Staying Alive Just for the Hell of It

Based on the priorities of the mainstream news media, it would appear that the actions of Justin Bieber are more important than the life of Martin Luther King.  Ah, what a long way we’ve come!

Speaking of Dr. King, I found it bleakly amusing that U. S. President Barack Obama, perhaps as a way to deflect attention from the hemorrhaging NSA scandal, quoted that great leader in his eulogy to Nelson Mandela, saying that “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.”* It’s funny when sociopaths think that merely by quoting someone with stronger moral fiber and spiritual backbone than they have, they can exonerate themselves of their myriad crimes.  Maybe the “arc” Obama was thinking of was the one made by a missile fired from one of the many Predator or Reaper drones he’s so crazy about.

*(I think King may have been quoting someone else himself, maybe James Weldon Johnson–you’ll have to look it up, as I’m bound to forget to do so myself.)

On Saturday morning I sat down at my wife Jina’s behest to copy down phone numbers from my old phone onto a sheet of paper so she could fire up the new phone our neighbor had sold her for thirty bucks (I’m not quite sure how these deals work; I heard that a new one can set you back about nine hundred smackeroos–my old one was also a gift; I guess someone up there in Phonyland loves me).  After I’d been doing this for about an hour, she berated me, asking why I was recording numbers of people I couldn’t even remember (their names didn’t accompany the numbers).  I apologized for my abject stupidity and yellingly obliged to jot down the phone numbers that went with saved text messages instead.  The reason I had to go through this laborious procedure was that evidently none of this info would be saved once we transferred the card with the microchip on it to the new phone.

A meltdown ensued, and she said she wasn’t going to go through with the phone deal after all.  I said I didn’t give a shit and who cares about a fucking stupid phone anyway.  Then she said she wanted a divorce and I said hey, so do I.  She told me to leave the country but not bring any of the stuff she’d bought for me with her, including the winter coat she threw at me.  I assured her I wouldn’t.  She put on her own coat and went towards the door of the apartment.  I saw one of my shoes fly into the room.  I felt like George W. Bush being targeted by that irate Iraqi journalist for his war crimes (but justice was later served, American-style, as the poor man was imprisoned and tortured for insulting the clownish emperor).  Another shoe came at me like a confused fighter jet.  Then another.  And another.

I was shocked by this, not that she’d thrown something at me–that’s par for the course–but that she had the gall to throw shoes into her own personal living space.  Seemed very unKorean.  Then again, when moving out of an apartment, Koreans will freely walk around the place with shoes on, figuring, hey, who gives a shit?  This isn’t my place anymore anyway.  Besides, the new tenants will have to clean the floors as soon as they move in, so I might as well.  

So much for sacred spaces uncontaminated by heavily sullied footwear.

Unfortunately, I don’t have much more time to write this morning as I’ve got to go meet Jina for lunch with some of her church buddies, even though it’s Monday.  After that we’ve got to go teach elementary school kids for five hours.  I’d been looking forward to more writing time now that I finally have a ten-day break from teaching adults, but with the encroaching Lunar New Year’s holiday coming up (which means mandatory time with in-laws–Jina also accused me of never taking the initiative to call them, even though her dad, like me, is not a phone person) and Jina’s incorrigible regimen, I don’t have as much time for blogging as I’d hoped I would.

It’s partly my fault, however, as I could have done some yesterday, only I wasted several hours farting around in bookstores in the afternoon after having my time wasted for me in church.  One of the stores had a sign on the window of the revolving door entrance that read:  “Please enter only one person at a time.”

It was flattering to think that the person who’d made the sign mistook me or any of my fellow customers for someone capable of performing the feat of entering more than one person at a time, but I’m afraid that nobody is that endowed.  I had unsightly visions of human shish kebabs sprung from the pornocopian pen of Robert Crumb.

There’s a lot more I wanted to tell you, but I’m fresh out of time.  I’ll give you a fuller report tomorrow, okay?  Thanks for taking the time to read this stuff.  Have a ridiculously groovy day.



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