My favourite students...

Most of these are just their names, transliterated into English. I do my best to make sure they don't clue in. I hope one day Max Joo gets a job in New York, where he belongs.

Max Power

The Bat Cave

Our days at the Goshitel were numbered. Training was over, work had started and we had a week to leave the Goshitel closet and find a place of our own.

After doing some research, it seemed that $600-700 was the average price of a place, but they wanted a year contract and a minimum $5000 key money deposit.

Renting a room in Seoul was about $500 a month, but that is almost entirely limited to the sleazy, scummy white neighbourhood, Itaewon.

In the last minute, I saw an ad for a place for $175, including all utilities. Was it too good to be true?

You tell me...

A Christmas Slaying

The theme of the photo contest was Christmas in Korea. I didn't have much time, so I headed down to City Hall where there was a giant outdoor skating rink hoping to find something interesting. I had my tripod and giant lens and I placed myself along the sideboards, snapping pictures of the skaters.

Lonely looking foreigner, hiding in a puffy jacket, creeping behind the sideboards taking numerous photos of chubby Korean kids skating with his giant zoom lens and then looking delighted as he checks the LCD screen moments later. I was one moustache away from being a police sketch.

20 minutes into it, I hadn't got any got shots and a young Korean couple politely asked me where I was from and told me, "Wow. You take many photos of children."

Suddenly, I saw my chance to win the contest. There on the rink was a figure-skating Korean Santa. But at that moment, the whistle blew and the rink cleared as the Zamboni began to clean the ice. I spied Santa eating some Ramen and thought this was my chance. Over the next few minutes, I snapped a few photos of Korean Santa doing various un-Santa like activities. Candid & Korean, these shots could be my chance to win the contest.

After I got the last photo, Santa walked over to me. I was sure he wanted to see the photos that I had taken.

"Delete", he said.

"What?"

"Delete photo. Now"

"No", I replied. "Look at them. There are some nice photos", I offered, turning on the LCD.

"Delete now!!" Santa yelled, simultaneously pulling a knife out of his Santa suit.

My jaw dropped. My heart was pounding. I panicked. I couldn't think. I hesitated.

"B..but", I stammered.

"NOW!!" he yelled impatiently, grabbing my sleeve with his other hand, and pushing the knife closer to me.

There was nothing else for me to do.

"Ok ok!" I yelled. "I delete! I delete!"

Slowly, I raised the camera for him to see, flipped it on and turned on the format menu. Then suddenly I faked left and went right! I sharply shook my arm and managed to free it and bolted.

Santa took chase.

What had I done?

I do not know how the brain works in such moments, when making split decisions. I remember reading Blink a few years back, and it explained that in spontaneous decisions we can accurately gauge the situation using something called 'thin-slicing'. I believe that in the moment that I nearly hit the delete button, I 'thin-sliced' the following analysis of the situation.


I had him 3-2. The baby freeze as usual, put me at an advantage. Now, back to the story...

With my head down I was running through the crowd, screaming the entire time "Fuck off Santa!" and "He's got a knife!". Santa, hobbling on his skates, followed at an impressive speed. My initial hope was that as soon as I began running he'd give up, after all, how much more ridiculous could this situation become? Santa chasing me on his skates down the streets of Seoul firing sparks from his skates? But it seemed he was intent on deleting those photos and maybe stabbing me a little. I had to take some kind of drastic action.

I dodged a few people completely oblivious to the situation, and then found myself at the entrance that the Zamboni took to get on the ice rink. There were some officials there and some police type traffic barriers which were used to make a lane for the Zamboni. This is where I'd make my final stand. I grabbed a police barrier and pulled it to cut Santa off from me. Santa stopped his chase and froze about 15 feet on the other side of the barrier. I began screaming and pleading with everyone, "Help me!" "He's got a knife!"

It was at this point, that the crowd finally reacted....with laughter. What they saw was a skinny foreigner with a camera running through a crowd being chased by an old Santa on figure skates. Nobody understood what I was screaming. In fact, to all of them, I was probably adding more comedy to the situation by screaming in gibberish like some kind of old Warner Brothers cartoon. Meep Meep!

