It's 7:30 in the morning. Why are people yapping away on their cells? These are not movers and shakers of industry. And what the hell could they be talking about for a solid 30 minutes? Nothing, of course. Nothing.
Whenever I take the blue bus number 12, I always wind up seated near someone who is yapping loudly on their cell phone or whips it out just to bother me. Yep. It’s the cell phone versus Palmer! It happens 80 percent of the time.
This morning, for example, two SMC chicks with the same greasy hair-do are seated in the front of the bus yapping away on their separate cells. For me, if I was listening to one of them on the receiver, I would probably be totally confused by the background noise of the bus and the other cell phone conversation. Anyways, I had spotted those yappers quickly enough to find a seat towards the back. However, as I am settling in, the passenger across the aisle has conspicuously switched ears and is now talking quietly on her cell. Shit! I missed that! And you know it’s bad when their switch ears! That means a long-ass cell phone conversation and my quiet bus ride is a shambles like the pot-holed roads of L.A.
By now the bus is moving and the area I am in, doesn’t smell too bad, so I resign and settle, boot up my ear buds and listen to KCRW’s NPR news. However, during those quiet lulls on the number 12, when the bus is waiting for the signal to change and KCRW’s Michelle Norris’ manicured voice pauses for a deep breath, that cell phone conversation to my right sounds like a roar. Luckily, by now we’re at Pico and Westwood Boulevard where most SMCers depart to catch the blue bus number 7. I eye a nice seat in front and just as I make my move, someone quickly gets up and grabs it. Shit! Being Palmer on the Bus, however, I always have a blue bus back up seat plan, and casually move to another open slot and settle down again. Fortunately, it smells much better up front and that lady is not audible from here.
It’s either the yapping of the cell phone people or the stink of the hobo which drive me crazy on the bus. Luckily, those homeless stinkers are still sleeping at 7:15am so the number 12 has a limited supply of them unlike the like the Culver City line number 6 which has every sort of gross machination of human trouble and cadence. And, you have to stand for the whole ride!
Life on the big blue bus sucks. All you out there, yea relish your drive to work in a bundled mass of metal and gas. Yer he safe from the sounds and smells of the CNG buses. I revel in your wholesomeness. Your clean pants not soiled with stain and smell of some hobo who was scratching his nut sack for 30 minutes. Your stereo, oh, so loud and proud as it belts out the melodic voices of KCRW, like a fine pedigree dog, best in show. A coat, thick with fat and shiny like oil. Yes, I envy you now but just know your car ride, though superior, won’t be great forever. Soon, all of us, en mass will ride on the bus together, holding hands singing Kum Bah Ya. For now, I am going to buy a decent, lite pair of over-the-ear headphones to block out the noise!
Monday, March 30, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
The Girl Scouts clogged my toilet!
Months have passed since our December “Holiday” parties which are thinly disguised Christmas events made politically correct, when we celebrate other cultures while wearing traditional green and red, saying to each other: “Happy Holidays.” To them I reply: Happy Jesus Hanukah Kwanzaa Fucking Christmas!
Anyways, our office workers have thankfully thinned out since the departing gifts of See’s chocolates and home-made baked yummies. Americans get so big and fat each December thanks to the extreme amount of cookies and sweets we shove into our pie holes. Just when you think you’ve finally lost those ten extra holiday pounds, and your new diet and exercise regime has toned your fat asses, we get assaulted by cute little girls pushing their product: Girl Scout Cookies. Yes, yes, yes… those addictive cookies are available on street corners for $4.00 a box. I love their Thin Mints! I eat them alone, and don’t like to share. Don't you dare take a Thin Mint cookie! I got some video cams on them too. Can't you see me hiding in the kitchen? In the dark, my girl friend calling out my name and me, making rat like sounds eating Thin Mints? They’re like crack to me! I don’t know what they put in those cookies, but when I run out, I rob and maim innocents just to get my Thin Mint fix. And why do they call them Thin Mints? I eat boxes of them! Watch out Fatsos!!
Last week a dozen little brownies set-up a big cookie sale on my corner. Late in the day those drug pushers, after “getting high on their supply,” asked to use my bathroom. Those little girls jammed my toilet bowl with their prolific poo! Would you expect anything else from eating cookies all day? They must have used 12 rolls of 2-ply toilet paper and 36 of those moist babies wipes to clean their anuses. Or is it “ani?” You know, multiple anus-es? Jesus. My bathroom paint cracked and peeled and my nose hair fell out!
Well, to be fair and honest, I made the story up. I clogged the toilet. I blame the girl scouts though. I tell you all that I am not ashamed of eating one Thin Mint cookie column without milk the night before. It took me two minutes. I couldn’t stop eating the thin mints. The next day, I had a prolific poo of gargantuan size and output. I think I lost like four pounds of excrement. I sat on the porcelain throne for 25 minutes squeezing out those thin mints. Jesus. My eyes went "chinese" and shit. Who would of thought that those cool mint cookies would burn? I must have passed out from exhaustion because I blanked on “courtesy flushing.” And we didn’t have a plunger either!
