One night in December 2009, I got arrested. This is the story.
Now, I don't remember exactly which day it was, but it was definitely in the middle of the week, maybe a Wednesday. That sounds right to me; let's say Wednesday. So on this Wednesday, I wasn't planning to go out, and instead I was going to have a quiet night inside. With one exception: a Dunkin' Donuts had just opened up, and I felt that donuts would be sure to improve my night-in. It was on the walk over that I see some of my co-workers, who are on their way downtown. I was still fairly new, and not wanting to turn down an invitation I agreed to go to the bars. We end up going to a couple of bars, Ping and Who's Bob, and I discover that these guys do not freaking quit. I'm up to my elbows in shots, tossing back offered drinks, talking, having a fairly great time
and then I'm in a police station. It didn't feel like I woke up, more like my senses cleared enough to recognize that I was in a new and decidedly unfamiliar place. I was so drunk that I didn't even realize I was drunk, and my first thoughts were that surely whatever help the police needed from me was concluded, so I started asking the police if I could leave. They told me it would only be a few more minutes, and after I heard this a couple times I began wondering if I should just leave. I was sitting on a bench next to the door, I wasn't handcuffed or anything, and it was just about dawn outside. At this point it hadn't occurred to me that I might have done something to warrant being inside a police station, so I figured I would stay and ride out whatever they needed me for, and hopefully I would be back home in time to get some sleep. This being, of course, a work day. What feels like a long time passes (probably about half an hour in reality), and eventually I'm ushered into a car outside, where I'm driven to another, bigger police station.
Here, I wait on another bench for another long time, but I'm starting to sober up and it occurs to me that maybe I might actually be in trouble. This notion is exacerbated by two detectives who arrive (it being so early in the morning, the station is otherwise almost completely empty) and do a lot of head-shaking and snickering over whatever the previous cops tell them. I keep asking if I can go home, keep getting told to wait a few more minutes, but meanwhile my brain is switching over into survival mode. Unfortunately, I couldn't (and still can't) remember what I had actually done, which made coming up with a cover story exceedingly difficult. Finally I ask what I was even here for, and one of the detectives tells me in poor English that climbing on roofs is not okay.
Well alright. Now we're getting somewhere. I still didn't have any memory of whatever happened, but now I could start working on a story. And oh: what a story it was. You see, it was these two guys, John and Christopher. They were teachers, or so they told me, and I had met them at a concert in Bangogae previously. Because every good lie is rooted in truth, I used descriptions of two people I actually did meet at a show in Bangogae, although who the fuck remembers what their names actually were. Anyway, I had started out the night drinking with a couple of my coworkers (which, of course, they can verify if need be) but I saw John and Chris at the same bar. So, I left my coworkers (the truth, presumably) so I could hang out with these two fine fellas I had met once before. Now, we walk around (for quite a fucking while I'm to find, since apparently I was picked up at around 5am) and John says let's go to his house. He takes us to a house that he says is his, but it's just such a nice night he says, that we should go stargazing. Which is a very normal thing in America, you see. Why, back in America I would go up on my roof to look at the stars all the time. You know, to relax.
Well, wouldn't you know it, but we hear police sirens, and John and Chris climb down off the roof and run away! I'm left up on the roof all alone, confused and afraid, Officer Sir. I kept expecting old John and Chris to come back and explain things, but finally I got off that roof and it is at that point that the police took me to the police station. Shucks, I didn't even know I was arrested, what with them not speaking English and all.
Right about now is when one of the detectives would ask if I noticed the owner of the house, before the police came, outside shouting at me to get down. Well! He was shouting in Korean, and at the time I of course thought that the house was John's. A mistake as honest as they come.
Now, the story wasn't quite this detailed at first, but that was the general nuts and bolts, with more elaborations filled in as needed (and as I slowly picked up on more real facts from the incident). I sat in that police station for what felt like a good hour more, embellishing my tale and working up some quality fake tears for the detectives. I'm not proud of it, but actually I kind of am. It was some damn fine method work. However, either these detectives don't get a lot of hysterics or I was seriously misplaying things, because one of the detectives came over and asked, confused, why I was crying. So much for that.
Until, mind you, the owner of that house came by the station. He was an old man, in his 70s or near there if memory serves, and I really turned on the moist, penitent gazes for him. Not at first, since naturally I had no idea who he was, but once I was properly informed that, yes, it was his roof I had climbed on, I gave him all I had.
