Nov. 20: "Vision Quest"

I keep staring at one of my student's breasts. I think she's starting to notice.

They're pretty big. One night she wore a tight sweater and her nipples were poking through and I had to sit down so my students couldn't see my hardon.

I wonder if her nipples are small and pointy or cover a larger surface area with respect to the remainder of the breast.

FU-K. See what it's doing to me. It's starting to drive me nuts.

When I tell the mysterious sul-chib lady who operates a bar next to my work, she sits there stroking the three strands of white hair growing out of a wart on her chin. She does that when she has to think real hard.

"I have just the thing for you," she says after awhile. "Just sit tight for a sec."

She parts the bead curtain and disappears into the kitchen. She returns with a bowl of kim-chee and some rice.

"Eat this kim-chee. It has been aged seven years with my famous recipe of herbs," she says. Then she adds, for emphasis: "The kim-chee is reputed to have curative properties."

"Thanks," I say. "So this kim-chee will cure me of my fixation?"

"No more breast fixation," she says, giving me a toothless smile.

I tell her the kim-chee smells like sh-t but tastes pretty good.

On the drive home I start feeling weird. My stomach starts growling and my head starts to spin.

When I get home me dad gets up from the sofa to say hi. There's a big bulge in his pants.

"Dad, why the f-ck do you have a boner at this time of day? You on viagra again?"

He eyes me suspiciously. "What the f-ck are you talking about, f-ggot? I'm seventy-fu-king years old for Chrissakes. Quit staring at my crotch."

"I can't help it," I say. "My eyes feel like they're permanently attached to that area."

"I knew this day would come," he says. "Prepare to die."

"What?" I say.

"We're going to have a duel," he says. "There can only be one man in this house."

"A duel?" I say. "A duel for what?"

"A duel to see who gets to fu-k mom," he says matter of factly. "Haven't you read Oedipus Rex you idiot?"

"Fine," I say. I go to my room and get the paintball guns out of my closet. When I return he's all decked out in the military regalia that he retired in. PLus he's carrying a Bible. He takes the shotgun and leaves me with the nine millimeter.

"OK standard rules. We take ten steps and then shoot," he explains. "Lock and load."

Backs turned to each other, he starts counting the steps in Korean.

Hana-Dul-Set-Net-Dassut.

My mind starts spinning again. I've forgotten how to count in Korean. In fact, I've forgotten how to count in any language.

Having lost count, I turn around and shoot.

Pfft-Pfft-Pfft-Pfft.

The pellets eject cleanly from the gun, splattering him on the back. He falls on the ground, groaning like an old, old man.

I run up to him. "Are you OK?" I say. I'm genuinely worried.

"You shot me in the back," he says, face all contorted. "You BASTARD!" Then he punches me in the face and knocks me out.

That night I dream I'm stuck at the bottom of an abandoned well and staring up at the stars high above. I'm rapping to a phat imagined hip hop beat like there's no tomorrow, my words bouncing off the walls and echoing into the milky expanse beyond. All of a sudden a flower--glowing a faint blue--descends from the sky and flutters into my palms. It's a lotus, blooming incandescently before my very eyes. In the center of the lotus lies a tiny yellow face flashing me that unmistakable, enigmatic smile.

When I wake up I'm shaking and drenched in sweat. I'm pretty scared. That witch, I think to myself. The mysterious sul-chib lady put a hex on me. I clutch my Bible and pull the covers over me, listening to ghostly whispers hissing like asps in the night.

The next couple of days are uncomfortable. The once familiar streets now feel eerily out of place. All I see are a bunch of dicks and tits crowding my periphery. So that’s it, I say to myself. I’ve reached no man’s land.

When I finally burst into the bar after work I get straight the point: “You witch. You put a hex on me. All I see are a bunch of dicks and tits.”

“Hahahahha,” the mysterious lady mocks. “I must’ve given you the wrong kim-chee. These things happen.” She looks at me again, then says: “Come with me.”

I follow her into her kitchen, past the beaded curtain. Inside there are at least a thousand kim-chee jars stacked on bookcases, each labeled accordingly.

“This is what I gave you before,” she says, showing me the jar.

It’s labeled KNOWLEDGE OF OPPOSITES.

“And this is the antidote.” She shows me another jar. “It was given to me by an old man living in the mountains in Manchuria.”

On top of the jar it reads: WISDOM.

“Take this,” she says. She opens the jar and scoops out some kim-chee with chopsticks.

It smells like sh-t but tastes pretty damn good.

“You’re lucky,” she says. “Not many people get to savor both varieties.”

As I walk out of the bar the lady places something in my hand and says: “Take this amulet to protect you from doh-ke-bis.”

When I look at the amulet my hand feels like it’s trembling. It’s a tiny yellow smiley face fastened to a fishing line.

“Where’d you get this,” I ask.

“Where else,” she winks. “I got it out of a cracker jack box.”

When I get home my dad greets me at the door, grinning: “Where’d you get that black eye?”

“Shutup,” I say. “I’m hungry.”

“Ole Country Buffet?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say.

We walk out of the house onto the street. The stop sign is still there. The birds are singing. And it’s fucking raining.

I sigh with relief. Everything is somewhat back to normal.


Nov. 25: "Tales from da Hood"

when i was a little pidgen i used to live in the ghetto. i was the only Korean who lived in the ghetto. most of my friendz were black or hispanic and i got picked on a lot. because I was asian and they were not. they used to call me bruce lee and do the chingky eyez shit.


then i got older and did not like to be picked on. so i joined leroi’s karate dojo next to my family’s liquor store. my master was a black man named leroi and he told us his master was Master joon ahn san from the korean war and that master joon ahn san’s master was master kim kyung wang from the gang-nam district in seoul and so on.

master leroi tried to speak Korean but really sucked at it.

