It was a full length black leather trench coat. Probably took a family of cattle to make it, judging from the size of it. The thing was enormous. Big enough enough to be car cover for a Cadillac, and it had been hanging untouched on the rack at Giuseppe's dry cleaning shop for just over a year.
After a month had passed since he'd cleaned it, Giuseppe tried the number the guy had given him when he dropped it off, but the number was no longer in service. And so Giuseppe had held onto the leather trench coat in case he showed up again, but he never did.
Cases like that weren't unheard of. People forgot about dry cleaning all the time. Like most dry cleaners, Giuseppe held on to any unclaimed article for a year. After that, he usually just donated whatever was left behind to the Salvation Army.
But the leather trench coat was different. It was gorgeous, well worn in, imposing, comfortable, and distinctive as hell. To give it to the Salvation Army where just anyone could walk away with it was almost sacrilegious. Such was the power of the leather trench coat that Giuseppe felt it needed to go to the right person. Someone who would appreciate it. Someone who would respect it. Someone who would wear it the way it ached to be worn.
Someone like Giuseppe.
He knew it fit. After it had been on his rack for six months, he allowed himself to try it on, and it was like it had been especially made for his frame (Think: the most imposing aspects of Luciano Pavarotti, The Undertaker, and an especially large bison all crammed together into one massive ass package.). And to Giuseppe's credit, he didn't hide the coat or duck any phone calls that may have been from its owner or spare any effort to help it find its way back to its rightful owner. He was an honorable man.
But he wasn't a man that was especially up on current events. If he were, he would have known that the owner of the leather trench coat was Han Seok Park also known as Park the Whale, and formerly known as Park the Shark, thousands of helpings of kimchi ago when he still fit that nickname, as well as considerably smaller trench coats.
The Whale was an upper level boss in the Kim family, one of the largest Korean crime syndicates on the east coast, and he had been missing since about a week after he'd dropped off his leather trench coat for cleaning. News of his vanishing had been in all the papers, as had speculation on what had become of him:
He was dead.
He'd turned state's witness.
He was on the run.
He was at the bottom of the Hudson.
He was in the bulgogi in half the Korean restaurants in New York.
He was gone.
But since he never read the papers, Giuseppe wasn't aware of any of it. Nor was he aware of the tales of the Whale and how thoroughly he'd been feared. All the other families in the Korean mafia feared him like a three-legged hyena feared a lion. He walked through Little Korea like he owned the place, cutting one badass swath in his gargantuan leather trench coat. When he walked the streets, people scattered like vampires at the first hint of dawn. Even at night, there was no mistaking his frame. Nobody was as big as the Whale.
Except for Giuseppe.
And so when he started wearing his trench coat out on the streets, people couldn't believe it.
It was the whale!
It was the ghost of the Whale!
The Whale was back from the dead, back for vengeance!
They never even saw his face. They just saw that massive body and that enormous coat, and their overactive, superstitious imaginations took care of the rest. Night after night, everyone who saw him ran for their life.
Except for the Whale himself.
One night he approached Giuseppe and told him that he was the rightful owner of the coat, that he had dropped it off just before he left his life of crime and changed his identity.
Giuseppe was taken aback, so the Whale told him the story of his conversion. While sleeping, he had received a vision too deep to ignore and too profound to completely understand. But the unmistakable message of the vision was that he was to renounce crime and become a Buddhist monk. And so he set about doing just that.
Secretly.
However, as the Whale, it was impossible to just disappear, so he completely changed his appearance: liposuction, a stomach stapling procedure, plastic surgery, hair implants. Now, instead of the body of the Whale, he was built like a power forward. And with his wholly different appearance, he lived out in the open in New York City, completely anonymous in the town he once ruled with his mere presence.
He was satisfied with his transition, but troubled by the reemergence of his leather trench coat. It reminded him too much of his former life, and he wanted it back so he could destroy it and have closure.
No problem, said Giuseppe. Just give me the ticket.
But the ticket was long gone, so Giuseppe told him no deal.