Now, maybe this was funny later when I thought about it. But at the time, I experienced first hand the kind of overwhelming helplessness that I'd previously only experienced vicariously through cheesy horror films. You know what scene I'm talking about. The stranded couple in a remote American town who are being tortured by a psychopathic serial killer, but when they escape their bloody hotel room and run to a gas station to try to get help, nobody understands or believes them. Then the killer enters and the townsfolk all say "Oh, hi Bob! Why, he's the town sheriff kids. He wouldn't hurt you." They get a pat on their head before they're dragged back to the room to have their guts torn out. Well, there I was, screaming for someone to help me and everyone was pointing and giggling. Who could have guessed that Santa was wielding a knife? He himself had clued in and had hidden the knife in his hand and sleeve.

But thank God, one person understood me and noticed the knife and yelled something in Korean. Then a few others responded and as more people began shouting, Santa looked left and right, and then escaped into the crowd.

But this was not over yet. I wanted justice. I grabbed some of the officials at the rink and told them I wanted them to call the police. I insisted that I wasn't leaving until someone called the police. Someone picked up their phone and pretended to make a call and then I got my pat on the head. "Go home", they told me. "It O.K. O.K? Where you from? Go home." And like that they turned their backs on me, laughing and tending to their business. I was livid.

I decided at that moment that as soon as I got back to Toronto I would pull this exact same stunt on an innocent Korean tourist, except dressed as a giant beaver. Try explaining that to the OPP in your Konglish. See how it feels when nobody believes you and laughs at you.

I returned to the rink where I had stashed my tripod, my hands shaking from the rage and adrenaline, and took some more photos. I had to calm down but I couldn't. All I could think about was exacting my revenge somewhere near Christie and Bloor this summer. I'll slap them over the head with my Beavertail and when they try explaining that to the police instead of a police report they'll just get a deep-fried pastry.

One of the officials approached me and grabbed me. "Let's go", he said.

I followed him across the entire rink to a small booth on the other side near the concession stands and skate rentals. They opened the door and inside was Santa Claus seated on a stool, surrounded by police officers and security. As soon as our gaze locked both our eyes opened wide in recognition of each other.

"DEEELLLLEEETTTTEE!" he yelled, jumping off the stool, lunging at me.

The cops and security grabbed Santa and sat him back down and people began asking me questions in a mixture of Korean and very broken English. I couldn't make sense of any of it, but I did see that Santa's knife had been taken away and one of the officers was holding it. They asked me if I had taken photos of Sanata and I told them that yes, I was a reporter and I was doing a story on Christmas in Korea.

They were asking me some more questions, something about what I wanted to do. I told them I wanted Santa to get the electric chair. They nodded, obviously not understanding a word, and we all left the booth. I wasn't sure where we were going, but wherever it was, Santa wasn't happy, and he began to sprint ahead to try and escape and the cops shouted after him and began to chase him down. We eventually ended up at Santa's backpack, where he changed into street clothes and we continued our walk. I was unable to communicate with anybody and I had no idea what was next. We kept walking, with Santa occasionally trying to sprint ahead and lose the police while they would chase him and signal for me to follow. We ended up at a small police station where they sat him down and began checking his ID and filing paperwork. Once again, when nobody was looking, Santa lunged at me screaming "DELETE! DELETE!" and they held him down.

Finally, realizing how ridiculous the situation was, I walked up to him while he was seated and whipped out my scolding finger and reprimanded him in front of the mixture of cops and criminals at the station.

"BAD SANTA! BAD BAD SANTA! SANTA GIVES PRESENTS! HE DOESN'T STAB PEOPLE!! "

At moments like this, language is unnecessary. Everyone at the station began to laugh. In a moment of true "What Christmas means to me" Hallmark-esque feel-good world unity, Koreans, Canadian, Criminals and Cops began to laugh. Ironically, the only one not partaking in the Christmas Spirit was Santa Claus himself, Kim Kringle.

A few minutes later, a younger female officer entered the room and asked me in English what was happening. I explained, and she told me to wait a moment, and that she would return and explain the entire situation to me in English. She left to speak to the other officers and to Jolly Old Saint Prick. Finally, she returned to me, unsure how to begin, and said, "Ok. Here is the situation. He....a psycho. You can go home now."

