Waeguk Wasn't A Soup
Wednesday, July 17, 2002
This was, but ain't no more. This, however, will make your nipples hard. Or your money cheerfully refunded!
Wonderchicken has been misquoted as saying:
I'm kinda dumb and so are you. I am an idiot. I have been known at times to exude a long-haired, unkempt, pleasantly befuddled, dissipated-Jeff-Bridges aura.
I do enjoy a cocktail or two from time to time.
I don't smoke dope, I loathe bowling, and I've never had a 'caucasian'. I Live To Win (though I'll deny that if you quote me). It pleases me greatly to be the sole authority on the net for something. I've still got an unreasonably large number of zits and a tendency to shout things like "Rock and Roll!" in an embarrassingly Wayne's World sort of way when I hear powerchords or cowbells. I love the sea, and sailing on it. I am a sailboat. I ain't too young to worry, and I ain't too old to cry, when a woman gets me down. I'm old, and cranky, and I just want it to go away. I really need an mp3 player. I live in an LG apartment building. Though I do groove on their funky metaphors of death and rebirth and all that, I'm not especially Xian.I can but hope, in my terminal moments, as I lie (-in a feather bed, on pure white linen, surrounded by my loved ones / drunk and drooling, unnoticed on a barroom floor, in a puddle of my own urine-) that I can come up with a legacy for the world. I care about the innocent victims of my ill-advised dance of joy. I'm a little scared. I made a deliberate decision to Stop Thinking So Goddamn Much. The young ladies I tended to attract, if any, were more of the cerebral variety, who, without putting too fine a point on it, tended to be less carnally-inclined. I'm not American. I wish I were able to read the journals kept by my grandparents, or my father, when they were young (and alive), and learn what made them tick.
I find this amusing as hell.
I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I try to avoid being a 'joiner' and the whole deliberate-meme-propagation exercise tires me and (as those wacky kids are saying these days) chafes my scrote. I'm knee-deep in geekdom, grinning like a rocket-powered lemur. Am I just talking crap again? I have a tendency to do that. I try to steer my way clear of politics. I feel like I am somehow failing myself if I don't point out the latest falsehood, the latest manipulative rewrite of the facts, the most recent evil perpetrated on the world by the Evil Empire. Saul's Voltaire's Bastards, The Unconscious Civilization and Reflections of a Siamese Twin: Canada at the End of the Twentieth Century all had profound influence on the way I thought about ...stuff... in my 20s, and are intricately woven into the way I think about the world today. I remember, unclearly, the first two of the many deaths that have molded what's left of my small family. Although I love life, with a great, chest-thumping passion, I am...matter-of-fact...about dying. I understand the grief and loss that people feel, but I simply can't get terribly worked up over it, anymore. I've tried to live as many lives as possible in the time allotted to me, however long that time may be, and I think this awareness of an End is one of the things that has driven me out onto the Road most of my adult life. I'm evil incarnate, me. I remember how sanctified it felt to be out there on the quiet sea, sails luffing gently, sweating out the alcohol, wondering where the hell my life was going to take me, but certain that I'd remember that moment that my skipper pointed out the constellation to me, just above the horizon, for the rest of my life. I've found that I most enjoy reading people, at least in blogland, that I feel like I could be friends with. Most of my pals are inveterate boozers and reprobates. I understand how that, coupled with the devastation and horror of the Korean war, a scant few years after the Japanese were driven out, has resulted in a people that, considering they were dubbed the Hermit Kingdom before any of this happened, are still painfully sensitive about both domination and cultural meddling from outside. I'm not bitter.
I'm getting softheaded in my old age.
In my geographic wanderings, I was in search of the perfect bar as much as anything else, and as I do tend to preach a bit when I'm in my cups, sometimes people would gather around for reasons that didn't include pelting me with rocks and garbage. I've been called naive, and foolish, and perhaps I am, but teaching has always seemed to me to be a noble calling. I'm getting all soft and goopy. I don't really need to rant about this, do I? As much as I hate to generalize about such a large group of people, I'm going to do it anyway.
I don't beat small children senseless, although I have been known to swallow them whole when they cross my bridge without permission.
I should clarify what is no doubt an overwhelming impression that I hate Korea. I don't. Well, sometimes I do, goddamnit, but it's more complicated than that. I do hate the chaos, the filth, the racism and casual cruelty, but there are scores of Korean people I just love to bits. I live in hell. My Liver is a big, misshapen bubbly fat-encrusted abomination that keeps functioning through sheer power of will I'm grumpy. Old Korean men - fuck, how I hate them with a white-hot eye-popping passion. I've got no problem with people eating dogs, if they want to. Shit, I've done it.
I'm afraid I've walked through the portal into bizarro-world.
Sometimes, my mind reels. Other times it just kinda sashays around, coyly. Sometimes I surprise myself. I don't fucking know.That's cool with me. I'm pure misanthrope, with enough scorn to go around for all of humanity. At the same time, love love love. It's weird being me.
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