“all right my lil niggaz,” he would say. “charyut!” (this means atten-shun!) but he said it all ghetto twang-like.

he always called us his lil niggaz even me even though i was not black but I never called him master nigga cuz i was scared even though everyone else called him dat.

Sometimes after practice he gave us jointz to smoke out back and one time my parents found me smoking dat shit and they chased me around town and i heard master leroi shout “dat’s my lil bow wow”.

leroi was also the town minister.

then master leroi died and i was sad for a long time.


Dec. 15: "Birthday Boy"

So I just turned twenty-five.

The other day I found myself actually saying please and thank you while conversing with someone I f-cking despise. I don't know what's going on. I picked up Steven Covey's Seven Habits and started haphazardly scribbling a fucking mission statement. I show up to work early with a goddamn sack lunch. I quit smoking. I drink f-cking wine. I watch those stupid grad school indie films and say ooh and ahh and marvel at the appropriate cue. I even masturbate at socially acceptable times, instead of whacking off while vacuuming my room or some sh-t like that. And get this: I actually enrolled my dog in obedience school.

What the f-ck. I think I should start seeing my therapist again.



6:46 P.M.: "Wine-Induced F-ck Faces"

Sometimes after browsing through books at Border`s I eat at this Italian joint called Pallino`s right next door.

Today there`s this dusty brunette working the counter and smiling at me warmly.

"Can I have the chicken alfredo?" I say, placing a newly bought copy of Margaret Mead`s "Male and Female" on the counter. Then, as an afterthought: "And a glass of merlot."

She shoots me a glance of curious assessment.

I offer her my driver`s license. Then I tell her: "I`m 25, I guess."

The words hover in the air, vibrating.

An otherwise banal incident has somehow transformed into a moment pregnant with possibility.

So as I sit there enjoying my pasta and wine I casually peer over my book and there they are--those dark lucid eyes from across the room.

I`m so f-cking corny. But it would make such a great movie scene.

Nov. 17: "Paean"


We celebrated my father`s seventieth birthday the other night at my uncle`s.

Everybody was there.

When we had finished eating man-du and sam-gae-tang and chap-chae and after he had blown out the seven candles on the cake and when everyone was filled and content and laughing I looked at my father who was sitting contemplatively watching the smoke from the candles unfurl in the air.

That night he told us about how he had visited his only remaining ninety-two year old sister in Korea. She still lived at his go-hyang--or place of birth--a provincial town in the country nourished by a small river descending from fog-capped mountains.

She cried when he had finally come. Cried for hours upon hours, flooded by memory, overtaken by the moments still caught in time--the Occupation, the War, the bone-crushing famines and the splitting of her country into two opposing halves.

Ghosts.

She cried because she had outlasted all of her sons, who lived heathily and died at fifty, leaving her healthy grandsons who were now grown and moving outward--out of the go-hyang into the world beyond, leaving a world fragmented by technology, severed clean by ideology, breaking from a myth no longer adequate into a universe so expansive, so full of nothingness that a new myth could evaporate just as inexplicably as it had started.

She told my father she wished she had died long ago.

My father said that at seventy he had finally come to understand what she had meant by this. His own father had died at sixty-three.

I looked at my father`s face as he recounted bygone days. I searched for a vestige, some trace of the twenty-four year old who had broken his ties with the world he had known to face himself, to confront his demons, to ask those questions nobody wishes to ask but eventually must.

But I saw no such person. Only a cheerful face waiting for the smoke from the candles to dissipate.


Nov 14: "Ay Papi"

One day when I was nineteen I decided it was time to lose my virginity to a dirty Mexican wh_re in Nueveo Laredo who called me papi.

I crossed the border around sunset. I was happy the Border patrol had not confiscated my pipe.

After smoking a bowl I parked my car and walked to the Red Light District.

A shiny white statue of St. Mary was erected outside the wh_rehouse, her hands outstretched. I watched some grimey looking Mexican man with Paul Newman shades walk out of the house and drop some coins in her palms and saunter off.

When I walked inside she was playing Scrabble on the floor of the wh_rehouse with some huskily voiced transvestite with broad shoulders and cleavage resembling something like Death Valley.

"Joo stupid b_tch," the transvestite said. "S-E-N-G eez not a word. No es una palabra."

"Jes it eez. Ask the American."

They both looked at me. I took a quick glance at her tiles. O-I-G-L-R-I-S-E-N.
I shrugged my shoulders.

We walked into a spare room at the side of the house. She let me take her clothes off. Her body was tanned luminously from the sun and she had dark, dark eyes.

It felt good when she was giving me the bl_wjob in the room. I liked her arms because they were nice and tan. But I kept thinking about the tiles on the floor and different word combinations. Her head moving up and down like that transported me into some kind of ecstatic state and I started feeling slightly giddy. The doors of perception seemed to be bursting open.

"L-I-G-R-O-I-N-E-S!!!" I exclaimed. My creative juices were flowing.

The girl lifted an eyebrow mid-blowjob as if to say "Eh?"

When we were done I walked out of the room grinning like a schoolgirl. I had become a MAN. A regular fuk-in matador. I had just lost my virginity to a Mexican wh_re for twenty dollars.

After I paid her the girl kissed me on the cheek and resumed her game. She looked at her tiles.

"Ay papi, that`s the word I was thinking of!!!" She smiled at me warmly.

The girl lined her tiles up on the board, one by one. Click, click, click, click, she lay the tiles down.

L-I-G-R-O-I-N-E-S.

"I win," she said.

The tranvestite shot me a glance. "Eez that a word?"

I nodded my head.

