Cattle Skin

Thu, 22 Jan 2009 19:33:00 GMT

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.

Shanghai to Kashgar and Back Again

Tue, 16 Dec 2008 15:06:14 GMT

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.

Chris and I stepped off the plane at Pudong airport in Shanghai and were slapped with Shanghai's brand of sickening mid-summer heat. Our mutual friend Lili met us at the airport accompanied by her cow-worker, Samson. Lili is an elfin, whip smart Chinese dame with short cropped hair who knows both of us from her time living as a student in Korea and tending bar at our local haunt in Pusan. Samson is a stocky Chinese man with a puckered smile that when unpuckered unleashed an effluvia so baleful it could melt coins. Steve was supposed to be with us but he was stuck in Pusan dealing with a complicated slew of VISA and passport problems and would meet us a few days later. At the airport we all agreed that we would take the Maglev part of the way to our hotel and jump in a taxi for the rest. On the train Chris and I caught up with Lili while Samson remained mostly silent.

Once in the taxi Samson initiated our adventure by violently shouting at our driver. This lasted the entire way and when we finally arrived at our hotel Samson was in such a lather he nearly punched our driver in the face. The hotel staff, alerted to the situation, tried in vain to diffuse it while our driver pretended to call the police. Samson was convinced the driver was trying to scam us by taking a fraudulently long route, and at the time I appreciated Samson's vigilance. I no longer do though, and am convinced he was belittling our driver in order to impress us.

Our other friend in Shanghai is a tall, ginger headed, well connected Irishman named Caf, who knows the best parts of town, and runs tight with a tribe of daring Central Africans. Caf showed at our hotel 10 minutes after we arrived and took the whole lot of us, Chris, Lily, Samson, and me to a Uighur restaurant nearby for a cheap feed and then to a generic sports bar downtown that sold dirt cheap booze. At around 12 Lily and Samson left, and the festivities began, and they were mighty, and they concluded when Chris and I pussyfooted into our unused hotel room 2 days later.

When we finally got out into the city in a feeble attempt to reconnect with humanity the crushing heat coupled with a Zulu Nation hangover kept Chris and me on the verge of aneurysm and total bowel failure. The best parts of Shanghai look like an ultra-modern space age megalopolis that was built by Optimus Prime and the Autobots. Colossal bridges and multi lane highways sit hundreds of feet high atop massive concrete pillars and gaudy skyscrapers probe the powdery soot laden sky. In stark contrast much of the rest lays either destroyed in Kosovo-esque swaths of decaying urban rubble choked with oil fouled machinery, or poorly zoned sprawls of endless non-descript city-ness.

Cities as big as Shanghai always perplex me in a singular way. I wonder, in a city this massive, where all the shit goes? Where is it collected and what becomes of it after it's collected? Human shit, by the way, is deadlier than enriched plutonium. Human shit is probably the deadliest substance on the planet. Before you finish reading this sentence the equivalent to a jumbo jet full of small children will have died from over exposure to human shit. It seems impossible that all the shit produced everyday by some 20 million people, and the zillion deadly microbes that call that shit home, can avoid being reintroduced back into the food chain. In general, the Chinese exhibit a breathtaking tolerance of excrement. In Shanghai most of it I assume is hidden underground and then pumped into the nearest body of water. However, in areas outside the big cities of China the disposal of human filth is brazenly neglected.

Anyhoo, Steve joined us on Saturday.

At some point in his miserable existence Steve helped Lily and Samson develop a website for there business, so Samson treated us all, but more specifically Steve, to a big Chinese style thank you dinner. Samson paraded us through a jam-packed Hunanese restaurant and preceded to be a dickhead to all the servers he encountered for the rest of the night. Samson kept trying to force me to drink this vile beer called “Snow” that tasted like poisonous bananas. This went on for too long, both Samson’s bullying of the staff and his commanding hospitality, so I concluded that Samson was quite simply an asshole and I didn’t want to participate in his Asian clout charade anymore. The longer I stay and travel in Asia the less compelled I feel to participate in these highly ritualized social scenarios that obligate me to eat, drink, and behave in ways I don't want to.

Later that night we chilled at Caf’s place with a few beers, a bit of Scotch, and listened to him insist that the remainder of our journey to far western China would be Totally... Fucking...Miserable...

The next day we departed for Xian.

XIAN

From Shanghai we took an overnight train to Xian in a "hard sleeper". The hard sleepers are the middle of the road option for train travel. Below them is the "hard bench" and above are the "soft sleepers". A hard sleeper is a small berth with three adequate bunks on each side, a window, a small table, and a thermos for hot water underneath. A soft sleeper has 2 larger bunks on each side and a door that slides closed for privacy. Initially our seats were hard bench, which is where those with less fortunate budgets sit, but we were allowed to upgrade at the last moment. The hard bench section on the train out of Shanghai was a vision of hell that reeked of unbathed poverty. The lucky sat in plastic chairs similar to those in laundromats or bus stations, while others sat on toilets or sinks, still others slept on the ground under people’s legs or simply stood. Virtually everyone played cards and smoked cigarettes, breaking only to help their crotchless pajama clad children pee in used Styrofoam containers.

