Ho Chi Minh Was Once Saigon

“Is France a land of fat, smoking alcoholics?”

This is a headline in the newspaper I am reading in the hotel restaurant in Ho Chi Minh City, Viet Nam. I can only wonder if the Vietnamese still have a bit a residual resentment lingering from the French Indochina occupation. Or, maybe, like most of us, they just don’t like the French.

We are finally here. After turmoil, we arrived in our rooms about 3 am. We were to be here a day ago, but we were stuck in three-hour traffic on the way to the airport in Seoul and missed our plane. We arrived at the same time the plane was leaving. An unhappy trip, to say the least. Even though I took a day off of work to extend our trip, I went into school defeated. I told the story 14,000 times. However, while I was preaching a depressed story to the children to conjure sympathy (they didn’t really care about missed planes or Vietnam trips), Kristie was orchestrating a do-over. At 3:15, we were on another bus to Incheon Airport. We made it with lots of time to spare. Early enough for me to ponder ways to bottle the excess time spent waiting for planes and transfer it to an account for use when traffic is slow or lines are long. I welcome your suggestions.

The hotel never picked us up, so we took a ride in a taxi. There were dozens of taxis in front, but, for some unknown reason, the guy we hired parked across a dark and dodgy lot. I told him the name of the hotel, and he smiled and tried to make conversation, as he politely swindled us out of our twenty dollars for a $1.00 ride.

There are many scooters in this city.

Today is Thanksgiving, and it is supposed to be 88 degrees. We are not part of a tour, so as soon as Kristie gets down here from showering, we’ll figure out what we’d like to do. There’s a few museums dedicated to the war. I’m interesting in those. It’s one of those places that I knew about but never thought I’d visit. I remember my 11th grade U.S. History teacher telling us about her visit here, and how beautiful it was. That was a long time ago, but I often thought about that. Last year, I taught the Vietnam War for the first time, and learned more than I ever knew about the war before. Platoon and Full Metal Jacket were the only textbooks I read on the matter. Oh yeah, Rambo as well.

For you jazz folks, Herbie Hancock will be in the city tomorrow for a music festival. Finally, after many years of anticipation, I can hear a live version of “Rocket.” I wonder if the robot mannequins travel with him.

I like how people go back and forth referring to this city as Saigon and Ho Chi Minh City. I’m unsure which to call it. Now I know how those Turks in Constantinople felt when it became Istanbul.

It's a Movie Bonanza

Here's a link to what's showing at our base movie theater. Please read this and pity us.

November is a stellar month. No movies this week due to an exercise, then Roll Bounce and Get Rich or Die Tryin. I wouldn't pay 50 Cent to see either of those.

Word.

Veteran's Day Celebrating

Today is a day off from school due to Veteran's Day. I'm a vet, but none of you wrote to wish me a happy Veteran's Day. It's not just for the wounded, you know.

Kristie and I spent the day cleaning out the garbage on our computers and backing up the important data. Our hard drives whiz along smoothly now and the desktops sparkle. I almost hope for a fatal crash on the system so I can restore it all easily. Above is a screenshot from the current incarnation of Dashboard. The Top 10 movies of the week is my favorite of the widgets.

I bought Zero 7's "Simple Things" album today. It has been the soundtrack of our day, and it is growing slightly annoying now.

I shredded two months of receipts today, and I organized my office. I began making a movie to show you what the place looks like, but it didn't come out as good as I thought it would. Could it be that I'm not as charming on camera as I think I am?

We are going to a dinner party tonight. It's 3:58 pm, and Kristie just changed out of her jammies.

Quarter One

First quarter ended on Thursday. Looking at the grades brought me one step closer to abandoning the teaching profession. I have already started thinking of other career paths I'd like, ones in which I am not held responsible for other people's laziness. After the report cards arrive, I'm sure I'll get a barrage of emails from parents angry with me for the grade. There is little blame put on the student in such matters. I say something similiar each time:

I put all assignments online.
At the start of each unit, I give students a schedule of the next 3-4 weeks of assignments.
I am available to help tutor kids before and after school, but I have not had many come in.