As I was walking out of the wh_rehouse I heard festive cries melt into the dark, star-laden sky. It was a beautiful night.

At my back I heard a husky voice shout: "Don`t forget to say a Hail Mary!!!"

The statue of Mary gazed at me--stoic.

I dropped a couple pesetos in her palms and walked into the moonlight beyond, whistling some tune I had heard earlier that day.




Nov. 13: "Army of God"

We used to have this little routine when my sister and I were really young. Every Friday, my mother lined both of us up and made us recite verses from the Bible.

She even had us use props, like maybe some of the toys we played with in our spare time. I liked to wear my G.I. Joe outfit, the one I wore for Halloween when I was five. My sister had her My Lil Pony wand, the electric-yellow one, in addition to a rabbit tail she pinned on her ass. I don`t know which cartoon that came from.

So anyways, every Friday, there we are, me decked out in a plastic green helmet, camo pants, and a retarded B.B. Gun that didn`t work anymore. In my right hand I had a Bible, which I was forbidden to look at because the verses had to be memorized. My sister had that rabbit tail perkily poking out of her ass.

My mom lines us up, her face all holy and solemn, and proclaims sternly: "Attennnn-SHUN!"

We stand at attention, hands slightly clenched, thumbs at our side, gaze pointing directly forward.

"DO NOT LOOK AT ME, GRACE. WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT STARING AT A SUPERIOR?"

My sister starts crying.

"THE LORD DOES NOT SHINE FAVORABLY ON WUSSIES! FALL OUT!"

My sister moves out of position.

"MR. KIM. BOW."

My body falls to a ninety degree angle.

"PSALMS CHAPTER 1. RECITE THE CHAPTER. YOU MAY BEGIN."

"Blessed are those who walk in the path of the upright..."

Or something like that.



Nov. 11: "Strictly for the Hardcore"

Dubious Awards

Most Innovative Philosophical Synthesis Award: Zen. Combined Chinese Taoism and Indian Buddhism to create the cleanest, most compressed expression of Buddhism to date. Leave it to the Japs to screw original thinking and improve on other people`s cars. What`s the sound of one hand clapping? ...Plop...

The Most Homosexual Straight Thinker of the 20th Century who Indirectly Influenced Two Generations of Moviegoers: Joseph Campbell. Follow your bliss? Dude, I`m glad they changed it to "Use the Force."

Most overrated thinker of the 20th Century: Freud. Made a living off of writing about other people`s Boogie Monsters. As if we didn`t already know the sh_t. Dumbass.


Most underrated thinker of the 20th century: Carl Jung. One word: Synchronicity. The student finally outdid the master.

Sickest MC of the 19th Century Award: Nietzsche. Talked sh_t about everyone and their MAMA. Went insane and STILL talked sh_t. Fu_kin Germans. What`d I think of Birth of Tragedy? ...Flush...

Greatest Thinker of All time Award: Lao-Tse. Wax on, wax off, Daniel-San.

The What the Fu-K are you Talking About Award: Rilke`s Duino Elegies. He smoked peyote, washed it down with absinthe, then had Lou give him a blowjob as he composed the Elegies. Till this day nobody knows what the fu_k he was talking about. After he busted, neither did he.

The I sucked the d_cks of major thinkers and then became an intellectual icon in the process even though I`m kinda stupid Award: Lou Salome. She gave a blowjob to Nietzsche, jilted him, married some wealthy nobody, had mad crazy who knows what went on there sex with fourteen years her junior Rilke, gave a blowjob to Paul Rhee, and then finished off with Freud. In the process she wrote a couple shi_ty books on psychoanalysis. I`m sure she had a topping time. Sl_t.
Runnerup: Anais Nin. Two people: Henry Miller and her abusive classical composer Dad. One critically acclaimed published book: House of Incest. You do the math.

Most Overrated Literary Critic Award: Harold Bloom. His next book should be entitled: The One Hundred Greatest Positions me and Derrida Exercised while Deconstructing each other`s Anuses back in my early days as a Yalie. Deconstruct that, you elitist f_ck.



Anyone who has the faintest, I salute you. You`re fu_king insane.



Nov 9: "Cuando cierran la boca, no moscas entran."

The Anecdote

We have this weekly lunch, my father and I. We`re eating at Ole Country Buffet, probably the most ghetto buffet this side of the United States. Next to Wyatt`s of course. The clientele look like they came straight out of geriatrics. The whole place is just a bunch of wires and wheel chairs and sh_t, intermingled with the tinny whines of old people.

We eat there because the fried chicken is fried by actual black people. Which means it`s fu-kin finger-lickin` good. But the wait staff is mostly Mexican. In other words, not a place to consider for a hot first date.

My father likes to tell me stories, little anecdotal proverbs from his childhood. They`re usually kinda funny. Today he tells me a story about a dog trotting along next to a river with a freshly caught fish in his mouth. Unaware that his reflection in the river is merely a reflection, he jumps into the river to steal the fish out of the other dog`s mouth. He drops his own fish in the process.

"My old man told me that story," my father says, suddenly. A pause. "I never got the meaning of it, though."

As he`s recounting the story, I see a pair of bottle-green eyes hover near my periphery. Her hair is tied in a bun, with streaks of dyed blue and yellow hair shooting out rather punkishly. She takes my plate and looks at me.

"All done?" she asks. A heart-shaped face, eyes flashing amoral green.

Something like a look of stupid recognition.

And oh yeah, something like eternity passes.


The Analysis


What`s it like to experience the world from the periphery?

Sometimes I feel like telling the dogmatists, the religious fanatics, the starched-shirt traditionalists: "Shut the fu_k up and listen. Just shut your mouths for once and fu-King listen."