However, the incident had had an impact on him. He decided that he would donate the leather trench coat to the Salvation Army after all. He told the erstwhile Whale which location he would do it at so that he could buy it the moment they put it on the floor.
And he did. And then the former Korean crime lord bought the leather trench coat and buried it in his back yard, and that was the end of the Whale.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
June 29 - Dear Neighbor
Dear neighbor,
Hi. My name is Jerry. I live in the building across the street.
We haven't met yet, but I'm pretty sure you've seen me before. In fact, that's why I'm writing to you now.
Actually, I've been meaning to get in touch with you for quite some time, but after what happened this morning I don't think I can put it off any longer. I think you know what I'm talking about, right?
If you'll allow me to be blunt, I'll come straight to the point. I wasn't masturbating, at least not when (I think) you saw me.
But even if I was (and I'm not admitting anything, ha ha!) I think I could be forgiven, don't you? After all, you looked good. Like, really good. Seriously, I don't think I've ever seen someone make hanging the laundry look so sexy. It was like an Aerosmith video. I mean, do you know of anyone else who does her laundry while wearing a halter top? If you do, give me her number! Ha ha.
Sorry, maybe we (you?) aren't ready to laugh about this yet. If so, that's understandable. To be honest, I'm not sure how I would feel if I looked across the street and (thought I) saw someone masturbating to me: Shocked? Probably. Alarmed? Maybe. Curious? Possibly. But maybe also a little bit flattered, too. Am I getting close?
Judging from your reaction this morning, I'd say probably not. And if that's the case, I feel bad. It wasn't my intention to make you uncomfortable.
And by the way, I may as well come clean. OK. Yes, I was giving myself the business. There, I said it. I admit it. Of course I was. Could masturbation possibly be mistaken for anything else? I'm guilty. Guilty, I tell you! I throw myself on the mercy of the court, your honor! Ha ha!
But I wasn't doing it to you, at least not at first. Who was I doing it to, you ask? I'll give you a clue: I'd just been watching Friends. (No, it wasn't David Schwimmer! LOL!) Give up? Believe it or not, it was Phoebe. I know she's not most people's first 'wank bank' choice, but that's never made sense to me. She's quirky and fun and completely un-self-conscious. I think she would be a very gentle and giving lover. Much better than Rachel or Monica, not that I would say no to either (or both?) or them. Hubba hubba!
But yeah, I was having my usual Phoebe Fantasy or the Phoeb-fant as I call it on my blog. Sparing you the details, it usually starts off with me comforting Phoebe after an especially ill-received gig at the coffee shop and then ends up with her "comforting me", if you catch my drift, and if you don't I tell you: I'm talking about sex. You know, "boning."
Anyway, it's a great fantasy, but it was a rerun (and so was the episode of Friends that inspired it). And don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with reruns. They get us through the evening, am I right? But sometimes they make me feel like I'm settling, like I'm not getting the most out of the experience. Do you ever feel the same way?
I'm guessing no, at least judging by how often you watch Murder, She Wrote. And yes, I know you're not watching the same episode over and over again, but let's not kid ourselves. That show is pretty formulaic. You may as well be watching the same episode, especially during seasons 3 and 4. I'm not sure which season you're on, though. My telescope is good, but (unfortunately!) it ain't that good : (
Anyway, my morning Phoeb-fant was off to a wonderful start, and I was feeling especially uninhibited, and I got swept up in the moment and that's how I ended up on the balcony, full Monty style.
And then, there you were. You and your laundry.
And I forgot all about the Phoeb-fant right away. There was just something sensual about the way you were hanging up your knee-high stockings and blouses. It got to me. I've never seen an older woman move like you before. Let me tell you, girl: You may have a walker, but that walker does not have you!
Anyway, I wouldn't presume to ask your forgiveness, but I hope that this letter will help you understand that I'm not just some perv that makes a habit out of masturbating to his neighbors while they hang up their laundry. Like I said, I just got caught up in the moment. I assure you I will try not to let it happen again.