More time passes, and finally I'm loaded into a van with this guy and the detectives, and we drive to the house, where the cops take pictures of everything and ask me things like Where did you climb up, Was it here, Did you walk here, and I affirm what I can, trying my very best not to sound like a person making up an astonishing amount as they go along.
It is while they're taking pictures that I notice a fence with some Korean words painted on it, along with the letters "CCTV". The second I saw that I figured the ruse was all over and I'd be 2 days from deportation, but maybe the detectives didn't notice because no video ever surfaced that I'm aware of. But more on the general incompetence of Korean police later.
We get back to the station, I'm still in full naieve-patsy-shocked-by-these-events mode, at least until the house owner takes off somewhere, and the police have me sign some papers for their file. They ask me if I want to hire some sort of defense from the American consulate, which I'm apparently entitled to, but I decline, because I didn't want my school to get involved with this shit, and talking to the consulate seemed like it would muddy things up. It also didn't help that the detectives wanted someone to translate for me because their English was not up to par, so they kept asking for the name of my boss. I wasn't about to have them give my boss a call at (what was now) 9am to pick me up at a police station. I instead give them the name of a coworker who happened to be out of town so there was no way someone was going to answer his phone. However, since I did give them the name of my school, they insisted we drive by and see if she was there. I acquiesced, knowing that my school doesn't open till the afternoon.
On the drive to school, the detectives are asking me more questions, like how much I had to drink. I told them I had two beers, a Guinness and a Heineken or something like that. They laugh, and tell me that they can smell whiskey on my breath. It was probably true, but I call bullshit anyways and insist on a breathalyzer, on the hunch that they won't actually give me one. Score one for hunches! We get to the school, which is of course closed. I tell them that no one will come to open up the building for hours yet, and the detectives suggest that we wait in the car until they do. I insist that it is a terrifically stupid idea, especially since it is a work day and I would rather get in a couple hours sleep before I go and teach fucking kids, and finally they relent and drop me off at my apartment, leaving me with a scrap of paper with a phone number and a reminder to show up at the police station in a few days for a follow-up. They tell me that the case is no big deal, but still make me pinky-swear that I'll show up.
That's not a joke, the Korean police made me swear with our pinkies.
They also told me that they would not talk to anyone at my school, so everything could be handled privately.
Coming Soon! PART 2 of Jamie Gets Arrested: Korean police are goddamn liars.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Star Wars Shoes and Mexi-Staches Abound
Well now, whose handsome shoes might those be?
Skywalker? Why, those must be those stylish limited edition Star Wars Adidas shoes I've heard so much about! On my feet! Being owned by me! Fuck yeah! Story time:
I went to the store a couple weekends ago, but they said they were sold out in every size and didn't know when they would get restocked. Or at least, I think that's what they said, they were speaking fucking Korean. So I go back a week later, hoping against hope that they've got some more in stock, but imagine my dismay when I'm told that not only do they not have any US size 9, they don't have any shoes at all except for the one display pair. And since they're limited edition, that pair was going to be their last ever.
But I'm looking at those shoes, and they don't seem that small for a supposed US size 7 1/2...So I pull that display shoe down, and I'll be damned if it didn't look about the same size as the Vans I was wearing. Finally I decided I'd give it a shot and I slipped on that size 7 1/2, and instantly I felt like the nerdiest Cinderella there ever was. The shoe not only fit, but it fit perfectly. They also cost 140 bucks, but come on. It was like goddamn Fate telling me to buy these shoes.
Oh yeah, I also finally got pictures of the hookah bar we've been hanging out at, which is officially my favorite place in Korea. Unfortunately it slipped my mind to get photos of the whole place, but here's our table:
The plastic bag on the far right is one of those made-to-order bags of liquor I might have mentioned in my New Year's post. They cost about 4 or 5 bucks and get you de-runk. We snuck some of them in because we are assholes, but we also ordered a bunch of wine and cocktails so it is okay. I brought in some fast food wings once and still haven't heard the end of it.
Another shot of the cocktail-bag in the middle there, and a couple other people...
People like these delightful Korean girls. I talked a bunch with them in a weird drunk mix of Korean, English, and Japanese, and I think I was supposed to be set up with the one on the right, which would have been neat if that same drunkenness hadn't also made me forget to ask her number.
OH WELL here's an awful goatee that I had, to prove a point to a coworker about how awful it would be:
And on that note, I'm done. Hopefully at some point this month I'll be un-lazy enough to bang out my arrest story, but until feel free to leave a comment making fun of my inability to grow facial hair or something.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Lost Hats and Drunk Russians
Well so much for that whole posting more often thing. Regardless of my writing sloth, I do have stories to share, like this one regarding my past weekend. On Friday I get some barbecue after work with a couple coworkers, and I'm asked if I want to go downtown to the bars later. I think to myself, "Maybe just a drink or two," and the Universe proceeded to shoot space-milk out its nose laughing so hard.