Something is happening in this corner of the universe. It requires no explanation.

Seasons change. The co_k crows.

God speaks in hushed early morning murmurs.

Mere whispers, caught in a fatal cast of the dice.

The world turns regardless of what you say.



Nov 3: "What`s my mothafu_kin name?"

My father and I had a nice chat today over lunch. Since we have differing schedules, we hardly ever see each other. Anyways, we were having one of those man to man talks, ya know, BBQ and beer and shi_t.

My dad is an old man, about 70 now. We never talk much, but since we were on the subject of family history and the War and such, I decide that this is a good time as any to ask him something that had been irking me.

"Dad, why did you give me a girl`s name in Korean?"

My dad laughs, like he`s remembering a dirty joke heard a lifetime ago. He puffs on his cigar, then looks at me directly.

"Min Sun`s a good name for a WRITER, ain`t it?"

I can`t wait to say something like that to my own son, that little shi_t.



Nov. 2: "Herm"

My therapist advises me to write about the nightmares I`ve been having, in addition to the voices. She says it`ll help "reintegrate" my personality--whatever that means.


I guess this is the first time I`ve ever publicly acknowledged the voices.

"Herm" tells me to do certain things, things I may not necessarily want to do.

There are times when I`m about to go to sleep and my head starts to pound and the room starts spinning. A low, persistent murmur creeps all serpent-like into my head. This is when I close my eyes and try to be strong. Other times, however, I feel like giving in and screaming: "ALL RIGHT. I`LL DO AS YOU SAY!!! I`LL GO TO F_CKING LAW SCHOOL. JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!!!"



Nov 1: "Morning Glory"

My family from Korea is here for two weeks. It`s a packed house.

This morning when I was taking a shower my aunt from Korea walked in on me and spied me in all my morning glory. She abruptly closed the door, apologizing.

When I finished my morning routine I walked downstairs and sat at the table with the rest of my family to eat breakfast. My aunt apologized again, claiming she thought it was her husband.

Then, out of the blue, my mom says: "Did you see his chachi?"

Silence for a moment.

Spasmodic laughter bursts forth from everyone at the table.

I shoot her a dirty look.

"Oh, come on," she says. "Everybody`s seen it when you were a child. No matter how much of a MAN you think you`ve become, you were still born out of MY womb."

Another burst of laughter. In an effort to save face, my grandmother says: "Don`t embarrass him at the table."

Haruki Murakami, explaining the popularity of Raymond Carver`s books in Japan--despite enormous cultural differences--states that the Japanese can readily identify with Carver`s depiction of life`s smallest humiliations.

Oedipal conflict`s a b_tch.


Oct. 31: "Methinks he doth protest too much."

There`s only one thing more irritating to hear from someone about to enter the job market than hearing this: "Oh, I want to be a writer." Hearing: "Oh, I want to be a stand-up comedian." The fact that I`m giving serious thought to both professions disturbs me parents ever so slightly.

The other day I tell my dad I want to be a writer. Never at a loss for words, he says: "Isn`t that what homosexuals do?" Well, he didn`t exactly say "homosexual". He said "yujah", but I know that "homo" is what he meant considering my hunch that the Korean language is incapable of expressing the equivalent for "fa_got" with all its connotations.

I have to say my dad is pretty cool. When I tell my relatives I want to be a write, I usually get two responses. The first response is said with a look of slight contempt: "That`s nice." Which really means: "Dude, you`re not that funny." And the other is said nervously, with a tinge of paranoia: "What are you going to write/joke about?" Meaning: "Does he remember that time I molested the cat?"


Oct. 30: "Prose"


Occasionally when you read a book you come across a line or phrase that really speaks to you. It grabs your attention, tugs at your stupid little heartstrings, makes you feel glad to be alive. Somehow it speaks to that deep human yearning to lead a more dignified existence, elevating human worth to a loftier height and giving us all a reason to live again.


Reading Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart, I came across such a line today. It reads: “Her nipples tightened under her dress.” (pg. 24)


Nothing like fresh, clean prose to clear the palate, wouldn’t ya say?


Oct. 29: "Say Uncle."


Once when I was a kid I walked into my uncle’s room without knocking and stumbled upon a man applying some make-up on his face, wearing nothing but leather boots and a pair of purple women’s panties. In an effort to cover up his nakedness, he had nervously smeared lipstick all over the side of his mouth. Shocked, I remember walking out of the room and thinking to myself: “He looked kind of like Uncle.”


I think this was when I realized why my parents always replied “Oh, he’s just shy” whenever I asked them why my uncle never talked much.


Every family has got one of those.


Then there’s the uncle who always wanted to play “doctor” when you were a kid, but for some reason got really quiet when you started hitting adolescence. He’s the one uncle your family never asked to baby sit for them.


And what about the uncle who never has his shit together, working on his third marriage, the alcoholic strip-joint frequenter who’s always muttering cryptically about how life somehow makes you feel great one minute, then blindsides you with your fourth fucking DUI. The ironic thing is, he says, I wasn’t even remotely drunk this time. Just like life to fuck me over with a stripper for a wife, he says. It’s all that bitch’s fault, I tell you.


The third uncle is my favorite. We talk scotch and discuss the latest political developments.


I have such great male role models in my life.


Oct. 27: "Human, All too Human"


So I`m maintaining this journal regularly. Sometimes I have to suppress a feeling of complete disgust at my attempts to make myself "heard". Anyways I`m hungover.


Is this what my life has come to?