Good enough for me.

So I went home.

The Name is Roscoe, Tommy Roscoe

On my way home, a Korean businessman struck up a conversation with me in the subway. He was well dressed, carrying a laptop bag, and his English was excellent.

Someone told me once that if you get an offer to have dinner with Korean businessmen, you're in for a treat. They love to show off.

He asked me if I had a bit of time for a drink and food and well, although I was so busy, I guess I could. Cha-ching!

As we began our walk, he told me a little about himself. He used to be an ambassador, had been to Canada several times, and still kept in touch with a lot of international figures. Currently, he was involved in a large-scale sustainable energy project, managing a factory just outside of Seoul.

All of this of course meant that I would be sipping fine whiskey with my prime cuts of meat and that if all went well, I'd have someone to bail me out of jail when my irreverence finally caught up with me.

I inquired about the details of his fantastic life, but he told me to hold off on the conversation, and we'd discuss it all over drinks. He said he was also interested in opening a language school, and this is where I figured I fit in. My stomach rumbled in anticipation. No rice and kimchi for me tonight!

It was at this very moment that my guardian angel tried to give me a signal.

A car pulling out of a parking spot nearly hit us. Now, this sort of thing happens about 200 times a day in Seoul. Crossing the street here is like playing Frogger except that the cars are all sub-compact Hyundais, so you're never really that worried.

However, while I leapfrogged forward and dodged death, my friend reacted differently. He Tae-Kwan-chopped the hood, then stood in front of the car to prevent the car's escape and began screaming at the driver. The driver came out and a lengthy exchange took place in Korean. A crowd began to gather. My friend took out his cell phone and called the police. He explained to me in English that he was friends with the chief of police and that this young aggressive driver needed to be made an example of. For 20 minutes he stood there, yelling and denouncing the driver, and I scanned the crowd for some kind of help. What was happening here? Did nobody speak English.

Why wasn't this situation in my survival Korean book? "Which way to the bathroom?" is in there, even though the 'I have to pee dance' is universally understood and when they explain to you in Korean where the bathroom is you don't understand a single word anyways and some 100 year old lady finally grabs your hand and takes you there at the end of this exercise in futility. However, "Is that guy there that just karate chopped that Hyundai crazy, and if so, should I still let him buy me dinner?" is NEVER in the guidebook, even though that seems to happen all the time.

But something was wrong here.

Either this guy was exercising the kind of indignation and obstinance that only a high powered business man is allowed, or he was fucking bananas. Was this Old Boy, or Oh Boy!?


I flashed back to New Years Eve in New York City 6 years ago when a rich uncle of a friend took us to a fancy Italian restaurant for lunch. We knew him as "The Don". During the meal, the waiter had accidentally bumped him while pouring his glass of San Pellegrino and for the next 20 minutes he raised all hell. First, he just tried to get the waiter fired for this mistake, then later I think he demanded his entire family be flown over from Sicily to be executed and buried in the Nevada desert.

Was this the same thing? Yes, yes.. At this moment I felt the same mix of discomfort, fear and urgency to get on with my meal that I did that day in New York. Perhaps this was all textbook behavior for the wealthy. Of course, The Don did die of a massive coke overdose two years later.

Thankfully, the police arrived, took a statement, and after only a little more yelling, we were on our way.

We resumed our search for a place to eat. At this point, I have to confess that this blog is not chronologically accurate. All of this took place in November, when I still lived in a ritzy hotel in the trendiest part of Seoul. The area is littered with expensive restaurants, poseurs sipping martinis, and business men throwing up their soju and 200 dollar meals on the sidewalks.

However, my friend kept insisting he couldn't find the specific restaurant he was looking for. On top of that, he needed an ATM.

I pointed out an ATM, and he approached it, stared at it, made faces, then walked away. "This won't do" he said. This ATM needs a bank card. I need an ATM that doesn't need a card."

Oh yeah. One of those.

Now, I'll admit that Korea is very technologically advanced. People watch TV on their cell phones and generally it seems like it's impossible to buy anything that doesn't take batteries - my shoes are recharging as I write this. Also, people are very friendly and seem well off. Someone once caught me eyeballing their orange and gave me one. However, even taking these two things into account, I'm not an idiot. There is no ATM that is either
a) so advanced or
b) so friendly
that it will give you money without a bank card.