Experts have created this reconstruction of the crime scene.
I get a call Saturday morning from my partner-in-crime, asking if I knew where her wallet was. I replied that maybe it was at the bar Who's Bob, since that was the last bar we were at. She informs me that, Who's Bob was most definitely not the last bar we were at. Uh oh. On my couch I find an unfamiliar brown scarf that must be my friend's, so I bring it to work and am informed that she's never seen it before.
I stole a stranger's scarf.
I somehow make it through work on Saturday and then try and fit in a nap before I have to go out again for a coworker's going-away party. Now, I was so out of it that I had forgotten to put on my hat that night, so imagine my surprise when the bartender comes up to me, with my hat I didn't even know was missing, and says that I left it there last night. Shit. I talk to my friend and get more details about this mysterious Friday, and I'm told the Pizza-in-a-Cup lady actually had her wallet. The Pizza-in-a-Cup lady, is of course, the lady who owns the street cart that sells tiny pizzas in paper cups. They are delicious and she is apparently a very trustworthy woman.
Now, this Saturday night I am being uncharacteristically prudent and sticking to only one drink, a Guinness from the tap. I have some sensible, boring conversations with my coworkers, including the one who's leaving, and I notice this really old guy with a huge camera hanging around. He's a hunched-over guy who must be at least in his 50s, and every time someone at our table takes a picture of someone, he insists on also taking the same picture with the big SLR around his neck. Since it isn't a Polaroid camera, I have to assume these pictures are for some personal collection that I don't want to know about.
Regardless, we mostly ignore him, until finally he brings over a couple shots of Jager. One shot for him, and one shot for my friend, whom I guess has caught his fancy. She doesn't quite know what do with his gift, so she offers the shot to the coworker leaving, it being his going-away party and all. Old Guy doesn't like that one bit, and proceeds to throw the second shot in coworker's face.
Oh yeah, things got interesting real quick. My coworker leaps out of his chair and shoves the guy, who is surprisingly spry for his age. He's on his feet and trying to fight back before half a dozen other people are up and holding the two apart. A lot of nasty words are thrown around, and some of them must have had a Slavic tinge because everyone starts screaming for "the Russian" to get the hell out. The bartender, shrewd businessman that he is, does not force him out, but instead makes him stand at the end of the bar by the door. Coworker, white shirt ruined and hair dripping with Jager, has understandably had enough and leaves the bar, with everyone in tow (although there is a delay due to another bitchy coworker who instead of leaving wanted to scream shrilly at the Russian for about 10 minutes).
Outside the bar, we find out that one member of our group, took a blow in the brouhaha and his lip is busted open. He heads off to the hospital for stitches, Mike goes to another bar, and I stay at Commune's with some other people for a comparatively unexciting half an hour, during which time the sad highlight is when My Bloody Valentine's "Sometimes" come on, when I had 5 minutes ago been thinking silently about requesting it. It was a pretty neat moment, before I went home and stayed up till 7am playing Dragon Age.
Oh, some non-weekend stuff that happened:
-I had a student lose a tooth in class. He went to the bathroom, came back, and didn't want to go to the office when I offered, saying that he was fine, it was just a tooth. My training didn't cover what to do in this situation, so I just went on with class. Next week: The story of how Jamie got sued.
-I'm thinking about buying a hedgehog after I saw one in a department store the other day. I always wanted one as a kid, but I'm a little worried the temptation to paint it blue would be too great.
-Apparently a bunch of Stormtroopers marched through downtown Daegu, and according to some sources, danced. This was all probably in promotion of the new Adidas Star Wars shoes, which are super sweet. Unfortunately, they were sold out of every size when I went to buy them. Fuck you, misleading Stormtrooper demonstration.
You will be mine. This I swear.
Experts have created this reconstruction of the crime scene.
I get a call Saturday morning from my partner-in-crime, asking if I knew where her wallet was. I replied that maybe it was at the bar Who's Bob, since that was the last bar we were at. She informs me that, Who's Bob was most definitely not the last bar we were at. Uh oh. On my couch I find an unfamiliar brown scarf that must be my friend's, so I bring it to work and am informed that she's never seen it before.
I stole a stranger's scarf.
