than 10 different pieces commemorating the passing of Gary Gygax, co-creator of the role playing game Dungeons and Dragons. I knew right away that Gygax would inflame the planes of Gilweth. I anticipated, and, was not disappointed with the posts that conjured spells and mustered hit-points to ressurect this fallen idol. For lo! Those were the days of imagination, pewter figurines, high adventure, and the horrible dread of knowing your diamond-hard, vertical erection will never be able to conform to a woman’s anatomy. I knew the death of Gary Gygax was a veritable powder keg. The shit went down on the Internets yesterday. Yesterday, is a day we will never forget.

A colleague took over one of the classes I’ve been teaching for the last month, so now my work week clocks in at just under 3 hours a week. It sounds like a dream come true but I’m having a hard time coming up with constructive ways to spend my time. Today I played Jewel Quest in my office for about 4 hours, and then I walked home by a river full of sewage.

I’ve mentioned my neighbors before, the ineffectual fecktards who have a thing for keeping their doors open and listening to gaylord music. Last Saturday I came home at about 1 in the morning to find 50 or so similarly lame plugholes acting like college kids trying to be cool hanging out in the common area outside my apartment. What could I do? I joined the party and out drank all of them.

I need a hobby. This 3-hour workweek boredom shit is for the birds.

I was happy to see Korean television has picked up “Flavor of Love Girls: Charm School” one of VH1’s finest creations. A spin-off of “Flavor of Love” (season 2) in which 13 contestants compete for Flavor Flav’s hand in marriage. Basically, a bunch of foul mouthed huge-slat-titted inner city skanks vie for Flav’s flavor. Trash TV at its nadir. If ever there were a show that perpetuates the stereotype of a certain brand of American women as trashy bimbos, this is it. The biggest offender is of course internet porn.

There's a debate among some men as to which domain in life the Internet has expanded more: porn or fantasy sports. Fantasy sports hardly existed before the Internet, so its status is enhanced to a greater degree I think. Of course there is porn, and it's always been around, but not so near the surface of mainstream culture.

Offshoots of internet porn have given rise to disturbing phenomenon like Goetse (If you’re my mother stop reading now); a picture of a naked man pulling his anus apart to expose the chancrous red of his inner rectum. Dangling beneath his gaping anus is his semi flaccid penis and lop-sided scrotum. (Seriously, right now) Then there is the even more revolting “Two Girls one Cup” where two girls shit in a cup and eat it, barf on each other, then lick the green barf off their girlfriend's barf sodden tits. This video swept through Pusan like a nasty venereal disease and was all the rage for about a week. I watched it and still gag when I think of one scene in particular where the blond girl playfully nudges a piece of poop in her mouth with her tongue. I'm pretty sure the crap was actually chocolate mousse. I googled it.

On the other hand I play basketball with a bunch of guys who talk fantasy sports year round. Baseball, basketball, football, hockey, they seem to talk of nothing else. An endless bedlam of stats and percentages merely to say things for the sake of saying things. An excuse to regurgitate meaningless data, a time to reveal the inner pink of their fantasy anus. They’ll say things like: “Tim Duncan is shooting 78% from the foul line this year” someone else will say “I traded Beltran for Ramirez.” Repeat ad absurdum. As if saying anything, no matter the value, is worth saying.

Can’t be arsed with anything right now. My eyeballs ache in their sockets each time I move them from left to right or up or down. I can look straight at something but get me to look at anything out of the corner of my eyes and my eye sockets ache. I’ve been ill for the last two days. I have the weirdest dreams. I feel as though I never truly sleep. My neighbor saw fit to listen to rap music very loudly today, so instead of asking him to turn it down, I went to the breaker switch and cut the power to his room. It took him a while to figure it out, and when he did, I left, needing something other to do than just stew in fever. I took a subway ride down to the end of the line and had a sandwich. Then I came back and ate a cucumber and some black olives. Now I will retreat to my bed where I will dream dreams of glory priests and the honey soaked tundra of the Jufta steppes.