I flushed like a mad man, but those half dollar size poo nuggets would sink to the bottom like a dead surfer and clog the exit. Luckily, there was a long, plastic tube, the kind that attaches to those snap-on style plastic roll-away carts you can buy at Ikea. I used the tube and churned my poo into butter until it was flotsam. Another flush or two I said good bye to two dozen cookies!
Like the French who turned their backs on their Jews during WWII, never again will I eat copious amounts of Thin Mints. No, never again will I succumb to egregious amounts of Thin Mint cookies in one sitting. Never again...until next March when those little cookie Fuhrer's return! Heil to the Girl Scouts!
Anyways, our office workers have thankfully thinned out since the departing gifts of See’s chocolates and home-made baked yummies. Americans get so big and fat each December thanks to the extreme amount of cookies and sweets we shove into our pie holes. Just when you think you’ve finally lost those ten extra holiday pounds, and your new diet and exercise regime has toned your fat asses, we get assaulted by cute little girls pushing their product: Girl Scout Cookies. Yes, yes, yes… those addictive cookies are available on street corners for $4.00 a box. I love their Thin Mints! I eat them alone, and don’t like to share. Don't you dare take a Thin Mint cookie! I got some video cams on them too. Can't you see me hiding in the kitchen? In the dark, my girl friend calling out my name and me, making rat like sounds eating Thin Mints? They’re like crack to me! I don’t know what they put in those cookies, but when I run out, I rob and maim innocents just to get my Thin Mint fix. And why do they call them Thin Mints? I eat boxes of them! Watch out Fatsos!!
Last week a dozen little brownies set-up a big cookie sale on my corner. Late in the day those drug pushers, after “getting high on their supply,” asked to use my bathroom. Those little girls jammed my toilet bowl with their prolific poo! Would you expect anything else from eating cookies all day? They must have used 12 rolls of 2-ply toilet paper and 36 of those moist babies wipes to clean their anuses. Or is it “ani?” You know, multiple anus-es? Jesus. My bathroom paint cracked and peeled and my nose hair fell out!
Well, to be fair and honest, I made the story up. I clogged the toilet. I blame the girl scouts though. I tell you all that I am not ashamed of eating one Thin Mint cookie column without milk the night before. It took me two minutes. I couldn’t stop eating the thin mints. The next day, I had a prolific poo of gargantuan size and output. I think I lost like four pounds of excrement. I sat on the porcelain throne for 25 minutes squeezing out those thin mints. Jesus. My eyes went "chinese" and shit. Who would of thought that those cool mint cookies would burn? I must have passed out from exhaustion because I blanked on “courtesy flushing.” And we didn’t have a plunger either!
I flushed like a mad man, but those half dollar size poo nuggets would sink to the bottom like a dead surfer and clog the exit. Luckily, there was a long, plastic tube, the kind that attaches to those snap-on style plastic roll-away carts you can buy at Ikea. I used the tube and churned my poo into butter until it was flotsam. Another flush or two I said good bye to two dozen cookies!
Like the French who turned their backs on their Jews during WWII, never again will I eat copious amounts of Thin Mints. No, never again will I succumb to egregious amounts of Thin Mint cookies in one sitting. Never again...until next March when those little cookie Fuhrer's return! Heil to the Girl Scouts!
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Hierarchy and self-importance
The other day I passed an "above scale" university professor in the hall way. He was obviously in a hurry but when I said "hello" and made eye contact, he didn't respond. He knows me very very well; I am not a stranger. His actions though they may be innocuous, made me feel invisible. If I was the Dean or a professor of his "scale" or caliber, I would have received a nod, a hello or even eye contact in return. But this is academia, and the professors are the university and administrative assistants like me, are treated like disposable line items on the left side of the accounting ledger.
Here in the world of academia, there are "ladders" or "steps" which professors earn through years of teaching and service, grant money they bring in from their research, good quality of publications, recognition by peers and now, a host of private organizations which contribute money towards their research or university infrastructure. If professors want something to happen, they make it so. However, if you're under the academia pecking order, you have small chances of promoting change or having your thoughts heard.
You can see the hierarchy and divisions at work especially among them who think that their work should be rewarded more than others, who like one of those feral birds you see on TV, squawk loudly, flap their outspread wings and inflate their chests to ward off an adversary. Many professors act and sound self-important which just reveals their fragile flaws in front of the indifferent staff.
There's this one blow hard professor who has an office near my cubicle. Once a week he has a big conference call full of other big wig self-important types all yapping loudly on their own speaker phones, hundreds of miles away, about big important issues that will move and shake the industry. Unfortunately, he leaves his door open so I hear a lot of the conference call, and so does everyone else.