Still, it is not sufficient for some reason. We are raising a generation of young people to shift responsibility and work off of their shoulders onto others. In the short time I have been a teacher (six years, ten if you count my alternative school time), I sensed the decline grow steeper. By this, I mean that students are getting better at not learning. Now, I am not idealizing the good ole days when I worked on lessons in the wee hours of the night. "Three's Company" and Spiderman comics were more interesting to me than reading Huckleberry Finn and filling out worksheets on geometric problems. But, when my poor grades arrived, my parents blamed only one. Me. I couldn't imagine my mom calling the teacher to complain about my D in English, citing the problem as "Ron feels that you don't like him," or "Ron was quite busy around the house. I am to blame for that." I have heard both of these excuse sitting on the other side of the teacher desk, let me tell you. When parents do this, a powerful– and damaging – is learned.

I want kids to enjoy my classes. With this, I want them to earn good grades. But I cannot work harder on their grades than they are. They are the ones that need to do the assignments. I'll help, of course, but I'm not going to give As automatically. If they are involved in sports, they need to work harder to make up missing assignments. [Note: I continue to desire to work at a school without sports. I believe that if schools removed those programs, the academics would improve. Both schools I've worked at state that "academics comes before athletics," but neither of them do that. If coaches stopped with the "dumb jock" stereotype, perhaps students would, too.]

Thus ends the invective.

Starbucks Store Count

Seoul-108 stores

Portland-57 stores

Rhode Island-12 stores

Sly's Back

Sylvester Stallone has just announced plans to return to his role as John Rambo in Rambo IV. You probably already heard last month's press release about Sly becoming Rocky Balboa again (sans Adrian) in Rocky VI. With any luck, maybe he'll also become yet another one of his beloved characters, Lincoln Hawk from Over the Top. I believe that the world of truck driving-arm wrestling still has a lot of room to explore in a sequel.

Courageous Channel

One of the downsides of working among a military community is that we sometimes have to play those military games. No, Kristie is not forced to wear an olive-drab uniform while twirling a machine gun synchronistically with tank commanders and infantrymen. Rather, we have to take part in a peninsula-wide exercise to prepare us to be evacuated in case of an attack of North Korea or a natural disaster. If there is an attack, they will start the processing and send us teachers, spouses, children, etc. to either Japan or Hawaii to be averted from danger.

Like everything else in Military Land, the exercise is labeled with an acronym. NEO stands for Noncombatant Evacuation Operation. I’m not sure which is more disturbing, the fact of an attack from the north, or that I’m now labeled as a noncombatant. I can wield a weapon just as good as the next guy. I juggle knives, you know.

We do this twice a year, in October and April. This one is called Courageous Channel, which is a bit of a misnomer. Evacuating when trouble comes seems to be the exact opposite of courageous. Perhaps they call it that to avoid making us pathetic, not-up-to-snuff-for-fighting-the-communists teachers feel lower than the airmen. That’s mighty considerate.

The entire exercise took about an hour. When I see Kim Jung Il, I’m going to tell him how he has inconvenienced me.

Sax Education

The weather after school is still pleasant enough for me to sit outside on my patio to relax for a few minutes. It won't be for long, so I make an effort to come out here each day to sit and stare at our neighbor’s bug-infested tree while I try to purge myself from the day. It will grow cold in a few weeks; in fact, today I have to wear a jacket. I usually make some tea, put on some music on the iPod, and relax. Ron Time, if you will.

Today’s selection is John Coltrane’s Giant Steps. However, Coltrane’s smooth sax is competing with our next-building-over neighbor’s saxophone. Yes, there is a Korean man (or woman, who knows) that practices while I’m out here. Kristie says that he plays all day as well. And all that practicing isn’t doing too much to make him any better, believe me. So here I am, with Coltrane in one ear and the Korean man in the other. Quite the juxtaposition. I’m not sure which is worse, his playing alone or his defiling John Coltrane’s playing. Either way, it’s frustrating.

I can’t help but look at this as a metaphor for my classroom. I teach a 9th grade integrated Honors class this year, along with 11th grade English and US History. The freshman class is World History and World Literature combined into one class that spans two periods. Three hours with the same students. Try that one on for size, Hondo. I have taught 9th grade Honors before this year, and it is one of the most frustrating because it is usually the first honors-level class that these students take. To get in to the class requires nothing more than wanting to get in. Grades, teacher recommendations, parent signature, etc., have no bearing on who gets to sign up for this class. Overall, I like that. If a student wants to take a challenging class, he should. However…

The skill and –oh, let’s just say it– intelligence varies greatly among these 29 students. On one side are those students who force me to read and prepare because they are sharp and interested. One the other side, there are those who have a difficult time finding Korea on a map. Yet there they are, all staring at me, waiting for instruction (except for those cartographically challenged…they are staring out the window humming the Rugrats theme song). Sometimes it feels like one side is ruining the other, much like the amateur saxophonist is doing to Coltrane, and I am in the company of both.

