The best thing about coming home…

Is finding little gems of your past that you forgot you had. The lost photo albums, the forgotten (and frankly embarrassing) year books. The last place soccer trophies that your mom lovingly put right next to your older brother's championship and mvp soccer trophies. (Mine are more special. Smaller, much smaller, but still, regardless, more special (to me)) The first couple of jet lagged mornings after I arrived in Seoul were spent sifting through old photo albums that my mom and dad kept. I came to several conclusions after the fifth album or so.

1. I was a devilishly handsome child. Destructively handsome. How I remained single through this day is some mystery to me.
   
2. My family used to take more photographs.
   
3. Did I mention that I was a good looking kid? Seriously….
   

Realizing the repercussions of conclusion 2, I decided to document my life more actively using a camera. Yes. I am one of those annoying people that take pictures now. Sue me. I came to the realization that I really have no photographic evidence of my own to show for my last ten to twelve years of life. And when adoring fans of mine will inevitably stalk my past for photos of me, I feel as those years will be known as the "dark years", where I was in a drugged fueled haze otherwise known as photographic laziness.

Anyways, the whole reason I bring this up is because I found an unusual gem today. An old diary.

Now I have my suspicions about this diary. It was actually written after I last left Korea so it wasn't left there. My mom oftentimes has a tendency to not respect the personal space that my brother and I, as functional adults need. When she came and visited before, she often time would go through our mail to check our credit card statements, answer our phones, rifle through our personal belongings and such. Normal things that every over bearing mother does. (Wait, no you say? Your mother doesn't do that? She respects the boundaries fiscally and relationship wise that you set up? My mom sounds like a mother from a bad sitcom? Nooooooooooooo…(I found the longer that you stretch the o's in no, the more emphatic and thus effective you make it sound)) Anyways, how one of my personal journals managed to find its way to my mother's apartment in Korea, far, far away from its original resting place in Fairfax, is a subject of considerable amusement for me now. Amusement now, because it's now almost six years removed from the apparent theft and none of the entries really have any relevance in my life anymore.

Besides, I'm happy to have it back, because it was a cool journal. Black, leather bound, with a leather strap to wrap it around to keep it shut. Old school, minus the NON COLLEGE LINED paper. (Non-lined journals are hard to find. They're typically called sketchbooks and are way too big. I personally hate lines. I like blank sheets (even though they intimidate me). What infuriates me more is when paper is lined, it's spaced into huge, bulbous lines that are meant to be filled by infants with crayons. I write small. I don't need the extra room. My large ass takes up enough room as it does)

So the best part (and the worst) of finding an old journal is reading it. And then cringing. A lot. As I read entry after entry about how I loved this girl or that girl and I would never forget her and always love her, I wonder how I wasn't slapped around more as a younger man.

Seriously, the worst part about it was only like six years ago (I initially wrote five, but adding a year adds more distance between me and the sobbing, heartbroken idiot that was writing in that cool journal). At the same time, it feels like it was a life time ago. The person I was then, and the person I am now are, essentially the same, but different. Older, wiser, way more sarcastic, and a lot less forgiving to women and their less than monogamous tendencies. Seriously, I thought I was in love with a girl that managed to have relations with four guys on four straight nights.

I dream about that kind of stamina. (And no, to answer your question, I was not one of the four. I, apparently, had "morals" and neglected to jump on that bandwagon. If I were in the same situation now, I probably wouldn't. Unless I was drunk. And I am drunk a lot)

But seriously. My journal runs like a bad Linkin Park song. It's frankly embarrassing. My first response was to immediately tear out the angsty, tear ridden pages of unrequited love and continue to use the journal as another yet unused notebook filled with characters and plot ideas and such, but I figured for the sake of posterity and the person (sappy, pathetic, and apparently really depressed) that I was, I decided to keep the journal intact, but still use it as a soon-to-be unused notebook for my writing "career." Of course, my second response was to blog about it. And I have poor impulse control, thus here I am, doing what I do best, mocking myself.

So thus, I end, and rightly so, with a poem from the aforementioned journal…

This was scribbled as 'Goodbye, my love.' (In the journal, I forgot the comma)

I just watch(ed) another love leave the stage

Of my life

One last dance

One last glance (oohhhh, it rhymed)

Of a face that will be edged (I think I meant etched) in my dreams for

Countless night(s)

Of a soul that set my heart aflame

Goodbye my love unrealized

I was too timid to act

You were unready to see

My loyalty, my devotion (holy fuck, I sound like a stalker)

And something I know that

Would have been special

Slipped away.