I somehow make it through work on Saturday and then try and fit in a nap before I have to go out again for a coworker's going-away party. Now, I was so out of it that I had forgotten to put on my hat that night, so imagine my surprise when the bartender comes up to me, with my hat I didn't even know was missing, and says that I left it there last night. Shit. I talk to my friend and get more details about this mysterious Friday, and I'm told the Pizza-in-a-Cup lady actually had her wallet. The Pizza-in-a-Cup lady, is of course, the lady who owns the street cart that sells tiny pizzas in paper cups. They are delicious and she is apparently a very trustworthy woman.
Now, this Saturday night I am being uncharacteristically prudent and sticking to only one drink, a Guinness from the tap. I have some sensible, boring conversations with my coworkers, including the one who's leaving, and I notice this really old guy with a huge camera hanging around. He's a hunched-over guy who must be at least in his 50s, and every time someone at our table takes a picture of someone, he insists on also taking the same picture with the big SLR around his neck. Since it isn't a Polaroid camera, I have to assume these pictures are for some personal collection that I don't want to know about.
Regardless, we mostly ignore him, until finally he brings over a couple shots of Jager. One shot for him, and one shot for my friend, whom I guess has caught his fancy. She doesn't quite know what do with his gift, so she offers the shot to the coworker leaving, it being his going-away party and all. Old Guy doesn't like that one bit, and proceeds to throw the second shot in coworker's face.
Oh yeah, things got interesting real quick. My coworker leaps out of his chair and shoves the guy, who is surprisingly spry for his age. He's on his feet and trying to fight back before half a dozen other people are up and holding the two apart. A lot of nasty words are thrown around, and some of them must have had a Slavic tinge because everyone starts screaming for "the Russian" to get the hell out. The bartender, shrewd businessman that he is, does not force him out, but instead makes him stand at the end of the bar by the door. Coworker, white shirt ruined and hair dripping with Jager, has understandably had enough and leaves the bar, with everyone in tow (although there is a delay due to another bitchy coworker who instead of leaving wanted to scream shrilly at the Russian for about 10 minutes).
Outside the bar, we find out that one member of our group, took a blow in the brouhaha and his lip is busted open. He heads off to the hospital for stitches, Mike goes to another bar, and I stay at Commune's with some other people for a comparatively unexciting half an hour, during which time the sad highlight is when My Bloody Valentine's "Sometimes" come on, when I had 5 minutes ago been thinking silently about requesting it. It was a pretty neat moment, before I went home and stayed up till 7am playing Dragon Age.
Oh, some non-weekend stuff that happened:
-I had a student lose a tooth in class. He went to the bathroom, came back, and didn't want to go to the office when I offered, saying that he was fine, it was just a tooth. My training didn't cover what to do in this situation, so I just went on with class. Next week: The story of how Jamie got sued.
-I'm thinking about buying a hedgehog after I saw one in a department store the other day. I always wanted one as a kid, but I'm a little worried the temptation to paint it blue would be too great.
-Apparently a bunch of Stormtroopers marched through downtown Daegu, and according to some sources, danced. This was all probably in promotion of the new Adidas Star Wars shoes, which are super sweet. Unfortunately, they were sold out of every size when I went to buy them. Fuck you, misleading Stormtrooper demonstration.
You will be mine. This I swear.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Open Mic.
It's a little weird that my first post about Open Mic Night is one in which I don't actually perform on the Open Mic, but that's the world we live in I guess. I would love to be able to link a video of me butchering "Bad Romance" here, however the way it worked out is I was there for about 2 hours drinking whiskey and Guinness while other guys played and finally some douchebag hogged the mic for half an hour and my only friend there was too tired to stay, so I didn't play anything. Seriously, this douchebag was the kind of guy who plays Sublime songs, and Rob Thomas' part of "Smooth" at Open Mic. A fucking prick.
While busy ignoring his Top 40-ing, I was propositioned by a bisexual Tasmanian girl, who was in the very curious position of an open Korean marriage. Until now I had thought it impossible, but no, here was a girl actually married to a Korean guy who was (supposedly) okay with her asking if I wanted to fuck her in the bar. Of course, I argued that we would probably get kicked out, and it's such a good bar, but she seemed more interested in my coworker anyways, who I imagine earlier would have claimed to not be interested in women, but now she's had a few glasses of whiskey and got busy kissing Tasmanian girl's cleavage, which was reciprocated in kind. This went on for about 5 minutes, girls drunkenly smashing their tits up against each others and making out with the others' bra lines, but eventually we did manage the sisyphean task of leaving the bar.
