Ajumma, Perverts, and a Haircut

My last class today is also already one of my favorites. It’s an ajumma (women approaching middle age, or a good bit past; also, a female complement to "dude" for people in that age range) class. I’m suddenly quite smitten with ajumma. Though I’m only teaching beginning classes this month and can’t really communicate with any of my students, all of my ajumma students are chipper, chatty, dapper, quite funny, and engaged students. Most of them are prominent housewives and this school is the latest fashionable urban country club, but that’s another post for another day. Before teaching at this school, my experiences with ajumma were limited to forceful encounters on the subway, leaving me wondering why more Koreans didn’t grow up to be NFL linemen (they - at least the she-dudes - certainly have the shoulders for it). Anyway, I’m suddenly enamored with these ajumma, though certainly not in any sexual way, because they have renewed my feelings toward the middle aged here - that they’re more than aggressive, territorial women with the same goddamn haircut. Since their ages are printed on my role sheets, I’ve realized that they’re anywhere on average of 8-12 years older than they appear. So, presumed MILFs may in fact be near-GILFs...

Today, a man was added to the roster. I figured it would bust up the dynamic of the class - when I was observing classes during training I also noticed how often the Korean cock in the hen-house would display his plummage - but it’s not anything that I have control over. During one of my breaks before class, however, a receptionist came up to me and warned me about this particular man. Apparently, he interviewed three separate times before actually enrolling in this school, asking some bizarre questions but also confessing his love to the receptionists/interviewers. So, this receptionist warned me that this dude was a pervert, and told me to keep an eye out for him. A few minutes later, this man shows up to the lobby. Eventually, I introduce myself and it was immediately obvious that he puts the "eep" in "creepy". He had the disfigured smile of a Bond villain, but it was what was coming out of it that put me off the most. While I was "talking" to this dude, his English was almost nil (but not nil enough), the aformentioned receptionist bent over to play with this rockstar toddler who was kicking it in the lobby. Quoth Dr. No-Tact: "She sex... sexy. I fuck!" Then he turned to me, grinning a grin that would make Jesus weep, and wanted me to join in the whoop-de-do. Yes, homeboy, she’s hot - though I only rolled my eyes and grimaced in a way that couldn’t possibly convey solidarity - but I’ve got my eye on you. And you best not get fresh with my ajumma.

Later on in class, I couldn’t get this dude to look at me at all, since he was a little too fixated on 50-something year old breasts (which I guess is better than 50-something year-old breasts, badda bing). He was clearly making the students uncomfortable as well, and any time I would use his name in a sentence (pronouns are the next lesson) they would make grammar mistakes that they wouldn’t ordinarily make. And, the ajumma kept shooting each other glances that I was very sympathetic with. Then, later on in class, he said something to them that made these ladies wince. During our 2 minute break, I hussled to my supervisor and told him to get the receptionists to ask these women after class if this man was being inappropriate. By the time class ended, the owner of the school had shown up and talked to the ladies himself. Dr. No[t getting laid without cash transaction] didn’t say anything outright gross, but he was making them a little queasy for a few other reasons. Then the owner talked to the dude, who laughed all of it off and said that he was just bein’ all chummy with the lads. So, he’ll likely be back... but I’ll be watching.