I call the internet the "wormhole". Once you get sucked in you get to peep all kinds of interesting things about this joke of a planet. It`s like a little window revealing humans at their most depraved, living out some kind of fantasy life with chapters entitled "Animal Sex" and "Teen Fu_K". If an alien scientist wanted to really understand an inkling of the human race, I would point him not to the museum or thecathedral but to the internet. Here you find men and women continually acting out their most humiliating moments, revealing humanity not only to be completely debased and absurd but also surprisingly tender--and vulnerable.


So why do people chat online. Why do people maintain a "live" journal. Why do we watch inane, completely useless shows such as "The Real World". These are questions that can only be pondered by the perpetually lonely.


Humans at their most desperate.


And so, day after day, we click the icon and sign on, thinking: "Today I will be heard. Today I will prove to myself that I exist". We cast our lines seamlessly across time and space, hoping to make some kind of connection--however faint. And as the planet hurtles elliptically through eternity, some alien scientist--adjusting the airwaves--reports to his superior: "Life on this planet? Sorry sir, no sign of it."



Oct. 24: "Jolt"


When I was young I stuck a metal chopstick into an electric socket to see what it felt like. All I remember is a faint buzzing sound in my ear and my mother administering CPR rather incompetently. I also remember having a massive boner. Somehow theshock must have jolted my di_k into place.


Sometimes when I have sex I hear that stupid sound and I feel all disembodied and sh_t. I`m foaming at the mouth and trembling uncontrollably. Some girl is standing over me—breasts bobbing up and down—screaming: “Oh my God! Are you okay? Are you okay?”


Your parents, they really fu_k you up even if they don’t mean to, don’t they?


Funny how a single moment can be burned into your personal destiny FOREVER.


I gotta quit reading Freud.



Oct. 23: "Spit or Swallow"


Someone noted me today and told me my page was boring. Geez. I felt vaguely insulted. Shows how much of a life I have.


Welcome to my stupid world. I guess this is where I tell you my "Personal Message". What a moronic notion. Do I have some personal message I`m burning to tell the whole world? Not really.


I hate those people who include pictures of their car on their page. Yeah, yeah we already know how big your di_k is. Online journals are so vain.


So, question of the day, why the hell are you reading MY journal? If I`ve managed to keep your attention this whole time, looks like I`ve done half my job. Now allI have to dois get you to feel that warm tingly feeling in your panties. And if you`re a guy, well, I don`t know what to say to that.


I had phone sex for the first time the other day. That`sright, I`m a depraved, sexually repressed soul--just like the rest of you masturbating to a computer screen. But at least I have standards. Computer screens don`t do it for me. And it wasn`t anybody on AA in case you were wondering.


If you`re stillreading this, I salute you. Welcome to my crazy, mixed up life.


So what didwe talk about? Well, I actually didn`t know it was gonna lead to what happened at the end--heavy breathing with a bunch of who`s your daddy phrases thrown in. For good measure of course. Even though I consider myself pretty depraved, I can still astonish myself with my naivete. Well,we started out chatting in some "innocent" chat room about perfectly tangible topics suchas wine, literature, theatre, travel--you know, the good life. All of a sudden, she writes: "Wanna call me?" I write: "Sure." Next thing I know we are introducing ourselves ove the phone. I`m Delilah, she says. Yeah, and I`m fu_kin Samson. I still didn`t know where this was going to lead, butbeing the curious cat that I am--I decide to maintain my coolnonchalance. The whole time we`re having this "nonchalant" phone conversation--talking about work, college, etc...--she`s insinuating all this subtext in the chat messenger: "Boxers or briefs? Foreplay or sex? Doggy or missionary?" In like manner, I respond: "Spit or swallow?"


That`s right, this is how much of an immoral, sick desperado I am. Still reading? Takes one to know one, old sport.


She tells me she`s 5`4, brown hair, hazel eyes, slim. She pauses, then adds: "36C--I have perky breasts". I perk up, even though I know she`s lying through her teeth. I`m 5`10, broad shoulders, caucasian, yadda fu_kin yadda and oh--nine inches. Thrown in for good measure of course.


Needless to say, the conversation picked up from there. When it was done, I told her I needed a smoke, then said in my most suave Clint Eastwood voice: "Nothing like a cigarette after sex." What a dumbass I must have sounded like. We had our obligatory post-coitus pillow talk and called it a night. I asked her if she did this often. She said this was her first time. I told her me too. But I wasn`t lying this time. I felt vaguely used.


So there you have it--my personal message to the world. I ain`t gonna tell youhowsmartI am (I teach SAT), or whatcar I drive (Audi A4), or my salary (25 dollars an hour), or declare my vanity to you in such a way as to hit you over your head with it. Is there some kind of moral to this stupid story? Not really. I made it all up.


You think I`m really this vulgar? I`m actually quite dignified.

Nov 14: "Ay Papi"

One day when I was nineteen I decided it was time to lose my virginity to a dirty Mexican wh_re in Nueveo Laredo who called me papi.

I crossed the border around sunset. I was happy the Border patrol had not confiscated my pipe.

After smoking a bowl I parked my car and walked to the Red Light District.

A shiny white statue of St. Mary was erected outside the wh_rehouse, her hands outstretched. I watched some grimey looking Mexican man with Paul Newman shades walk out of the house and drop some coins in her palms and saunter off.

When I walked inside she was playing Scrabble on the floor of the wh_rehouse with some huskily voiced transvestite with broad shoulders and cleavage resembling something like Death Valley.

"Joo stupid b_tch," the transvestite said. "S-E-N-G eez not a word. No es una palabra."

"Jes it eez. Ask the American."

They both looked at me. I took a quick glance at her tiles. O-I-G-L-R-I-S-E-N.
I shrugged my shoulders.

We walked into a spare room at the side of the house. She let me take her clothes off. Her body was tanned luminously from the sun and she had dark, dark eyes.

