Some call me Waegook

A hiatus

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 05:43:00 +0000

I'm back in the US and will be taking an approximate 2 month break from writing. In the interim, I've made an E-book addition of "Some call me Waegook" available for purchase for 5 USD through Paypal. The link is on the left of the page.

My E-book includes;
1. 5 never-before-posted blogs - including my last blog from Korea
2. A "preface"
3. Portable and printable format (PDF) - take "Some call me Waegook" on the road
4. 64 well designed, easy to read pages
5. Print out a copy to leave next to the shitter. Helpful for those stubborn bowel movements.

My goal is to raise enough money to buy a beer and a lap dance with the money levied. That should get me over my last Korean head cold. Until the next adventure ... Thanks for reading, Garrett

Pro's and con's

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 00:27:00 +0000

Researchers, educational professionals and whacked out high school guidance counsellors tell you that on a test, your first selection is more times than not, the correct selection. While I don't think I jumped the gun on coming home earlier (I have my reasons), I slept on it for a solid two days and then changed my ticket to come home. Nevertheless, all the reasons in the world still make it hard to look back and think, "Am I doing the right thing?" I had two instances within the last week or so that reaffirmed my decision to pull the fuck out and five words that just had me shaking my head.

"Con" one:
Imagine you are me. It's Saturday and I was lying it bed half asleep. I think it was 8 am, and since my window was open all night, I could feel that that day would be particularly sticky. Aside from that, out of the middle of nowhere, a siren began to blare. Keep in mind this siren comes less than 2 weeks after North Korea detonated an underground nuclear bomb on May 25th. The siren blares and a man begins speaking in Korean. I started to think about airports, highways and ferry terminals shutting down. Yeah, I've got enough food for a couple of weeks but that means nothing as I might as well stick my head in a microwave before the other radiation gets to me. Luckily, the siren stopped and I would later be told at school several days later that the siren was a remembrance for the national memorial day.

"Con" two:
Imagine you are me. Half way through one of your classes a siren goes off, someone starts speaking an incomprehensible tongue over the intercom. Five words into the message your students start screaming, they hit the ground and scurry under their desks. A few students hurry to the windows and doors locking them in position before they slide under their desks. You spot your best English speaking student from across the room and ask the 11-year-old, "Um, what's going on?" Through the stress and confusing, he battles to find the English words, "Umm. six point five ... earthquake!" At this point you think, well I didn't feel anything but perhaps there was an earthquake elsewhere triggering a tidal wave heading for your little coastal town. Another thirty seconds elapse and the intercom voice continues, the children stop screaming and the boy says to me through his heavy accent, "Teacher, six point five earthquake ... um ... practice!"

You're probably thinking, "Garrett, we have these drills all the time back home." It's true but I've come to the painful realization that while I'm landlocked here without family nor do I have possession of the native tongue, I'm very dependant on others for safety. With that said, if shit hits the proverbial fan, in Korea's eyes, how high on the list do you think English teachers are?

"Pro" one:

As my work weeks have quickly trickled into work days, and as we approach the final stretch here in the land of Oz, it's become movie showcase cinema in my class. Because I hold my co-worker brethren in high esteem here at the country school, beforehand I asked Jinsun if it be ok to show the kids "Wall-E" for my last two classes. You know, to take a breather from the blitzkrieg teaching pace I'd paved months previous. She obliged and according as such, the students are even more so excited for English class - no work. Since the students have known for about three weeks that I will be leaving, they have given me random hallway hugs and written me goodbye notes. A group of four boys went as far to try and physically restrain me from leaving the classroom. Perhaps what I was most caught off guard by were the prepared English statements, with help help from the Korean English teacher, said to me as a as I walked out the classroom door following our final class together. To this point I've heard, "We'll miss you!" and "Have a safe trip back!" but the one that I heard 10 minutes ago takes the rice cake.

In Korea, classes begin and end with "insa." The class captain will stand, say a couple of words in Korean, and then the class will bow silently as one. After Wall-E, and true to form, the class captain of my third grade boys class rose accordingly just like he has for the previous eight months. With the captain standing and the other 38 boys seated and quiet, a rouge student tried to steal the groups thunder by personally delivering me the message that they had rehearsed with the Korean teacher a few days previous. "Thank-you for TOUCHING me!" he said proud as a peacock. If you could have only been there. I roared with laughter and the Korean teacher smacked herself in the forehead with her palm as she chuckled. "We practiced that some many times! Thank-you for TEACHING me," Hyun Gung said as she then offered them an explanation to them in Korean as to my mania. As you could imagine, the 15 year old boys thought it was one of the funniest things they'd ever heard and I'm sure that student won't hear the end of it for quite some time.

Olivia Newton John?

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 03:54:00 +0000

As you know, I've been teaching adults English at Masan City Hall two times a week for the previous three months. What you might not know is that it has easily been the most rewarding professional experience I've ever had. So when our class captain, "George", asked me to partake in a performance in front of his constituents and other second language learners, I gladly obliged.

What you might not know, because I hadn't posted the blog labelled "Testicle Festival" (available, as are 4 other never yet seen blogs, in my soon-to-be released "Some call me Waegook: The E-book addition"), is that this wasn't the first festival I've been a part during my stay in Korea.

A few Tuesday's back, the class said that they wanted to have a fun sketch in which they were going to preform a song. They asked if I knew of any American songs that would be easy to sing. My brain raced and the first three that came to mind were "American Pie", "Friends in Low Places", and of course, "Family Tradition". Though I figured no one had heard any of these songs, I sent out Mp3's (for educational purposes RIAA, relax) to each student to perhaps jog an aging memory. I mean, Koreans know "MacGyver" surely they've heard "American Pie". Nope, not even close.

After my suggestions for a song to performed were quickly vetoed, the class mentioned, voted and confirmed that they would sing a song that I had never heard before. This literally all went down within 20 seconds. My question to you is this. What song better typifies the west and the English language than ... "Let Me Be There" by Olivia Newton John? I honestly associate this Britain-born, Australian-raised singer-actress with tight spandex and jumping jacks way before anything Americana.

The performance went very well. If you didn't pick up on the Korean dialogue the first act is me asking directions from the Koreans, who by my presence were absolutely petrified (this isn't far off). The second act showed the very same Koreans after they took an English speaking class. As far as the song is concerned, many of the men in the back are reading the lyrics taped to the necks of the women standing in front of them! Boyyoung flawlessly performed her part and the chuckle from the crowd as I stood speaking in front of the mayor of Masan was due, I presume, to the fact that he doesn't speak a lick of English. Or perhaps I commited some type of Korean faux pass.

Our post-concert celebration was held off sight at a Korean restaurant. The beer and soju flowed like, well beer and sujo and the speeches came fast and furious. It's apparently tradition when a group of colleagues go out, that when sufficient booze has been imbibed, and the situation is right, the each person will take a turn to give a short speech. I ended up giving three because, well, I had a lot of appreciation I needed to express.

Tuesdays and Thursdays just won't be the same. I'm going to miss them!

Rice or bread?

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 06:09:00 +0000

There are certain preferences, so staunchly ingrained in upbringing, that they become comical to defend. Boxers or briefs? Blonds or Brunettes? Top or bottom? Never in a million years did I ever think I'd be on trial for my love, of all things, bread.

Early in my tenure here, I tried my best to finish my rice as it is considered mandatory to do so for breakfast, lunch, dinner and snack. Being the sole, never mind self-appointed, cultural ambassador to overseas class, I do my best to maintain international harmony. But sometime in February, and somewhere between the puffy belly and the post-lunch carb comas, someone dropped the kernel that broke the waegook's back.

Actually, I remember the incident vividly. I'd figured, since I had tried a variety of strictly Korean foods -- dog, live octopus, eel and rotten fish (which is just as terrible as it sounds), I thought I had procured enough leverage to introduce the Koreans to something from the West. I was sorely mistaken.

Korea has many "Western" products. Perhaps, more accurately, Korea has many products it has severely bastardized from the West. Relying on smell, touch and taste to deduce what it is exactly you are sampling, will leave you shaking your head. The bread here is sugared beyond belief. Coffee, or "copy" as pronounced proudly by the locals, is about a 2 ounce shot of chocolate milk (think 4 parts sugar, 1 part bean). Calling Korean beer "piss" would be quite the compliment. I had a store brand pasta sauce by the name of "Tesco." Had I been blind-folded and asked to guess what the product was I would have guessed dog shit long before I chose the right answer of spaghetti sauce. Yes folks, it was that bad. Some of these products are recognizable by name only.

On one of my many days off, I brought in some of my fresh, hand-crafted olive bread to share with my fellow teachers. "They probably won't like it," I told myself. (Being born a Hohn, close cousin of the fictitious and family name equivalent "Munson," I've become used to rejection and ostracization and have used various forms of self-talk to ease potentially crushing blows to my esteem. This isn't pertinent to "this story" but moreso to my "life's story".) Fresh out of the oven, I brought the bread to school with some of my home-made hummus. Mr. Kim, along with two of his 50 year old lapdogs, tried the bread but then didn't go back for seconds, thirds, or fifteenths as everyone else I have introduced it to. I didn't think too much off it until Monk, another teacher at the school, came in, looked at my bread and said something to Mr. Kim in Korean. Mr. Kim translated to me that he said, "that stuff will make you weak."

That stuff will make you weak? THAT STUFF WILL MAKE ME WEAK?!?! Really?! Last time I checked, white rice wasn't the Mt. Everest of nutritional composition. In fact, it is so nutritionally devoid that it is illegal to sell white rice in the United States without vitamin B1 and B3 fortification. Take this, however, with a grain of salt as I've heard it's now illegal to take a dump in the US with your wiener tucked between your legs on Tuesdays. Just what I heard. The irony about white rice is that it's refined to remove the germ, husk and bran. This process essentially removes all nutritional components. For many years, white rice was considered the rich man's food because the refined product was fiscally inaccessible to the common man. In addition, like raccoons and eagles, it turns out that humans like shiny things. White rice is then polished givin it its glorious luster at the expense of life saving nutrition. Brown rice, however, was for the credence. It's interesting that this bass ackwards engineering wasn't recognized by the people, however ill-informed. To be fair, experts say General Motors has been guilty of this crippled engineering for decades.

Without fail, and seemingly without hesitation, every week a fellow teacher will ask me through translation why I'm not eating my white rice at lunch. Because it's generally Yuna that gets asked this question, I feel a small obligation to spice it up a bit with a creative answer. The first couple were my more canned diplomatic responses and the latter few - snide retorts:

"I'm not hungry."
"I'm not hungry because I had too much delicious kimchee."
"It makes me sleepy after lunch."
"I prefer brown rice."
"I like bread much more."
"White rice is only calories. There aren't any nutrients, only calories."
"I look good with my shirt off. I intend to keep it that way."

