The streets have hummed recently.  Trucks with loud speakers and flatbeds have blared music and borne people in colorful getups down the avenues.  Koreans—mostly middle-aged women—have been paid to wear bright blue, red, yellow shirts and white gloves; they have danced in unison—like country line-dancers or kindergarten teachers gone mad—singing slogans to the tune of Beethoven’s 9^th Symphony or Jingle Bells or classic Korean warblers.  With the words changed, of course, the songs are praise for Busan mayoral, education minister, district representative, and gubernatorial incumbents and hopefuls of South Gyeongsang Province.

 

In addition to the flatbeds of fury, these groups have also been at major street intersections around the city up until Wednesday afternoon—Election Day.  While I’ve been busy for the last two weeks that this has gone on—preparing students for upcoming final exams—I drove past these public displays on the commute to work.  By the time Wednesday rolled around, I finally had time to snap some photos of this spectacle.  Most people were given the day off to vote; foreigners like myself, took to the beaches and outdoor cafés to absorb the sun on a midweek holiday.

 

Regrettably, I was so busy in the last two weeks that I was unable to get any video of the dancers or their mobile assault on voters’ senses.  However, I took to the roads in my neighborhood to get some pictures of the massive posters.

 

Now, the first four pictures in the photo-spread have little to do with campaigning for office.  However, they do give you the general idea of how advertising is dealt with here: in large scale and often in English.  English here has the sort of appeal that French does in other parts of the world: its utterance and writing have a certain I-don’t-know-what (as the French say).  I don’t know what, in Picture #1, is behind the use of Ché’s likeness and the use of the name “Partisan” to promote a PC room where teens go to play computer games and smoke cigarettes for hours on end.  I don’t know what’s going on in that new club Womb down the street from my apartment, but it sounds like a place I’d like to go back to time and again, or maybe even stay in forever.  I don’t know what’s so great about Guinness’ judgment that Shinsaegae is the World’s Largest Department Store (Picture #3).  Picture #4 lets you know just how much other advertising these candidates have to deal with.  A small picture—or even a large one—will not do the job when competing for the attention of the public.  Hence, the dancing adjumas and the parades of propaganda.   

 

In Picture #5, after you notice the name of the motel is Motel Tomato, you can see the face of a candidate on the side of a nearby high rise; this ad was small compared to others.  A mile away, I could see the gleaming face of a candidate on the side of a building.  Closer by, at that intersection where I stood, the massive posters shrouded the buildings (Pictures 6, 7, 8).  Was it this elephantitis of political marketing that brought to my mind a mural of Mao I once saw in Tiananmen Square?  Or was it the Leninesque action-packed hand gestures that I’ve seen in photos of South Korean dictators of the 1970s and 1980s?  One candidate gives a thumbs up, another pumps his fist in the air, a few look as if they are praying, and yet another looks like he’s posing for a promotional boxing photo.  By this, I do not mean to imply anything about the recent candidates and their political views; I am sure their grand gestures and the largeness of their likenesses speak only to their largesse toward the general welfare of the Korean populace.  

 

Depending on his politics, one may argue with that.  According to polyscientists and armchair presidents, the election results show a continued cooling trend toward the conservative President Ee Myung-Bak and his hardline approach to North Korea in the two years since he took office.  If midterm elections are the barometer for the current president, Mr. Ee must listen to his constituents and soften his position on North Korea.  That, of course, is made all the more difficult because of the March sinking of the Cheonan in the disputed area of the Yellow (West) Sea.  

 

A Korean friend, Heon (age 29), wrote to me that his father had not instilled in him the importance of voting, of democracy.  He says this is typical of his father’s generation: they had no time to consider for whom to vote; they were too busy building up the country into an economic dynamo.  Hence, the dictatorial past.   Heon wrote, “Korea is a young democratic nation relative to the US.”  While this seems obvious and quite true, it still doesn’t explain the certain I-don’t-know-what in Picture #18.  One candidate seems to be running on the platform that he can break large container ships in half.  The other candidate seems to be running on a rainbow, homosexual platform.  Both of these interpretations are unlikely true and rather absurd.  But, even after four years here, the marketing and politics of this culture confound this Westerner.  