I’m sure the neighbor sax man doesn’t want to squeak out the notes, and he probably wishes he could play more like Coltrane. Perhaps he listens to him for inspiration as he attempts to improve his craft. He has probably heard many times that his playing stinks and that he should simply watch TV or take up the air guitar. But he still practices every day. Those little freshman that I told you about have perfect attendance, even those who are earning C’s and D’s in class. Those non-Coltranes, both in the next building and in my class, know how far away from Coltrane they sound. They know that more than I do because they are the ones who listen to themselves every lesson. They have listened to the harangues of critics and felt the sarcastic comments from instructors. But, they come each day for another go-around. Perhaps this practice session will turn one of the honks or screeches into that note that were aiming for.

I stopped typing for a moment and listened to the sounds blur together again. Sure, it’s still terrible, but I think he is getting better.

Class Animals

The school nurse sent out an email today asking for a list of any animals that teachers have in the room. Of course, this means class pets (hamsters, fish, etc.). Of course, we teachers had other things in mind. Less than thirty minutes later, she had to send out another email addressing all the jokes that came in to her in that time asking for "cages for the 25 animals in the room."

I guess I wasn't the only one who thought of that one.

Changes

My birthday was yesterday; I'm now 36 years old. I'm thinking about growing a mustache.

Bopping to the DMZ

I passed a radio in the supply room at school today. It was in Korean, but I recognized the rhythm. It was "She Bop" by Cyndi Lauper. Korean techno-style. I couldn't understand the words since it was all in Korean. One can only wonder how "She Bop" translates into Korean. These are the moments that shock me into remembering that I'm in another country. Perhaps another world. I returned to my classroom humming the Lauper hit. If they can do this, I wonder what the disco crowd could do with "Total Eclipse of the Heart." Something funky, I'm sure.

Seoul now has 104 Starbucks. Up from 97 two weeks ago. Up from 57 last year when we arrived.

Kristie and I went to North Korean last Saturday, sort of. We traveled to the DMZ, the two-mile stretch that separates the two countries. On the west border is the Joint Security Area, a small plot of land for both sides to meet and negotiate. Here, both sides post armed soldiers to "keep the peace." We had to sign a waiver acknowledging our understanding that it is a hostile military area, and that we could be involved in a incident that could lead to injury or even death. We also quickly signed it because we wanted our picture with the guard. What fools... One of the houses has the dividing line through the middle, so Kristie and I went to that side. Not much different.

It was a strange experience, visiting the intersection of two opposing countries. Kristie tried to egg on the two sets of guards to fight, but it didn't work.

See all the DMZ pictures at http://www.flickr.com/photos/34261721@N00/sets/1156630/

Nine Words That Almost Rhyme with Korea

9. Diarrhea

8. Careen

7. Farina

6. Corey Hart

5. Creamier

4. Greener

3. Cornea

2. Corina

1. Coia

I'm Tired of Lost

I am sick of Lost.

I know that I am perhaps one of the few still-breathing television watchers who would make such a blasphemous claim on this much-heralded show. Even now, there are diehards who will quickly post complaints on www.matthewfoxisafox.com or www.iwishjohnlockewasmydad.com to elicit shame and scorn my way for writing such a sentiment.

I was in Korea when the show aired in the States. Since I’m a regular reader of Entertainment Weekly, however, I feel like I know the premise and the annoying hoopla of the program. EW seems to have a twisted love affair, more disturbing that Shannon’s and Boone’s, with that show, complete with multi-paged spreads of the men standing in a faux ocean dripping water and testosterone. I read about the hatch, the lottery numbers, the comic book, the ability to walk again, etc. Friends back home talked about it with great awe and reverence, waiting for the new episode to tell who is bad or good, where the other survivors are, or when Claire’s baby will arrive. I even knew about Boone’s death. That was another article in EW. Unlike The Village, knowing the secrets made me want to see the show more. When the season was released on DVD, I tried in vain to rent it (the small rental store had ample copies of discs 3, 4, and 7 only), until I plopped down forty bucks to buy the set. Keep in mind that I only buy three shows: Seinfeld, Scrubs, and Arrested Development. Lost should be grateful it is in such genius.