Since this was my last class, I left on a somewhat sour note. I needed a pick me up and walked downstairs to ParkJun BeautyLab, the closest haircut place and thus the quickest way for a normally slaphappy whitey to resume his ordinary state. Ever since I’ve started wearing a suit from my 9-5, ok my 6-1, people have approached me assuming that I speak much better Korean than I actually do. With my fake-ass Louis Vuitton tie on, I look like I’m better established here than I actually am. Fair enough. I play along for as long as I can, which is about 5 seconds. So, usually the Korean service industry just takes to manhandling me: Forcibly removing my jacket for the coat closet, inserting a coat-check # into my breast pocket, dragging me to the shampoo stall, etc. All of which is done in nods, giggles, and occasional pleasantries, on both ends. And I do try to make sentences, which aren’t yet almost communicable and lead to several more giggles - on both ends. There was a team of three attending to my hair: one to cut, one to brush off my face, and one who was seemingly just there to marvel at my exotic whitey hair. A fourth, the manager who spoke decent English and was wearing a fabulously tight yellow sweater, came over, also to gawk. She introduced herself, and insisted that I do the same. I didn’t right away because, well, she’d shoved her breasts, the largest (fakest?) I’ve seen in Korea, right in my face - right at eye level. I was more than a little distracted, and let’s just say that yellow will be my favorite color for the next couple weeks. When I regained composure and we went through the introductions again, she followed: "I’m Ann. You promise that you’ll remember me?" "Uh," still somewhat dazed and short on oxygen since the sweater puppies were mere inches from my face, "I think that I will, yes." This woman, in keeping with the formula above where we must add a whole extra year-of-the-animal cycle to a woman’s ostensible age, is likely something starting with a 4. As I was paying her (for the haircut, sickos), she again caught me off guard: "I want to see you again. You know where to find me...." The only thing I could muster, this time with lungs full of oxygen, was "uh... yeah. I do... know... where to find you."

Thanksgiving cocktail par-tay

I'm working on Turkey-Day, but on Saturday - Thanksgiving Observed for the expat Ams. - I'm hosting a cocktail party. Any ideas for quality Tgiving party activities? Festive cocktails? Decorations? Obviously, hand-turkeys will be drawn.

The girl from Jeju played me weak

So, I met this girl on Jeju Island when I was homeless and traveling around. She was my waitress my first night there, and waited until I finished my meal to show me around. We went on an epic four-hour walk around the island, shared some cocktails, and made tons of chitchat. She told me she was about to leave for a year working holiday in Australia and was excited to practice her English, since previously she’d only been studying English on her own. I was the first foreigner she’d ever had a conversation with, so I wasn’t trying to be overly amorous. I didn’t want to give her the wrong (right) idea about whities. Americans have a global reputation for being quite horny, in case you didn’t already know.

A week or so later, she calls and tells me that she changed her mind about moving to Australia, and that she was going to move to Seoul instead. I was a little freaked out about this, but she said that her new calling was going to graduate school in "uhh... cloning things." Then she invited herself to come visit the following week, since she was going to be in town to interview at a couple schools. It’s been a lonely couple months, at least in matters below the waist, so of course I obliged and I told her how to find and enter my place (the new pad has keyless entry).
Last Wednesday, I arrived home from work to find this girl from Jeju, Young-Jew, passed out in my bed with the TV blaring. I told her to make herself at home, but goddamn. I read on the couch for about an hour before I woke her up and asked if she wanted any dinner. She said she went ahead and ate without me, despite our plans to dine together. Then, when I sat on the (my own) bed to continue our chat, she totally freaked the fuck out: "Oh God! It’s ok. I will sleep on the living room!" "No, it’s ok. You keep on sleeping here. I can sleep on the couch. You’re my guest...." I asked if she was up for anything, and wanted to meet up with some of my friends later on. She was way hotter than I remembered, but her English was far worse than I recalled. I did my grad thesis more or less on bilinguals playing dumb in Black British Literature when talking to whities, so perhaps I’m dispositioned to thinking that she was putting one on because she didn’t really want to deal with me.

I bitched a little via text, and received a lot of sympathy from a dyke friend: "bloody hell! man. kick her out of your bed! where is the human decency in all this!?"

After an unsatisfying wink on my own (fucking) couch, I decided to meet some of the new coworkers for a game of cards. We played Hearts and I totally took out my frustrations on the queen of spades. That royal bitch was totally blindsided by what I had to deal her. After a few hours of playing cards, I’d had a couple beers and was braced to spend a night on my scratchy couch. I opened the door. Young-Jew was still wrapped up in my pimp burgundy comforter, and my whole fucking place smelled like a colostomy bag. In case my libido wasn’t deflated from getting hardcore shot down, the waft of feces - so thick you could almost chew it - wasn’t doing a whole lot for me. Perhaps that’s a Korean defense mechanism, like a lizard losing its tail. She slept through the fumigation.