After creating a stellar army of Lego mis-mash—Darth Vader never looked so good on a red bicycle; plastic army men never suffered such a severe defeat (whaddya expect: they have no moving parts; you’d be pretty stupid to stand in front of a fixed fixed bayonet)—I packed up my wine and new clothes and headed for Wisconsin.  First time meeting the parents.  Nervousness was not abound: I’d already put in a good show when Amber came out last summer.

 

My PR machine in motion long before this visit, I anticipated a smooth welcome into the Monday/Miller family.  No problem.  But, it had nothing to do with me.  The hospitality flowed in the form of Christmas in February and a stock of choice bourbon (Granddad, Beam) and vodka (Gooooooooooooooose!).  Not to mention, Tom and Patty helping me to feel at home.  And I did.  Kewaskum.  My home away from home.  West Bend.  Where I could live if not quite held at gunpoint.

 

Milwaukee being what I call Chicago Unplugged.  Great downtown with some really great architectural structures that are old warehouses-cum-lofts-and-apartments.  Can’t wait to see the Giants beat up on the Brew Crew at Miller Park someday.  Also, back in Kewaskum, the schedule was packed: dinners with extended family—Nic’s cousins are really cool; her aunts and uncles genuine—, not to mention all the people that Nic wanted to touch base with, all the people outside her own family that have helped to make her the wonderful woman she is.

 

We made dinner a couple times; Tom and Patty made a few good dishes, too.  We ate more Mexican food in Milwaukee than we did in CA (something really wrong with that, right?).  We met up with everyone from Nic’s hairdresser to her former grad-school professors.  And quite honestly Milwaukee has the best brew and the best brew tours around.  There were a couple times that I was able to stay home and, yes, voluntarily, scrape the snow and ice from the drive way and the deck; it was the only exercise I got aside from one run I took in SJ.

 

15 pounds heavier and numerous family members gained, time finally came to shove off one last time from the US to this place called Korea.  We are waiting—still—for spring to spring.  And all the good things that come with it.

Well, the semester has gobbled up six weeks of my life.  Things are busy with curriculum development of new writing classes and, well, who gives a shit?

 

More importantly, there are some new pictures from the second part of the California visit.  Included is a picture of a couple bottles of wine I bought back in Summer 2008 when on a roadtrip with T to Santa Barbara.  T, J, Nic and I enjoyed these bottles together over a dinner Nic and I prepared for the new-parents-again.  Also, you’ll see a photo of Nic trying to show Ella how to suck her thumb.  I wonder if she has since taken to the thumb. 

 

There are a couple photos of Erik and Jaclyn with their little girl, Charlotte.  The five of us went out to dinner at a great tapas place in Mountain View.  I forget the name, but if you want more info, just let me know.  Great, lively atmosphere and some unique fare to go with it.  Charlotte was a champ as the big kids talked and drank.

 

Then there was the obligatory trip to the coast, my favorite beaches and, of course, my favorite restaurant on the planet, Duarte’s.  The day did not disappoint, as we stopped at a number of mostly-sun-drenched beaches as we made our way from Pescadero to Santa Cruz (the necessary stop at the Wednesday farmer’s market for some oysters on the half shell for me).  

 

 A couple days later (I think), Nic and I made a guest appearance in Lars and Pam’s soon-to-be renovated 1970s kitchen (haha).  Nic made homemade crust for kids pizzas (with a little help from Audrey, thank you very much).  T was able to make it over on a rainy night with just Ella and Brita made another trip up and included us on her “to see” list.  So there I was, my two sisters (yeah, I guess that mean T and Brita), Pammy, and the love of my life.  What a great night.  All topped off with pizza, beer, wine, to say nothing of the big bro, my two nieces and my future personal chef, Ian.  Thanks again, WG Holmbergs for all your hospitality.

 

Mom and Dad came over to the Bay Area again (thanks so much for making the trip and taking us out to dinner, you two).  Nic, the WG Holmbergs and myself met up in Monterey for the aquarium, which had some really cool new stuff, including seahorses of all shapes and sizes and big tanks with sharks; these were new to me, since I’d not been there for 15 years, I think.  Nic had never been.  All in all, a great day, finished with dinner at Fandango, where we just happened to sit across the room from my SJSU Steinbeck professor, Susan Shillinglaw.  Very cool, considering I was earlier in the day sharing some of my knowledge about Cannery Row, Doc Rickets and the Palace Flophouse.

 

I’m missing some pictures from other cameras.  Ma, I got yours but didn’t post them here; I’ll try to next time.  Brita and the rest of the LA crew: do you have any photos from the party at WG Holmbergs?  I am curiously shy of pictures of Ian and Audrey with me.  