Thus far, we’ve watched 20 out of 24 of the episodes. It started interesting and novel, but by episode 10, I lost sympathy. I couldn’t take the dull, slow episodes laced with cheesy dialogue that 9th grade girls write when I give them an assignment. Perhaps it is watching two or three at a time daily without commercials ruined it. I see it all too much for what it really is. There is no processing time to spread out the flaws. Rather, they are all there in 40-minute blocks piggybacked by another, then by another. Perhaps that week in-between does something to you to make you only remember the nice parts, kind of the way we do when we think we like a song heard sporadically on the radio. When we actually listen to it, we see that it is foolishness.

I’m tired of Kate– looking as if she just stepped out of a jungle shower after gently shampooing with herbs and berries and dressed in a new outfit which is a bit smaller than she is– popping up randomly to plead with Jack to help Sawyer.

I’m tired of the talk of the hatch. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t care. I’m tired of belabored camera shots and explanations to show the island’s magic. Hurley’s lottery numbers are the same ones on the hatch? Whoopee. I’m tired of Michael and Jin yelling. Am I the only one who could see the future and see that they would become unlikely friends in an upcoming episode? In one of the later episodes, Jin comes with an armful of supplies to give to Michael. “Boat,” Jin says in fractured English. Oh please. Save it for the Hallmark channel.

Of course, the most flat and dull character is Jack himself. Tortured to do the right thing in every situation while combating daddy issues, Jack makes for predictable and dull television. If I played drinking games, I’d play one where “Jack” was the drinking word. You’d down a healthy dose before the first commercial break advertising a new Lexus.

Sawyer, the bad-boy-meets-the-hurt-child-inside character, is not much better. Let me guess, he’ll have a supply that the gang needs, Jack will argue with him, Sawyer will lie, Kate will say, “I’ll get it,” Kate and Sawyer will talk, Sawyer will make a joke about Jack, he’ll call her “Freckles,” then he will give the needed item. There’s your episode.

I’m sure I’ll watch the remaining episodes, perhaps even tonight, but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to like it. No matter what happens on this island, I can be sure of one thing: I’m not going to care. The comparisons to (and references to) Lord of the Flies are wrong. It would be giving Lost too much credit. Look at it as if it were a dramatic version of Gilligan’s Island. It would be difficult to take it seriously.

I feel that John Locke would wholeheartedly agree with me.

Seoul Museum Trip 10/1/05

Seoul Museum Trip 10/1/05, originally uploaded by roncoia.

Yesterday, Kristie and I went to Seoul with a couple of the new folks here at Osan. We went to a fortress in the middle of the city, then to a painting exhibit called, "The Exquisite Beauty in Suffering." It wasn't as exciting as the name implies.

After that, we went to Outback Steakhouse (authentic Korean...), Starbucks, then to Rodin's gallery.

Then, we went to a photo exhibit titled, "Our Mutual Crossing." An Australian photographer came to Seoul, and a Korean went to Melbourne to photograph. This was the collection. It was an excellent show. I wish I could show some of them.

We came home and watched Peppermint Candy, the first Korean movie I have seen. It played at the Portland Film Festival in 2002.

Here's the link to the photo gallery of yesterday: http://www.flickr.com/photos/34261721@N00/sets/1053053/.

Airborne

There's a new product on the market designed to treat colds at their outset. Airborne is a mix of Echinacea along with an ungodly dosage of vitamin C, zinc, and others that would make the patron of health-food stores smile with smugness. This is put into a horse pill laced with baking soda. Put this concoction in a cup of water and it fizzes until dissolved. The instructions say to drink it either at the start of a cold, or before entering a potentially germ-filled area like airline flights. Airborne will supposedly assist our bodies to fight off sickness better with a tangy-orange flavor.

I saw the cartoony package about a year ago and scoffed. Yes, a full-fledged scoff. Its tagline is “Created by a classroom teacher.” Oh, so it must be good.