The next morning, Young-Jew is loudly shifting about and blasts the TV before I can even get in a full night’s rest. She had the decency to make me breakfast, tofu and eggs, but I would’ve much preferred another couple hours in bed (couch).

After breakfast, I went to work (a couple hours early just because) and we parted ways. With a handshake. At least, I thought, by the time I got back home she wouldn’t be there.
At work, I’ve been treated to free lunch and dinner during training. At some really nice restaurants. There is mostly sitting around, since the owner is doing all the training himself with his personal "method" - which I’d rather not get into now. The owner is quite busy since he’s launching a new school, so I’d had a lot of idle time to chat with my fellow trainee. After lunch, I sat and shot the shit with Elena, the other newbie, for about three hours while the managers and owner were being unusually standoffish. Eventually, a manager comes by: "Elena, can I talk to you a minute?" A few minutes later, the owner comes and gets me: "Mark, can I talk to you for a minute?" In a private room, he tells me: "We have to let some people go. And it’s not you." At this point, I’m still thinking it’s a "not you, it’s me" type situation, so a lot of thoughts are crossing my head. Mostly, it’s a "que sera sera" feeling, since I know full well that I could have another job in a couple weeks if I really wanted to. And I have a few buddies to crash with, if it came down to that. Though, I am running out of dough. While I’m still processing all of this, he tells me that they’re letting Elena go, not me, because of her "negativity."* Then he gave me the rest of the day off.

I get back to my place, and Young-Jew is still mucking about. "What happened to your interviews?" Then she pretended not to understand the question, even when I simplified it in a few different ways. "My mom says that I have to go back to Jeju to work tonight. So I am leaving." "Tonight?" "Yeah." "[oh thank fuck!]" A few minutes later, she was out the door. I’m not sure why she was hanging around all day, but it was probably to devise another form of biological warfare. We exchanged goodbyes again and parted - this time with a highfive.

*My work desires chipper individuals, which I’m perfectly capable of being for six hours a day. This girl wasn’t especially "negative," and I was quite fond of her company. However, she is a Russian-born emigre to Canada and is definitely more culturally Russian. She just comes across as negative, yo. I think, personally, that they sacked her because she had a tinge of an accent. Also, they may suspect that she moonlights as a whore. You never know.

coming soon

I'll send another update real soon. Things have been a little mad with training, adjusting, illness, and all. And, until recently, my life was on a bit of a dull streak.

Remember the Alamo

I took the ferry from the island back to mainland Korea Halloween night. I was certainly the only whitey onboard. So, this Halloween, I shared a floor in a sequestered part of the boat with a dozen or so Korean dudes for 12 hours. In all, I went about 60 hours without seeing another whitey. Then I took the first ship in the morning to Japan, which was only about a three hour journey.

Japan was effing nuts. I met up with this Aussie guy on the boat, and after doing the visa stuff, we went on this epic journey to find a hotel at a reasonable price. At dinner, we were trying to figure out what the hell we were eating and what to order next. The Japanese waitress was very accommodating, and went to find a patron who could order a meal for us. The dude she found treated us to a shitload of sake, and on top all the beer we were getting a quick start to the evening. This guy, Hajimeh, must've thought we were good fun, and he rang up his brother to come join us. At one point, Hajimeh measured his finger up against the side of my glass of beer: "Japanese cock very, very small." I was confused, because his fingers spanned a respectable enough length, and Hajimeh continued: "Japanese cock very, very small. But American cock sooo big. American cock is big?" "Uhhh... I suppose it's alright, yeah." "Yes. American cock is so big. I want to go! American dream! American burger is very big?" [Oh shit, coke/cock. I get it.] "Yeah, American burger is very big, too. [For the benefit of my Aussie friend, who still hadn't caught on to what was going on] You like the big cock?" "Yes, I like. Big burger, big cock. American dream!"