Being the nice guy I am, I escorted the same coworker to a 24-hour fast food place where she got a bowl of Bibimbap, and then took her to another coworker's place where she passed out on the couch, and I watched the end of Last of the Mohicans while sipping on my umpteenth whiskey of the night.
So, that was my Open Mic night. The first one I didn't actually perform at. Seriously, next time I'll have a story or video or something about screaming a punk cover of Lady Gaga, but until then you'll just have to make do with bisexual Tasmanian wives and Last of the Mohicans.
Sorry.
Love, Jamie.
While busy ignoring his Top 40-ing, I was propositioned by a bisexual Tasmanian girl, who was in the very curious position of an open Korean marriage. Until now I had thought it impossible, but no, here was a girl actually married to a Korean guy who was (supposedly) okay with her asking if I wanted to fuck her in the bar. Of course, I argued that we would probably get kicked out, and it's such a good bar, but she seemed more interested in my coworker anyways, who I imagine earlier would have claimed to not be interested in women, but now she's had a few glasses of whiskey and got busy kissing Tasmanian girl's cleavage, which was reciprocated in kind. This went on for about 5 minutes, girls drunkenly smashing their tits up against each others and making out with the others' bra lines, but eventually we did manage the sisyphean task of leaving the bar.
Being the nice guy I am, I escorted the same coworker to a 24-hour fast food place where she got a bowl of Bibimbap, and then took her to another coworker's place where she passed out on the couch, and I watched the end of Last of the Mohicans while sipping on my umpteenth whiskey of the night.
So, that was my Open Mic night. The first one I didn't actually perform at. Seriously, next time I'll have a story or video or something about screaming a punk cover of Lady Gaga, but until then you'll just have to make do with bisexual Tasmanian wives and Last of the Mohicans.
Sorry.
Love, Jamie.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Darts.
Well, I said I'd post more so here we are. My night:
-After a busy night of eating fried chicken and watching Arrested Development DVDs in my apartment, I am invited out to play darts. It is tough to tear myself away, but I agree.
-I throw some shitty games, but get better the more I drink as is often the case. I order some "Nachos", which turn out to be a plate of stale chips next to a cup of cold cheese dip.
-At the end of the night, around 2AM, I'm getting ready to leave with my friends but am persuaded to stay with a free shot of Jager. I talk to the guy who gave me the shot for awhile, but then talk to another girl I kind of sort of know from Open Mic nights, while Jager shot guy leaves.
-Turns out this girl is from Briston and used to date Mushroom from Massive Attack, which is kind of neat. Too bad she doesn't like Massive Attack, and says he was an asshole. Oh Well.
-We continue to talk for the rest of the night, until all of a sudden we're in a Burger King and it's 5:30AM, so we get a cab home.
-I write a blog post about my mundane night because otherwise I would feel guilty about not updating.
Paaaaaar-tay.
-After a busy night of eating fried chicken and watching Arrested Development DVDs in my apartment, I am invited out to play darts. It is tough to tear myself away, but I agree.
-I throw some shitty games, but get better the more I drink as is often the case. I order some "Nachos", which turn out to be a plate of stale chips next to a cup of cold cheese dip.
-At the end of the night, around 2AM, I'm getting ready to leave with my friends but am persuaded to stay with a free shot of Jager. I talk to the guy who gave me the shot for awhile, but then talk to another girl I kind of sort of know from Open Mic nights, while Jager shot guy leaves.
-Turns out this girl is from Briston and used to date Mushroom from Massive Attack, which is kind of neat. Too bad she doesn't like Massive Attack, and says he was an asshole. Oh Well.
-We continue to talk for the rest of the night, until all of a sudden we're in a Burger King and it's 5:30AM, so we get a cab home.
-I write a blog post about my mundane night because otherwise I would feel guilty about not updating.
Paaaaaar-tay.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Another day.
Dear Diary,
Today I went to a coworker's apartment and sketched her naked. She was pleased with my work and then I went home.
Love, Jamie
Today I went to a coworker's apartment and sketched her naked. She was pleased with my work and then I went home.
Love, Jamie
Thursday, January 7, 2010
New Years Whooo
Alright, I've been promising the story of my New Years for about a week now, so here it is. Resolution: Update more often, I guess. Also update when I say I will? I dunno. What I DO know is that I mostly remember what happened, I've got a can of Guinness poured into a measuring cup (because it's the only clear glass I own), and I'm ready to narrate.
It is literally insane that I do not get laid more often.