It felt good when she was giving me the bl_wjob in the room. I liked her arms because they were nice and tan. But I kept thinking about the tiles on the floor and different word combinations. Her head moving up and down like that transported me into some kind of ecstatic state and I started feeling slightly giddy. The doors of perception seemed to be bursting open.

"L-I-G-R-O-I-N-E-S!!!" I exclaimed. My creative juices were flowing.

The girl lifted an eyebrow mid-blowjob as if to say "Eh?"

When we were done I walked out of the room grinning like a schoolgirl. I had become a MAN. A regular fuk-in matador. I had just lost my virginity to a Mexican wh_re for twenty dollars.

After I paid her the girl kissed me on the cheek and resumed her game. She looked at her tiles.

"Ay papi, that`s the word I was thinking of!!!" She smiled at me warmly.

The girl lined her tiles up on the board, one by one. Click, click, click, click, she lay the tiles down.

L-I-G-R-O-I-N-E-S.

"I win," she said.

The tranvestite shot me a glance. "Eez that a word?"

I nodded my head.

As I was walking out of the wh_rehouse I heard festive cries melt into the dark, star-laden sky. It was a beautiful night.

At my back I heard a husky voice shout: "Don`t forget to say a Hail Mary!!!"

The statue of Mary gazed at me--stoic.

I dropped a couple pesetos in her palms and walked into the moonlight beyond, whistling some tune I had heard earlier that day.




Nov. 13: "Army of God"

We used to have this little routine when my sister and I were really young. Every Friday, my mother lined both of us up and made us recite verses from the Bible.

She even had us use props, like maybe some of the toys we played with in our spare time. I liked to wear my G.I. Joe outfit, the one I wore for Halloween when I was five. My sister had her My Lil Pony wand, the electric-yellow one, in addition to a rabbit tail she pinned on her ass. I don`t know which cartoon that came from.

So anyways, every Friday, there we are, me decked out in a plastic green helmet, camo pants, and a retarded B.B. Gun that didn`t work anymore. In my right hand I had a Bible, which I was forbidden to look at because the verses had to be memorized. My sister had that rabbit tail perkily poking out of her ass.

My mom lines us up, her face all holy and solemn, and proclaims sternly: "Attennnn-SHUN!"

We stand at attention, hands slightly clenched, thumbs at our side, gaze pointing directly forward.

"DO NOT LOOK AT ME, GRACE. WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT STARING AT A SUPERIOR?"

My sister starts crying.

"THE LORD DOES NOT SHINE FAVORABLY ON WUSSIES! FALL OUT!"

My sister moves out of position.

"MR. KIM. BOW."

My body falls to a ninety degree angle.

"PSALMS CHAPTER 1. RECITE THE CHAPTER. YOU MAY BEGIN."

"Blessed are those who walk in the path of the upright..."

Or something like that.



Nov. 11: "Strictly for the Hardcore"

Dubious Awards

Most Innovative Philosophical Synthesis Award: Zen. Combined Chinese Taoism and Indian Buddhism to create the cleanest, most compressed expression of Buddhism to date. Leave it to the Japs to screw original thinking and improve on other people`s cars. What`s the sound of one hand clapping? ...Plop...

The Most Homosexual Straight Thinker of the 20th Century who Indirectly Influenced Two Generations of Moviegoers: Joseph Campbell. Follow your bliss? Dude, I`m glad they changed it to "Use the Force."

Most overrated thinker of the 20th Century: Freud. Made a living off of writing about other people`s Boogie Monsters. As if we didn`t already know the sh_t. Dumbass.


Most underrated thinker of the 20th century: Carl Jung. One word: Synchronicity. The student finally outdid the master.

Sickest MC of the 19th Century Award: Nietzsche. Talked sh_t about everyone and their MAMA. Went insane and STILL talked sh_t. Fu_kin Germans. What`d I think of Birth of Tragedy? ...Flush...

Greatest Thinker of All time Award: Lao-Tse. Wax on, wax off, Daniel-San.

The What the Fu-K are you Talking About Award: Rilke`s Duino Elegies. He smoked peyote, washed it down with absinthe, then had Lou give him a blowjob as he composed the Elegies. Till this day nobody knows what the fu_k he was talking about. After he busted, neither did he.

The I sucked the d_cks of major thinkers and then became an intellectual icon in the process even though I`m kinda stupid Award: Lou Salome. She gave a blowjob to Nietzsche, jilted him, married some wealthy nobody, had mad crazy who knows what went on there sex with fourteen years her junior Rilke, gave a blowjob to Paul Rhee, and then finished off with Freud. In the process she wrote a couple shi_ty books on psychoanalysis. I`m sure she had a topping time. Sl_t.
Runnerup: Anais Nin. Two people: Henry Miller and her abusive classical composer Dad. One critically acclaimed published book: House of Incest. You do the math.

Most Overrated Literary Critic Award: Harold Bloom. His next book should be entitled: The One Hundred Greatest Positions me and Derrida Exercised while Deconstructing each other`s Anuses back in my early days as a Yalie. Deconstruct that, you elitist f_ck.



Anyone who has the faintest, I salute you. You`re fu_king insane.



Nov 9: "Cuando cierran la boca, no moscas entran."

The Anecdote

We have this weekly lunch, my father and I. We`re eating at Ole Country Buffet, probably the most ghetto buffet this side of the United States. Next to Wyatt`s of course. The clientele look like they came straight out of geriatrics. The whole place is just a bunch of wires and wheel chairs and sh_t, intermingled with the tinny whines of old people.

We eat there because the fried chicken is fried by actual black people. Which means it`s fu-kin finger-lickin` good. But the wait staff is mostly Mexican. In other words, not a place to consider for a hot first date.