I'm not sure anyone sees the humor in the last two, nor should they as it, the previous two statements, are indeed the truth. But, at least at this point, I really don't care. As much as Koreans think Americans are all fat (most are), I do see a fair share of dark-haired people running around with little pot bellies.

Now for the clincher. A couple of months past, after the "bread will make you weak" comment, Monk walked by me at the cafeteria, stopped and began talking to me in Korean in a visibly agitated state. I didn't necessarily need translation at this point to understand where he was going but I wanted to know exactly what he said. "What did Monk say?" I asked Hyun Mi. "He said eat your rice!" she replied. I looked at him and then went back to my lunch tray picking at the vegetables and meat, completely ignoring the heaping portion of untouched white rice. Monk walked away in a huff.

Call it 'East vs West' propaganda. Call it 'cultural pride.' I find the whole thing interesting because I've never really had to justify what I eat or what I don't eat (save for maybe when you were four years old and you were told to eat your cauliflower "just because." Though the satire of the situation is your parents didn't much care for cauliflower either. It just happened to be that they were stoned out of their skulls for most days out of the week and cauliflower quelled their munchie urge without breaking the piggy bank). Don't get me wrong. I've got absolutely nothing against the shiny little death kernel. In fact, for a majority of my life I've been horrifically ambivalent and apparently startlingly myopic about the issue until recently spurned to make an an action by initiating inaction. Truth be told, I still won't be attending any "anti white-rice" rallies fanatically waving about a sign that emphatically exclaims "death to rice" all the while looking to exterminate the life of a rice practitioner who is looking to cleave husks from hulls. "Just doing my job!" says the little man in the little white surgical coat. Quite simply, there are bigger fish to fry and the "White v Brown" one ain't one of them.

I don't much care for McDonald's either but I'm not going to back-seat quarterback someone as they jam a Big Mac down their throat. As I type this, I realize that my sister, mother and I are all guilty of shaming my father while he commits the aforementioned act. I suppose the only thing we are guilty of is caring. My father is convinced that he will die wrastlin' a bear much like the way Tristain did at the end of the movie "Legends of the Fall." We imagine a much different scenario in which we discover him two steps outside of his Ford 250, crippled face down from a heart attack in a lukewarm pile of "two all beef patties, special sauce, letuce, cheese, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun". While alarming, vile and generally repulsive, the act isn't mine to govern. Here is an interesting find that may best sum up the situation altogether. While doing research to write this blog, two of the first four entries I tried to look at when I searched "white rice beriberi" (disease caused by diets based nearly exclusively on white rice consumption) were blocked by the Korean Public school's Internet filter. Coincidence?

Sure, people mistake me all the time for Brad Pitt.

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Fri, 29 May 2009 02:43:00 +0000

Stereotypes are a funny phenomenon. Students are shocked to know that I'm American because I don't weigh 150 kilograms, yet at the same time, strangers will ask "American?" if I'm approached at a cross walk, grocery store, and of all things, a urinal. Over the past six months, I've been told I resemble certain celebrities. The conversation usually goes as follows.

Korean person: "Hi"
Me: "Hi"

Korean person: "You (insert celebrity name here)" or if the Korean processes advanced English skills it's "You look-a like-a (insert celebrity name here)"

Me: "Really? Thanks."

Korean person: "BYE!"

Here is the list of the ones I can remember. I've heard some Korean's say that all white people look alike. This statement also comes from the same race of people that believe in fan death.

Wentworth Miller (Micheal Scholfield on "Prison Break" - yeah I had to look this up too.)

Matt Daemon - this is a give me.

David Beckham (because of the hair or my mad soccer skills I presume)

Brad Pitt - Seriously, stop laughing!

Mark Wahlberg (Max Payne) - I'm guessing it has something to do with the fact that I'm always look pissed off when I'm at school. That's probably because I am indeed pissed off when I am at school. Here is where things start to get absurd ...

"Kevin" from Home Alone

Kevin from Home Alone? The whole scenario was ridiculous. This 10 year old boy the first day of class in March started pointing at me saying, "Kevin! Kevin!" It was right about then that the Korean teacher (the time she came to class within the last 6 month) said, "He thinks you are Kevin from Home Alone movie." Anyways, If you exclude Macaulay Culkin from the list, I think it's pretty good company.

Here is perhaps the most humorous one of all. Barrack O'bama. Ok, ok, not in the looks department but because a student said that our voices are similar. Having a hard time picturing the similarities? Perhaps this shocking photo will help you.

Barrack and Garrett

See it now?

Ok, if I had to compare myself to another celebrity, it would be Nick Lidstrom. Obviously no one within 5,000 miles of Korea has heard of him but it's an honorable mention. In fact, I like to think of myself as the "poor man's Nicklas Lidstrom"

Nicklas Lidstrom

1. Born in Sweden
2. Has a lot of money
3. Plays hockey really well
4. Had an iron man streak of 228 straight playoff games
5. Has a really hot wife

Garrett Hohn
1. Born in the United States
2. Is broke as a joke on coke
3. Plays hockey about as well as Forrest Gump thinks
5. Had an iron man streak of 526 straight unemployed days
5. Masturbates constantly

So yeah, as you can see about the only thing we share in common are our boyish good looks and mutual love of the winged wheel.

Teacher's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Tue, 19 May 2009 11:53:00 +0000

While on vacation in February, one of my two vacations in February, I received an e-mail from Yuna. It stammers as follows;

"Hi, I'm yuna. How have you been? I wonder you stayed very well in your house during vacation. Let me know about your time schedule,but it is not sure. Actually I have to tell you the most important things of all my saying. today I got a call from a officer in masan city hall. She told me that they wanted to have a Englilsh coversation from you.They have two hours class every Thuesday, and Thursday. If you want, they will give 30000won per hour and 10000won as a trnasportation fee. Totally you can get 70000won for one week. Is it possible to take a class in Masan city hall? I want to get your e-mail as soon as possbile. I have to answer to a officer tomorrow. See you again."

Obviously, something as well written and precisely conveyed as the aforementioned passage raises more questions than renders answers. I had about a billion questions for Yuna and the only answer she could give me was that she would have Boy Young, the best English speaking student in that class, give me a call to discuss the details. Boy Young did call that day but I was able only to procure interspersed fragments of information via the phone call. This was partly because Boy Young's English was limited and I wasn't doing us any favors while being balls deep into a bottle or two of soju and delicious nagchi chil pan (spicy octopus) with fellow couchsurfer Garrett on my first trip to Seoul.

Through the booze and the convoluted wording, I was able to establish a meeting with Boy Young back in Masan a few days later to pick up a textbook for my soon-to-be new students. The students, according to Boy Young, were "old adults with very limited English" but were very eager to learn. This, of course, was a welcomed departure from the "monkey boys" I have at my city school, whom I'm pretty sure under my tutelage have regressed in terms of English speaking capability.

I met with Boy Young, and after shaking off the rust (I've spoken with someone who has went fifteen years without speaking English. The rust shakes off quicker than one would imagine), was pretty easy to converse with. We went to the book store and after navigating the countless shelves of books dedicated to English education, I found one I felt was worthy. Boi Young called the director and asked for permission to use this book but my choice was vetoed because, get this, there "wasn't any Korean in the book and the students would be intimidated by it." I pressed for the book and the director finally caved.

I was told that there would be 53 students in class. I walked into the first class on March 3rd to 46 well-dressed Korean adults with with the blankest of poker faces and bone chilling silence. I nursed through the first class with a brief introduction of myself, some no-fail, confidence building out loud reading and a ice breaking activity to get them up and talking with one another. All-in-all a very successful first day.

Since then my enrollment numbers have trickled from 46 to about 20 in three weeks. I chalked it up to one of those natural trends that accompanies a new, albeit difficult, change. Think of the packed gyms after January 1st, and by the time you reach February 1st, you're likely to hear a pin drop over the blaring Britney Spears. To reaffirm, one need look only as far as the first day of class at any university and then revisit only a month later though some Korean friends have suggested that the withdrawal of students might be age-old Confucianism hard at work against me and my junior status.

Can you spot me in the crowd?

Regardless of my standing, or general lack thereof within the social standing that Confucianism governs, I have a solid core of 18 or so students that attend class week in and week out. Over the past two and a half months, I have been meeting on Tuesdays and Thursdays with city hall employees for two hours each day. We also meet for dinner before class on Tuesday, and every so often, a student says "fuck it, let's go to the bar instead of English class." Well, not exactly but you get the idea. Over these two months, I've had the opportunity to see those old blank faces turn into genuine smiles and excitement to see me as well as to learn English. The Koreans are known for this. At first, it's like looking at a stone wall but after you develop a relationship with them, they will do anything for you and will do so with a hardy smile.

I kind of feel like I look like Alladin.

May 15th was "Teacher's Day" and my students surprised me with Korean traditional garb called Hanbok as well as letters from each student thanking me for all I have done for them.

Masan City Hall - Thank You Letters (PDF)

As we took pictures for album, the men were telling me to give the women "western treatment (hug + kiss)." It's all quite touching. In fact, you might need a tissue. A definite departure from the Day 1 stares :) I think one of my students might have a crush on me. Can you guess who?

Balls Deep: The "what's chapping my ass" post!

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Fri, 01 May 2009 12:43:00 +0000

They say that everyone has a honeymoon period when they move to another country. I've tried to be as even keel as possible, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Little high, little low will you let me go home" to quote the late great, and really ridiculously gay, Freddie Mercury. It's difficult to ride in the middle of the emotion road when living aboard seems to put you through more mood swings than a pregnant lady. I'm not going to lie and say that days 1-60 were easy. Now I'm starting to feel like I'm getting it down (that or I've been systematically desensitized).

I want to be clear that I am indeed enjoying my time out here but the longer you stay in a place that isn't home, the more certain things are bound to chap your ass. This is simply a cumulative diary of things that have pissed over the course of the last 6 months. Drum roll for the bitch-fest please.

1. Fucking post office tries to deliver my package one time while I was at work and they sent it back to the States? WTF? I bet they tried to deliver it at some ridiculous time like 2 p.m. "Rich man gets off work, then buys stereo. Not after fucking brunch!" - Mooj, "40 Year-Old Virgin"

2. Fucking co-teachers are always asking, "You look really tired. You have bags under your eyes. Are you ok?" Shit, I'm fine though I'd probably sleep a hell of a lot better if I didn't have MTV spring break 08 walking under my apartment window at 2 a.m. Also, what the hell is with the 6:15 am construction? On a side note, I'd probably look a little more refreshed if my face was on the business end of a puddy knife and some drywall spackle like these ladies, but as a man, I don't have that option.