So, Korean New Years Eve! I start the night off heading to one of my favorite spots here, a bar called Commune's, at about 10 to midnight because those who know me will tell you I am obsessed with punctuality. I get a shot of SoCo (actually I trade someone for their shot because I accidentally got a shot of Jager through a hilarious mixup) and toss it back at the stroke of midnight with about half a dozen of my coworkers. There are kisses all around, and we get into the drinking proper. Before I came out, I drank this little wonder:
It's a hangover prevention drink that I've tried once before, and while it worked that time, I want to really put it to the test. You know, make sure it wasn't a fluke. For science.
I'm treated to my first drink by a coworker whose name I still haven't figured out, so I order a Jameson, neat. There's a Pearl Jam/Green Day cover band playing and the place is packed, so I go mingle with some Korean strangers I'm introduced to. It's over at their table I notice none other than Scary Korean Metal Guy from Club Heavy, with all the face piercings and the mohawk and the Lennon glasses. Remember him, from famed local Korean death metal band Axcutor? Well he's hanging out in a corner, and I cautiously attempt conversation with him in broken Konglish, but he's having none of it. He's hanging out with people from some of the other bands playing, and I guess I'm just not on his radar.
One day, Axcutor. One day.
Fuck him! Whoo Commune's! (It's really crowded)
After that someone passes around a bottle of Jameson, of which I am ordered to take a healthy swig and do so promptly. I buy the next round, which turns out to be Jameson & Gingers, thus preventing any sort of dangerous Irish whiskey anemia I might have had. To change things up I follow the Jameson & Ginger with a Black Russian, and then we're off to another club called Urban.
Urban is just as crowded but filled with more douchebags, shittier music, and pricier drinks, which means foreigners just fucking love it. I order a whiskey coke or some shit at the bar and watch some American GIs play an awful game of pool and talk to my cohorts. I'm felt up from behind by some girl who, when she sees me turn around, is all of a sudden not convinced she knows me. I have no clue who she is, but make The Most Awkward Smile and suggest maybe we met when we were "real drunk", an explanation that seems to satisfy her. I then order another Black Russian and talk to a couple of teetotaller coworkers who just showed up and proceed to be the Sober people in the group.
After they've had their fill of not-drinking and probably judging the shit out of everyone and are about to leave, they offer to split the cab home with me and I agree. You know, quit while I'm ahead, before I've climbed any roofs. However, this decision doesn't sit well with another coworker, who in her enthusiasm for me to stay spills my half-empty Black Russian. She argues that now I have to stay so that she can buy me another drink, which seemed like flawless logic at the time.
The non-drinkers leave, and I am bought a Bass or Becks or some beer that starts with a B. My coworker wanders out of sight and out of mind until I'm approached by another coworker I've been hanging out with from the beginning of the night, who insists I watch her take pictures of Black Russian-spilling-coworker "totally having sex with this guy". She leads me, bewildered and more than a little intrigued, to the dance floor where the girl in question is indeed making out with a guy who (in her own words) reminds one of Borat. Non-making-out coworker circles them with her camera, photographing the scene, while I finish my beer. While I'm talking about her, I was taking a few pictures of my own that night, and I can't help but notice that she has the exact same expression in every picture I took with her. Observe:
Eerie.
Clearly I wasn't drunk enough yet, so I bellied up to the bar for, I dunno, my 80th drink of the night. This time I was craving something a little more exotic, so I skimmed a cocktail menu and decided to chance their Mojito. Turns out it tasted pretty awful, but finishing the drink had to be put on hold while I talked to some other people who turns out worked at the same company, but a different branch in Daegu. The big one (and presumably Alpha) of the group and I made some unremarkable small talk, until he asked me where I was from. I replied Seattle, to which he responded, "Seattle! Oh, so, are you gay?"
I was understandably taken aback, but I've faced down my share of homophobes before, so I mustered all the razor wit I could muster and replied: "Not everyone from Seattle is gay, you know."
Oh yeah, he'll feel that one in the morning, while calling his parents and reassessing his entire worldview. Or, he would have, except the next thing he says is "Actually, I just ask because I'm gay."
Motherfucker. Did he just turn me into a homophobe? Before I can start reevaluating my life too deeply, this gay fellow buys a round of Jager Bombs and insists I drink one with him. I accept, as anyone would, lest I insult his honor. These things are important, goddammit. So we pound the drinks, and at the end the modest bastard has to point out that he beat me by about a second. We talk a little more while I switch back to my neglected Mojito, and then a couple girls from work approach me about going dancing at another club.