My father likes to tell me stories, little anecdotal proverbs from his childhood. They`re usually kinda funny. Today he tells me a story about a dog trotting along next to a river with a freshly caught fish in his mouth. Unaware that his reflection in the river is merely a reflection, he jumps into the river to steal the fish out of the other dog`s mouth. He drops his own fish in the process.

"My old man told me that story," my father says, suddenly. A pause. "I never got the meaning of it, though."

As he`s recounting the story, I see a pair of bottle-green eyes hover near my periphery. Her hair is tied in a bun, with streaks of dyed blue and yellow hair shooting out rather punkishly. She takes my plate and looks at me.

"All done?" she asks. A heart-shaped face, eyes flashing amoral green.

Something like a look of stupid recognition.

And oh yeah, something like eternity passes.


The Analysis


What`s it like to experience the world from the periphery?

Sometimes I feel like telling the dogmatists, the religious fanatics, the starched-shirt traditionalists: "Shut the fu_k up and listen. Just shut your mouths for once and fu-King listen."

Something is happening in this corner of the universe. It requires no explanation.

Seasons change. The co_k crows.

God speaks in hushed early morning murmurs.

Mere whispers, caught in a fatal cast of the dice.

The world turns regardless of what you say.



Nov 3: "What`s my mothafu_kin name?"

My father and I had a nice chat today over lunch. Since we have differing schedules, we hardly ever see each other. Anyways, we were having one of those man to man talks, ya know, BBQ and beer and shi_t.

My dad is an old man, about 70 now. We never talk much, but since we were on the subject of family history and the War and such, I decide that this is a good time as any to ask him something that had been irking me.

"Dad, why did you give me a girl`s name in Korean?"

My dad laughs, like he`s remembering a dirty joke heard a lifetime ago. He puffs on his cigar, then looks at me directly.

"Min Sun`s a good name for a WRITER, ain`t it?"

I can`t wait to say something like that to my own son, that little shi_t.



Nov. 2: "Herm"

My therapist advises me to write about the nightmares I`ve been having, in addition to the voices. She says it`ll help "reintegrate" my personality--whatever that means.


I guess this is the first time I`ve ever publicly acknowledged the voices.

"Herm" tells me to do certain things, things I may not necessarily want to do.

There are times when I`m about to go to sleep and my head starts to pound and the room starts spinning. A low, persistent murmur creeps all serpent-like into my head. This is when I close my eyes and try to be strong. Other times, however, I feel like giving in and screaming: "ALL RIGHT. I`LL DO AS YOU SAY!!! I`LL GO TO F_CKING LAW SCHOOL. JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!!!"



Nov 1: "Morning Glory"

My family from Korea is here for two weeks. It`s a packed house.

This morning when I was taking a shower my aunt from Korea walked in on me and spied me in all my morning glory. She abruptly closed the door, apologizing.

When I finished my morning routine I walked downstairs and sat at the table with the rest of my family to eat breakfast. My aunt apologized again, claiming she thought it was her husband.

Then, out of the blue, my mom says: "Did you see his chachi?"

Silence for a moment.

Spasmodic laughter bursts forth from everyone at the table.

I shoot her a dirty look.

"Oh, come on," she says. "Everybody`s seen it when you were a child. No matter how much of a MAN you think you`ve become, you were still born out of MY womb."

Another burst of laughter. In an effort to save face, my grandmother says: "Don`t embarrass him at the table."

Haruki Murakami, explaining the popularity of Raymond Carver`s books in Japan--despite enormous cultural differences--states that the Japanese can readily identify with Carver`s depiction of life`s smallest humiliations.

Oedipal conflict`s a b_tch.


Oct. 31: "Methinks he doth protest too much."

There`s only one thing more irritating to hear from someone about to enter the job market than hearing this: "Oh, I want to be a writer." Hearing: "Oh, I want to be a stand-up comedian." The fact that I`m giving serious thought to both professions disturbs me parents ever so slightly.

The other day I tell my dad I want to be a writer. Never at a loss for words, he says: "Isn`t that what homosexuals do?" Well, he didn`t exactly say "homosexual". He said "yujah", but I know that "homo" is what he meant considering my hunch that the Korean language is incapable of expressing the equivalent for "fa_got" with all its connotations.

I have to say my dad is pretty cool. When I tell my relatives I want to be a write, I usually get two responses. The first response is said with a look of slight contempt: "That`s nice." Which really means: "Dude, you`re not that funny." And the other is said nervously, with a tinge of paranoia: "What are you going to write/joke about?" Meaning: "Does he remember that time I molested the cat?"


Oct. 30: "Prose"


Occasionally when you read a book you come across a line or phrase that really speaks to you. It grabs your attention, tugs at your stupid little heartstrings, makes you feel glad to be alive. Somehow it speaks to that deep human yearning to lead a more dignified existence, elevating human worth to a loftier height and giving us all a reason to live again.


Reading Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart, I came across such a line today. It reads: “Her nipples tightened under her dress.” (pg. 24)


Nothing like fresh, clean prose to clear the palate, wouldn’t ya say?


Oct. 29: "Say Uncle."


Once when I was a kid I walked into my uncle’s room without knocking and stumbled upon a man applying some make-up on his face, wearing nothing but leather boots and a pair of purple women’s panties. In an effort to cover up his nakedness, he had nervously smeared lipstick all over the side of his mouth. Shocked, I remember walking out of the room and thinking to myself: “He looked kind of like Uncle.”


I think this was when I realized why my parents always replied “Oh, he’s just shy” whenever I asked them why my uncle never talked much.


Every family has got one of those.


Then there’s the uncle who always wanted to play “doctor” when you were a kid, but for some reason got really quiet when you started hitting adolescence. He’s the one uncle your family never asked to baby sit for them.