3. Fucking dudes pulling there girls in tighter when I walk by. Seriously? Do you really think us "western men" want to have sex with your girlfriend? Assuming I did, with the hours I teach at school, and my refractory period, I couldn't possibly have sex with more than 25% of the girls here in my free time. And if we are being candid, as I think we are, I'd probably start with your dead-ringer for Margaret Cho last.

4. Fucking dudes talking about me in the locker room. It sucks. I want to know what they are saying, but since there isn't a straight across Korean translation for "donkey penis", I gave up trying. But that stopped after the first month.

5. Fucking dudes NOT talking about me in the locker room after the first month. WTF? First I was big shit now I'm old news? I just don't get it. What am I doing wrong?

6. Fucking Christians accosting me! I'm done being nice about this whole thing. Now if someone asks where I am from on the street, I ask them if they are going to try and convert me to a specific religion and, if so, this is the end of our conversation.

7. Fucking no one tells me anything over here when it involves pertinent details! "Hey Garrett, want to play guitar at a festival?" what they failed to mention was there would be well over a thousand people there!

8. Fucking Korea is devoid of Mexican food. Perhaps I should rephrase. Masan is devoid of Mexican food. Anyone want to send me some cilantro and black beans?

9. Fucking pick a side of the sidewalk to walk on. What the fuck? My personal favorite is the complete obliviousness when it comes to space surrounding them that some Koreans have. In Japan, people line up on the left (left hand drive country like the UK) and the people that want to walk up faster simply move to the right to pass. This, and I believe most people would tend to agree with me on this one, is a really efficient method to moving large groups of people in an orderly fashion. In Korea, however, this is a difficult concept to grasp as people are just strewn about the escalators with some facing backwards for whatever reason.

Tune in Tokyo

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 07:59:00 +0000

In February, a couple of my foreign friends announced they had a school sponsored holiday in April and that they were planning on a long weekend in Japan. The sheer fact that they had three days off in a row is considered a minor miracle because they get the dogshit worked out of them though my definition of "having the dogshit worked out of you" and most people's version vary significantly. With that said, it was much to my surprise that I didn't have this special holiday off from my public school gig. Like any individual not wanting to be excluded from the fun, I did what every cheeseburger eating, labor union touting, flag waving, red-blooded American would do. I asked for the day off.

I saw this exact sign at the gates of Dachau concentration camp.

Somewhat surprise when I posed the question, Jin Sun said that we'd, well she'd, have to wait and ask the principal the next time we saw him. Since this was during my second vacation towards the end of February, I'd have to wait until school was in session. I even had a chuckle about the situation thinking that while I was on vacation, I was asking for more time off down the road. Having a good feeling about getting the green light on the day off from my beloved country school, and being continually pressured by my foreign friends, I booked a partially refundable ticket for April 10th.

Two weeks later, Jin Sun said that I indeed had permission to go to Tokyo. I told her that I was really grateful for the time off because I'd already booked the ticket a couple weeks previous. Don't worry folks. I'm doing my best to make sure that us American are, and always will be, regarded in the highest esteem.

We also made our way up Tokyo Tower to take in the monstrosity that is Tokyo from 150 meters.

It was going to be a quick Friday to Sunday trip though the trip was made even more terse by a flight malfunction. In between sitting on the ground for an hour, and NWA's inability to find us another flight, our original departure of 11:30 a.m Friday was shifted to 4:40 p.m with a reroute to Seoul and then Tokyo. By the time we made it into Tokyo after the 1.5 hour Subway ride from the airport, it was midnight.

Saturday saw a full day of sight seeing in which we travelled into the center of Tokyo (we were staying in Korea-town, go figure). If you go to Tokyo, you better have a pocket full of Yen. It's quite expensive. In Shinjuku, 4 bottles of Sake, a round of fish heads, and 3 plates of sushi came out to be 12,000 Yen (120 USD). I know I'm going to become a lightening rod for ridicule on this but I found the sushi in Hawaii to be much tastier than the stuff we had Saturday at about a fifth of the price.

From the baseball game - Bent over, Asian and wearing a backpack. Does this photo remind you of anything? All I could think of was this clip (check out 2:05)

Patrick and I really, really wanted to take in a sumo match but we caught sumo during a non-tournament time. At least the baseball team was in town though misfortune would rear her ugly, busted, head once more. Because a) baseball is really popular in Japan and b) the Hanshin Tigers, Yomuiri's nemesis, was in town. Having an actual seat was out of the question but they were selling standing room seats for 1,000 Yen (10 USD). People were atleast five people deep, and at some places it was closer to 10.

Be sure to check out my Youtube profile for some videos too

* giggles *

Really?!

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 03:49:00 +0000

Every guy has it though most aren't aware of its existence until the skill is called on a shockingly frequent basis. It's basically the sixth sense you didn't know you had. It's the "someone is staring at my dong" sense.

I've grown accustomed to the stares in the gym and the jimjil bangs. In terms of penis, to the readers of this blog whom hasn't seen my penis (I think 10 have, 5 haven't), I've really got nothing to write home about. "Average western dong" is the term used most often by women who, in various moments of weakness and extreme vulnerability, were gracious enough to sleep with me. But my American made 1980 standard drive penis equipped with DUHC (Dual Under Head Cojones - for the non-gear heads) penis is the equivalent of a Mustang Shelby out here in Korea. Most of the time, the dudes out here operate with the "catch and release" credo when it comes to glances at my unit. Look at it, "catch" about a seconds worth and then "release" eye contact. I'm cool with this. I kind of have to be because if I wasn't, I would have left this peninsula a long time ago. To return the favor, I'll glance back and 100% of the time I'll think "sucks to be Asian."

So whilst at the bus station bathroom, when a man locked on with his peepers from three urinals down, I paid little mind. But then the seconds began to tick in my mind. Three seconds became four, four became five, and as if an eternity had lapsed twice, a full eight seconds had ticked off my internal clock. "Really?!" I thought to myself. Sick of being sexually objectified (I now know how it feels ladies and I am currently writing a form letter to mass apologize to any and all women I have wronged with merely my glassy stare), I did what any irrational western man in my situation would do. I stared right back

Much has been made of how to react in these situation. Typically, it never goes this far. Most times the slightest movement will send the perpetrators eyes back to neutral non-threatening grounds. Assuming that doesn't work, making eye contact is the defacto coup de grace.

I slowly turned my eyes, which were looking straight ahead in case anyone is looking to brush up on urinal etiquette, straight into his eyes. His eyes, both of which were intently gazing at my dong, made their way up my torso and finally to my face for which they stayed for an agonizing five seconds.

Try to stare at someone's, anyone's, genitals for a full 8 seconds. I dare you. It's excruciatingly long. Don't believe me? Rumor has it the movie "8 seconds", in which Luke Perry starred in the 90's, originally wasn't about bull riding at all. Nay, the movies initial premise was staring at a vagina for 8 seconds. Perry refused and a major script rewrite ensued. If you watch an old 90210 episode, and take careful notice as to how Dylan looks in Brandon Walsh's eyes, you will realize why Perry backed out and the awkward meet ups at the "Peach Pit" will make a lot more sense. But seriously, even if it's your best friend from cub scouts, your youth pastor, or the stripper at "Jiggles", it's really terrifying. Now imagine it's a complete stranger, in a foreign country, at a dirty bus station bathroom. The way this man stared at me you would have thought he was the sole witness to the Lochness monster climbing out of the Han River.

A bit on the shaken side, I shook off and zipped up and made my way to the sink. Thinking the situation was all but over, I relaxed and began to wash my hands. The pervert followed suit and walked to the sink next to me. While my hand were occupied with the soap and the running water, trying to cleanse my soul starting first with my hands, the peeping Tom made the boldest of bold moves. His hand ever so slowly made its way to my ass and began to rub it! I couldn't believe it! This time I nearly gave myself whiplash swinging my head left in order to make eye contact. It's probably to no ones surprise that he was displaying the most perverse and mischievous of grins. "NO!" was the only word that came out of my mouth. I tucked and ran without drying my hands. Only in Korea.

Konglish

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 02:07:00 +0000

Whenever the Koreans say or write something that is considered to be of poor English, they'll shrug and simply say "Konglish." Before I came here, I'd read blogs and forum posts about the ridiculous sayings that people would wear on t-shirts or shorts (I'm still in utter awe that native English speaking women would wear shorts that said "Juicy" across the ass). I was skeptical as to the level of their absurdity. I'm now a believer. The joke amongst my native tongued brethern is that any native speaker over the age of six could spot and subsequently correct the linguistic faux pas. The irony is that apparently no one does.

I'm not really sure about this one.

Well I wasn't before sweetheart but now that you mention it ...

I'm sure these guys would fix up your car real nice.

"Fuch's Lubricant" - tried and true.

Still makes me laugh when I think about this photo. Is still looking to dethrone "Balzac Coffee"

The single car in the back alley makes this photo.

Because "Tour de France" was taken?

Seoul, South Korea

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 01:20:00 +0000

I'll be honest. I haven't necessarily been chomping at the bit to go up to Seoul. My thoughts are a city in which 14 million inhabitants call "home" offers me little more than heightened blood pressure, a stabbing headache, and perhaps most damning, a wicked case of the Asian bird flew. With that said, I know I'd be the source of ridicule if I were to leave Korea without atleast one visit to Seoul, or as I like to refer to it, "the big crazy."

From Korea, February, Seoul

I have many talents though navigating huge cluster-fucked metropoli is not one of them. When I heard a Korean friend was taking the KTX (Korean 300km/hour train) to Seoul, I knew I had to seize the oppurunity to have atleast a portion of my journey go off without a hitch.

After Hani (Korean friend) showed me how to buy a Seoul subway ticket (yes, I'm litterally like a 3 year old when it comes to executing citycentric tasks) she went onto her sisters house and I continued to Shilim to stay with my couchsurfing host, Garrett. When you're not expecting it, waves and waves of black hair coming at you through narrow corridors can be quite daunting and intimidating. Not that I didn't before, but even moreso now, I have a great respect for our boys hunkered down in the trenches for WW2 and the Korean war.

Garrett took me to his favorite bar in Seoul. The bartender busted out a guitar and we swapped songs back and forth. The bartender and song Korean dude joined in for an inpromptu trio.

Nothing recharges the batteries more than a restful five hours sleep under your winter jacket on a hard floor. Up and at 'em at 9 a.m, I made my way to a very Korean breakfest of Kimbap (think california sushi roll) and then further to the bus station to finally reach the subway for a day of sight seeing. First on the list was Gyeongbukgung palace. It's Seoul's, if not Korea's, largest palace.