 

Anyhow, more pics to come soon of the WI stay.  

After a quiet Christmas and a crazy New Year and saying goodbye to some soon-to-be-ex-expat friends in Busan, we wasted no time getting the hell out of dodge (Nic’s first time in a year, my first time since August 2008).  First stop: Northern California.  While it rained (and even snowed) most of the time in San Jose, there were some mid-winter sunny days for which the state is known. 

 

On the social side, the insanity of this trip was expected.  Over-booked, running here and there to get our share of family, friends, US products (clothes, food, wine, beer, all the good stuff).  There are a ton of pictures to share, so I think I’ll break it up in four parts. 

 

Mom and Dad took us out for a night in downtown Modesto (dinner and symphony: Rachmaninov 3rd Piano from the fifth row was astounding).  Diron and I went to a couple of games and got silly (though to a much tamer degree) in the old stomping grounds of DT San Jose; we (and Cara) also took Nic to her first NHL game (I saw three live games; the first I’d seen since Playoffs 2006).  We got to spend some quality time with John Campos, who is a good friend from my time in the trenches of another life.

 

Lars, Pam, Ian, Audrey and T-Bone made us feel very at home.  It was good to mend some fences with Lars; our history as brothers is storied with rifts and reunions; hopefully we can stay on the reunion side from here on (Lars, if you come across any pics from the Chicago game, please forward them to me). Nic is already loved and I would assume is already Auntie Nic; she and Audrey were quick buds; then again, so were Lex and Nic.  Ian and I reconnected in spite of a long seperation (as old buddies will). 

 

Ella Leigh arrived five days after our arrival; Nic and I both held her at about five hours old (a first but not a last for both of us).  I’m so proud of my sister for her bravery and strength; I hope she can get caught up on some sleep (and her wine-drinking) right quick.

 

Okay.  I’ll post some more in the coming weeks.  I miss everyone immensely.

The question recently posed by the Gwangan Writers’ Group: “What makes you angry?”  What a fucking question.  After three years of living in this country, there is a laundry list, though they may be said to be minor annoyances on a good day.  The way people drive, the mouth open chewing, the bargaining for grades, the long grade change period, the last minute nature of quote un quote important projects, annoying foreigners who embarrass me with their obnoxious, look-at-me loud behavior and the conversations that I have with said way-gookens which are almost always a monologues: diatribes about bad visits from parents or about how they know more than you about this country or another (yes, the population of California is larger than all of Canada, by the way; but I’m called a liar anyway; then again, I’m not one to lord it over anyone).  Despite all these things, the thing that makes me the most angry is the fucking mo-gee, that nasty ghostly fuckhead mosquito that kept me awake last night.

As I was trying to fall asleep, thinking about the deep, round tones I heard earlier in the evening from the bell from the Buddhist monastery a quarter mile away, I had  finally put in check all the other things that piss me off and was 90% of the way to dreamland, that nocturnal place in my unconscious where I have dreams that make me sit bolt up-right and disturb my sleep…anyway, I was well on my way to that place that doesn’t allow for good sleep anyway, but at least there’s a few hours of restfulness before the heart-stopping night-terrors…okay, so I’m pissed about a lot of things and there’s nothing I can really do about them unless I completely isolate myself from the world, so fucking deal with it, right?  Anyway, I can usually find a little peace of mind as I drift off to sleep, rolling over on my side, about to go over the edge into full sleep when a high-pitched sound finds its way to my ear; swatting at it, I clobber my ear with a flat palm…my ear ringing, I stay still, fully awake from the little bastard that just buzzed the tower…I close my eyes and try to find that place again where I am about to fall off to sleep, but its difficult with the ringing in my ear, as if I have popped some sort of insular material around my psyche that protects me from all things unsavory in my life…the things that piss me off drip-drop at first, then trickle, then turn to a torrent…but goddamn am I tired…

Fighting the waves of anger that leap up in front of me, I close my eyes, get about 50% of the way to sleep when the mo-gee seems to land on my shin bone; I use a foot to brush him away; then he seems to land on my scalp, so I swat my increasingly balding headtop…ear ringing, shin scratched from un-cut toenails, bald spot throbbing, the waves of all other things increase in height.  As if to mock me, Nic starts snoring.  Insult to injury, she turns over and lances my back with her pointy elbows.  She mocks me, I know.  She’s playing like she’s asleep.  Sleeps like the dead, and that just ain’t fair.  Dreamless.  Worry-free slumber.  She compartmentalizes and rarely has trouble falling asleep.  But maybe she’s dealing with her anger, dealing with it by mocking me, snoring, piercing me with those stiletto elbows, getting back at me for something I did, something left unsaid.  Really, though, she’s not like that; but I’m just pissed because I can’t sleep and all I can do is think irrational thoughts.  Too tired to read, too angry even to write.  Oh, maybe I will write.