Take care my love unrealized

Your place will remain sacred in

My life

I know that I will soon be forgotten (I wasn't, she still called me from time to time. Got married. Had a kid. But still send me a couple naked pics of her a few years back)

The memory of me blown away

Like leaves caught in a gust of wind.

Time. (Wow. Profound)

Perhaps my heart is a fickle thing

That falls in love so easily (You think?)

But my loneliness is magnified by my loyalty

And what so easily happened

Is not so easily taken away (I probably should have written undone…it sounds a helluva lot better)

The memories, (apparently I didn't drink as much back then)

You eyes looking into mine

Goodbye, my love unrealized

I can only pray that

The thought of you will grow

More unfrequent

And I will learn to love you less

Never able to forget

But maybe, move on

Good bye

Wow. I am speechless. Wait for it. There. I'm wiping a tear from my eye.

Impressions of seoul

I'm not really sure what I was expecting from my visit to Korea this time around. It had been so long since I had last been here and what remained of my memories there had faded to the back of my mind, much like my ability to speak the language. My parents had long ago moved away from the apartment of my youth and adolescence; what vestiges remained of the familiar was wiped away with that move.

My parents are still what they were before. My parents. Only their bed time earlier and their hair greyer, but they are still as I remember, only older. My father seems to smile more than I remember from my childhood. I suppose it is because he two sons have finally made their trip home and he doesn't have to sit watching his baseball games alone with my mother, who doesn't understand the difference between a strike and a ball. My mother is abuzz with newfound energy; she introduces us to everyone, every chance she gets. These are my two sons visiting from America, she announces in Korean almost everywhere we visit.

I didn't understand before, but I realize that my parents are lonely without us in the house. In this culture, where the birds don't leave the nest, they have an empty nest. My mother has no one to fuss about, to nag to, to watch over, to cook for. She loves to cook, but with only her and my father, they often times just eat out. But now she cooks, if only for two more weeks.

Seoul has changed so much. It was like a child when I left it; now it is a city struggling through the growth spurts of a rebelling adolescent. It has turned a dichotomy of the new and old; new, huge apartment towering over old fashioned houses, huge grocery stores neighboring mom and pop restaurants. Twenty four hour MacDonald's have arrived, along with overpriced coffee selection of Starbucks on every corner. Costco is a high priced bazaar of Western goods in a culture that craves anything that uniquely not Korean. The only thing that is seemingly not lost in the translation are the crowds at the aforementioned Costco.

This past weekend was the Korean Harvest Moon festival. It roughly translates to the equivalent of Thanksgiving in the United States. I saw my grandmother for the first time in nine years. She seemed so small and old; her hair was now a snowy white, instead the pepper grey that I once remember. I held her hand as we walked down the stairs. I don't remember if I had ever held her hand before in my nine years here. She gripped it tightly even as we rode the elevator. She told me as the elevator rose to live my life well because my mother (her daughter) worries about me much. I smiled and told her I would. I'm not sure if she heard me though, I spoke softly and her hearing is not what it used to be.

I'm not really sure what else to write at this point. I apologize for the randomness of the blog and I know it's not the normally funny observations I typically have. I just wanted to write something down for now. I'll write more later.

 

The failure of each generation…

This is a disclaimer of sorts. My previous blog entries have been lighter in nature. Not that this is a dark and heavy entry, but not really all that funny. Unless you find me funny regardless of what I say. If that's the case, I suggest psychiatric help (psychologist can't prescribe medication) and lots of it. That is unless you're Olivia Munn or Megan Fox. If you're Olivia Munn or Megan Fox and find me funny, we should talk (about having sex).

My co-worker, Jenn (who happens to be one of the only readers of this blog. Mostly because whenever I blog, I yell across out my door, "Jenn, new blog" and she reads it and says "it's good" or "I liked it." (I know she's lying, but it's a nice lie and it boosts my non-existent ego)), and I were having a conversation about something (I really forgot what we were having a conversation about), but for some reason we got on the topic of evangelicals.