After Gyeongbukgung, I worked my way over to Namsam, otherwise known in English as, Tower of Seoul. The cable call up to and down from the tower was w7,500 and the views of the city were spectactular. Calling Seoul "enormous" is the understatement of the century. If you're in Seoul, Namsam is a must-see.

In this video, you can see about a third of densily populated Seoul, South Korea.

Craving a little taste of home, I made my way to Itaewon. We, the U.S, have a military base there (although it might be easier to list off the cities in which we DON'T have a military base), and, as indicative of military themed towns, Itaweon has quite the reputation for foreign goods and generally debachery. On that particular day I was not in the market for mischief, mayhem, or prostitutes, but I did have a hankering for food I couldn't get back in Masan (affectionilty reffered to as the Alabama of the U.S because of it's rural and conservative ways). Obviously there were the western staples such as TGI Fridays, Bennegians, Burger King etc .. but on my way out of the subway entrance, out of the corner of my eye, I stopped a kebap resturant. Suffice to say, I endulged in the spiced lamb and sweet tazikied goodness.

At Oktoberfest in Seoul

A few weeks ago I hosted a Korean woman named Heeson and her German travel company named Axel. They were so much fun to have in Masan. So much so I invited myself to their digs in Seoul. Axel, a German beer afficiando, recommended that we go to Oktoberfest bar in Seoul. He explained that he was skeptical as well but the beer was indeed good. The DunkelBeirre certainly didn't dissapoint and I loved the Asian themed traditional beer wench garb. Axel said no one under a D-cup had any business wearing the get-up, but that's his thing.

Party-time, excellent

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 12:22:00 +0000

It happens regularly around here. The boss determines that the staff needs to congregate for one reason or another and then when the no-holds-barred Soju-styled wrestling begins. Because I'm willing to stake my liver's still functioning areas for Korean immortality, I abide and tip back with my superiors.

From left to right (the So Jun crowd .. city school): Yuna, Ju Yeon, Hyun Mi, Yong Mi, Me-me

Around the horn from left to right (Sam Jin ... country school) Hyun Gung, Jin Sun, Ju Yeon, Garrett

Mr. Kim and I drinking makoli

I like this photo because I showed it to a friend and they said, "you look so happy!" Nothing, however, could be further from the truth. I was goded into allowing Mr. Kim to feed me with his chopsticks. What isn't visible in the picture are my insides seething with fiery rage.

MacGruber conquers bread, booze and a board game.

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 10:55:00 +0000

Remember McGyver? Who doesn't? The Korean's do that's for sure. I can't tell you how many times I have heard a "McGyver" reference out here. His character name, as well as the words "delicious", "hello", and "O'bama", are deeply entrenched into the Korean lexicon. What's more impressive, and somewhat unbelievable, is all Korean's know that Richard Dean Anderson played MacGyver. Yes, the same guy that pulled a German tank over a crumbling bridge with a roll of 12 pound test fishing line and a can of cheese whiz is still very alive and very active, though is operating in a different part of the world and under a different moniker long after the show hit rerun status on TNT.

Do you believe me now? Tiger, the man pictured, was printing off some sheet music for the church band.

While I normally operate under the guise of your "average swingin' dick", or often times the "village idiot" depending on the amount of idiots relative to that particular village, I've been constantly surprising myself of what I'm made of in the gray matter department. My all time favorite Jerry-rig moment is when I used a rock and several wood shims to replace a broken alternator bracket that the dealer wanted 60 dollars to replace. Spending 60 dollars for a bracket on a 150 dollar car didn't make much sense then, nor does it now. So when I wanted some homemade bread out here in Korea and scoffed at buying an overpriced oven, I knew I had to be resourceful.

"Discovery consists of seeing what everybody has seen and thinking what nobody else has thought." - Jonathan Swift

They, everybody, mocked me when I said I was going to make pita bread in a rice cooker yet they would turn out to be the same ones who sung my praise in between bites of fresh, light, wholesome goodness.

Soon-to-be bread.

The pita was a success but I knew there was going to be a sizable learning curve when it came to producing a delicious loaf of olive bread. Using the same rice cooker the next day, I opted for a basic bread recipe though I made some simple modifications including the addition of chopped olives, a little garlic and some basil.

Bread rise-ith

What do the internet and sex have in common? No matter what harebrained idea you come up with, it's already been done, and with that said, has been recorded and posted online. I took direction from the countless other derelicts who have successfully cooked bread in their rice cookers. My favorite "derelict" has to be this Japanese cook. (I'm not sure what makes me laugh the most; the angry narration, the 70's synth-jazz-fusion backing music, or the Heaven's gate suicide coat the cook is wearing)

The finished product. Mashita! Had it not been for the fact that I gave two pieces away to neighbors, I would have eaten the whole loaf within 4 minutes.

And the most creative use of a condom goes to ...

While I am a moderately experienced beer brewer, what use are skills if you aren't constantly trying to expound on them? Since I was unable to find balloons at Lotte Mart to hand craft an airlock, I called the philandering Englishman upstairs and scored an undersized Korean condom. Move over Boons Farm, there's a new wine maker in town!

From right to left (most simple to most complex): Strawberry wine, Asian pear wine, Asian pear and apple with a brown sugar sugar base.

Now we've got food and alcohol but what about entertainment? A couple of weeks ago a foreigner busted out a Twister game that she had brought from Canada. It was a huge hit amongst the ex-pat crowd but I thought we could go a step further. One game of Twister isn't nearly enough to go around a town the size of Masan. Here is my w3,000 (USD 2.75) equivalent.

Required materials:
1. Non-carpeted flooring
2. Four rolls of tape (much better than the board as the board tends to shift)
3. Something that plays Mp3's or CD's

Alexa and I have had in depth conversations about optimal Twister dimensions. She is a tall glass of water at 6'1, and sinewy as all hell. Consequently, she opts for a more conservation, stretch based mode, whereas I play more of an aggressive, power based game. While fundamentally different in how we approach the sport, we've had great discussions about how to adapt the game to the small apartments in which we reside (we're both very passionate about the game if you couldn't tell). We used a live game at Collin's house (how there were 26 people in a 350 sq ft size apartment with a game of Twister in full swing is beyond me) as proving grounds and determined that widely spaced squares are a disadvantage to the exceedingly short folk, so much so that they bitch incessantly about it. In addition, the largely spaced board was like hockey on an Olympic sized sheet of ice. Basically too much finesse with not enough body contact. At "Hohnplaza" however, the stars really aligned and we really knocked it dead with the layout. Think of the playoff intensity and the overall intimacy of the diminutive Montreal Forum, minus the overturned cop cars following a Game 7 loss. For those wondering, we've determined that 20 cm squares with 10 cm in between squares work best. The first test run included a homemade spinner but this provided to be unreliable as the paper clip affixed to the pen attached to the cardboard tended to be not so random. If I'm only known for the following contribution to society for the rest of my life, let it be this; instead of a manual wheel to determine "left hand - green," I recorded the 16 possible twister combonations in audible form followed by 20 seconds for player movement and made them into Mp3's. I then put them on a USB drive and loaded them in Windows Media Player and put them on shuffle mode. We now have an efficient, 100% non-bias, 100% sober Twister move announcer!

I understand that these brainstorm sessions aren't going to necessarily challenge electricity or the internal combustion engine for invention supremacy but it sure beats the shit out of my college buddy, who in a pinch, used Bag Palm as an anal sex lubricant.

Your money is no good here

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 04:57:00 +0000

I've mentioned before as to how the seemingly routine can become the exponentially frustrating in terms of day to day living in a foreign place. Take for instance, your own health. When being constantly subjected to new food, it's difficult to assess the different ingredients and micronutrients present in each food. While this may be of little or no importance to most, I feel it's pivotal to know what I'm ingesting. While only one example, and a weak one at that, there are far greater issues then knowing whether or not the soy sauce I purchased at Lotte Mart is of the low sodium variety.

God forbid you come to South Korea and require general health maintenance while you are in Korea. While the care is inexspensive to say the least, communication can be difficult if not impossible at times. No fault to the Koreans mind you because it's my responsibly to learn the native tongue, though I'm not sure I'd be comfortable making dental decisions, let alone major medical decisions, with any less than 10 years language mastery. "Oh, I can't remember if the doctor said take 10 pills each day or five." They, the doctors, disperse pills out here with reckless abandon. I have a desk drawer full of medication to substantiate these claims following my week long hospital bender to usher in the western new year. So when another foreigner says that they had a good experience with a doctor that speaks passable English, you tend to take note.

Annilee, my upstairs neighbor from London, pointed me to the direction of a doctor that met the aforementioned bill. "Third floor," she said confidently, "can't miss it." She went on further to explain that I didn't need an appointment. This suited me well as its been a while since I've been to the dentist and I tend not be much for the advance planning. So yesterday after a nice little workout session, I waltzed in there midway through a busy little Thursday. Since Korean architecture tends to be quite bland and homogeneous, I walked into an office, literally the first one I saw, on the third floor of the instructed building, I was met with blank stairs by the girls at reception.

Here is how I found the dentist yesterday. This is pretty much an action by action recount of how my wandering Korean adventures transpire.

Me: Ahn yung hay say o! (Korean "hello")
Reception girl: Ahn yung hay say o!
Me: (hand cell phone to girl with Korean word for "dentist" displayed"
Reception girl: "Aneo ... (insert more Korean I can't understand)"
Me: (shurgs shoulders and smile until reception girl smile backs)
Reception girl: (walks me like the small child I am to my correct destination)

I've noticed that the women around here take special pity on me. It could be their motherly instinct or perhaps my radiant blue eyes, but they are more then always willing to help. Even though it's nice to always have that ace up my sleeve, at the same time, it's severely limiting the amount of Korean I have, want or need to learn.

As the one receptionist hands me off to the next one, I made the charades gesture that I would like a teeth cleaning (it's the one where you are picking at your teeth while making a scraping noise). The women asks with a single word, "pain?" I reply, "No miss (in Korean)" and pull up the cell phone dictionary English-to-Korean entry for "cleaning." Some what puzzled she walks to the back of the office, grabs a dentist and returns to the counter. I then give the same pitch to the dentist and she replies in English, "oh, do you want a scraping?" "Yes, a scraping!" I said with a certain amount of relief. Sampsonite, I was way off!