Little bugger buzzes the tower again and I hit myself in the forehead, the needles of this smack are still present as I swipe my hand over the impact crater to find no moisture of dead mosquito; fuck it, I say.  I turn on the lights to hunt, the only poor bastard awake in the entire world.  Mano y mosquito now, fuckface.  I search all the normal spots where the guerilla mosquito hides.  Behind the headboard?  No.  Behind the chair back?  Nope.  On the big neon light that now engulfs the room?  Nada.  So where the hell is he?  Nic is really good at hunting these bastards, but she has just covered up her eyes with her arms and sleeps on as if there weren’t a war going on right now.  A land-air war.  And the mo-gee has stealth technology.  It wasn’t like this in the beginning of the mo-gee wars back in May.  They were slow, stupid and easy to splat where they rested.  As the war wore on, though, there were refinements in their intelligence, each successive blood-sucker getting more refined in his evasion, more attuned to the victims sleep habits: waiting until said victim is asleep before biting six times on the top of my foot, or once on each knuckle of my left hand, making me look like an eczema sufferer in front of my classes for an entire week.  But now they are getting dumber again, too hungry perhaps to wait until the victim has gone to sleep.  I wonder, as I turn off the light and wait for the one-sided battle to continue, what the lifespan is of these fuckers, wonder where they go when the weather is too cold, wonder why they don’t seem to attack Nic, that sound sleeper who has begun to lightly snore again. 

Once again, I feel the dreaded mo-gee move on me and I get up slowly and go over to the light, turn it on, find him near the head of the bed on my side, glaringly obvious against the white wallpaper.  Swiftly I walk over and, concerned about besmirching the wallpaper, I make him go airborne so I can clap him to death mid-air.  Never as satisfying and way more difficult to pull off, this method is very workman (or workwoman-like), the chosen method of my soundly sleeping bedmate.  A couple mid-air attempts, the fucker buzzes me, trying to get me to fall victim to friendly fire by buzzing my head and my nose and my eyes, but I’ll not do that again.  I sit down, taking a break from the pitched battle.  He alights not far from me, I say to hell with the wallpaper.  I’m gonna mount this bastard on my wall like so much hunting trophy.  Smack.  Done.  His legs and body a perfectly flattened Picasso bug.  His blood is not mine—he only stole my sleep—; his blood plunged out of him every which way.  A good kill, I tell myself.  A relatively quick battle in this seasonal war.  Well, maybe not.  But at least the only casualties are him and my tormented sleep. 

I lay down again, waiting on my back for slumber to descend onto my battle-weary limbs when…oh, shit.  Was that his brother?  I try to remain calm as I think I feel another bastard landing on my shin bone.  The thing that makes it difficult for me is that I am a hairy bastard.  Sometimes—probably most of the time—I feel something on my leg-chest-arm-head-shoulder, it is just one of my millions of hairs getting comfortable, rearranging itself for the night.  But by this point I am a paranoid SOB, so the mind is twirling off into anger instead of curling up into sleep.  Off goes the mind again, imagined mo-gees playing in the tall golden and brown stalks of my body hair.  Finally, I just cover the whole of my body and head under the sheet.  Suffocation be damned.  Sleep, the sleep of the dead would be better than these tormenting thoughts keeping me awake.  Awake and angry.  I wonder what time it is.  It’s 4am.  I know by the sound of the low, round tones from the Buddhist temple not a quarter mile away.

Lots of other activities this summer: a hike up Geumjeongsan (801.5 meters) with Mike Noonan, Peter DeMarco and Yanick Guay.  Yet another ascent of Eomgungsan, this time with Nicole and her sister.  A few trips to the ballgame with various friends, including Punchy, Amanda C. and Yanick.  Numerous trips to the beach (still can’t go a week without getting in the water).  A roadtrip up the east coast for a few day getaway with Nicole to a small fishing town called Hwajin (200-250 k north). 