And if I was wrong and you didn't actually see me masturbating, please disregard this letter.
Best,
Jerry
Hi. My name is Jerry. I live in the building across the street.
We haven't met yet, but I'm pretty sure you've seen me before. In fact, that's why I'm writing to you now.
Actually, I've been meaning to get in touch with you for quite some time, but after what happened this morning I don't think I can put it off any longer. I think you know what I'm talking about, right?
If you'll allow me to be blunt, I'll come straight to the point. I wasn't masturbating, at least not when (I think) you saw me.
But even if I was (and I'm not admitting anything, ha ha!) I think I could be forgiven, don't you? After all, you looked good. Like, really good. Seriously, I don't think I've ever seen someone make hanging the laundry look so sexy. It was like an Aerosmith video. I mean, do you know of anyone else who does her laundry while wearing a halter top? If you do, give me her number! Ha ha.
Sorry, maybe we (you?) aren't ready to laugh about this yet. If so, that's understandable. To be honest, I'm not sure how I would feel if I looked across the street and (thought I) saw someone masturbating to me: Shocked? Probably. Alarmed? Maybe. Curious? Possibly. But maybe also a little bit flattered, too. Am I getting close?
Judging from your reaction this morning, I'd say probably not. And if that's the case, I feel bad. It wasn't my intention to make you uncomfortable.
And by the way, I may as well come clean. OK. Yes, I was giving myself the business. There, I said it. I admit it. Of course I was. Could masturbation possibly be mistaken for anything else? I'm guilty. Guilty, I tell you! I throw myself on the mercy of the court, your honor! Ha ha!
But I wasn't doing it to you, at least not at first. Who was I doing it to, you ask? I'll give you a clue: I'd just been watching Friends. (No, it wasn't David Schwimmer! LOL!) Give up? Believe it or not, it was Phoebe. I know she's not most people's first 'wank bank' choice, but that's never made sense to me. She's quirky and fun and completely un-self-conscious. I think she would be a very gentle and giving lover. Much better than Rachel or Monica, not that I would say no to either (or both?) or them. Hubba hubba!
But yeah, I was having my usual Phoebe Fantasy or the Phoeb-fant as I call it on my blog. Sparing you the details, it usually starts off with me comforting Phoebe after an especially ill-received gig at the coffee shop and then ends up with her "comforting me", if you catch my drift, and if you don't I tell you: I'm talking about sex. You know, "boning."
Anyway, it's a great fantasy, but it was a rerun (and so was the episode of Friends that inspired it). And don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with reruns. They get us through the evening, am I right? But sometimes they make me feel like I'm settling, like I'm not getting the most out of the experience. Do you ever feel the same way?
I'm guessing no, at least judging by how often you watch Murder, She Wrote. And yes, I know you're not watching the same episode over and over again, but let's not kid ourselves. That show is pretty formulaic. You may as well be watching the same episode, especially during seasons 3 and 4. I'm not sure which season you're on, though. My telescope is good, but (unfortunately!) it ain't that good : (
Anyway, my morning Phoeb-fant was off to a wonderful start, and I was feeling especially uninhibited, and I got swept up in the moment and that's how I ended up on the balcony, full Monty style.
And then, there you were. You and your laundry.
And I forgot all about the Phoeb-fant right away. There was just something sensual about the way you were hanging up your knee-high stockings and blouses. It got to me. I've never seen an older woman move like you before. Let me tell you, girl: You may have a walker, but that walker does not have you!
Anyway, I wouldn't presume to ask your forgiveness, but I hope that this letter will help you understand that I'm not just some perv that makes a habit out of masturbating to his neighbors while they hang up their laundry. Like I said, I just got caught up in the moment. I assure you I will try not to let it happen again.
And if I was wrong and you didn't actually see me masturbating, please disregard this letter.
Best,
Jerry
Monday, June 28, 2010
June 28 - The New Arrival
I got your message, but give me the basics again. Things have been crazy around here.
Come on, I thought you guys knew everything.