This place, Korea, is dismal in the heart of winter. Some would argue that this place is dismal year round. Some despise this place. But I don’t. The collective Korean consciousness essentially hates foreigners; the whole ghost-like overlord of xenophobia that's impossible to explain without doing any research. Who cares about explaining anyway. Basically you come to Korea and you are an indentured servant. The English teachers have it easy compared to the poorer Asians who come here to work in factories. Think of these poor Thais, or, Filipinos, or, Whatever, migrant workers living this idyllic “Tortilla Flat” sort of existence sitting around in hand-woven hammocks in their simple village talking about fresh fruit and love. Then getting lured to Korea by some wicked snake in a banana tree spinning fantastic tales of wealth. Imagine this unfortunate migrant worker stepping off the airplane in Pusan, horrified and filled with the spirit of nasuea. Their job is to lift something horrible and connect it to a huge ship that will eventually sink. It’s like this every winter.

Yeah, so my new neighbors are lame, as if my living situation could get any worse, I get new neighbors who suck. I live in a weird little place where we all share a sort of communal living room, or entryway. My new neighbors-- two of them, a guy and a girl, each in separate rooms--are in the habit of keeping their doors open when they're home. They knew each other before coming to Korea I think. I can actually hear the girl right now talking about how she needs to check her e-mail. I picture her as the kind of girl who says, “everything happens for a reason” basically every time she needs to explain something away. He probably says it too, but more to fulfill a vague sense of obligation to what he perceives as his personality. They’re in his room. He’s listening to Reggae and probably staring into his computer screen and wearing the same white beanie I saw him wearing yesterday. I imagine they have some sort of personal philosophy about doors. Closing them creates discord, everyone should feel welcome. They talk as though they're boyfriend and girlfriend. Maybe when they leave Korea they’ll get married in Baltimore. He’ll be sterile. So they’ll adopt a Cambodian child. They’ll name her Brianna. Brianna will grow up just like her affectedly eccentric parents and will practice the same annoying habit of leaving her door open. Then while vacationing in Sydney Australia she will be murdered to death by a psychopath. All because her door was open.

The trip was great, really, full of mountains, mist and shit, a wad of good humor and Lord of the Rings jokes, beer, fish, beauty, and a bunch of other shit. Chris Tharp did an admirable job covering it so I’ll refrain from too much exposition. From Auckland we traveled to Queenstown where I drank too much Laphroaig. Met my brother. Then off to the Greenstone for three days of fishing and tramping. Back to Queenstown and then to TeAnau. A change of plans as my brother’s heel turned into pain cheese; so more fishing. After 4 days in TeAnau we headed back to Queenstown where we parted ways with my brother, Joel and Karen. Rented a car and made our way back up to Auckland taking the long way (Fairly, Christchurch, Greymouth—Greymouth, by the way, is a real shithole; Wellington, Taupo) fishing in many rivers along the way (10 rivers, I believe, was the total for the whole trip) and also singing Karaoke on a few occasions. Met a crazy tweaker, and brought in the New Year around a bonfire listening to bagpipes in a town called Fairly on a memorable New Years Eve. Ate repulsive though delicious chilidogs in Christchurch while strange Europeans eyeballed us with their gaunt and sallow, hatred seething Vegan eyes. Stayed in Wellington for three days in Kiwi Craig’s cozy apartment. Then to Taupo and one last round of fishing, although this time in a lake with the aid of a downrigger. Then back to Auckland where we boarded a plane heading for Hong Kong and eventfully here. I’ll tell you it’s good to get back to Asia. Asia is chaos. Stepping off the plane from Auckland to Hong Kong was nice. We got to eat local food and drink local beer at a plastic table at the edge of a rank and steamy alley while all the ugly and pretty moved about doing their things. The problem with English speaking countries is the ceaseless quest to blunt the trauma of living. Everything is zoned and regulated. Can I have a beer over here? Or are the “The Children” going to freak out and become gay-homosexual-gun-toting-drug-addict-satan-worshiping anarchists? The problem with Asia however, is that they’ve dumped a bunch of industrial slime into their lakes and rivers and killed everything.

Me and my esteemed colleague, Chris Tharp, are about to run train on an adventure of a life time. In 5 hours I will board a jet plane headed for Hong-Kong. After a night in Hongers I will board another jet plane heading for New Zealand where we will meet my brother and his esteemed colleagues, and hence begin an epic commune with the Pagan gods of Nature. TOTALLY. FUCKING. STOKED.

I'm not even going to bother explaining this. However, perhaps a quick caveat before viewing is in order: Some may find the following video offensive.