 

I owe some more writing, but the pictures are long overdue.  Hoping to post something about motorbike riding and mosquitoes.

Just a lazy day down at the Jagalchi Market.  If you have the means, I highly recommend it.

On July 4th, I thought I’d treat Ma to a Korean interpretation of a very American pasttime: baseball.  I won’t go too much into it becuase I don’t want to detract from hearing Ma’s impressions, but suffice it to say the experience is far different than anything you may have experienced in North America.  If you have the means, I highly recommend it.

 

The following day, Ma and I went to church.  While this is something that I would not do on my own, I was a good son and a good agnostic, leaving an open mind to the experience.  Ma seemed to appreciate the ritual and the singing, but both of us thought the preist was a little long-winded in his sermon (30 minutes is too long in one’s own language, not to mention a foreign one).  After sitting through that, we repaired to lunch and a couple glasses of wine before heading back to the apartment to get Nicole and head out to Hywamyeong, the other side of town where Punchy lives with his family, including a 3 month old Emily.  It was apparent that Ma missed her grandbabies–that or she’s staying in shape for another one in the future (no, not me).

We went off to Gyeongju, where Ma treated us to a room at the Hilton.  The accommodations were far better than a sleazy love motel, that’s for sure.  Almost immediately after settling in, we went to the Folkcraft Village.  Korea is famous for its pottery, so this was a great place to see and buy works of art, not to mention, experiment with the camera and the different textures and colors I would pick up through the lens. 

 

That night, we went to a traditional Korean multi-course meal that included more side dishes than you could count, much less name.  The service was perfect. and the conversation was stimulated by the exotic and unknown foods and flavors.

 

The next day we went to Bulguksa (Temple) and Seokguram (Grotto), both of which are a must-see for this area.  The temple had some original remaining pieces despite that it, like many other treasures here in Korea, had once upon a time been destroyed or damaged by foreign invaders.  I think Ma liked the grotto the best: high in the mountains above the city sits an almost wholly preserved relic that is over 500 years old, if not much more.  There are no photos allowed of this white Buddha that sits in a cave serenely as people visit and take a picture in their minds. 

 

We rounded out the day with a visit to the royal tombs of Daereoungwon.  I had visited this and the other sites before, but the amazing contrast between fall and summer visits is stark.  If you look back to one of my first photo spreads here on this webpage, you can observe the differences yourself.  The tombs were no exception: all the lush greenery covering the numerous burial mounds (not unlike miniature pyramids in their purpose).  At the very same time we were entering the grounds, a group of 200 or so ROK soldiers also were coming through the gates.  I suppose that the purpose behind their visit is to give a sense of history and heritage to those who are asked to defend said history and heritage.  Let’s hope there very presence can deter any foolhardy attack by the North.  On July 4, Kim Jong Il fired a group of rockets into the East Sea/Sea of Japan.  It’s a strange thing.  I was so busy thinking of the next thing to do with Ma that I didn’t read the news for a couple days.  No one here seems to be terribly concerned and it has been that way for all DPRKs saber rattling ever since I got here.  Though I reacted the same way my dad and many others did when I heard back in October 2006, I don’t find myself terribly concerned, having faith that Kim Jong Il knows how terribly miscalculated an attack would be, especially if we are to believe the reports of a starving people in that reclusive country.  Nicole has likened him to a spoiled child, kicking and screaming for attention.

The mist shrouds the mountains only to extend our imagination of what those peaks look like. The subsequent sheets of water only wrap the experience of the mysticism of this, Beomosa, the biggest Buddhist temple in Busan.  The weather enhanced this excursion, giving a dramatic heightening of the experience.  The drizzle gradually increasing as we climbed a few steps into the mist and clouds—over a bridge past a gentle stream, and into the midday service: harmonized sutra chants accompanied with steady, hollow, wooden mokt’ak beats.  The timing of this visit couldn’t have been better for an observer; Ma was able to see an aspect of religion I am almost certain she’s never been exposed to.  As we made our way through the architecture and the sounds of the temple, the rain increased in pace and ferocity.  By the time we made our way along the stream again, it was a torrent; in fact, the steep path that we walked down was a rushing stream.  Our shoes and most everything else soaked through, we hopped a bus back down the mountain, satisfied in a way which sun cannot inspire.