Two weeks ago, I sat at a particularly dull table at a back-to-school potluck listening to other teachers praise Airborne’s merits. Each one had a Touched-by-an-Airborne-Angel story. One the true believers prefaced his account by telling me that Airborne was created by a classroom teacher. He recounted the same story I read on the package itself. Some elementary school teacher was tired of getting sick in school, so she spent five years making the perfect mixture of herbs and spices, Colonel Sanders style, I guess. As I excused myself to get another helping of emaciated chicken wings, I wondered when the teacher-scientist-herbalist found time to write lesson plans. I don’t have time to take my dog Aslan for a walk during the school year, let alone conduct Linus Pauling research in my basement.

After this conversation, I got sick. I was at school talking to a friend about my coming cold, and another teacher told me about Airborne. “It was created by a teacher, you know.” A few days late, another teacher heard my husky, flemmy voice and suggested Airborne. “It was created by a teacher who was tired of getting sick.” She searched her bag to get me a magic pill, but her cup runneth empty.

I decided to try it for myself. I bought a roll of ten for almost $6.00, and plopped my first into a cup of cold fountain water that hinted of iced tea. It was fun to watch the fizz, and it tasted pretty good. That was last week. I’m still sniffling.

Since when is “created by a teacher” an endorsement for the success of a drug? Does the FDA have a series of tests that it uses based on careers? This new pill for glaucoma is created by a freelance graphic artist who was tired of being blind. This is putting teachers on the same medical prowess as those 4 out of 5 dentists who choose Trident.

On the homepage for the product’s website, Kevin Costner gives a glowing report on how he “never goes on a movie set without it.” My first thought is that the statement is a bit misleading, since he hasn’t been on too many movie sets lately. The web site also has a litany of publications where the product was mentioned. One of those magazines is The National Enquirer. Go see for yourself. www.airbornehealth.com. Using a magazine that cries Bigfoot and Batboy in alternating issues makes your product suspect.

It must work, though. After all, it fizzes.

Music You May Want to Listen To

Clem Snide
Sloan
Elliot Smith
Gorillaz
Thievery Corporation
Wilco
The Shins
Damien Rice

Korea Part Deux

Coming back to Korea is infinitely easier than coming. There is no new school. No house hunting. No learning military jargon. No separation from Kristie and Aslan. No being the new guy. No mourning missing out on Europe. No staying up late staring at an unfamiliar ceiling wondering what I have done to my life. No wondering how to say, “Please stop shoving me, Korean Man” in Korean. Actually, I still wonder how that translates. I could use that one daily.

Rather, even though it is our second year, we are old-timers. There is so much turnover here in Osan that one moves up the chain rapidly. I’m being considered for principal this year. I’m kidding about that.

There are about a dozen new people in the building. Most of them seem like a nice addition. We’ve gone to Seoul on a few outings with a handful of them so far.

Kristie and I are looking forward to another year here. Autumn is a nice time to be here. It is cooling down, and it is so green. Looking at rice fields makes me really understand what green means, even though I’m a bit color-deficient.

Throughout this school year, our plans are to travel to Vietnam, Shanghai, Thailand, and perhaps back to Bali. In late spring, we’ll put in for a transfer to Italy. For the first time, I wouldn’t be too disappointed if we didn’t get it. Maybe it’s the kimchee talking, but Korea has the beginnings of being our home. We are a part of this community, and we like it.

For now, anyway.

Summer Pictures

Here is a gallery of pictures from this summer, if you are interested. Maybe you are in one of these, so you had better take a look.

A Page of Summer Pictures

Gallery

Efficacious Reading

I walked to Barnes & Noble today to look around. I wandered through the history section, and looked at some Shelby Foote books. You probably know that guy from Ken Burns’s The Civil War series. I liked him as the Civil War expert. I leafed through some of his books, thinking I’d like to read one (even though I knew I would never do so).

In the morning, I looked at the front page on my complimentary USA Today and saw that he died around the same time that I was looking at his books.

I hope it didn’t have anything to do with me.

The Tigger voice guy and the Piglet voice guy died this week, but I doubt my viewing of Pooh’s Huffalump Movie caused it. I’d hate to have that kind of power.