By this point our friend has disappeared with Borat, gay Jager guy is back to Jager Bombs and light conversation with his own coworkers, so I say fuck it, grab my drink, and lead the way to Club Frog. Public drinking is really freaking cool, by the way. Anyways, on the way we pass Viniroo, a small establishment that sells big Capri Sun-like plastic bags full of made-to-order cocktails. Really fucking strong cocktails, perfect for walking around with. Well, of course we stop in and get some bags for our journey. I order a bag of Singapore Sling, and in the meantime talk to a French guy who starts feeling up my hands and forearm, trying to discern if I'm a "hard worker." I attempt some drunken French with him, which he condescendingly tolerates, probably waiting out another chance to molest my forearms. I finish the Mojito I brought just in time to receive my big ol' bag of Singapore Sling, and one coworker finishes up her flirting with the pretty Korean bartender, and we take off.
In my state, leading the way is a sisyphean task of concentration and sheer grit, not helped by how the same coworker keeps breaking off and yelling at Korean pedestrians for directions in English, but I triumph and we arrive at Club Frog, silently crowning myself a modern Odysseus. Inside, it's a whole new level of crowded, and I marvel at how people tolerate being in a dancing club where you don't even have room to move. We all dance as well as we can in the circumstances, which amounted to mostly a lot of off-balance swaying in place. Anyways, one thing leads to another, as they do, and one of the girls and I make out for a bit, until my need to pee becomes far more important of an urge. I have to leave the dance floor to find the bathroom, and out in the lobby area I take a seat and a moment to assess things. I also try to flirt in Korean with a couple girls next to me, but the less said about that travesty the better.
The situation as I saw it: on one hand, making out with a coworker could only lead to trouble and despair, absolutely. On the other hand, making out is fun and I was druuuuuuuuuuunk. So, I did what every wise man has done in similar situations from the beginning of time, namely I asked a Korean guy sitting next to me to call a coin flip. He didn't speak English, but such wasn't necessary for my purposes. He called heads, and the coin came up tails. I decided this meant ditching the girls and going home, which I did, after texting them something about not being let back into the club. I grabbed a taxi, got back to my apartment and finally, after One Million drinks, passed the fuck out in bed.
HAPPY NEW YEARS
Oh yeah, and that hangover prevention stuff? Tastes like mean bullshit, but it worked a charm.
It is literally insane that I do not get laid more often.
So, Korean New Years Eve! I start the night off heading to one of my favorite spots here, a bar called Commune's, at about 10 to midnight because those who know me will tell you I am obsessed with punctuality. I get a shot of SoCo (actually I trade someone for their shot because I accidentally got a shot of Jager through a hilarious mixup) and toss it back at the stroke of midnight with about half a dozen of my coworkers. There are kisses all around, and we get into the drinking proper. Before I came out, I drank this little wonder:
It's a hangover prevention drink that I've tried once before, and while it worked that time, I want to really put it to the test. You know, make sure it wasn't a fluke. For science.
I'm treated to my first drink by a coworker whose name I still haven't figured out, so I order a Jameson, neat. There's a Pearl Jam/Green Day cover band playing and the place is packed, so I go mingle with some Korean strangers I'm introduced to. It's over at their table I notice none other than Scary Korean Metal Guy from Club Heavy, with all the face piercings and the mohawk and the Lennon glasses. Remember him, from famed local Korean death metal band Axcutor? Well he's hanging out in a corner, and I cautiously attempt conversation with him in broken Konglish, but he's having none of it. He's hanging out with people from some of the other bands playing, and I guess I'm just not on his radar.
One day, Axcutor. One day.
Fuck him! Whoo Commune's! (It's really crowded)
After that someone passes around a bottle of Jameson, of which I am ordered to take a healthy swig and do so promptly. I buy the next round, which turns out to be Jameson & Gingers, thus preventing any sort of dangerous Irish whiskey anemia I might have had. To change things up I follow the Jameson & Ginger with a Black Russian, and then we're off to another club called Urban.
Urban is just as crowded but filled with more douchebags, shittier music, and pricier drinks, which means foreigners just fucking love it. I order a whiskey coke or some shit at the bar and watch some American GIs play an awful game of pool and talk to my cohorts. I'm felt up from behind by some girl who, when she sees me turn around, is all of a sudden not convinced she knows me. I have no clue who she is, but make The Most Awkward Smile and suggest maybe we met when we were "real drunk", an explanation that seems to satisfy her. I then order another Black Russian and talk to a couple of teetotaller coworkers who just showed up and proceed to be the Sober people in the group.