As I was reaching into my pocket to produce my insurance card, the dentist asked, "Is your name Garrett?" I replied quickly and a bit on the surprised side none the less, "Yes, it is. How did you know that?" "Both my son and my friend Mr. Kim said they had a teacher that had blue eyes, was tall and very handsome. So I guess you." she said as if it were common Korean tradition to effortlessly pluck needles from half-million straw hay stacks.

The "scraping" was pretty uneventful save for the fact that they hygienist that cleaned my teeth did so sans gloves. To her credit, she washed the hell out of her hands both before and after the session. Back at the reception area I spoke to the dentist at mild length about Korea, the United States and So Jun middle school. I then asked her, "well, how much money for the scraping." She started to speak, then paused and said, "you teach my son English, you do not pay me. free scraping for you." I of course offered to pay again, and when she held her ground, I thanked her profusely. The whole exchange left me laughing on the inside and shaking my head a little bit. I think the following quote sums up the exchange far better then I ever could.

"No Mary. I couldn't possibly accept that. Not after all we've been through"
- Lloyd Christmas, Dumb and Dumber

A river runs Je-ju it

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Sun, 18 Jan 2009 08:48:00 +0000

(This post contains talk of testicles and theoretic ejaculation. If this bothers you, perhaps you should read this instead)

This is harubang. It's Korean translation means "grandpa"

Korea is a proud country. Show a picture of a topless double amputee midget swimming in a kiddie pool of green jello in front of Times Square to a Korean, young or old, and they will excitedly say "LG! (or any other Korean based companies logo that is visible in the picture)" It's becoming clear to me that when your country is a peninsula the size of Indiana, you have North Korea as your only land based neighbor, and you're generally regarded as a minor blemish on history's ass, you tend to take pride in what you do have. With that said. it comes to me as no surprise that Korea's island of Jeju, situated about 120 miles to the south of the mainland, is highly touted as "Korea's Hawaii". I had to exercise punctuated deference in calling "bullshit" immediately when I heard this the first time.

When I think of gorgeous places, and when I try to determine if they are indeed gorgeous, I think about this simple saying; "_______ makes me wanna squirt." Are you having difficulty following my pattern of thought? I don't blame you. Here is an example; Hawaii is gorgeous. It makes me wanna squirt. Innsbruck, Austria is gorgeous. If I saw Innsbruck right now, I'd probably squirt. On a good day, I could probably muster out a three-roper squirt for Portland, Oregon. If I could have multiple orgasms and didn't have the refractory period of an 80 year old man, Northwest Montana would make me squirt several times. Are we on the same page?

You're probably wondering how a guy who knows roughly twelve Korean words could a) jump on a plane b) navigate the island c) go horseback riding d) be someone's "lapdog". It will all make sense in a bit.

Buddha and I throwing back some swill.

During my last day of "Winter Camp" at So Jun (city school) and a mere hour after talking to him about "A simple misunderstanding", Mr. Kim asked me if I wanted to accompany him, as well as other staff and students, to the beautiful island of Jeju-do. He said that all I would have to pay for is my plane ticket (W120,000) and my transportation, soju, lodging, food and soju would be picked up for by the school district. Yuna said afterward that Mr.Kim must really like me to invite me on this special trip. I, of course, agreed.

It was as cold as it looks.

A chartered bus picked us up at So Jun middle school at 8:30 a.m Monday morning. We arrived at Gimhae airport and boarded the plane. The plane ride was an uneventful 35 minute journey but I had the idea of reopening the "I want to nail a flight attendant .. there I said it!" blog and making a small amendment such as "I want to nail an Asian flight attendant .. !", but I've since thought better of the idea. Truly the women that adorn these plains are quite beautiful. The thought of taking a picture of the stewardesses raced through my feeble mind but that, even for me, felt a little sleazy. According to lore, Korean flight attendants must complete 3 years of schooling and apparently it is pretty rigorous considering some of the job's duties are passing out peanuts and demonstrating how a seat belt works. The women, sorry boys - no stiff wristers on these 747's, all have to meet strict physical qualifications regarding height and weight and must have a certain "look" to them. I reckon it's like the free wheeling '60's before the dreaded feminism movement, or for what I like to call it, the "end of fun". Just kidding. That last bit was for giggles, albeit slightly off topic.

Ju Yeon cutting up some sort of seafood feast.

When we landed and walked out of the front doors of the airport, all I could think was "that John Denver's full of shit." Korea's Hawaii had snow on the ground! This of course angered me to no end but I was thankful I left the speedo at home and opted for the goose down jacket instead. After slight grumblings under my breathe, I jumped on the bus with the other troops.

The bus driver drove us around the island and then up the mountain. We stopped at varying sights to snap pictures and do some general sightseeing. The further up the mountain we traversed, the colder and more snow filled the air became. Like I said, full of shit.

One of the activities we engaged on Tuesday was, all of things, horseback riding. At first, the horses walked us around the track for us to become comfortable with them. After that, they ran us around the track bouncing all along the way. I don't know if it was the stiffness of the saddle, the bouncing of the horse, or the fact that it was so cold that Pancho and Lefty we riding high and tight but at the end of the day, my balls were wicked sore. Fellas, if you are having difficult imagining this sensation think of a fun Saturday night with the mistress ... without release.

The safety orientation was incomprehensible to me seeing as I don't speak Korean. As as result of this, when the thousand pound beast situated under my ass started to get agitated, I kind of panicked. First, the bastard steed dropped to one knee twice resulting in elevated blood pressure for me. While the other horses walked lazily down the well defined and groomed trail, Eeyore made it his goal to brush me up against every tree and thorn bush this side of Busan. I think he picked up on me vexing him because the jackass had one last trick in store for me ... leaving the beaten trail. As the horse and I left the trail (his doing not mine), the other Korean teachers began yelling "Left-a, Left-a!" I wanted to turn left to get back on the trail obviously, but not being privy to the information dispensed at the safety rundown, I didn't know which gesture was the kill switch and which was the rocket booster. All of the Korean's yelling at my horse must have lit a real fire under his ass because he then began to run. At this point I was left with two options; bail off and hope not to pull a Christopher Reeve or hunker down and ride it out. I opted for the latter and after a brief full on run through the thick wooded terrain, the horse came to his senses and slowed his pace.

The three day mini vacation consisted of a lot of driving and a lot of horse back riding. Basically, the perfect storm for a sore ass. After we flew back to Gimhae and during the bus ride to Masan, Mr. Kim invited me to visit him in Seoul during our Spring break. "Garren, I'd like to show you Seoul. While it might not be proper, you can stay at my spare apartment in Seoul," he said to me. And that's when I officially became a lap dog.

Korean brewfest 2008-2009

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 12:35:00 +0000

They say poverty is the mother of invention. I beggith to differ. Until you are looking straight down the barrel of an entire year without quality beer, you will never know what you are made of in the McGruber department. So what do you do when your beer choices consist of Hite (shite), Cass (ass), Budweiser? Though I've never been as desperate as to drink half drank beers at a bar or party, I've been here two months, and the thought has crossed my mind. With that said, I'm glad I haven't been confronted with a slobbered on half empty Sierra Nevada sitting in a Korean gutter.

Patrick and I swilling while we brew. Good beer CAN be found but with extremely limited variety. Pictured from left to right Garrett, Hoegaarden, Patrick, Heineken. Not pictured but also present: Guiness, Leffe Blonde and Leffe Brown.

It became clear that I had to employ some good old fashioned Montuckian engineering skill here in South Korea. Colette was kind enough to send me hops, yeast, and malt extract to get me started but the hardware end of things was brainstormed up by yours truly in the dazzling amount of free time one finds when they only actually "work" 16 hours a week. My primary fermentation vessel would be my Culligan water jug. Various plastics would round out the racking tube, funnel and cleaning receptacles. The bottles? That's easy. How about 500ml bottled water containers of course?

The Beer called my Culligan water jug home for a couple of weeks.

I planned a special gathering at the love nest for December 7th, 5.pm sharp. All the foreigners came wide-eyed and skeptical. Could beer really be brewed in Korea? Is this guy crazy? In an effort to to keep this project as low budget as possible, I asked all the foreigners attending if they had a large brew pot. Alla said she indeed had a "huge cooking pot" I could borrow for such occasion. I needed 4.5 gallon capacity for brew day. She showed up with a 1/3 gallon offering so that meant I had to walk down to Lotte Mart and pony down a cool W33,000. Good job Alla.

Patrick manned the the brew pot stirring occasionally with all the physical fervor of a "Jerry's Kid" on quaeludes. The other minions watched from the other 3 square feet of floor space my apartment contains occasionally spouting off an "oh" or "ah" and the very unappreciative "what's taking so fucking long?"

Boiling the wort was successful, and to boot, fermentation was extremely vigorous. So much so, the sound from the water lock kept me from sleeping that night! After ten days of fermentation, the beer was ready to be bottled. Having a tiled bathroom with a drain in the middle I very handy for bottling beer. It makes cleanup a snap!

And then I was forced to wait for the beer to condition in the bottles. About three days in, a beer exploded in my brew cellar (bottle shot off its plastic top), but other then that, the entire process went as planned. But what fun is drinking alone? Bobby and I were the first to crack one open. The beer was fantastic! Bobby actually offered to buy some off me he was so impressed with it. I told him I'd help him brew the next batch so he could have 5 gallons to himself.

Scott and Sung Jin enjoy some of my pale ale. Sung Jin says "This beer strong. It makes me drunken!"

Logan (South Carolina) and Daylynn (New York) enjoy some homebrew with delicious homeade chili.

Sing along song

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Thu, 08 Jan 2009 00:53:00 +0000

Around mid-December, I was told by Yuna that I would have to prepare for "Winter Camp." The details that she provided were scarce at best, and as was the case in this instance, misleading. Yuna told me that the winter camp was for students that were forced to come in during vacation as a form of punishment. I was told that I would have students for 3, 45 minute classes for a single day, then the next day, I would received new students. I searched daveseslcafe.com for materials and potential information that could aid me in my planning for the unknown. For whatever reason, all I could think of was that shitty Antonio Benderas movie where he teaches those urban city thugs, of all things, ballroom dancing.

Yuna told me the day before the camp started, which was a week after my book had been prepared and created at the print shop, that winter camp was supposed to be fun and that the students voluntarily signed up for the camp. I can now sympathize with the German soldier whose job it was to tell the Jews, as they stepped into tiny train cars, that they were heading to a vacation villa.

The students I have for winter camp are amazing. I have to laugh at my 2nd level student class ( all 14 or 15 years old western aged girls), as all I can hear walking down the hall or into class is "Hi, Hohn" or "Hi, Garren". The students that muster up the courage to actually talk to me bust out in a case of giggles by the second sentence. Aside from that they are excited to see me, are polite, and eager to engage in the activities set forth for them.