Ha ha. I wish, but no. You must be thinking about the boss.
Ha ha. Yeah, I guess so.
Ha ha. So you just arrived last week, right? And as I understand it, your wife arrived--(he checks the monitor)--Wow. Quite some time ago. Is this right? 17 years?
If you say so. Sounds right, I guess, but it also sounds impossible, if that makes any sense.
Ha ha. We get that a lot.
I'll bet.
So, what's your question again?
Well, as you probably know, I remarried. Not too long after my first wife, um--
--left.
Right. Ha ha. Left, right? Sorry. But um, yeah. My second wife isn't here yet, and actually probably won't be for quite some time.
(The caseworker waits patiently for him to finish.)
So, like, how does this work? Do I pick things up again with my first wife, or do I wait around for my second wife, or, like. You know? You get what I'm asking, right?
I think so. Things get a bit complicated when there are considerably different departure dates for spouses, especially when there are remarriages involved. In general, there's no all-encompassing policy. We try to help each group through its particular situation on a case by case basis.
So, I won't have to return to my first wife.
You don't want to?
Oh, God no. Oh. Sorry.
Quite all right.
But no. I mean, it was great seeing her at my welcome reception. And by the way, WOW! That was incredible! Did you help organize that?
A bit, yeah.
Well, wow. Just. Wow. And the guy singing Hound Dog. Was that really . . . ?
Yes.
Amazing. You guys know how to make a guy feel welcome.
This is a big change for most people. We want to get you off on the right foot.
Well, mission accomplished.
Glad you enjoyed it.
I did. But yeah, like I was saying, it was great seeing my ex-wife again. But I mean, I don't really want to go down that road again. Don't get me wrong. I loved her dearly, but when she left, well, this is going to sound horrible to say, but . . .
It's best to be honest.
Well, it was kind of a relief.
Really?
Well, substitute 'relief' with 'the best thing that ever happened to me' and 'kind of' with 'unquestionably.'
Ah.
See, I'd had my eye on #2 for quite some time. And let's just say that when the position became available again, I was more than ready to fill it with her.
(Looking at the monitor) Well actually, after pulling up your ex-wife's file, it looks like that will work out great.
Oh yeah? Why's that?
Well, since arriving here, she's gotten back together with her first husband.
Oh . . . Wait! What?
Her first husband?
What are you talking about, first husband? I was her first husband.
Not according to our records.
Well, there must be a mistake.
No.
But--That--She--
I can see this comes as a shock. If it makes you feel any better, you're far from the first person this has happened to. And there are countless legitimate reasons why she might have kept that part of her life from you.
Oh yeah? Name three.
Ha ha. There will be plenty of time for that later. Besides, you're more interested in wife #2 anyway, right?
I guess so.
Come on, keep your chin up. You want an update on her?
We can do that?
We try to limit that kind of thing for a lot of reasons, but in the first few weeks it can be a comfort for new arrivals to know that everything is OK back home.
OK, yeah. Sure.
All right, then. Just give me a minute. (He looks at the monitor.) Yep, there she is . . . Ooh.
What ooh? Is everything OK?
Um, yeah. She's fine. She's fine. It's just that--
What?
(To himself) Wow, that was quick.
(Urgent look)
Sorry. Um. It looks like she's found someone else.
Are you serious?
I'm afraid so. I'm sorry. I should've known this was a bad idea.
Who? Who is it?
Really, I apologize. This was a bad idea.
Who?
I really don't think you should worry about that. It's not good for you. Besides, there's nothing you can do about it.
I could haunt him.
Ha ha. Yeah, we really don't sanction that kind of behavior. Besides, who said it was a him?
You have got to be kidding me.
I am not kidding you.
Is she good looking?
Does it matter?
I don't know. I haven't decided yet.
Ha ha. Let it go. Don't torture yourself. It's not healthy. Besides, you've got a lot going for yourself. You'll meet somebody new.
Yeah, right.
You will. It'll just take some time. And believe me, you've got all the time in the world.