Imagine having a nice, intimate meal with your gf or bf and this big, fat red-faced sweating republican at the next table has just sat down and is talking loudly to his date or colleague about "important" issues which, of course, are not. You concentrate on your girl friend's voice, her lips and squint your eyes in focus but that loud republican blow hard just keeps yapping away, shoveling the appetizer into his awful mouth and going on and on about drayage and you just sit there-- reminded that a $50 bill for the meal will arrive. And, what are you paying for, really? The food? The ambiance? No. You're now paying to hear that blow hard dispense his time-tested wisdom about drayage. That's what you're paying for!
The universe and the university are full of these types who make others feel invisible and though you take it personally, you know you shouldn't because your life is better than that and you're already hard on yourself as you continue to seek your own character "perfection."
Here in the world of academia, there are "ladders" or "steps" which professors earn through years of teaching and service, grant money they bring in from their research, good quality of publications, recognition by peers and now, a host of private organizations which contribute money towards their research or university infrastructure. If professors want something to happen, they make it so. However, if you're under the academia pecking order, you have small chances of promoting change or having your thoughts heard.
You can see the hierarchy and divisions at work especially among them who think that their work should be rewarded more than others, who like one of those feral birds you see on TV, squawk loudly, flap their outspread wings and inflate their chests to ward off an adversary. Many professors act and sound self-important which just reveals their fragile flaws in front of the indifferent staff.
There's this one blow hard professor who has an office near my cubicle. Once a week he has a big conference call full of other big wig self-important types all yapping loudly on their own speaker phones, hundreds of miles away, about big important issues that will move and shake the industry. Unfortunately, he leaves his door open so I hear a lot of the conference call, and so does everyone else.
Imagine having a nice, intimate meal with your gf or bf and this big, fat red-faced sweating republican at the next table has just sat down and is talking loudly to his date or colleague about "important" issues which, of course, are not. You concentrate on your girl friend's voice, her lips and squint your eyes in focus but that loud republican blow hard just keeps yapping away, shoveling the appetizer into his awful mouth and going on and on about drayage and you just sit there-- reminded that a $50 bill for the meal will arrive. And, what are you paying for, really? The food? The ambiance? No. You're now paying to hear that blow hard dispense his time-tested wisdom about drayage. That's what you're paying for!
The universe and the university are full of these types who make others feel invisible and though you take it personally, you know you shouldn't because your life is better than that and you're already hard on yourself as you continue to seek your own character "perfection."
Friday, March 6, 2009
It's been a year since I left Korea...
It's been a year since I left Korea. It feels good that I'm back but I do miss my lifestyle and sometimes, living there. I reminiscence about the times I road my bicycle along the bike path to and from the hogwan for five months. On both sides of the long stretch of highway, rice, flowers, tomatoes (?) and other crops grew and overflowed from the rich Korean soil. Non-exotic bugs would hit me in the face on their way home from a day's hunting; late nights riding back from Queenshead pub, my stomach full of their homebrew Ale, with no street lamps illuminating the bike path, using cars' headlights to roughly guide me. It was an adventure. My dad calls me a "gypsy" because I love traveling especially riding my cheap ass $80 Korean Lespo 21 speed mountain bike made by Sam Chully! What a heavy piece of crap that was but you could ride the shit out of it and not feel bad about getting it full of dents and dings.
Last weekend, the West Los Angeles Cycling club http://www.meetup.com/wlacycling had a Sunday ride from Marina Del Rey called Lagoon Park. I used google maps to look for directions and on Saturday, road out to the spot only to be sadly disappointed by the lack of shoulder, glass and rock on the road and the hideous curves that hide motor vehicles. I didn't go. You need a car to get to that spot; and what's the point of riding a bike if you need to take your car there in the first place? I was hoping it was accessible like so many of my bike riding days in Korea. Oh, well.
Last weekend, the West Los Angeles Cycling club http://www.meetup.com/wlacycling had a Sunday ride from Marina Del Rey called Lagoon Park. I used google maps to look for directions and on Saturday, road out to the spot only to be sadly disappointed by the lack of shoulder, glass and rock on the road and the hideous curves that hide motor vehicles. I didn't go. You need a car to get to that spot; and what's the point of riding a bike if you need to take your car there in the first place? I was hoping it was accessible like so many of my bike riding days in Korea. Oh, well.
Bernard and Charlene leave MapleBear, Suwon
Yes, blog readers. Bernard has left MapleBear; he made it! Can you believe it? He broke on through the kim chi kiddie prison and is a free man! He's home in Canada on vacation and will meet up with Charlene somewhere in D.C. Hopefully he pays a visit to the White House, tours D.C. and eats some good American food before leaving for another year tour of Korea! I guess he's a masochist; he must really like teaching ESL! This time, however, he will be in a middle school and will earn summer's off. If you're going to teach in Korea, work for the public school system like Bernard. The pay is great, the summers are off and the kids are usually better behaved. He will have to ride out this shitty economy and he'll do it in Korea! Good for him!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