Xian is an old city at the eastern end of the Silk Road, and the capital of Shaanxi province. It is most famously known as home to the Terra Cota warriors which lure hordes of tourist from all over the world to see these ancient life sized dolls. We did the obligatory trip and all of us were a bit underwhelmed. For some reason Xian doesn’t figure heavily in my memory of this trip, or this piece of writing, and my treatment of the city I realize is woefully inadequate.

The real highlight in Xian came on bicycles. Our first day there we rented bikes and rode around the city wall taking in the sites and sweating off the previous nights Johnny Walker. We stayed in a beautiful hostel, ate Uighur food in the Muslim district at night, and tooled around the city during the day. I also left my ATM card in the machine, which was lame. After 2 days and three nights spent in Xian we departed for Xining, a town famous for yak butter, among other things.

XINING

We arrived in the morning after a rain had fallen. The weather was cool and the river just outside the station was swollen and muddy. Xining, the capital of Qinghai province and birthplace of the Dali Llama, sits at 2200 meters above seal level on the eastern edge of the Tibetan Plateau. It is a city just getting turned on to the virtues of tourism. A few modern buildings offer their best summation of what things should look like, but mostly this is a town unrestrained by the fetters of modern tourism in China.

We had some difficulty getting train tickets to Golmud (our next destination) at the train station so we did a buy and sell transaction with a well dressed Chinese man we met outside. He took us to a rotten hotel in the moldy corner of an oily black bus station with a sign in the lobby explicitly banning time-bombs. The filthy hotel seemed to be a sort of safehouse for the black market train ticket trade. Our well-dressed Chinese broker came equipped with a ledger full of signatures from other western travelers that he offered as a way of assuaging the universal fear of all tourists in Asia that they are always being ripped off. We settled with the man and rented a room for the day. Chris and Steve saw fit to horde all of the sleeping space in our room, so while they napped I walked through the textile market nearby where I spied a guy sporting an un-ironic Robert Mugabe T-shirt. The textile market had four distinct kinds of clobber: Chinese knock off, Uighur, Hui (the more completely dominated or less restive Chinese Muslims) and Tibetan, these of course the people who call this town home.

When my selfish douche-bag travel mates awoke we took a walk through the muddy streets. It was damp and sloppy with fruit and muddy black chickens clucked in the food market just down from the Uighurs melting scrap metal in their boutique smelting plants. I liked Xining, and could have stayed longer but we left that night for Golmud.

GOLMUD

Our plans were dramatically altered at the PSB (Public Security Bureau) in Golmud when a politely smiling Chinese official refused to grant us a permit to the “closed” town of Huagatou. He explained that he had the power to grant us permits but “[he] dare not”. He regaled us with a vague story about a couple of westerners that came through a few weeks earlier who had an "unhappy" fate befall them. This sort of official resistance did not come as a real surprise and we were somewhat prepared. In carefully couched language we attempted several different ways of convincing this official to grant us passage. Was there perhaps a special permit we could purchase for extra? We stopped short of outright bribery. He had the authority to let us through, but it was his ass if we created a problem later. It was probably due to some fuck-up earlier in his career that landed him in Golmud in the first place. He didn't budge and after 30 minutes of pleading we decided the best course of action was to take a bus north to Dunhuang and take the Northern Silk Road via Urumqi to Kashgar and take the Southern Route back to Golmud (our original plans were to take the Southern Silk Road to Kashgar, basically the opposite route).

Golmud is worth a visit if not just for sociological reasons. It’s apparent that at one point the Chinese had big plans for the city as evidenced by the huge gaping avenues and the motto emblazoned on an ambitious monument outside the train station proclaiming Golmud to be the “Top Tourist City of China”. Golmud is one SARS epidemic away from being a ghost town, the rare tourists that stops here are most likely on their way to Llhasa, Tibet. Those who call it home are mostly employees of the worlds largest asbestos mine, or prisoners conscripted to work in the worlds largest asbestos mine. There was something quite beautiful about the place though. The enormous and bleak Kunlun Mountains towered in the distance over motionless streets and the sky was as blue as it had been a thousand years ago. Probably.

I celebrated our defeat at the PSB by drinking beer outside the bus station for the remainder of the day. On one of our many trips to the one spot in town selling cold beer, Steve and I passed an outdoor basketball court with a group of young boys playing ball. We joined them for a quick game of full court until we could no longer endure the 3,000 meters of altitude. It was a fine day, both on the court and sitting in front of the bus station staring out at the bladed spires of the Kunlun Mountains drinking the town out of cold beer.

DUNHUNAG

When I boarded the bus for Dunhuang I was logy. I spent the next 12 hours skirting the Turpan basin in a fitful slumber; unable and unwilling to rouse for anything, including a rare solar eclipse that I knew nothing about and will probably never have a chance witness again.

When we arrived I was more or less well rested and very hungry. We relied on a tout to guide us to a suitable hotel nearby. Dunhuang was the cleanest and nicest city I saw in all of China. As clean and slick as if they had sent a fact-finding brain trust to Queenstown or Vale to see how a real tourist town operated. The main attractions are the sand dunes just outside town and the Crescent Moon Oasis (read: sand dune temple with small man made pond), and the Magao Caves; a maze of grottos containing priceless works of Buddhist art.