Stop Talking to Me

The conference is filled with almost 100 teachers from around the world. They are all employees of the Department of Defense. Talking with them makes me want to go to Europe more than every before. At one time, I believed that all new hires went to Korea/Japan, before playing the waiting game until an assignment opens in Europe. I am finding out that it is not the case. I met four guys who were hired at the same time I was: three are in Italy and one in Spain. After saying hi, the inevitable next question is, “Where’ya from?” They tell me they are from Italy, Belgium, Spain, and Portgual. I ask how they like it, and the answer is always, “I love it. It’s a great place to be.” After a few moments of me asking questions of the climate, touring, and foods (imagining me in each aspect of their story), they ask me the same question.

Them: “So, where’ya from?”
Me: “Korea. Osan.”

(Awkward silence as I see pity in their expression. Eyes shift down, what can only mean that they are wondering what kind of screw-up that I must be to be sent to the DoDDS Siberia as an anathema. Their lips purse thinking of being forced into eating kimchee. They rub their chin trying to ask questions about my climate, touring, culture. No further questions come to mind easily.)

Them: “How do you, uh, like it?”
Me: “I think break time is over. We should go back to class.”

I decide that I cannot stand to see that pained, compassionate look anymore, so I decide to let them go free. I will then avoid them for the remainder of the week. I’ve burned through about 75 of them in this fashion. I still have 25 or so left for the next two days. I am spending a lot of time in my room. I can’t interact too quickly and waste the rest of them before the conference is over.

Right on, Mickey Mantle!

I left the luggage carousel and called for a van, as instructed. I got in the van and waited for other passengers. Joe, the driver, asked if I was going to that “tea-cha confrence” in Nashua. I told him that I was, and then he felt free to explain to me, in great detail, his military experience. He was trying my I’ve-been-on-a-plane-all-day patience, but he was friendly, and I was trying to be, too.

Soon, another passenger arrived. I knew that she was a teacher immediately because she had That Look. In fact, I told her that after we introduced ourselves, but I think she took it as an insult. Maybe it was. As we changed information on our duty assignments (she’s in Japan), I noticed her fondness for the phrase, “Right on!” with that annoying emphasis and tonal shift on the second word. This type of speaking is usually reserved for adult hippies or youth pastors with goatees trying hard to "be relevant" to today's teens. She used it fluently on details that I thought did not necessitate such urgency.

Me: “I’m from Osan, Korea.
Her: “Right on! Do you like it?”
Me: “It’s alright for a first assignment.”
Her: “Right on!”
Me: “I’ve been to Tokyo last year, and I loved it.”
Her: “Right on!”

On the way to the hotel, we passed a Boston Red Sox sign. Joe the Cabbie told us about the Red Sox-Yankees feud. He told us about a boyhood fantasy that he had (I was getting nervous at this time in the story) that involved watching Mickey Mantle running for a fly ball and then Joe the Boy shooting him in the head. He laughed, and I shuddered and wondered where his middle school guidance counselor was during this time in his life. He laughed at his own story; she said, “Wow! Rock on!” Similar to her early phrase, the syllabic emphasis rested comfortably on only the first word. I was confused as to why this story needed the “Rock on” versus the standard “Right on.” Why was Mickey Mantle’s homicide a “Rock” while my current living situation merely a “Right”? What were her categories for distinction?

The remainder of the taxi ride was silent, while we all continued to think about Mickey Mantle’s demise. I think I saw Joe smirking throughout the ride.

A Frothy Cup of Wisdom

“A writer is someone who has written today.” I read that on a Starbucks cup yesterday in Bellevue, and it has bothered me since. Bothered, not encouraged. I want to write -–and I suppose that I even think that I am, or at least, I will be–- a writer someday. Even though my body of work is scant, I comfort myself with the thought that I am working in my head. Those stories will indeed come out as soon as I get the time. But the truth is, I don’t give time to my writing. I am a writer who does not write. So, according to the wisdom of that Starbucks quotation, I am not a writer.

This wouldn’t be much of a shock to my friends or to the people that I work with at school. It would not be the shock that it would be if Stephen King, or Toni Morrison, or even John Grisham announced it on Oprah. No one thinks of me as a writer. Not even me.