Instead of a new group of students every day, I see them for 5 straight days. For those keeping track at home, that's 12 hours and change with them over the week. I'm glad I over prepared my work book. Again, another annoyance not the fault of the students, but instead miscommunication from the brass.

But just because I prepared a workbook, doesn't mean I can't deviate from the beaten path from time to time. I didn't necessarily have a Cartmonian "how do I reach deez keeeeeedz" moment one night, but I did think to myself, "I've got some pretty eager kids here. Maybe I can do something different." Coupled with the fact that I have very small class sizes ranging from 16-20 students (did I just refer to 20 students as a very small class?), I was pretty excited to test the boundaries.

I've learned through regular session in the public school, that children really enjoy singing western songs. My Korean co-teachers always praise me when I bring in the guitar. So when I ask them if they ever implore such a strategy, I was surprised to hear them say that they want to but can't sing or play an accompanying instrument. Does Garrett actually have an advantage here? I'll let you decide.

First, we started out slow to shake off the rust. The Beatles are very popular over here. So much so that it's common to hear Beatles songs as cell phone ring tones.

Next we rocked out a traditional American staple. Please forgive my mistakes. At extremely slow speed the chord changes can be very tricky.

Here is my crown jewel. I've heard this song on the radio or in a store some where while I've been here and thought it might be fun. When I looked it up on YouTube, the first video was from a South Korean performance for public broadcast. Omen? My original intention was to teach them only the chorus. I felt like it was slow and repetitive enough that they could easily master it. I changed some of the lyrics around to help as well. Take particular notice of the line "it's our god-forsaken right" as they had a hell of a time, pun intended, with it. It's pretty cute. Well, always being one to set the bar low, my meager expectations were surpassed ten-fold.

All in all, it was an excellent little Wednesday I won't soon forget. Doesn't this just warm your heart?

Hard day at the coal mine

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 22:55:00 +0000

It's official. Asian people under the age of 25 aren't short. These kids are 14 or 15 years of age.

I'm often asked about my job here. As much as I like to think I've been sent here as an "international ambassador of sexy" and to stir the local women into a tizzy, I actually have an official appointment of teaching. If you've read any of my posts, in all of their inaccurate grammatical splendor none the less, you're probably having a hell of a time comprehending that I teach English. I don't blame your reticence. For the record, however, I do teach me some good fuckin' "Engrish-ee" here.

In the states, my degree is in Ed. (Ed., in this instance stands for Education not Erectile Dysfunction). I have a few friends that teach back in US, and the popular topic whilst walking around the hallowed halls of the prestigious University of Montana was the pros and cons of either a) staying in Montana and working for 4 dollars an hour or b) moving somewhere, anywhere, else. Recruiters and hustlers alike took notice of this and posted advertisements in reference to teaching abroad. I'd never truly entertained the notion myself until a bit over a year ago. If you would have told me 3 years ago that I'd be living in an Asian country, by myself, teaching English, I probably would have stabbed you in the throat with a philips screwdriver. Not because I wouldn't have believed you, more so because I was kind of an asshole that was really into assaulting people with screwdrivers back then.

My normal week consists of teaching 22, 45 minute classes. This shakes down to about 17 hours of "actual real work" assuming I'm not late to any, or all, of my classes by several minutes. If you deduct potty breaks and the ever so frequent "oops I didn't hear the bell" excuse, I'd say it's closer to 13. So all in all not too particularly strenuous but I would like to see that number drop to the single digits, with strong preference to a flush zero. And while we are talking about hopes and dreams, down the road, and I'm talking way down the road on this one, maybe negative work hours. I'm not sure how that would work but I've dedicated a yeoman's effort to this one.

Between movies, songs and Scrabble, we hammered out some actual work.

This wee, however, is different. The kids are currently on vacation. The smart ones, or the not so smart ones if you ask me, have elected to partake in what is called "Winter Camp." It's 5 days for the week and 3, 45 minute classes each day. Instead of talking about traditional school camp fare that I absorbed empirically such as grand tales of a young lad who finally touched a boob or a ballsy chap who broke into his ole' man's stash of Hustler's, in Korea, the students are supposed to learn English .... well, sort of. I had to create a booklet of activities to entertain the kids for an entire week. Thus far, we've done crossword puzzles, word searches, and fill in the blank activities. Shit, I've even taught them "Yellow Submarine", "You Are My Sunshine", with tomorrow's big finale being "If I Had A Million Dollars" with them. The kids that are here are really well behaved and excited, for whatever reason, to be here at school as opposed to anywhere else like, I don't know, sleeping or creating general mayhem. Here is a recap of my Friday.

8 a.m: Get up.
8:10 a.m: Get on the horn (Skype for the laymen). Pester people back in gold ole' Miegook.
8:45 a.m: Eat my sugar flakes (yep, still out of oatmeal)
9:00 a.m: Eject the rest of the Ebola from the bottom half of my body
9:15 a.m: Waddle to school
9:30 a.m: Arrive at school
9:33 a.m: Talk to Mr. Kim about "a simple misunderstanding"
9:55 a.m: Arrive in class 10 minutes late. Assign 45 minutes worth of book work.
10:30 a.m: While students work, watch Bruins/Pens finish 2nd period. 10 minute break time.
10:45 a.m: Pass out scrabble games just in time for start of Bruins/Pens 3rd period.
11:30 a.m: Assign another 10 minute break.
11:45 a.m: Load "School of Rock" with Korean Subs from USB drive. Watch first 45 minutes of the movie. Think to myself whilst watching the movie, "That Jack Black can be really annoying but damn that Sarah Silverman has some big titties." (Weird eh, I've only been here for two months, and what would be average sized breasts back home look like giant Hindenburgs to me now - "Oh, the humanity!")
12:30 p.m: Lunch. Hyun Mi was nice enough to buy lunch for the crew though I was barely able to touch the chicken for obvious reasons.
2:45 p.m: Rinse and repeat previous classes
5:10 p.m: Waddle to gym

I need the help of Stephen Hawking on this one because somewhere during this hectic day, I managed to accrue 2 hours of overtime. TIK!

I walked upstairs to borrow a camera to take this photo. The whole time the only thing I could think of was "Ma and Pa! will sure be proud of their baby boy!" If this thought alone isn't proof of a maladjusted upbringing, I'm not sure what is.

A simple misunderstanding

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 18:00:00 +0000

When an attempt was made on my life in the form of a foodborne Ebola virus on New Year's Eve, my coworkers, Sung Jin, and my principal, Mr. Kim were all very concerned. Whilst laying aquiver in bed in between violent bouts of vomit and fecal expulsion, I had a lot of time to soul search. I thought to myself that many a person has been on the business end of food poisoning before, so why were they so concerned about lowly ole' me? I could understand why Sung Jin was concerned. I mean, he was the henchmen that delivered the near fatal oral dose of contaminated poultry. I think their over-the-top concern spawned from the fact that I may have over sold the whole thing through a graphic rudimentary monologue coupled with Pictionary!

styled theatrics. But Dude, you can see my concern as I wanted to make sure they sent me home. This would ensure that I would never have to weaken the journalistic merit of my blog by posting a message with the title of "I shit myself in class today!" complete with a 20 picture web album.

On New Year's Day, the day after I left school early to recover at the luxurious Changpo Freetel, Mr. Kim called me.

Mr. Kim: "Garren, this is your principal. Open your door. I am knocking on the door"
Me: "Umm. Ok. I don't hear anything but I will check."

Mr. Kim: "Why aren't you opening your door?"

Me: "The door is open. Where are you?"
Mr. Kim: "It's polite Korean culture to open the door."

Me: "I'm sure it is. I understand that but where are you?"

He then hung up the phone and left me in complete bewilderment until he called back two minutes later.

Mr. Kim: "Garren, I want to see if your condition has improved. Come out to the front of your
apartment"

Me: "Ok. See you out front."

Mr: Kim: (hangs up the phone)

So I cruise around my tiny apartment building several times looking for my principal. I don't see him and then text Yuna to explain the situation seeing as I don't have Mr. Kim's phone number nor do I have caller ID. I also figured I'd have a loose "hey I tried" alibi the following morning.

I'm well aware that this looks bad on my behalf. Foreigners, no matter how seemingly well behaved and squeaky clean, have been pegged as HIV carrying, obesity ridden, unemployable philanderous whores through the bias media and, to an unmeasurable effect, by our Budweiser guzzling, flag waving boys representing our armed services in Seoul. So when Mr. Kim showed up at my joint when I'd been sent home the day previous with a potentially life ending strain of squirty-ass, and I wasn't there, I'm sure he assumed the worst. I knew I had it in for me when I came into work on Friday.

I waltzed into work at 9:30 a.m, while not a minute early, is still not a minute late. The office phone rings at 9:33 a.m (I wonder if he was counting down the minutes before he got to reem round-eye) and one of the non-English speaking staff answers the phone speaking in Korean, points at me, says "Mr. Kim", and points downstairs. An obvious world class Pictionary! player if I've ever seen one, I get the hint and roll down to Mr. Kim's office.

Resisting all urge to greet him sarcastically with a "Sup hoss?", I lead with the somewhat calculated, somewhat manufactured, and all but forced, "Anyyunghayseyo Mr. Kim." He looks at me from behind pursed lips, and even more pursed eyes, and says that he is very angry with me. I explain the situation that I was indeed at my house between the hours of 3 p.m and 10 p.m, and in the most subtle way that I could without tossing the issue of senility into the equation, suggested that he may have been knocking at the door of the wrong apartment. "Changpo Freetell, four-zeo-six, right?" he said. I agreed, and thought to myself, that I think I should know where I live. After all, I have a key to the place and I leave my collection of porn there, which according to me, and the state of Montana for that matter, qualifies me for residency. Unless I've been inadvertently jerking it at my neighbors for the past two month, I'm most definitely right on this one. And if I'm wrong, then I've got some pretty understanding neighbors.

The situation diffuses as it became apparent that his whole "anger" bit was about as thinly veiled as a presidential campaign promise. He finally cracked a smile and says he was just very anxious in reference to my situation and glad that the plum tea he made cured me of my ailments. I knew he couldn't stay mad at me. This is the same man that refers to me exclusively as "his son", feeds me with his chopsticks at the dinner table, and pimps me out to student's parents for special dinners as a blue eyed ambassador for Masan Seo Middle School. It would be like Sigfried or Roy without that killer tiger beast that is both feared and loved at the same time. Who's beauty would they admire from afar? Who would they teach tricks to (Korean curse words)? Who would they feed table scraps to? I knew he could only stay mad at me for so long. Think about it. This whole situation was me apologizing all over myself for being at my house at the time I specficied and apologizing for another person's inability to find it. That's culture for ya.