Come on, I thought you guys knew everything.
Ha ha. I wish, but no. You must be thinking about the boss.
Ha ha. Yeah, I guess so.
Ha ha. So you just arrived last week, right? And as I understand it, your wife arrived--(he checks the monitor)--Wow. Quite some time ago. Is this right? 17 years?
If you say so. Sounds right, I guess, but it also sounds impossible, if that makes any sense.
Ha ha. We get that a lot.
I'll bet.
So, what's your question again?
Well, as you probably know, I remarried. Not too long after my first wife, um--
--left.
Right. Ha ha. Left, right? Sorry. But um, yeah. My second wife isn't here yet, and actually probably won't be for quite some time.
(The caseworker waits patiently for him to finish.)
So, like, how does this work? Do I pick things up again with my first wife, or do I wait around for my second wife, or, like. You know? You get what I'm asking, right?
I think so. Things get a bit complicated when there are considerably different departure dates for spouses, especially when there are remarriages involved. In general, there's no all-encompassing policy. We try to help each group through its particular situation on a case by case basis.
So, I won't have to return to my first wife.
You don't want to?
Oh, God no. Oh. Sorry.
Quite all right.
But no. I mean, it was great seeing her at my welcome reception. And by the way, WOW! That was incredible! Did you help organize that?
A bit, yeah.
Well, wow. Just. Wow. And the guy singing Hound Dog. Was that really . . . ?
Yes.
Amazing. You guys know how to make a guy feel welcome.
This is a big change for most people. We want to get you off on the right foot.
Well, mission accomplished.
Glad you enjoyed it.
I did. But yeah, like I was saying, it was great seeing my ex-wife again. But I mean, I don't really want to go down that road again. Don't get me wrong. I loved her dearly, but when she left, well, this is going to sound horrible to say, but . . .
It's best to be honest.
Well, it was kind of a relief.
Really?
Well, substitute 'relief' with 'the best thing that ever happened to me' and 'kind of' with 'unquestionably.'
Ah.
See, I'd had my eye on #2 for quite some time. And let's just say that when the position became available again, I was more than ready to fill it with her.
(Looking at the monitor) Well actually, after pulling up your ex-wife's file, it looks like that will work out great.
Oh yeah? Why's that?
Well, since arriving here, she's gotten back together with her first husband.
Oh . . . Wait! What?
Her first husband?
What are you talking about, first husband? I was her first husband.
Not according to our records.
Well, there must be a mistake.
No.
But--That--She--
I can see this comes as a shock. If it makes you feel any better, you're far from the first person this has happened to. And there are countless legitimate reasons why she might have kept that part of her life from you.
Oh yeah? Name three.
Ha ha. There will be plenty of time for that later. Besides, you're more interested in wife #2 anyway, right?
I guess so.
Come on, keep your chin up. You want an update on her?
We can do that?
We try to limit that kind of thing for a lot of reasons, but in the first few weeks it can be a comfort for new arrivals to know that everything is OK back home.
OK, yeah. Sure.
All right, then. Just give me a minute. (He looks at the monitor.) Yep, there she is . . . Ooh.
What ooh? Is everything OK?
Um, yeah. She's fine. She's fine. It's just that--
What?
(To himself) Wow, that was quick.
(Urgent look)
Sorry. Um. It looks like she's found someone else.
Are you serious?
I'm afraid so. I'm sorry. I should've known this was a bad idea.
Who? Who is it?
Really, I apologize. This was a bad idea.
Who?
I really don't think you should worry about that. It's not good for you. Besides, there's nothing you can do about it.
I could haunt him.
Ha ha. Yeah, we really don't sanction that kind of behavior. Besides, who said it was a him?
You have got to be kidding me.
I am not kidding you.
Is she good looking?
Does it matter?
I don't know. I haven't decided yet.
Ha ha. Let it go. Don't torture yourself. It's not healthy. Besides, you've got a lot going for yourself. You'll meet somebody new.
Yeah, right.