On our first day we rented bikes and rode out to the Crescent Moon Oasis. The dunes were impressive but totally mobbed with yogurty looking puffy ankled sunscreen slathered tourists digging into their overstuffed fanny packs compulsively disinfecting their hands with an endless supply of sanitary wet wipes lining up to ride one of the many ill-fated camels employed to tote their fat asses up a dune. The dunes were completely befouled with all kinds of travel kitsch (sand slides, ultra-light rides) that ruins all the best places. We forwent the camels and chose to hike and after we ascended the first tall dune we were completely removed from the scene below. The dunes surpass my ability to describe them, save for they totally looked like sand dunes. It was one of the highlights of the entire trip.

The next day we visited the Magao Caves which boasts the largest collection of priceless Buddhist artwork in the world. Again, it was a total clusterfuck teeming with package tourists taking pictures of fake stupas behaving in the affected manner of those craving to have their lives altered by the exotic. For whatever reason we were plunked down with a private tour group (it was unbeknownst to us that it was necessary to be part of a group). Most of the folks seemed happy to have us, but there was one couple that wasn't. The first thing we saw was an impressive ancient sitting Buddha about 20m tall tucked away in a mystic grotto. At one point Steve and I are staring up at the Buddha, taking measure of the thing, trying to get our epiphany on, when a middle aged man and his wife approached us and informed us that we were with a private tour group and we should be careful to "not block the view".

The caves were so crowded it was hard to move. There was a wait before we could enter each grotto and a crush on the way out. Had Steve not expressed enthusiastic interest in the place I would have bailed within the first 5 minutes. I was grumpy and growing tired of the Chinese tourism scene. Every time you sign up to do something there's a shit load of extra expenses and delays before you can actually do anything. The caves were no different. Transportation there was more expensive than stipulated, as was the admission, and once inside it was a huge mess. At one point the guy who told Steve and I to not block his view, informed Chris that he would appreciate if we stayed in the back of the line so as to allow the paying members of the group better views of the artwork. Chris told the man to "suck [his] dick”. The whole tenor of the day was turning nasty. A few minutes later we left. The Magao Caves excursion was a total bust. We left Dunhuang that night.

URUMQUI

The train to Urumqi (the worlds most inland city) took 12 hours. Urumqi is mud first then quickly turns to steel and concrete in a surprisingly modern package. It is a sleek city full of pretty women, Han Chinese, and Uighur folk. The Chinese seem to control the moneyed areas of town while the Uighur occupy the more impoverished, less organized, and far more interesting parts. In Xinjiang province this sort of delineation between the Chinese and their Muslim countrymen is the norm.

Uighurs are real, by the way. They are Muslims who unfortunately live in what is now China. These days the Chinese oppress them, often brutally, with the tacit support of the western world. Xinxjiang province is a resource rich occupied territory that bears much more resemblance to the cultures of Kyrgyzstan, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and to some degree Tajikistan. During the Cultural Revolution Mao and his cliques forced the Uighurs to raise pigs. But I digress.

We decided to go to the Lake Of Heaven situated in the Tian Shan Mountains a few hours north of the city. We booked tickets at a kiosk the night before and we when we showed up in the morning at the designated spot it was clear that the young man who had taken our money had done very little to secure our tickets. He led us around to different places for no apparent reason and eventually put us on a bus an hour later than what we had agreed on the night before then for the next hour we sat on the bus waiting for it to fill up. What amazed me is that no one seemed to mind, the Chinese aboard the bus seemed to be perfectly happy as if they weren't in China anymore, a country they probably loved and hated in equal parts. The bus started 2 hours later than promised and made two stops along the way, one at a store selling jade trinkets and another selling herbal medicine.

The lake was a gorgeous crystalline blue picturesquely nestled at the base of the massive snow capped Tian Shan mountains, and, as we had come to expect, sluttishly adorned with more non-essential tourist kitsch. There was a chairlift blaring loud music for those not so serious Chinese tourist dressed in business casual unwilling to walk on real soil and muddy their knock-off designer garments. And for those who chose the short hike to the lake there was a concrete staircase. We hiked around the lake a bit and eventually made our way to a temple, which of course was charging an entrance fee. Tourists inside the temple rang the huge iron bell (for a fee) incessantly and boats sounded their horns in order to alert nature of their presence. The stairway leading up to the temple had hundreds of plastic flowers pinned to the flora on either side.

With some effort we managed to get away into stunning high mountain scenery inhabited by billy goats, Kyrgyz herders and their yurts. Chris took a fateful swim that he would regret immensely days later. The problem with the bus getting such a late start was that we were pressed for time and only allowed a brief respite from the crowds. And, as if to make it all more enriching the bus stopped two more times on the way back.

The day before we were set to depart Urumqi we were delayed because of violence in Kashgar. When we arrived at the train station arrogant Chinese officials with machine guns turned all away, mostly Uighur. From what little news Chinese state run media would allow access to we learned that 2 Uighur men decided to practice there machete and grenade skills on 16 Chinese police officers. All the trains to Kashgar were suspended a day to allow the Chinese time to indiscriminately kill Muslims in secret.