I went to Powell’s last Monday to browse while waiting for the train. I wandered down the “Writing Guides” aisle, but I felt too ashamed to pick anything up. I have those writing books. Those and others. I know the rules. I understand that fiction speaks truth of what is within us. I know a few tips to move plot along and to develop character. I also understand that I am neither developing any characters nor moving any plotlines along. During the writing unit I taught to sophomores this past year, I hypocritically preached the gospel of writing, and how they had the power and authority to create new worlds and people. I wondered where my worlds are and why no one populates it. It’s akin to the preacher hiding a girlie magazine in his office or the father belting out the tired line to do as he says, not as he does. My feigning passion in the classroom is only a small part of the problem. I’m bothered more because I am not doing something that I really want to do. I felt a bit jealous of the students who were struggling through a story and basked in the rewards of pride that comes with a completed story. When’s the last time I did that?

I’m too old to make a James Gatz-like schedule for a personal timetable to better living. That copy of Hopalong Cassidy just ended up in his father’s possession after Gatsby was shot, anyway. I would like to reestablish the idea that I’d like to write. Perhaps I can be so brazen to say that I will try to write something today, and tomorrow, and after that. I remember that Ray Bradbury advice about writing a short story every day. At the end of the year, I’d have 365 stories, and it’s impossible to write 365 bad stories. I guess that at this point, I’d marvel if I had a canon of that many bad stories. I could be like, well, perhaps I should save words for my stories and not criticize others. For now, anyway.

Between Starbucks and Bradbury, I have plenty to get me started. And you thought Starbucks just made coffee.

Worth Learning

“Thanks, Dan, for showing me some things. No one has ever really taken the time to teach me anything really worth learning.” Carter in In Good Company

What are the things that are worth learning?
I have a list that hasn’t been created yet
One is that a love of a woman will change you
For the better, of course
Treating her well will comeback back to you manifold
Like compounding interest on your money
Perhaps that’s not a good example,
seeing how interest rates are so bad right now

A dog will bring you joy and smiles and frustration
You’ll miss that creature when you are away on trips
And you find comfort in thinking that she misses you, too

Asking questions to others about them will make them like you more
And perhaps you’ll like them better, too

No one likes a talker
Or a show-off
Or a miser
Or a sarcastic tone
Or an airplane-seat hog
Saying “please” and “thank you” will get you what you want
I’ve read How to Win Friends and Influence People
(Not really)

We need to strive to be good
To be better than we are today
Whatever that looks like is up to you, I suppose

Spiky hair, tattoos, and tongue rings are symbols of vanity

Find something to know something about
The more you know about something, the more you remember
Whether it’s scuba, golf, pipes, or comics

Ignore the advice that you should live like today is your last day
On earth
If it was, I’d be depressed

Don’t underestimate the power of a good cup of coffee
On the patio
With a friend

No one cares about your car

Watch for characters to be redeemed in movies
It’s one of my favorite themes
A regular Joe becomes quietly great
In 97 minutes
the time it takes to devour a bucket of popcorn
That could be you

Snapping gum in public is as annoying
as crying babies
and wailing cell phones
I guess because saliva is involved

Listen to Wilco when you can

The knowledge that you are insignificant to this universe
Is beautiful and freeing
And, ironically, makes me feel more significant

Even the insincere like sincere people

We all are replaceable at work
The firefighter, the stock analysis, the teacher, the dishwasher
this knowledge reduces our stress
and removes that proud attitude
Backwards logic is still logic

Everyone likes to watch card tricks
Learning a few will break the ice with people

Reading makes you smarter
Walk a few moons in the moccasins of
Huck Finn
Atticus Finch
Tom Joad
They will school you in a thing or two

Being jealous of the power or possessions of others
Gets you nowhere but unhappy

Love the city you live in
Or move
Same with your job
And friends
And choice of ice cream
And restaurants
And personality

Never criticize the one who irons your clothes

Be cautious about reading self-help books
Especially those in poetry formats
Poets can be pompous, you know

Economy Plus

School ended yesterday with little fanfare. Our morning was spent cleaning our classrooms and offices while dreaming of the summer.

Kristie and I had an interesting morning. We had to:

• Drop Aslan off at her summer home (a student of mine). It was sad; this will be the longest I’ve been away from her.
• Bring seven pieces of luggage to the bus stop, then bringing our car to our garage, and then returning to the bus stop. We had a taxi help with the transportation, but he picked his nose the entire time. I made sure he did not touch my luggage after that.
• Close up the house. I am obsessive about being sure there is nothing left on. I checked the electric fourteen times, each between reassurances that I did not lose my passport and tickets.