However, he insisted on finding this mythical ATM and I began looking for my escape route. I had to ditch this weirdo. Just as I found the right alley, lo and behold, he found an ATM, placed his finger on it, and it spat out a huge wad of cash. It seems I had misjudged this fine, upstanding citizen.

Eventually we found our restaurant. Dammit. I was incredibly disappointed. A cheap fried chicken place deep in the bowels of a high rise. He ordered some chicken and beer for us and at last we could finally have our talk.

I asked him about his factory and his renewable energy project. He explained that it wasn't important, and begin pulling out business cards. Tens of business cards. Hundreds of business cards. He showed them to me. Chief of Police. Ambassador to Korea. CEO of Samsung. He had them all. What do you think of that he demanded? Sure, that's great. Say, where in Canada did you say visited?

"Vermontreal" he said, casually opening his laptop bag to reveal hundreds of old newspapers where a golden shiny laptop definitely should have been.

Uh oh.

The chicken arrived. My survival instincts kicked in and I began eating as much chicken and drinking as much beer as I could. The beer would give me the false sense of confidence that I could throw a car at this man to save my life if I needed to, and the steroids in this chicken might help that come true.

The subject moved to language schools. "So, you're a teacher", he said, staring straight at me. "Tell me, what is the number 2 language school in Korea?"

"Huh?"

"I repeat. Tell me, what is the number 2 language school in Korea! " he said, moving in closer.

"What? I've been here two weeks. I don't know."

"The Wall street institute is number one he said, getting angry. Which school is number 2?!"

"I have no idea", I said, trying to suck all the steroid out of my chicken wing.

"So you're telling me that you are an English teacher and you don't know!? ", he screamed . "How's that possible. You're not an English teacher. you're starting to sound like a double agent!"

I knew what to do here. While conventional wisdom tells you that you can't fight fire with fire, that logic only applies to situations that actually are logical.

"Oh am I? " I yelled indignantly. I grabbed the business card of the chief of police. Call Mr. Kim right now, and have him run a check on me. "Excuse me I said standing up abruptly, I need to use the bathroom!"

I stood up and immediately the waiter approached and bowed. I turned to face him. "Where is the bathroom' I asked loudly and as he began answering me, out of the corner of my mouth, I desperately began whispering 'help me, this man is crazy'. the waiter looked confused. 'help me, i need to escape' the waiter smiled embarrassedly.

He made an apologetic face and pointed to the toilet. I went to the bathroom and washed my face. O.K., Roszkowski, how do we get out of this one...no no. Not Roszkowski. I'm a double agent. The name is Roscoe, Tommy Roscoe, and as such, i have access to the world's most advanced spy technology.

I returned to my seat, confident and ready.

My friend began questioning me again, but before he could finish his sentence, I raised my hand and interrupted him. "Moment", I said, "Someone's calling me."

Now, as I mentioned earlier. I had just arrived to Korea and didn't have a phone yet. But I did have a tube of chap stick.

I pulled out my chap stick, put it to my ear, and began to speak. I stared my friend right in the eye. I was banking on the fact that if he was crazy, then probably doctors and many others have told him this throughout the course of his life. If so, would he be unsure himself whether I was really having a conversation with a tube of chapstick, or whether I was a double agent. Would he call me on it?

"What?! I screamed into the chap stick? You forgot your keys again? Dammit, I'm having dinner. Fine fine fine, I'll be there in ten minutes"

"Excuse me", I said. "I've got to run back to the hotel. thanks for the beer, chicken and great conversation. Good luck with your factory."

I ran the whole way home, giggling like a little girl, but having saved the world from another supervillain and getting some fried chicken in the process.

This Old Goshitel

The time had come for us to move out of our centrally located luxury hotel and move into a student residence, known as a Goshitel in Korean.

I knew we were in trouble when someone in the know told us "You're moving out of the hotel, and into its closet."