That night Chris and I did some barbarian style drinking in Fubar, Urumqi's one and only bar that caters to foreigners. From what I remember we washed down 80 doubles of Bushmills with 40 or so Sapporos. We automatically made it back to our hotel room where we found Steve comfortably sober listening to light jazz, sipping Earl Grey tea and reading Jane Austen. We burst through the door, mouths afroth, and began throwing tables at each other. Steve retreated into the fortress of disgust while Chris and I went as punk as two aging reprobates can.

It took one day for the Chinese to crush the Muslim rebellion. It was now safe to travel to Kahsgar, which is what we did.

KASHGAR

It takes 24 hours to get to Kashgar from Urumqi by train. I managed to sleep much of the way. I found sleeping on trains to be immensely satisfying and easy to come by.

Kashgar is an old and dusty city. There are a few modern building here and there, mostly in Chinese enclaves, but there are still donkeys pulling carts loaded with hay and melons and men beating red-hot iron into place with heavy hammers. If a woman is without a headscarf then she is either Chinese or a tourist. It doesn't look or feel like China, it is full of mud brick buildings, Uighurs, and thousands of donkeys pulling watermelon laden carts through the streets. The people in this part of the world are serious about melon.

Chris and I took a walk through the winding labyrinth of Kashgar's old town while Steve napped. This, of course, required we hire a guide. Our guide was a handsome Uighur man who spoke English well and had a keen understanding of contemporary western culture, evidenced by his mention of the “The Kite Runner" that was filmed in Kashgar, and, his numerous references to American politics and our perceived misconception that Muslims are terrorists. In a particularly heartwarming stroke of earnestness he admitted to beating his wife if she failed to veil herself properly.

The opening ceremonies to the Beijing Olympics aired our first night in Kashgar. It was impressive, I guess. I remember thinking that the lead up to the Olympics, or at least the last few, has become more about the display of a countries counter terrorism might than anything else. The sports seem secondary to the threat terrorism poses and the host country's ability to thwart them. Still, I managed to pay attention to most of the ceremony but after awhile I lost interest in the games and gained interest in more beer. This trip was unusual in regards to the amount of beer I drank. Usually when I travel I pretty much stay off the sauce. However, in China, the beer flowed like barbecue sauce through a canyon of horse teeth.

That night we hung out with a bunch of other travelers, really well healed travelers, folks who had been all over the world. There were a couple of Aussies who worked as professional tour minders and had been doing so for several years. One of them had just gotten back from Iran and the other would be leaving Beijing in a week to do his 4th trip on the Trans Siberian Railway to Moscow (he had taken to calling it the "Tran-Sib"), and a lanky, humorless, but not unpleasant, bug-eyed Brit from Yorkshire named Simon, who would later join Chris and me on our way to Hotan. There was also an American expat English teacher who admitted he owed the IRS some 75 grand, and, if and when he returned to the US he was prepared to do his 2 1/2 years in federal prison.

Sunday is market day in Kahsgar and there are two markets worth seeing. One is the livestock market, where we started, and the other is the main bazaar where you get everything else. As you would expect at any livestock market there were loads of sheep, donkeys, mules, horses, but here we saw a camel.

Donkeys: in Kashgar a healthy donkey goes for about $170.

Of all the sounds at the livestock market, the braying of donkeys prevailed as the most constant, surreal, and most intriguing. Occasionally a serious donkey would loose a loud, harsh bray that rallied all other donkeys to a common cause. Donkeys from hectares around would follow suit and loudly bray in solidarity. Braying is a ridiculous sound that registers in my mind as a vigorous complaint against all the yokes donkeys are forced to endure. It's a sound that conveys complete and utter dissatisfaction at having to work at the behest of mankind; it is an implacable honk of slavery. The market would erupt and my heart would bleed for these poor beasts. Similarly, at times, you would hear the low of a cow or bull and see a flash of utter terror register in their huge eyes. For one instant some of these animals grasped they were goners. Then, just like that, they went back to being idiots

After the Livestock market we went to Kahsgar's main bazaar. A cloud of kebab smoke hangs over Kashgar's Sunday Market that is visible from miles away. Beneath the cloud everything a Uighur could ever need is sold in a snow globe of chaos and noise. Tourists spend most of their money on silk tapestries and scarves and elaborate hand made rugs. At this stage in our travels Chris was shitting blood after taking a hearty gulp of excrement fouled lake water back in Urumqi and chose to leave to get some rest. Steve, the IRS American, Trans-Sib, and myself spent the remainder of the day walking around trying to process the miasma. Eventually I bought some silk. The next day Chris, Steve, and I would depart for Karakul Lake high in the Pamirs on the Karakorum Highway.