We went with friends to stay the night in Seoul before taking a taxi to the airport. Now, we are on a ten-hour flight from Seoul to San Francisco. It’s not yet 6 pm, but everyone is asleep. Perhaps I should be, too. We were on the waiting list for a business-class upgrade, but no luck. Here we are in coach. The guy behind me keeps kicking my seat. However, he has an iPod and a Mac laptop, so I tolerate him.

Here’s a summary of our year, in bulleted form.

• In August, we sold our stuff, rented our house, and I quit my job to move to…Korea.
• Enduring the same question countless times this summer: “You’re moving to Korea? Why?”
• I feel like I’ve rejoined the military
• We’ve gone to Korea, Japan, China, Singapore, Indonesia, and Hawaii.
• Even though the class sizes are so much smaller, I missed teaching at Clackamas often
• Two of the teachers I work with went through vicious divorces
• One teacher who I work with was fired. He and I were hired at the same time. I said goodbye to him yesterday (same guy who was also breaking up with his wife)
• Our principal and vice-principal both took other jobs in Germany
• Eight teachers are transferring to Eurpore (Germany, Italy, Belgium); Kriste and I are jealous
• Highlights of the year: visiting the Great Wall, Bali, and being on the quiz show
• I have two reasons to be excited: not only the summer off, but also the fact that we are going home.

We are looking forward to seeing you sometime this summer!

Korean Counterfeiting

Kristie and I have now entered the realm of counterfeiting in Korea.

Let me explain. As I think I told you, the government pays for our rent while we are here. It’s one of the nicest perks of working for DoDDS. However, the way it’s distributed is a bit of a problem. Rather than give it in monthly increments, they prefer to give it in one lump sum for the year. Since we just renewed our contract for the next year, we had $22,000 deposited in our account. There is not a checking system as we know it in Korea. Rather, I had to withdraw the cash from the bank, and we walked downtown to get it changed into Korean won. Here we are, holding 22 thousand bucks in a brown paper bag. I was suspicious of everyone. Even Kristie.

We found the best exchange rate, and, after waiting a few minutes, had our rent money. We called our landlord, he signed a receipt, and took his money for the year. (Note: there is a side story here regarding our toilet seats. While he was here, Mr. Kim and I were kneeling in front of our toilet wiggling the defective seat. I wondered how I ended up in the bathroom with a Korean sticking his hands all over my toilet bowl searching for loose screws. He later returned with two red Christmas-themed seats with “Santa’s World” written on them. Kristie politely refused them. I thought they’d be kitschy. Kristie then politely told me that “kitschy” is a pretentious word and I should not use it.)

A few days later, we went to the same money exchange place to change more money for our trip to Seoul. He said, “I’m glad you came by. One of those $100 bill is no good. Fake.” I told him that I withdrew it from the bank, but he said that they don’t check the bills there. His bank is sending it back, and I think he expects us to buy it back. Think of the corrupted possibilities here. He wants us to return in a few days to look at it. I’m not sure what the outcome will be (or what I’m supposed to be looking for), but I’m going to go to the bank tomorrow to sort this out.

6th in Seoul

On another note, today is our 6th anniversary. We spent the weekend up here in Seoul (I’m typing this from the coffee shop in the hotel while Kristie sleeps). Yesterday, we had a great plan. First, to an Independent Film Festival at the Seoul Arts Cinema, then a trip to the Rodin Museum (his “Gates of Hell” sculpture is housed here), then we’d have dinner at the Baghdad Magic Café, where there is a magic show. Nice plan. Reality, however, was different. The Seoul Arts Cinema moved to an undisclosed location. The Rodin Museum was closed for June. The Baghdad Magic Café was, as far as we can tell, demolished to make room for high rises. That’s the last time we trust a two-year-old guidebook.

Summer Plans

I’m in the homestretch as far as the school year is concerned. We have two more weeks of classes before heading home for the summer. Here’s our schedule:

June 18-23 Portland/Seattle
June 24-30 New Hampshire (work-related workshop)
July 1-9 Rhode Island
July 10-16 Washington, DC (another workshop)
July 17-August 17 Portland
August 18-20 San Francisco
August 20 Leave for our return to Korea

Even though we are having a grand time gallivanting around, we are homesick to be home (is that a repetitive phrase?).

At least we’ll have plain, firm toilet seats there.