Happy New Year ... enjoy the food poisoning bitch!

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 07:01:00 +0000

(warning: graphic post. BTW anonymous comments are now allowed because apparently some of my older reader's can't figure out how to use the complicated user name/password feature:)

What's a guy to do when he's asked to ring in the New Year 17 hours ahead of friends and family? Why contract painful vomiting and explosive diarrhea of course.

On New Year's Eve-Eve, Yuna's brother, Sung Jin, came over. He's a 24 year old college student that is studying to becoming a teacher here in Korea. As part of the entrance exam, he must answer some questions in English in front of an interviewer. As much as I want to tell him to do something else, anything else, as a profession, I have no choice to be impressed by his youthful enthusiasm. Though, at the same time, it's highly annoying to be in the presence of someone that thinks they will like their future job. The only thing worse is knowing someone that actually enjoys their job. The absolute Sisyphusian drudgery of the situation is knowing that I'll never enjoy my job. I know this because the very nature of pimping oneself out for arbitrarily worthed pieces of paper goes against the grain of happiness itself. Exacerbating my anger is I'm not a big fan of being told what to do either. With that said, can you tell I've rewatched Fight Club within the last week?

While I might not be the beaming ray of sunshine that the world huddles around for warmth and inspiration, who am I to rain on someone else's parade? As such, since Yuna is my handler, and a fine handler at that, I feel a slight obligation to repay a debt. It helps that Sung Jin typically brings over a small gift in the form of an edible consumable. And since I'm lazy to a fault, being fed in exchange for helping a friend out is small penance.

On tap was roasted chicken, or that's what I requested. Actually my original request was a chicken salad. It's quite easy. Chicken plus lettuce plus some sort of dressing equals chicken salad. I've had more rice and meat than I'd care to recall and was looking to bombard the colon with copious amounts of fiber. With that said, when the delivery guy showed up at my apartment, and dropped off a box of fried chicken wings, I was pretty disappointed.

Not one to say no to free food, free booze, or free sex (ok, anything less than 20 dollars), I happily feasted on the greasy wings. Sung Jin and I had a couple of my home brews, and to my surprise, not only does he really enjoy the beer, he drank one of my IPA's at room temperature!
At about 9:15, he left my apartment and I nestled into bed for an early evening in preparation for the following day's "work."

Work would never come, or at least the version I've come to know and dread within the last couple of months here. I was awoken by gut wrenching stomach cramps at 3 a.m, and by 7 a.m, it became clear something from some orifice of mine was about to be expulsed from my body. I've always enjoyed stories of travelers that speak of malaria or food poisoning because, while I've never been in that situation, I have only their words to base certain assumptions on. "Coming out of me from both ends," is the term used most prevalently. Those words always made me laugh ... at least until today.

I stood up from my bed and it became clear that forces beyond my control were working WWF tag team style feverishly within me. I dizzily made it to the toilet and assumed seated lock down position. Seriously, in crisis, sitting on the pot seems to be the de facto stance that replaces the fetal position long after you've outgrown being a fetus. There is something extremely comforting about mounting the thrown, placing your elbows on your thighs just after you've thrown out the "Sign of the Cross" just in case. Some call it resigning yourself to your impending fate. I like to look at it like enjoying the calm before the storm.

As I sat there, wondering where my foe would attack from first, I had to chuckle as the the layout of my bathroom. I thought about those poor malaria stricken folks marooned in Ding-Fuck no where, grinding it out over some squatter toilet, or even worse, some fecal filled shallow hole in the ground. It was brief, but I had a moment. A moment of clarity. A moment of utter appreciation. The fact that I had a tiled bathroom, with a storm drain, and a movable shower head made me feel suddenly at peace. Clean up would be a cinch assuming I survived this El Nino. But leave it up to mother nature to deke me forehand then backhand. The 2nd position within the travelers play book is on his knees, enjoying his own reflection within the murky waters of an American, ahem, Korean Standard. My moment of peace was over.

With an upward thrust and twist, I reacted to mother natures one-on-one deke and made it to my knees just in time to let out a violent yak of vomit. And then I yacked some more. If that weren't enough, I yacked a little bit more. The rock gods say that John Bonham would have been proud but this performance wasn't yet near a first encore. As I marveled at the spiral that was making its way down the flushing toilet, I felt a tickle in my belly that manifested its way into a freight train speeding down the tracks that was my colon. This was 7 a.m. This was round one of a heavyweight battle I had no chance at winning.

After another go around some 45 minutes later, I felt the need to contact Yuna. I told her that I wasn't coming in today because I could literally cough, vomit, or shit at any moment. "You have to come in," she said. Really? Potentially shitting myself at the drop of a won isn't reason enough to stay home?

Sung Jin said he would take me to the hospital at 9 a.m and then we would walk to the school at 10 a.m. It was kind of implied that once the principal saw me in the condition my condition was was in, he'd take pity on me and send me back to my sweat box of an apartment.

Outside Lotte Mart at 9 a.m precisely, Sung Jin came running up. "I'm so anxious about your situation," he said to me obviously concerned. We walked towards the hospital past the stinky fish markets and street side food vendors. The smell of the food emanating from nearly every nook and cranny made me almost junk twice. But that was nothing compared to the smell of stale fried chicken still pungent on my fingers I took in when I tried to plug my nose.

I managed to contain my stomach contents as we arrived at the hospital a mere few minutes later. Sung Jin made the appointment and sussed out the details with the receptionist. While sitting, I spotted a garbage can in the corner of the room that could be reached in a matter of steps if need be. Sung Jin picked up on the fact that I was sizing the place up in regards to potential places to spew. This made him nervous which then thrust him into million question mode. He began asking me questions like, "do you think it was the chicken? I wasn't sick from the chicken. The chicken tasted ok, right?" It was then I looked him straight in the eye, vomit threatening up my throat, eyes sunken back into my sockets and said to him as squarely and as sharply as anyone can, "Dude, don't say THAT word again."

We walked into the examination room and I laid down on the table (for those keeping track at home, this is the 4th time I've been to the hospital in a week and a half). The doctor began asking questions to Sung Jin in Korean all the while pressing and probing my stomach. After 30 seconds, he looked at me and said to me, exactly the way Ramathorne says "Reefer" when he discovers the weed in the semi truck in Super Troopers, "food poisoning." He then led me into an attached room. The women in that room motioned for me to expose my ass. Not one for being shy to expose my ass, I granted the woman her request and the only word uttered from her mouth was "pain" as she stuck me in the can with a diminutive needle. Sung Jin and I picked up some medication and made our way to the school.

Yuna rushed over when she saw me hunkered down at my desk and sympathetically worded to me in a motherly tone, "I'm so sorry about your condition. Do you think you can teach today?"
I predictably said, "I don't think so. I've had diarrhea three times, I've vomited 3 times. I think would get sick again. If I have to, then I will need a bucket in the classroom." I believe the bucket line was the clincher as it was then she said, "I think Mr. Kim wants to speak with you about your condition"

Mr. Kim was surprisingly sympathetic about the whole thing. I mean, homeboy is pushing 60 years old and has seen more involving poverty and disease than he'd probably care to regale me with. In fact, growing up in poor Korea in the 1950's, he may have actually had to walk uphill both ways to school. "My son, I've heard you are sick. Please drink this tea. Please go to your accommodations and rest. If I have time, I will check on you," he said with generous amounts of sincerity.

At home, the stomach pains brewed and brewed until mother nature hit the bleeder valve at will. Vomit, shit, shit, vomit. It didn't matter. Then I made perhaps the biggest mistake of all. When you are sick, much like in hockey, it's important to always play the body. Don't look away. Don't become mesmerized with what you think is going to happen. While I laid in bed, I let me guard down, and let past what I THOUGHT was a small amount of gas. Needless to say, I sharted about a tablespoons worth of whatever, and in one fell swoop, ended 20+ years of shart-free living.

Travel journal: Gyeongju

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 13:12:00 +0000

My "handler," Yuna.

A few weeks ago I ran into the Englishman, Scott. He was asking me how I was settling in, and also, if I was excited for the upcoming Gyeongju trip. Of course, no one tells me anything over here so he had to inform me as to when and where this was all going down. "It's a trip us public school foreign teachers go on to connect with the "culture" I suppose," Scott quipped nonchalantly. Scott knew I was going because he saw my name on a list floating around the office. I knew I couldn't be both on an enlightenment trip and in the classroom at the same time so I was happy.

Scott in all of his fancy-panted English glory

When I pressed Yuna for more details in reference to the trip, I received spoken ambiguity that would have even made Slick Willie proud. "It's so you can understand Korea and Korean's," she said as if keeping me in the dark for yet another day was the gold medal at the Olympics.

Scott had this idea that they would take us in the woods, blindfold us, beat us on the backs with sticks and then bring us back into town. The theory is if we were beaten within centimeters of our lives, we'd be less apt to bitch about various shortcomings in reference to our jobs and living situations. For whatever reason, I took Scott's vision one giant leap further. All I could imagine was an afternoon filled with yelling and shouting at us white folk in their native Korean tongue. Just when we thought it couldn't get any more, they'd round us up, shackle us and go to work on us in a fashion that screams one-part incest and two-parts sodomy.

"You've got a purdy mouth"

Though Scott knew the when and the where, he was fuzzy on the details. Essentially, Gyeongju and the surrounding areas harbor temples and tombs and other various Korean landmarks deemed important to Korean culture. It's considered to be out in the sticks. Those sticks are located about 2.5 hours by bus from Masan. What did this mean to us? A day on a bus driving around.

There is a time and a place for aggressive speed driving. If you have a car tailored for such terrain, then okay. If you are trying to qualify for Le Mans. This is also acceptable. However, driving a tour bus with 75 passengers as if you were paid by the KPH through rural Korea on a narrow winding road is just plain dangerous. Needless to say, I was fighting nausea for the remainder of the day.

Why is this significant you ask? Because it's my given English name sucking hind tit to my newly minted Korean "slave name." Can't you just hear my yelling "Garrett!" as I'm being beaten on the back with bamboo?

Check out my travel photo's labeled Korea, December for more photos.

The "tide you over" post

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 05:08:00 +0000

Worry not blog readers. I've got several posts in the proverbial cyber-chamber but am waiting on photos from various sources to complete them.

I don't know if it's my inner child or complete lack of maturity that makes me laugh when I see these things, but sometimes a picture is able to paint a picture that my words simply can not. It would be a damn shame if other parts of the world weren't exposed to this "laugh when old people fall" type humor.