KARAKUL LAKE

When I stepped off the bus that took us to Karakul Lake, one of the highest in the world at 3600 m, beside the Karakorum Highway, very near the border of Pakistan, Tajikistan, Afghanistan, and Kyrgyzstan, I was still suffering from the night before. As I busied myself buying cigarettes Steve and Chris secured a yurt for us to stay in that night. This would be a Kyrgyz yurt amongst the Kyrgyz people; a stones throw away form the Karakorum highway. The surrounding landscape was spare and grey with damp low laying clouds covering the blue Pamir Mountains in wind. Our yurt was in a muddy parking lot teeming with hopeless, weather beaten Kyrgyz people pitching their wares with zombie like enthusiasm, "this, this?" they would mutter in conviction-less, though utterly persistent monotone. It was bleak, barren, and cold and felt like a place occupied by cadre of people who had forgotten to die.

Serakat, our Kyrgyz minder and yurt lord, invited us to his yurt to share some goat milk tea and bagels. While we dined Serakat's sister and baby niece skulked around the periphery adjusting blankets and placing hand made rugs in optimal viewing range. Serakat tried to sell us some of his mother's rugs but we managed to shunt the transaction to the next day.

Chris and Steve went for a hike after tea while I lazed in the yurt for the majority of the day. Each time I left the yurt I was swarmed with a mob of bored Kyrgyz women moaning "this, this?" pushing their beautiful hand made rugs.

When Chris and Steve returned from their hike it was cold and had begun to rain slightly. This troubled me. The roof of our yurt was densely matted yak hide and didn't seem like anything that would keep us dry if the rain fell any harder.

That evening Chris and I dined with Serakat and his family in their stucco yurt while Steve stayed behind too cold and grumpy to move. Dinner was pasta with spuds and goat milk tea and was just right to blast away the nasty vestiges of my altitude-exacerbated hangover. After dinner, Chris, Serakat and I returned to our yurt where Steve's mood had devolved into slashing resignation. Serakat lit a fire in the yurt's stove, made himself comfortable, called his girlfriend on his cell phone and talked to her for the next 2 hours.

Serakat was a young man of about 20; he had a soft almost girlish voice, an easy laugh, and a friendly smile. I liked him but couldn't help thinking he was evil. Evil in a lesser-demonic-impish sort of way, as if he was pranking his way out of this little hell on earth. From what I could determine we was one of the up and coming elite in this small Kyrgyz conclave. He has a decent motor cycle, a couple suitable yurts, a cell phone with a fully charged battery (though somewhat depleted from his long conversation with his girlfriend), both arms and legs, teeth, and a healthy mother who makes gorgeous rugs and owns a ton of warm blankets. He hung out with us for much of the night, just kind of loafing, chanting, talking to his girlfriend and stoking the fire to keep his customers happy.

Under the right circumstances Karakul Lake is probably quite lovely. However the nastiness of the tourist infrastructure made it is seem inimical. I realize it’s redundant to mention the shiters in China however at this point I'm compelled to do so. The first outhouse we saw here was a red wooden box perched on stilts 3 or 4 feet above ground. Inside, 3 holes were cut out of the floor for the shit and piss to fall through onto the ground below. In each of the stalls a 4 and 1/2 foot spire of shit poked 6 or 7 inches above the floor. It made squatting basically impossible because your anus hole would be touching the peak of poo, effectively tamping it down, so folks shat in other places all over the place. There were coils of turd surrounding the cut out holes, on the floor as you entered, on the stairs leading up, and generally anyplace anyone could find to lay a turd, they did. It was a temporary turd shed and the permanent one was the trammeled area surrounding the lake. Turd was everywhere, mostly from sheep, goats, horses, camels, and humans (in that order) with yellow puddles of oxygen deprived dehydrated tourist piss to accent the earthy mosaic.

At one end of the muddy parking lot was a restaurant. Around it laid bits of metal and plastic siding, beer bottles, tarpaulins, cardboard, plastic and sundry turd. All of this in the mud under a gray sky. The whole place was lousy with excretion, zombie women selling depressingly beautiful hand made rugs, dolorous men selling camel bone pendants, and stucco yurts with rusting motorcycles and filthy goats outside. For the first time in my adult life I pined for a rigorous and beefy tourist infrastructure. This place was in such a need of an earnest administrator and a handful of zealous employees to chop down the mountains of turd that encrusted the shores of lake Karakul.

That night it rained hard. Our yurt leaked, but only a little. I was amazed. We awoke the next morning we had goat milk tea and bagels with Serakat and his family. Steve bought a rug.

We left that morning for Tashkourgan a few hours down the highway over the Pamir Mountains through dramatic taiga pastureland. On the way we were stopped at 2 intimidating checkpoints where AK-47 wielding Chinese policemen stood behind us menacingly flipping their gun's safety on and off. We stayed in Tashkourgan long enough to eat some unremarkable food and take a pee in a pasture while a donkey brayed in the distance.

The drive back to Kashgar had us twisting through a supremely indifferent gorge beside a hissing Ghez River flush with rain from the night before.