And what about the uncle who never has his shit together, working on his third marriage, the alcoholic strip-joint frequenter who’s always muttering cryptically about how life somehow makes you feel great one minute, then blindsides you with your fourth fucking DUI. The ironic thing is, he says, I wasn’t even remotely drunk this time. Just like life to fuck me over with a stripper for a wife, he says. It’s all that bitch’s fault, I tell you.


The third uncle is my favorite. We talk scotch and discuss the latest political developments.


I have such great male role models in my life.


Oct. 27: "Human, All too Human"


So I`m maintaining this journal regularly. Sometimes I have to suppress a feeling of complete disgust at my attempts to make myself "heard". Anyways I`m hungover.


Is this what my life has come to?


I call the internet the "wormhole". Once you get sucked in you get to peep all kinds of interesting things about this joke of a planet. It`s like a little window revealing humans at their most depraved, living out some kind of fantasy life with chapters entitled "Animal Sex" and "Teen Fu_K". If an alien scientist wanted to really understand an inkling of the human race, I would point him not to the museum or thecathedral but to the internet. Here you find men and women continually acting out their most humiliating moments, revealing humanity not only to be completely debased and absurd but also surprisingly tender--and vulnerable.


So why do people chat online. Why do people maintain a "live" journal. Why do we watch inane, completely useless shows such as "The Real World". These are questions that can only be pondered by the perpetually lonely.


Humans at their most desperate.


And so, day after day, we click the icon and sign on, thinking: "Today I will be heard. Today I will prove to myself that I exist". We cast our lines seamlessly across time and space, hoping to make some kind of connection--however faint. And as the planet hurtles elliptically through eternity, some alien scientist--adjusting the airwaves--reports to his superior: "Life on this planet? Sorry sir, no sign of it."



Oct. 24: "Jolt"


When I was young I stuck a metal chopstick into an electric socket to see what it felt like. All I remember is a faint buzzing sound in my ear and my mother administering CPR rather incompetently. I also remember having a massive boner. Somehow theshock must have jolted my di_k into place.


Sometimes when I have sex I hear that stupid sound and I feel all disembodied and sh_t. I`m foaming at the mouth and trembling uncontrollably. Some girl is standing over me—breasts bobbing up and down—screaming: “Oh my God! Are you okay? Are you okay?”


Your parents, they really fu_k you up even if they don’t mean to, don’t they?


Funny how a single moment can be burned into your personal destiny FOREVER.


I gotta quit reading Freud.



Oct. 23: "Spit or Swallow"


Someone noted me today and told me my page was boring. Geez. I felt vaguely insulted. Shows how much of a life I have.


Welcome to my stupid world. I guess this is where I tell you my "Personal Message". What a moronic notion. Do I have some personal message I`m burning to tell the whole world? Not really.


I hate those people who include pictures of their car on their page. Yeah, yeah we already know how big your di_k is. Online journals are so vain.


So, question of the day, why the hell are you reading MY journal? If I`ve managed to keep your attention this whole time, looks like I`ve done half my job. Now allI have to dois get you to feel that warm tingly feeling in your panties. And if you`re a guy, well, I don`t know what to say to that.


I had phone sex for the first time the other day. That`sright, I`m a depraved, sexually repressed soul--just like the rest of you masturbating to a computer screen. But at least I have standards. Computer screens don`t do it for me. And it wasn`t anybody on AA in case you were wondering.


If you`re stillreading this, I salute you. Welcome to my crazy, mixed up life.


So what didwe talk about? Well, I actually didn`t know it was gonna lead to what happened at the end--heavy breathing with a bunch of who`s your daddy phrases thrown in. For good measure of course. Even though I consider myself pretty depraved, I can still astonish myself with my naivete. Well,we started out chatting in some "innocent" chat room about perfectly tangible topics suchas wine, literature, theatre, travel--you know, the good life. All of a sudden, she writes: "Wanna call me?" I write: "Sure." Next thing I know we are introducing ourselves ove the phone. I`m Delilah, she says. Yeah, and I`m fu_kin Samson. I still didn`t know where this was going to lead, butbeing the curious cat that I am--I decide to maintain my coolnonchalance. The whole time we`re having this "nonchalant" phone conversation--talking about work, college, etc...--she`s insinuating all this subtext in the chat messenger: "Boxers or briefs? Foreplay or sex? Doggy or missionary?" In like manner, I respond: "Spit or swallow?"


That`s right, this is how much of an immoral, sick desperado I am. Still reading? Takes one to know one, old sport.


She tells me she`s 5`4, brown hair, hazel eyes, slim. She pauses, then adds: "36C--I have perky breasts". I perk up, even though I know she`s lying through her teeth. I`m 5`10, broad shoulders, caucasian, yadda fu_kin yadda and oh--nine inches. Thrown in for good measure of course.


Needless to say, the conversation picked up from there. When it was done, I told her I needed a smoke, then said in my most suave Clint Eastwood voice: "Nothing like a cigarette after sex." What a dumbass I must have sounded like. We had our obligatory post-coitus pillow talk and called it a night. I asked her if she did this often. She said this was her first time. I told her me too. But I wasn`t lying this time. I felt vaguely used.


So there you have it--my personal message to the world. I ain`t gonna tell youhowsmartI am (I teach SAT), or whatcar I drive (Audi A4), or my salary (25 dollars an hour), or declare my vanity to you in such a way as to hit you over your head with it. Is there some kind of moral to this stupid story? Not really. I made it all up.


You think I`m really this vulgar? I`m actually quite dignified.





::: posted by Paul at 9:55 PM

Well here is my first entry. Just seeing if it will work.