You will. It'll just take some time. And believe me, you've got all the time in the world.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
June 27 - The Photographer
I'm at a gallery opening for a career retrospective of my work when a woman asks me the question.
"How does it make you feel?"
That's what everybody always asks me when they see my work, the photos I've taken in Rwanda, Haiti, Iraq, Sudan, Congo, Thailand, Russia, Gaza, etc. How does it make you feel?
But they already know what they think I should say, which is some sort of projection of how they think they would feel if their job was to take pictures of genocide, the work of death squads, the aftermath of natural disasters, and all the other stuff you see on the news every night.
Shell shocked, disturbed, depressed, words like that.
And it used to be that way, but the truth is it doesn't bother me anymore.
Sorry if that sounds blase, but it's true. I've been doing this work for almost 15 years. If I was still affected by it as much as I was when I started out, I would've killed myself years ago. And I don't know exactly when it was that I shut it all out, but I've gotten to the point where I don't even feel guilty about not caring anymore. This shit is just work to me. If I go out and I don't see something fucked up or disturbing, I'm not relieved. I'm disappointed.
It wasn't always this way, though. I still remember taking shots of child prostitutes younger than my nieces in Cambodia and laying in my bed that night crying.
Now when I see the same shit in Thailand I just scan the faces until I find a baby face that's visibly younger than the rest of them.
I remember seeing child soldiers in Congo and taking hundreds of shots and actually stressing over getting the exact right one, the one that captured the story, because it was important to me that people saw it, that people understood what was going on.
Now I just focus on the first barefoot kid I see with a machine gun and faraway eyes, snap the "loss of innocence" shot, and move on.
No matter where I go, when they see me with my camera, people always tell me in broken English to "show the world" what had happened, and it's their desperation that used to get me, and their belief that if people could just see the truth then they would have no choice but to do something real about it. And I can still remember taking it all to heart, feeling a responsibility to them.
Now I just wish they would shut the fuck up and let me do my job.
I remember shooting the aftermath of a suicide bomber in Iraq: 17 dead in a marketplace, five of them children. That was when I told my first wife I didn't want to bring a child into this world.
Now my second wife and I are expecting our third child in October.
I've shot a convicted adulterer getting stoned to death. I've shot Afghan girls with their faces scarred with acid. And I'm not going to stand here and say I'm not affected by it at all because that's not true. I'm still human. Yeah, I still get shaken sometimes. But I sleep fine every night.
And given the subject matter, it might sound strange to say this, but I enjoy what I do. Not in some disturbed morbid death-freak way. And not in some adrenaline junkie way, either. What I mean is I like getting a good shot. I feel good when I do my homework and I'm where I need to be when I need to be there and I capture the moment and I know that other people will see it.
It feels good.
For some reason, people are surprised when I make references to friends. They assume I should be a loner, but I'm not. I have plenty of friends, both in the media and otherwise.
I'm not incorrigibly cynical either. I give money to Oxfam and it's only partially out of guilt. I also think it will help in some small way, and I do want the world to be a better place. That's part of what drew me to this job. I wanted to show people the injustice and corruption and violence of the world and shake them out of their catatonia and move them to outrage and maybe even action.
But now? All this shit? It's just a job. And yeah I like it. And yeah, I do my best at it. But it doesn't really affect me. When I'm done at the end of the day, I leave it behind me.
And that's the truth. But people don't want to hear that. So I give them something that makes them feel OK and then we move on.
"A lot of what I see disturbs me, but that's part of the job."
"How does it make you feel?"
That's what everybody always asks me when they see my work, the photos I've taken in Rwanda, Haiti, Iraq, Sudan, Congo, Thailand, Russia, Gaza, etc. How does it make you feel?
But they already know what they think I should say, which is some sort of projection of how they think they would feel if their job was to take pictures of genocide, the work of death squads, the aftermath of natural disasters, and all the other stuff you see on the news every night.
Shell shocked, disturbed, depressed, words like that.
And it used to be that way, but the truth is it doesn't bother me anymore.