SHIPTON'S ARCH

We rented a jeep at the suggestion of a fellow traveler and made the 2 hr drive up a dry riverbed to the Shipton's Arch trailhead. When we arrived we noticed a ladder leading up a steep and narrow gully. A Uighur boy on a motorcycle appeared and told our Chinese driver that there would be a charge for the use of the six ladders we would use along the way. We flatly refused; 3 weeks of traveling in China and this type of-out-of-the-contract bullshit had finally hit the fan, especially for Chris and me. We tried to negotiate a lower price but the Uighur boy firmly refused. It was more than just annoying, it was enraging. Chris and I began to shout profanity and fart in his general direction but nothing worked. In fact this Uighur boy, no older than 15, stared us down with what I later determined as nobility, but at the time I pegged as contempt. We eventually paid but I remained angry for long after. I tried to be all Zen but it was useless so I spent much of the hike hatching plans for revenge. At one point we agreed that someone would take a crap on his motorcycle.

The approach to Shipton's Arch is a steep gully between strangely disfigured mountains that look like tall piles of wet sand poured from God's bucket. As you walk up the steep scree it gets larger and larger and when you finally crest the small hill that obstructs the reality of the arch, it drops away nearly a thousand feet. It is the largest natural arch in the world, the size of the Empire State Building; it is completely jaw dropping and gave me the chills when I first beheld it.

On the way down I started to feel bad for the way I treated the young Uighur boy. One of the great things about this place was that, not only was no one there, there was very little evidence of people being there. I had a profound sense that I had just seen one of the last great un-ruined places in the world. The 20 RMB we paid to get to this place is like 3 bucks back home, and when this kid isn't hustling tourists, which is most of the time, he's herding goats. Shame on me.

YARKAND

The day we spent at Shipton's arch was our last in Kashgar, and this is also when Steve pulled the ripcord and decided to call it a trip. He still had VISA issues back in Korea that needed his attention so we parted ways. Simon (the Brit from Yorkshire) would take his place and accompany us to Yarkand and onward to Hotan.

We hired a private driver to take us to Yarkand from Kashgar. The moment we set out from Kashgar marked the first time in 3 or so weeks that we were headed east, toward home, on the Southern Silk Road. It's always faster and more comfortable to hire a driver than to take a bus, the problem with most drivers though is that they usually drive like total jackasses. And this time was no exception; he drove way too fast and overtook all comers. Even when it was apparent that the pass was impossible he would try until the last minute and then fall behind.

Our driver was a Uighur fellow of about 50 with an assuring air of easy bravado and he seemed to be friends with many of the folks making the trip form Kashgar to Yarkand. Cars would pull along side of us, shout a few words in Uighur and move on. He wasn't a bad driver; none of the private drivers we hired were bad drivers. The opposite was true, these guys have been doing the same routes for so long they're overconfident and drive like maniacs.

We made it to Yarkand intact. Yarkand is an all right place, but by now I was done inhaling dust. The dust in Western China blots out the sun. It is everywhere, on bed sheets, beer bottles, chopsticks, food. It's not smog, it's dust, and it's oppressive. It is part of the reality of summer in western China all the time. Not once were we granted a reprieve.

We tooled around Yarkand for a day with Simon. We visited the Tomb of the Fragrant Concubine and snapped pictures of ecstatic children in the old alleyways of the mud brick old town. Later that night we drank beer and smoked cigarettes at a restaurant until a few Uighur men started giving us dirty looks. The next morning we decided to forgo hiring a private taxi and got a bus to Hotan. The bus was hot and smelled like fistula. Chris is convinced that the lady in front of him was belching forth fistula steam that would wash over him in vomitous puffs. For the entire 6 hours to Hotan I wished we’d hired a driver.

From Yarkand to Hotan is a stretch on the Southern Silk Road that is almost totally uninhabited and completely swallowed in red desert sand. Occasionally we would pass a collection of boxy brick houses caked in dust completely uniform in color with drifts of sand collecting in corners like snow. On either side of the road huge columns of sand would twist high into the muted sky. A gust of wind would surge and blot visibility to nothing while tendrils of red sand slithered over the asphalt.

HOTAN

Hotan was the dustiest. Our second day there a sandstorm rolled through town choking everything in a dark orange haze. Hotan was heavy, edgy, some open hostility. The ones who were friendly were overly so, apologetically friendly as if ashamed of the way they anticipated us being treated.

Our first day there I was walking alone through the towns main bazaar, a bazaar that rivals Kahsgar's in size and quality, and passed a row of cobblers cobbling when I heard someone yell at me. I kept walking and a few seconds later something solid hit me in the back. Someone had thrown a rock at me, not a pebble, but a stone the size of a small egg had hit me in the back. I turned around and told whomever it was (I had no idea) to fuck off, and kept walking.

That episode was nothing. Later, in the heart of the market, I saw a man sitting on the ground mournfully screaming into the dark matter of the universe with a small child in his lap. I'd seen the same man earlier in the day doing the same thing. I've seen unhealthy children put on display in places like Thailand and Cambodia before but almost always by women and never as convincingly as this guy. When I saw him the 2nd time, hours later and a mile away doing the same thing--filthy bare feet, torn clothing, matted black hair, globs of white foam collected in the corners of his mouth--a crowd had gathered and a Uighur woman seemed to be trying to make sense of it all. The boy was in the exact same position but there was no ease of movement about him, he was rigid and I could tell he was dead. Hotan was no fun.