When his brother, Taiki, self-proclaimed "playboy," showed up, it was time to boogie on elsewhere. These two Oriental partyboys wanted to introduce us to Japanese women - "Japanese womens, good face and good legs, but no... uhhh [gesture]" "Chesticles?" "Yes, no have very good" - but they couldn't decide on a suitable place. We got in Taiki's car, and drove, where else, to the local Eastern European hostess bar: "You like the Romani womens?"
This isn't quite my cup of tea, so I was chugging off the bottle of Jack that came with the exorbitant cover charge, hoping it would shake off the awkwardness. We were each paired off with a Romani, and "mine" didn't speak the greatest English, and I don't speak the greatest Russian or Japanese. So I spent most of the time trying not to count the gaps in her grill (three, best I could figure).

Afterwards, the brothers invite us back to their sushi restaurant for some drinks and a medley of other vices. The Aussie bloke politely declined, and so it was just me and the Mariohaki Bros. After some drinking, and a paranoia inducer, I was already well on my way to feeling like I was stuck in a Japanese television show. Ever their white toy, they Hajimeh brought out this testicular-looking side from behind the counter, in a well-fitting bowl. Apparently, on this television show, you pinch off a bit of testicle with chopsticks - I'm hoping it was some kind of tomato/pepper hybrid, but I'll never know - and feed a microscopic amount to the next person. The object of the show, and what really gets the laugh track going, is when you coax the tanked whitey into eating way more than everyone else. Naturally, they grimace all the way through it, but whitey is so tanked that he's relatively unfazed, so they keep feeding him heeps and heeps and stroke his ego to keep him going: "oh, American so strong." This eventually leads to one of the Japanese favorite pastimes: projectile vomiting.

I'd spent much of the previous week reading about twentieth century Korean history, which is overwhelmingly about Japan's imperialist control on its neighbor occupying the phallic peninsula. Millions and millions were killed, and I have the propensity to get all overly sympathetic on the ass of the colonized. On my way to vomit, I wanted some kind of historical toast to mark the occasion, wisely decided against it since that 1) makes for bad tv and 2) isn't a great way to endear yourself to hosts that were going out of their way to show me a good time, and my last lucid memory is of me chanting "remember the Alamo." Hajimeh was weeing at the time when I could no longer hold it in, so I hussled to the sink and gave that shit a delightful pinkish hue. About eight times over.

After losing everything in my belly and chucking up parts of my pancreas, I was still curious about what we had just eaten. Hajimeh and his brother then coolly pretended like they didn't know what I was saying. [Cue laugh track yet again. Oh the Japanese are a giggly bunch.]

They helped me find my way back home via taxi. And, seeing as how I know about three ways in Japanese to say "thank you" but don't know how to say "I'm sorry," I spent the whole time meditating on my new mantra of the evening: "don't puke in the cab; don't puke in the cab; don't puke in the cab." I didn't puke in the cab - which is good, because I'm sure cabbie didn't want to hear "domo arigato, Mr. Roboto; sayonara!" - but I couldn't extend the same courtesy to the elevator. Have you ever had to swallow a mouthful of vomit? I wouldn't recommend it. Only half as much came out the second time, and I had to revisit essence du Marq the next morning in the elevator going down. It took about two days to recover, which was the rest of my stay in Japan.

Really, though, I'm just killing time before I move into the new place. It wasn't quite ready for my scheduled 2pm move-in, since apparently my place had been used as storage for misc belonging to future coworkers. It was cluttered with boxes, which my supervisor apologized profusely for: "This is like one of those horror stories you hear about in Korea." "N-, this is hardly horrific. Really, I can wait." It's like living in an Ikea store, and I'm very capable of looking beyond the clutter. A few of the eminities: a queen sized mattress imported from America ("fuck yeah!"), a proper shower (a blessing in Korea), an actual closet (" "), and a flat panel TV (Samsung). And the view from the 25th floor rooftop, magnifique!

oy

Why does every passing day in the Orient feel weirder than the previous? I'm in Fukuoka, Japan. I'll certainly have to post about last night. I'm really still too hungover to work a (crazy-ass Japanese) keyboard. And, anyway, I'm not still really sure what to make of it all. It all seemed a bit too absurd, leaving me a bit paranoid at one point - thinking that surely, surely this must all have been secretly filmed for a Japanese television program.