On the way out from fishing with Monk and his son last month, I spotted this gem. I snapped a picture with his camera to catch this glimpse of genius because, after the warm reception I received from the "Balzac Coffee" incident in Germany, I promised myself that if I was ever in doubt if something was funny, that it probably was and therefore needed to be documented.

You're welcome.

Meet the parents

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 11:46:00 +0000

Where's the swill?

Once a year the teachers at Sam-jin middle school in rural Masan meet up with parent's of the students that they educate. As such, it was important that I attend this free dinner/alcohol buffet in order for the school to show off their new, shiny foreigner. I believe the staff hit me with the "do you have appointment" line at about 10 a.m that morning. As per usual, I was free.

On the way over to the restaurant, I asked Jin-sun if I should slip into something a little more presentable. It's not like I was going to slip into a smoking jacket and slacks but I was willing to up the ante from the 3 dollar salvation army find Mallard had picked up for me in Montana some 3 years previous. She echoed what we all know, "Garrett, you look good." This is good enough for me on any continent on the planet.

As it seems with most Korean gatherings I have been at, it takes a while for people to let their jet black hair down. Boys on one side, girls on the other, no one making extended eye contact and speech, that if I could understand it, seems to be no more substantive then a " how about the weather?" or "how about those Lotte Giants?" That's where the waitresses carrying the green bottles come in.

Warmer, closer, better ...

That's much better.

All systems launch!

(From left to right): Teacher, hilarious principal, Garrett

The principal stood and spoke to the staff and students parents. After a few minutes of speech that included a "1 shot (Korean equivalent to "raise your glass)" I heard "Garrett" mentioned. I was then motioned to stand up, which I obliged reluctantly because a) what the hell do I say and b) sitting on the ground for better than an hour is murder on the wheels and hips. Standing up quickly only makes you wish you were dead. When it came to my speech I opted for the tried and true, if not terse, "Hello. Thank you for dinner." As for the wheels, the throbbing went away in about 15 seconds.

Dinner was great as usual. Soju had worked its magic on everyone in attendance and the scattered English was being slung about the place like fecal matter at a hog farm. A mother of a student took an exceptional liking to me complimenting me on everything from my eyes, face, hair and body and made sure that I was coming to her house for dinner in the near future. While this was going on I was laughingly thinking, "Mrs.Lee, is their a Mr.Lee? (ala Forrest Gump)" Just kidding. I escaped unscathed by the whole encounter.

Afterward we went predictably to the norebang where I hammered out a couple cheesy rock staples. In a moment of weakness, I tried to widen my norebang breadth and sing "Crazy" by Patsy Cline. Unless you're Patsy Cline, don't ever try to sing "Crazy" by Patsy Cline. I'm sure the kareoke gods had a good laugh at me that night.

Team "white guy"

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 11:09:00 +0000

From what I have gathered, there are three camps of people when it comes to meeting their ESL brethren in casual street encounters. There is the wave-the-guy-down-from-the-other-side-of-the-street guy, the casual-head-nod guy, and lastly, the don't-fucking-talk-to-me guy. I can roll with the punches and play all three. It's more the other guys toes I'm concerned about stepping on anyway. It's an instantaneous read that must be made. Chose right and it's smooth sailing. Choose incorrectly and you've floated into an awkward situation without a paddle. Much is made of how to act in these situations. Back home you wouldn't wave to every swingin' dick that crossed your path, so how does being in a foreign country change things? Sometimes you stop and talk to someone and realize that, yes you share the same native tongue, and yes, you both play for "team white guy" as I like to call it but are processing these two merits enough to build friendship on? It's the age old ex-pat question. One of these days I'm going to muster the marbles to cleave one of these uncomfortable stalemates with the "Big Gulps eh? Welp, see ya later!" line.

Last week after picking up some groceries from Lotte Mart, and after throwing two casual-head-nods to fellow ex-pats minutes previous (think when Edward Norton's character in fight club is sitting at the restaurant table and the waiter comes up all bruised and bandaged and gives him a slight head nod and a brief look. It's that exact same subtle acknowledgment), I encountered a fellow in the street by the name of Bobby. Bobby was a wave-the-guy-down kind of gent.

Bobby is from London and has been in South Korea for a couple weeks longer than me. He lives upstairs as a matter of fact, and aside from be wickedly funny, he is quite the entertaining story teller.

Bobby: "What have you in the bag mate?"
Me: "Oh, some stuff to make pesto. "
Bobby: "Is that right? You know what I like about you American's?"
Me: "Besides our world police mentality?"
Bobby: "Yeah, well everyone loves that. What I really like about you Americans is that you are always making something or doing something?"
Me: "(laughs) Really? I was under the assumption that the world thought of America as the place where ambition goes to die."
Bobby: "Oh, you have no idea. It's the damn English I tell you. We are so apathetic. We talk about doing and experiencing all these great things. I call it "two week Salsa." You've got this great idea that you are going to learn something. You know, learn something new like Salsa dancing so you pay some pounds and decide to take Salsa lessons. Two lessons in you quit and then it's back to doing nothing again. It's a vicious cycle really. But you Americans, you are always doing something. Even if it's building model airplanes or finding new and clever way to, I don't know, make better honey. You don't make honey do you?"
Me: "Nah, I don't make honey but if you interested I'm making some beer next weekend if you want to learn."
Bobby: "That's what I'm bloody talking about right there mate!"

Bobby was looking pretty rough and it was already early afternoon, and when I asked about the series of events that lead to his current condition, he regaled with a story about his crazy Saturday night in Busan. Him and his best mate cruised into Busan, and whilst completely pissed, his buddy decided he wanted to visit a whore house. While his buddy was inside the place of ill repute, Bobby waited outside like any good friend would do and saved his moral argument for another time. The police, while scanning the area, decided that he fit the description for a convenience store robbery that happened in the vicinity and stuffed him into the back of the police car. The So.Ko.Po took him to the scene of the crime, where it was then determined by the shop owner that he WASN'T the perpetrator. He was eventually let go and then he reunited a few hours later with his friend freshly minted friend. Anyways, he didn't get back to Masan until 8 a.m Sunday morning. Like I said, Bobby was looking pretty haggard.

"I'm sorry mate. I've been blathering rudely on about my past evening. What are you up to?" Bobby said to me. "Me? Um ... I'm looking for pine nuts to make pesto," I sheepishly replied.

A busy little Saturday

noreply@blogger.com (Garrett Hohn) — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 03:53:00 +0000

Every Friday afternoon, without fail, Yuna will ask me, "Do you have plans for this weekend?" I usually am unable to muster a response beyond, "well, I don't know maybe clean the ranch." It's at this point where I have to explain that by "ranch" I mean my tiny apartment and by "clean" I mean push the dirty clothes around the floor. Regardless, I usually don't have much, if anything, planned.

Tony, a native of Seattle, e-mailed me asking if I had any Friday evening plans early in the afternoon. Tony was one of the first people I met fresh off the boat and he has always been more than accomadating when it comes to answering my naive questions. In his e-mail he said he was hosting a Thanksgiving Day dinner and would like for me to attend. Since he works at the university, he has access to a complete kitchen with, gasp, an actual oven! Being a Korean ESL vet, he knew what strings to pull to find a turkey. It only took a train ride to Seoul and W90,000 to secure a bird straight from the USA.

When I showed up to the university kitchen, dinner was running a little late and the cooks preparing the feast were scampering about putting the finishing touches on while talking shop. Ex-pat talk typically revolves around fellow ex-pat gossip, "did you know where I can find this (insert product)", how crazy Korean women are, my boss is trying to screw me, and how the worthless Won would serve better as a wallpaper than a monetary currency. Everyone seems to have their own little quirk here that presumably keeps them from fitting in in their native country. One ex-pat pinned me down and talked my ear off for a straight hour. When I tried to escape by feigning urination, he followed me! Another guy smokes 2 packs a day. Nearly everyone has a drinking problem. Another upstanding purveyor of English, fed up by the tiny size of his kitchen sink, showers naked with his dishes and washes them at the same time while he bathes (no lie). Wtf?! Mine you ask? I'm judgemental. :)

Dinner was excellent. When I say excellent I truly mean excellent. The turkey was fantastic and the stuffing was sent straight from the heavens. The gravy, which was actually a salvaged version 2.0 because 1.0 was left scorched to a pan from neglect, was likely the best gravy I've ever drank. The handcrafted sourough bread, mash potatoes, and salad with gorzonzoa were all proof that god didn't want me to die in Korea an emmaciated, lest good looking, carcas. After dinner, I waddled back to the ranch with some turkey day leftovers in tow. The night was W20,000 well spent!

Saturday was my get-a-guitar-at-any-cost day. Remember I spotted the shop amidst the vast concrete urban jungle via a speeding taxi. Now I had to retrack my route from the previous week. I set to foot with a fist full of Won, a comfortable pair of walkin' shoes, and a mound of uncontainable determination. At the guitar shop, I wailed on 5 different axes and settled on the first one I played. It was a Korean made Crafter for W275,000. There was a Fender acoustic guitar in the mix and the sales woman in her limited English said, "Fender ... made in China ... bad". I was impressed with her knownledge. People have come to know Fender as an American brand but it has been years, if not decades, since they were made in the states. I suppose when your neighbor to the north has 20 times the amount of people you have, an insatiable need for precious natural resources, and is generally feared by the rest of the world, you tend to take notice.

I took a taxi back from the ranch chest puffed out to Busan with an inflated sense of self worth. I then hit the gym. Check. Cleaned the ranch. Check. Treated myself to some kimchi jeegae (ordered in Korean mind you). Double check. What could possibly make this day more special?

Since the first Korean that styled was so keen on fashioning a built in duck-butt into my hair, I had little choice but to go back a mere three weeks later. This time I chose a barber who advertised a W6,000 haircut. To sweeten the pot, he had an acoustic guitar propped in the window. After Mr. Chung finished my hair I asked him if he played guitar. He answered "a little" and walked over to grab the guitar. With the guitar on his hip and a song book flung open, he pointed to himself and said "christian" and began to play a christian song from a book called aptly "Christian guitar songs". The tip off should have been the Amy Grant, yes Amy Grant, playing on the stereo in the background while he cut my hair, but sometimes I can be a tad dense. The song he played was very nice and he had really some good pipes to back it up to. He then handed me the guitar and said "you".

How do I top that? What do I do to cap an almost perfect day? How about introduce another continent to the stylings of Hank Williams Jr.!? I don't know if it was the echo chamber that was the barber shop, the kimchi jeegay boiling in my veins, or perhaps I was channeling the living spirit of HW himself, but I sang it like I've never sang it before and Mr. Chung applauded me wildy for my efforts!