We ate at a Uighur restaurant that night and 10 minutes into the meal a young Muslim man with his wife sat down at the table next to us stared at us. A malicious stare dripping with hatred, as if to say, "If the Chinese hadn't confiscated my knife at the checkpoint I'd be carving the teeth out of you pig-dogs." He's meek wife sat across from him like a women skilled in avoiding her husband’s unsavory moods.

Hotan was quickly becoming a crescendo, a grand fugue that symbolized Xinjiang province. It offered the starkest juxtaposition between Chinese repression and orderliness, and, Uighur defiance and filth. Much of the filth we encountered in China seemed wholly unnecessary. The hotel we stayed in on our last night in Hotan was a perfect example. Our room was very cheap and very simple. I could deal with the toilet reeking of sewage, no sink, no shower, etc... But the yellow plop of baby shit in the courtyard just outside our door was a bit much. There was a broken egg on our windowsill that to me embodied the idea of unnecessary filth. It had obviously been there for days, perhaps weeks, and the path where the yolk dripped over the edge and down the wall was stained black. I asked myself: why hasn't anyone cleaned this egg off the windowsill? Every single person affiliated with this place all the way down to the most cursory has seen this broken egg on the windowsill, yet no one has done anything about it. Why?

We couldn't get out of Hotan fast enough. After great effort we managed to buy tickets aboard a sleeper bus that would take us the 24 hours it took to travel the cross-desert highway that runs through the center of the Taklamakan Desert to Urumqi. The Taklamakan desert is a deathtrap. The Chinese still manage a few settlements right in the middle of it that cater to those unfortunate laborers assigned the duty to find oil beneath its sand. These settlements have got to be the meanest places on earth, and to be a whore in one of them has got to be one of the most forlorn assignments ever given. But they were there, in the middle of one of the largest deserts on earth with sand in every direction as far as the eye can see, the pink neon lights were there. I didn't even bother taking a picture for fear my camera would object.

We made it back to Urumqi and from there we flew back to Shanghai were we decompressed at Caf’s place for a night. Then back to Korea and a different part of Asia.

Out

Wed, 23 Jul 2008 00:06:19 GMT

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:

View Larger Map

You May Pass.

Mon, 14 Jul 2008 06:00:46 GMT

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.

(none)

Tue, 17 Jun 2008 16:45:57 GMT

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.

Travel

Wed, 28 May 2008 15:25:36 GMT

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.

The Cow is a Bovine Ilk or Meat is Murder

Mon, 19 May 2008 16:33:19 GMT

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.

No Desk Blues.

Tue, 06 May 2008 16:30:33 GMT

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.

Bits o' Brain

Thu, 17 Apr 2008 15:54:59 GMT

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.

Grats.

Tue, 08 Apr 2008 09:18:37 GMT

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

Swords: A Cautionary Tale

Fri, 28 Mar 2008 05:43:51 GMT

Idaho

Thu, 20 Mar 2008 08:14:18 GMT

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

Yesterday.

Thu, 06 Mar 2008 14:49:13 GMT

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.

Slats

Thu, 21 Feb 2008 16:25:46 GMT

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.

Glel

Sat, 09 Feb 2008 15:33:58 GMT

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.

Wed, 30 Jan 2008 16:51:05 GMT

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.

Doors

Thu, 24 Jan 2008 15:33:39 GMT

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.

Back From NZ

Tue, 15 Jan 2008 15:40:01 GMT

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.

Sun, 16 Dec 2007 05:50:41 GMT

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.

Unforgivable

Wed, 12 Dec 2007 12:55:12 GMT

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.

THIS IS KURDISTAN!!!

Wed, 28 Nov 2007 10:15:59 GMT

Great article here:

http://www.slate.com/id/2178230/fr/flyout

Ode to Sunday

Tue, 13 Nov 2007 14:48:39 GMT

My friend Andrew got married last Sunday. After the wedding ceremony a group of Satanists who drink human blood everyday went to O’Brien’s, the bar he co-owns, for free booze.

Sunday night was as charming as German pornography; as bereft of humanity as RACISM + TORTURE = The Worst Parts of the Bible; it was as meaningful and relevant as a molecule of inert gas floating on the dark side of a distant galaxy; it was Exploding Eyeball Disease with extra Sodomy Mustard. Nothing redeeming happened, and certainly, if there is a hell, then everyone who participated in this night will surely burn there for the rest of eternity after they die of S.A.I.D.S (Sudden Adult Infant Death Syndrome)!

Stab

Mon, 05 Nov 2007 15:10:47 GMT

Anyone still watch that American show called “Cheaters” where that smug, sanctimonious piece of shit would employ a few private dicks at the bequest of some scorned lover to spy on a person until they had enough evidence to confirm his or her infidelity, then they would ambush the offender and film the ensuing chaos? Anyone still watch that show? What a terrible show. I remember one episode where they ambushed the wrong dude and the show’s host got stabbed. I mean really stabbed. I laugh every time I think of it, even now. I’m glad he got stabbed. Deserves it for peddling misery.