After they've had their fill of not-drinking and probably judging the shit out of everyone and are about to leave, they offer to split the cab home with me and I agree. You know, quit while I'm ahead, before I've climbed any roofs. However, this decision doesn't sit well with another coworker, who in her enthusiasm for me to stay spills my half-empty Black Russian. She argues that now I have to stay so that she can buy me another drink, which seemed like flawless logic at the time.
The non-drinkers leave, and I am bought a Bass or Becks or some beer that starts with a B. My coworker wanders out of sight and out of mind until I'm approached by another coworker I've been hanging out with from the beginning of the night, who insists I watch her take pictures of Black Russian-spilling-coworker "totally having sex with this guy". She leads me, bewildered and more than a little intrigued, to the dance floor where the girl in question is indeed making out with a guy who (in her own words) reminds one of Borat. Non-making-out coworker circles them with her camera, photographing the scene, while I finish my beer. While I'm talking about her, I was taking a few pictures of my own that night, and I can't help but notice that she has the exact same expression in every picture I took with her. Observe:
Eerie.
Clearly I wasn't drunk enough yet, so I bellied up to the bar for, I dunno, my 80th drink of the night. This time I was craving something a little more exotic, so I skimmed a cocktail menu and decided to chance their Mojito. Turns out it tasted pretty awful, but finishing the drink had to be put on hold while I talked to some other people who turns out worked at the same company, but a different branch in Daegu. The big one (and presumably Alpha) of the group and I made some unremarkable small talk, until he asked me where I was from. I replied Seattle, to which he responded, "Seattle! Oh, so, are you gay?"
I was understandably taken aback, but I've faced down my share of homophobes before, so I mustered all the razor wit I could muster and replied: "Not everyone from Seattle is gay, you know."
Oh yeah, he'll feel that one in the morning, while calling his parents and reassessing his entire worldview. Or, he would have, except the next thing he says is "Actually, I just ask because I'm gay."
Motherfucker. Did he just turn me into a homophobe? Before I can start reevaluating my life too deeply, this gay fellow buys a round of Jager Bombs and insists I drink one with him. I accept, as anyone would, lest I insult his honor. These things are important, goddammit. So we pound the drinks, and at the end the modest bastard has to point out that he beat me by about a second. We talk a little more while I switch back to my neglected Mojito, and then a couple girls from work approach me about going dancing at another club.
By this point our friend has disappeared with Borat, gay Jager guy is back to Jager Bombs and light conversation with his own coworkers, so I say fuck it, grab my drink, and lead the way to Club Frog. Public drinking is really freaking cool, by the way. Anyways, on the way we pass Viniroo, a small establishment that sells big Capri Sun-like plastic bags full of made-to-order cocktails. Really fucking strong cocktails, perfect for walking around with. Well, of course we stop in and get some bags for our journey. I order a bag of Singapore Sling, and in the meantime talk to a French guy who starts feeling up my hands and forearm, trying to discern if I'm a "hard worker." I attempt some drunken French with him, which he condescendingly tolerates, probably waiting out another chance to molest my forearms. I finish the Mojito I brought just in time to receive my big ol' bag of Singapore Sling, and one coworker finishes up her flirting with the pretty Korean bartender, and we take off.
In my state, leading the way is a sisyphean task of concentration and sheer grit, not helped by how the same coworker keeps breaking off and yelling at Korean pedestrians for directions in English, but I triumph and we arrive at Club Frog, silently crowning myself a modern Odysseus. Inside, it's a whole new level of crowded, and I marvel at how people tolerate being in a dancing club where you don't even have room to move. We all dance as well as we can in the circumstances, which amounted to mostly a lot of off-balance swaying in place. Anyways, one thing leads to another, as they do, and one of the girls and I make out for a bit, until my need to pee becomes far more important of an urge. I have to leave the dance floor to find the bathroom, and out in the lobby area I take a seat and a moment to assess things. I also try to flirt in Korean with a couple girls next to me, but the less said about that travesty the better.
The situation as I saw it: on one hand, making out with a coworker could only lead to trouble and despair, absolutely. On the other hand, making out is fun and I was druuuuuuuuuuunk. So, I did what every wise man has done in similar situations from the beginning of time, namely I asked a Korean guy sitting next to me to call a coin flip. He didn't speak English, but such wasn't necessary for my purposes. He called heads, and the coin came up tails. I decided this meant ditching the girls and going home, which I did, after texting them something about not being let back into the club. I grabbed a taxi, got back to my apartment and finally, after One Million drinks, passed the fuck out in bed.
HAPPY NEW YEARS
Oh yeah, and that hangover prevention stuff? Tastes like mean bullshit, but it worked a charm.
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