Hi-Ho, Silver and Sarah Silverman fans. I’ve been in a bit of a funk in the past few days due to writer’s block and the neurosis I assume I share with other bloggers that suddenly no one’s reading these posts anymore. To test out this hypothesis, I’ll try writing about less conventional things and see if that draws more readers’ attention. If not, I’ll know the jig is up.
Anyway, after I finished having sex with a dead squirrel yesterday, I brushed my teeth with a flamingo’s intestines, which I then used as a jump rope to get the heart up off its heart-shaped ass and boogying in my flabby, quasi-hermaphroditic chest. I broke out the magnum from the medicine cabinet and finally took out my neighbor’s kid, the one who couldn’t stop caterwauling and crying all the time, which resulted in a few screams of horror, followed by a moment of silence, then some desultory applause and congratulatory phone calls from some friends in the local police department, along with some grateful emails from U. S. troops living at a nearby military base.
After that I picked up the vacuum cleaner and brained my wife with the heavy part, which a took a long time since she’s a hard-headed woman–or was anyway, before I got through with her. This earned me even more accolades, plaudits, and encomiums from several appreciative neighbors, who’ve even opted to throw a party for me. They said they were as fed up as I was with her shouting and nagging and irrepressibly loud, voluble speaking in tongues. They’re going to model the celebration on Dean Martin’s Celebrity Roast of 1970’s American television yore, just so I don’t get a swell head. Stephen Colbert has agreed to come and make fun of me, along with Don Rickles, if he can make the long flight from Vegas, unless he just decides to give his speech via satellite TV, not forgetting to call me a hockey puck for my pains.
Incidentally, for good measure, I went and bought a chainsaw at a hardware store, brought it home, poured some gas in it, revved it up, and hacked my wife’s cadaver to pieces, immersing my hands in her entrails and using them to adorn the walls with the profane words and phrases she wouldn’t let me say when she was alive, laughing gleefully at my good fortune. I also put on some music I knew she would have hated–nothing too bold to start with, so I’d have something to build up to–just a little Beatles’ “devil music”--“and listen to the color of your dreams”–John Lennon’s ingenious foray into the subconscious, “Tomorrow Never Knows” (I left my copy of the White Album back in the U. S. A., versus the U. S. S. R.–apologies to surviving members of the Manson family, including incarcerated eponymous elder statesman himself, whom I once actually rooted for in a 1989 TV interview he granted Geraldo Rivera; the latter was so repellent, he had me backing up a delusional, racist, brainwasher of psychedelically twisted youth by being such a cocky, pugnacious putz–“I’ll take you on, Charlie.” Bravery in action).
Now that I’ve gotten all that out of my system, maybe I can finally start getting a little sleep at night and living again, instead of wishing I were dead half the time.
My wife, who is still alive, by the way, despite what I wrote above, and I had a fight yesterday; they always seem to happen on Saturdays; maybe it’s because that’s when we have the most time together. I had just come home early from a Korean-for-English lesson exchange with a nice young friend of ours. She’s been teaching me how to pronounce and write the letters of hangeul, the Korean alphabet. (Mind, I’ve only been here six years; the first two companies I worked for were slave-drivers, as is my wife, so I didn’t have either the time or the energy to study before.)
One of the things Jina (my wife’s name) and I have never agreed on is the purpose of money. She punctuates her inveterate cheapness with moments of colossal generosity. She once insisted on buying me not one but two five hundred dollar coats, ignoring my protests against supporting the fur trade (that was before she realized how evil that industry is; pusillanimous sap that I am, I didn’t put up enough of a fight, adding to the gushing gallons of blood I already had on my hands; the geyser keeps growing over the years, though my wife’s is still running along undisturbed along her internal track, and I haven’t gone out of my way to slash my wrists yet either, as it looks a little uncomfortable).
I had squirreled away enough money to buy some rice balls at a place at the top of the hill above our house, one filled with tuna, the other with kimchi, both wrapped with kim, what I call “seaweed-paper.” These I ate at our favorite cafe while waiting for Hye In, Jina’s and my student friend, and while also admiring the bare legs of a young woman working in the produce store across the street. She appeared to notice I was looking at her, then approached to order a patpingsu from Kelly, the woman who runs the cafe (she’s Korean, but coming up with aliases in that language sometimes exceeds the limits of my brain function). Patpingsu is a Korean dessert treat made with cereal, vanilla ice cream, sweet red bean paste, chocolate sauce, the fruit topping of your choice, and ice. Sometimes it’s made with green tea ice cream. It’s delicious. Kely, however, hates sweet foods and never eats most of the stuff on her menu, yummy as it is. (The woman I’d been gawking at left just as quickly. I neglected to mention that by the time she appeared, Hye In had already arrived, so I couldn’t strike up a conversation with the woman without being indecorous, not that married guys who are my age are supposed to be hitting on nineteen year olds anyway, unless they look like or else are Brad Pitt or George Clooney, or even my grandpa Mick Jagger.)