Korea has a similar show called “Scandal” that does the exact same thing. In their show they blot out the faces of the perps and distort their voices to protect against potential slander lawsuits and general societal opprobrium. That doesn’t mean it’s any less pathetic. Their show almost always ends up with two chicks fighting, usually in the man’s office or some massively public arena and creating an almost unbearable and unwatchable scene. Anyway, I just watched it for no good reason and prayed for a stabbing.

Here's Johnny Greco getting stabbed:

Blog

Mon, 22 Oct 2007 13:16:16 GMT

This month, I’m not sure of the exact date, marks the one-year anniversary of me quitting smoking.

Good job dude. Thanks dude.

My two remaining addictions probably won’t be dealt with for a while. The first being my affinity for alcohol, which will be tough to do anything about until I lose both arms and legs and all my money. Alcohol really is the mack-daddy of ‘em all. For me, it all starts and ends with the sauce, hooch, booze, liquor, moonshine, firewater, red-eye, rot gut, vino, brew, barley pop, beer, swill, piss, ale, you name it. If I’ve been off the hard-stuff for two days I’ll pat myself on the back if I make it three. Then on the fourth day I reward myself for my good behavior; this sort of reward for abstinence being the hallmark of all addicts. It brings to mind the fat dude in the bar the other night. He explained how he was serious about losing weight while he sat there drinking beer and eating cheese sticks. Tharp pointed out that the fried cheese couldn’t be helping, to which the fat man replied in earnest: “Hey this is my treat, I’ve been eating healthy Korean soups all week.” I wish him the best, I really do, but after several hours listening to this portly fellow with a goatee explain the Simirilion and his fascination with wizards I surmised that being fat might be his only true identity.

A Superlative Chuseok

Fri, 28 Sep 2007 08:37:10 GMT

Someone once said that the person who needs a vacation the most is one who has just returned from one.

I was dead tired today and wanted nothing more than to retreat from the world in an entire day of sleep. The Chuseok holiday has passed and school is back in session.

This Chuseok was a special one because my older brother paid me a visit. The last person to visit me in Pusan was Josh Graham. Josh’s trip was a notorious urine soaked episode loaded with SIDS, “back plugs”, and Retarded Man Beasts. My brother coming to town would no doubt be a better-behaved affair. And it was, but not by a whole hell of a lot. My brother, after stopping in Shanghai to oversee a software development project for his business, saw fit to swing by ol’ Pusan and see how the other half lives. The main difference between my brother and I, is that he flies to Shanghai to oversee a software development project for his business, while I contentedly spend evenings like tonight eating hot dogs and investigating whether or not anal bleaching is real (it is). I also teach English in S. Korea.

It’s very exciting to have someone from home come to visit. It’s no secret that from a tourism standpoint, I live in one of the least attractive countries in the world. I’ve often stated that I can think of no other place in the world with less appeal than S. Korea. After saying so, someone invariably mentions some shithole in Africa. All to often when these comparative debates occur the most convenient counterpoint happens to be some war-torn, disease infested hell mouth in Africa, which, basically proves my point. Anyway, I'm extra appreciative of my brother taking the time to visit this lovely nation I so often disparage.

After I had finished the day’s chores on Friday I rendezvoused with my brother at Lotte Hotel here in Busan. I was properly glad to see him and the Budweiser I drank while I listened to him detail the pestilence of Shanghai was well worth the 7,000 Won he paid for it. From there we went to my hovel where we later met Chris Tharp, drank more beer, and established the tenor for the next few days. That night we met up with the rest of the crew: Scott, Steve and Jeff. We ate a typical Korean barbecue dinner at a plastic table adorned with fatty pig flesh, various and sundry grasses and weeds slathered in red chili paste, and of course, Hite beer. After dinner we went to The Rock and Roll Bar (the bar I named, but receive far too little credit for) where we drank more beer, and even a bottle of horrid champagne was thrown in for good measure. Later we went to O’Brien’s where eventually the night morphed into a blurred carnival of booze, chortles, and snorts. Then all of sudden like a car lurching into gear we’re in the casino and some drunk chick is throwing gin and tonics and ashtrays at Chris’s head. Apparently Chris had offended her.

Saturday plans were in place to visit Busan’s most famous temple and hike the surrounding verdant hills. I awoke Saturday morning with one of the worst hangover of my entire life. Had my brother not been in town I would have no doubt spent the majority of the day in bed. I also probably would have finished viewing the internet’s seemingly endless collection of nude photographs of women with enormous breasts. However, I crawled out of bed and managed to meet Chris, Scott, and my brother at Lotte Hotel. We were all noticeably hung-over, however, as always seems to be the case, I was the worst. Trust me, I’ve seen the photos of myself on this morning and I look like Terri Shiavo. So we hiked and complained and retold the night’s absurdities in ever expanding detail. It was a beautiful day to be on a mountain, on the cusp of rain, mist, and shit like that. At the terminus of our trail was a small village renowned for it’s adroit goat cooking methods. Goat flesh and a few bowls of rustic rice wine were enough zap away the more rancorous vestiges of my hangover. So back to Busan we went sated and buzzed. That night the crew reunited for a special dinner of duck stuffed into a pumpkin and baked in a clay oven. My brother, being a shameless user of superlatives, declared: that may be the best meal of my entire life.