Actually, I remember what we were talking about. I have coworker that I work with. I don't particular like him because he comes across (and when I say comes across, I mean he is) arrogant and condescending. He's a Linux guy, and he pushes Linux and other open source software tools like a crack peddler up in Baltimore (I'm sorry Baltimore. I watched the Wire. I've been to Baltimore. It's a crappy city). Now, halfway being a tech person, I know that Linux is the "superior" OS. I just find it esoteric and time consuming to use. I like Windows, even though it's a subpar OS, because I'm familiar with it and it works. It's a choice that I willingly make. (I made this observation to one of my friends once. Linux people are micromanagers with God complexes. Apple people don't really know how to use a computer. Windows people are defeatists that just want to get the job done and go home) However, his attitude is like that he's found some truth in the world of computing that must be shared and forced upon all. This is a trait that annoys me the most about evangelical Christians. I'm happy and fine that you found religion, but leave me out of your conversion. I don't need your zeal in my life. That goes with Linux as well. This is why I call him a Linux evangelical.

The whole conversation about evangelicals led to a segue to another subject. Jenn brought an overly (yes, it was big) large binder that she received at a conference that she went to about recruiting. Within it specified the recruiting techniques for the different generations: Gen Y and Gen X. I've always identified with Gen X. Gen X sounds cooler. Gen X'ers were children of the eighties, that grew up with Michael Jackson and Culture Club and watched the Wall (the one that used to separate East Berlin from West Berlin (the West were the good guys)) fall down. We matured to Pearl Jam and the angsty cacaphonia of sound of Nirvana, fueled by the angry, anti-establishment (by establishment, I mean police) of NWA and Tupac in the nineties. We were the first generation to really use the internet. We watched Iraq invade Iran. Then Iraq invade Kuwait. And then we invaded Iraq. (Go figure)

If you have any questions in what generation you belonged to, here's the test. If you wore Doc Marten's in high school and rocked a Motorola pager, you're a member of Generation X.

I found that I was on the back end of Generation X and the front end of Generation Y. I am your classic 'tweener. I am the six foot eight forward that isn't strong enough to play inside and isn't quick enough to guard on the perimeter. I am Charles Barkley.

But after reveling in the differences about Gen X and Y, I came to a conclusion about Gen Y. Generation Y is the generation of trophies for participation, because parents didn't want to let any child not be rewarded, even if they lost. They're a generation that grew up on newly minted diseases that lead to newly minted drugs for not being able to concentrate on one thing for long enough. (Not that I don't believe that ADHD is a legitimate disease. I just think it is entirely overly diagnosed.) They're the generation of hand sanitizers and bacterial scares. (I remember in high school when I broke my finger playing basketball. I went into shock immediately, but it wore off when I was walking home. The pain was not fun. My mom took one look at my finger and told me it was a sprain and to go ice it. After two acupuncture sessions and continued swelling later, she finally took me to a doctor and got it X-rayed. Same thing happened when I tore my ACL.)

They are also the generation of conclusions. As I discuss issues with some of my newer and younger coworkers, I find one trait common among them. Dogmatism. Sometimes, having a discussion with them is like having a conversation with a wall.

Passion is fine with me. Faith is fine as well. Blind faith is where I draw the line. Faith without questioning is driving down a road with your eyes closed in a tank. It scares me because I see this generation as a generation that has never had their belief systems challenged because the people around them, influencing them, were too scared to bruise their fledgling egos and damage their confidence. They were given ribbons for being wrong and congratulated for losing. The internet has further exasperated this problem because it just unites like-minded individuals together in forums and chat rooms. It creates this group think mentality that a person doesn't need to have their ideas challenged, thus making them assured that they are right, regardless if it's the truth or not. This is the generation of intellectual laziness.

This is why religion sometimes frightens me. Religion is a conglomeration of conclusion about the philosophy of life. It's a short cut of sorts on how to live your life. Not that these conclusions are necessarily wrong, but it is the struggle, reasons why people came to these conclusions that should be the conviction to follow them. Conclusions without basis, without proper conviction, without the struggle to realize leads to dogmatism. And dogmatism is the epitome of intellectual laziness. Dogmatism is break down of communication. Dogmatism is source of conflict. Dogmatism is the root of violence.

But I suppose it is easy to just shake your head at the generation younger than you, thinking that they don't know how good they have it.

I was playing pool with another coworker once. We were commiserating about the problems we had going on in our respective lives. An older coworker was in the room with us. He smiled politely as we spoke with him. I think it was me that asked him about his past. He told us that he was from Vietnam and that he was born before the war and that he was the oldest of his family. He spoke of the struggle that he went through to survive. He spoke of how he struggled and worked as to teen to take care of his family. He spoke lovingly of his mother that sacrificed everything to allow them to survive.

I wonder how he looked at us. Weak? Undisciplined? I'll never know. All he did was just smile.