I also shouldn’t eat sugary foods, not only for the obvious reasons, but because I have chronic Lyme disease and it really wallops my constitution when I yield to this inanely self-destructive impulse. Several hours of arthritic agony and phlegmatic despair follow.
Anyway, to wrap things up like a nice kimbap (a relative of the rice ball–cheumokbap, or something, meaning “rice-fist,” described above), I had to cut my lesson with Hye In short after Jina called me. I shared a bowl of lemon punch with H. I., and she shared a pair of waffles glazed with caramel syrup with me–Koreans tend to be very good at sharing things, and we had some free conversation in English to make up for the two consecutive Korean lessons she’d given me; she had to go meet a friend but was going to be back in an hour. I agreed to wait for her and practice writing the words she jotted down for me in my notebook. Then Jina called Kelly’s cellphone (the battery in mine had conveniently died) and barked at me to come home and have lunch.
With my tail between my legs, I called Hye In and told her I’d have to take a rain check for the second part of the lesson, which will take place on Monday at 6 pm. Then I went home and Jina made me an egg sandwich with leafy greens and tomatoes. When she asked if it was better than the fare at a nearby Moroccan restaurant, I made the mistake of saying that it wasn’t, then apologized.
I took a shower and tried to take a nap, but she wouldn’t let me. I said we had nothing in common and a few other things happened that I can’t recall distinctly (years of sleep deprivation followed by a year of insomnia do a number on your short-term memory). They involved our going in and out of different rooms. When I emerged from the bathroom and went to lie down for a nap, she stormed into the bedroom and attacked me, whipping my face with the black T-shirt I use to cover my eyes when I sleep (they’re far more sensitive to light than they are to vision, in either sense of the word).
She threatened to leave me and I made half-hearted overtures for her not to, even though I really wished she would go and never come back, preferably taking the opportunity to get run over by a bus while she was at it. She went through the usual shtick of packing her bag and retired into the living room to get gussied up and give herself a haircut, using a little round mirror on a stand that she mounted on the low round wooden table. (These activities I only learned of in retrospect, before she finally did me the honor of leaving.)
I kept the bedroom door open and attempted to sleep, getting up to ask her through the locked living room door if she wanted me to turn off the pot of boiling water on the stove in which swam two chicken breasts. She refused to reply.
When the bitch (whoops! Freudian slip) finally left, despite my effusive apologies for having hurt her feelings (and, to be fair, she did apologize for hitting me, unless she just felt guilty for not drawing blood this time as she did a few months ago when she raked my cheek with her nails), I called her but she said she didn’t want to talk to me.
In an effort to make my nap happen, I relieved the fever of desire for the third time in twenty-four hours. Alas, my determination to achieve an hour of peaceful slumber was in vain, as Jina called me and, after saying she neither wanted to see or speak to me, asked if I’d like to go to the bookstore with her (she knows I’m a sucker for bookstores, as she generally isn’t, taking an interest only in the Bible and other Christian-related propaganda). Eager to make amends for the hell of it, I agreed to come and meet her; she also needed my help carrying grocery bags.
We ended up not going to the bookstore, instead retreating to the same cafe mentioned above, where we had a chat with two of Kelly’s friends, both Korean, one of whom is disenchanted with her home country after having lived for six years in Paris and eagerly wants to go back. She’s a charismatic character who’s very animated and expressive. The other, a guy, told us about his time living in the American South, along with his work as a salesman of heavy machinery to foreign companies, which occasionally entails business trips to places as far away as Brazil and new dimensions in jet lag.
You may be wondering why some of these entries are so long, a flaw for which I duly apologize. In every writer’s mind there are two major fears that run on parallel tracks. One is that you’ll run out of things to say; the other is that you’ll die before you finish saying them. These two fears vie in mortal combat for possession of my soul. As far as I’m concerned, they can have it.