But how bad could it really be? The deal included all the rice and ramen that we could eat, and the way I saw it, it was time to bring North American style partying, from the likes of Animal House, to these overworked Korean students. I could explain 'jocks' and 'nerds' to them. Of course, it wouldn't be quite the same, because they're all huge nerds, but I suppose the ones best at John Madden Football 2007 would have to be the jocks and they could knock the steamed rice and kimchi off of our trays as they walked past us in the kitchen. Once I worked out all the details, this would be one huge party, and I'd finally get the 'rez' experience that I never had myself going to university.

So did it pan out as I had envisioned?

No, there wasn't enough room for the keg.

Seoul Punk, aka SPUNK

I went to a punk rock show this weekend in Seoul, in trendy Hongdae, the best area in Seoul. The music was good, it's always interesting to see another country's take on a genre, and it was great to finally see a Korean punk rocker. At this punk show, attended by about 50% foreigners and 50% Koreans there was just one Korean punk. With tattoos, mohawk, piercings, and most importantly, surgical mask with skull and crossbones, his life in Korea must truly be difficult. In a country so conformist that I notice each rare occasion that someone is wearing a colourful jacket on the subway, rather than the standard issue black or gray, dressing like a punk in public is akin to looking like Dennis Smith, the Tigerman.

Keep in mind, Korea is not Japan. Don't let the chopsticks fool you. There are no neighbourhoods teeming with bizarre subcultures celebrating some obscure era of American culture. People her eare well dressed, but dressed the same, and they all seem to listen to the same terrible pop music. As a friend of mine once put it, this is a country about to have its cultural revolution. I can only hope that very soon, the future Korean Beatles will have put down their Nintendos to brew up a batch of LSD and shock this country.

But I digress, or I am about to.

This conformity in dress doesn't help my ability to tell Koreans apart. I need the extra visual cues. Having the same hairstyles, clothes, body types, and both men and women giggling when I ask where the subway is, has the potential for some very embarrassing mistakes. I'm not just talking about accidentally giving a file to the wrong coworker. I mean accidentally marrying a member of Korea's hit boy-band, Shinhwa, and only coming to the realization many years later as I put the bottles of Nivea for MEN moisturizer in the recycling bin.

Oh, how typical, you say! How cliche and ignorant of you! We've heard this so many times before. And this is where the story of a Korean punk rock concert and my semi-racist musings converge and I redeem myself to surprise you, the reader with my tenderness and insight.

As the next act took to the stage, I spied the bassist of this band, and recognized him!
And then I recognized him again.
And again.
Again.

These moments of recognition jarred my brain like a series of jabs from a heavyweight. And indeed, it was a heavyweight.




Fat Bald White Guy With a Goatee.

I thank you. I thought all Koreans looked the same, but truly, I cannot ever tell you apart, and therefore, you help to balance a racial stereotype that was unfair. I have met you many times in my life. You have fixed my computer, you have been my kindergarten teacher, you have sold me a camera in a shop, and you have sold me drugs in an alley. You have refused me entrance into your motorcycle gang, but then other times you have accepted me in your role playing club. You sometimes have tattoos and frighten me, you sometimes have glasses and a Hawaii shirt and I want to hug you.

Next time I see you, I will buy you a beer.

I dedicate this to you and to the way that we both defeated racism today...

Innovation in Design

Fresh off my artistic success of being published in the newspaper, I decided to attend the Seoul Design Show to network with fellow artists, such as myself, to find inspiration in the work of some established designers, and to provide pep-talks for up and comers.

It was time to ditch my old friends and meet new ones more akin to me, people who aren't afraid to hide behind their 500 dollar glasses and who understand the importance of wearing a scarf at all times.

Brilliant. A tall person and someone slightly shorter can finally sit together, comfortably. This is why I love design.
Yes, we've all seen romantic his/her toilets before, for couples that want to share every moment. But this model, back to back, is finally one for couples well into their marriage when the love is gone. Brilliant!

Pervert proof park benches. Amazing. That's 3 inch plexiglass. She couldn't even hear me, let alone feel my hot breath on her neck. Everyone's a winner!

Mysteriously, when nobody was looking, a calculator watch made it into a display.



The 'Samsung Home of the Future'. With the simple push of a button, this hyper-advanced techno-kitchen can read somebody's mind and instantly respond to their desire. Hello!