Sorry if that sounds blase, but it's true. I've been doing this work for almost 15 years. If I was still affected by it as much as I was when I started out, I would've killed myself years ago. And I don't know exactly when it was that I shut it all out, but I've gotten to the point where I don't even feel guilty about not caring anymore. This shit is just work to me. If I go out and I don't see something fucked up or disturbing, I'm not relieved. I'm disappointed.
It wasn't always this way, though. I still remember taking shots of child prostitutes younger than my nieces in Cambodia and laying in my bed that night crying.
Now when I see the same shit in Thailand I just scan the faces until I find a baby face that's visibly younger than the rest of them.
I remember seeing child soldiers in Congo and taking hundreds of shots and actually stressing over getting the exact right one, the one that captured the story, because it was important to me that people saw it, that people understood what was going on.
Now I just focus on the first barefoot kid I see with a machine gun and faraway eyes, snap the "loss of innocence" shot, and move on.
No matter where I go, when they see me with my camera, people always tell me in broken English to "show the world" what had happened, and it's their desperation that used to get me, and their belief that if people could just see the truth then they would have no choice but to do something real about it. And I can still remember taking it all to heart, feeling a responsibility to them.
Now I just wish they would shut the fuck up and let me do my job.
I remember shooting the aftermath of a suicide bomber in Iraq: 17 dead in a marketplace, five of them children. That was when I told my first wife I didn't want to bring a child into this world.
Now my second wife and I are expecting our third child in October.
I've shot a convicted adulterer getting stoned to death. I've shot Afghan girls with their faces scarred with acid. And I'm not going to stand here and say I'm not affected by it at all because that's not true. I'm still human. Yeah, I still get shaken sometimes. But I sleep fine every night.
And given the subject matter, it might sound strange to say this, but I enjoy what I do. Not in some disturbed morbid death-freak way. And not in some adrenaline junkie way, either. What I mean is I like getting a good shot. I feel good when I do my homework and I'm where I need to be when I need to be there and I capture the moment and I know that other people will see it.
It feels good.
For some reason, people are surprised when I make references to friends. They assume I should be a loner, but I'm not. I have plenty of friends, both in the media and otherwise.
I'm not incorrigibly cynical either. I give money to Oxfam and it's only partially out of guilt. I also think it will help in some small way, and I do want the world to be a better place. That's part of what drew me to this job. I wanted to show people the injustice and corruption and violence of the world and shake them out of their catatonia and move them to outrage and maybe even action.
But now? All this shit? It's just a job. And yeah I like it. And yeah, I do my best at it. But it doesn't really affect me. When I'm done at the end of the day, I leave it behind me.
And that's the truth. But people don't want to hear that. So I give them something that makes them feel OK and then we move on.
"A lot of what I see disturbs me, but that's part of the job."
Saturday, June 26, 2010
June 26 - Chollima Returns to Glorious Nation After 2010 World Cup Triumph (as Reported by Korean Central News Agency of DPRK)
Following an exultant run of triumphant glories on the soccer fields of South Africa, Chollima, the national sporting pride of our glorious nation return to Pyongyang and the embrace of the Korean people.
Dear Leader Kim Jong-il congratulated coach Kim Jong Hun on the squad's successes in the World Cup. Its glories in South Africa surely represent a shining step forward in the advancement of excellence and unification of Korea.
Over the course of its two weeks in South Africa, Chollima continually and definitively demonstrated its unquestionable superiority over the imperialist squads of Japan, United States, and South Korea. Unlike Japan, DPRK's squad was not defeated by Holland. Similarly, in contrast to South Korea, it was thrashed neither soundly, nor at all by the rugged Argentinian squad. And the imperialist aggressors of the United States were so certain of DPRK's superiority that they dared not to face them, bringing further shame to their inferior nation.
Surely the rest of the world cannot deny the radiant splendor of Chollima and the glorious nation they represent. Innumerable teams that were once thought to represent the epitome of soccer excellence failed to score even one goal on the DPRK squad. Italy, Germany, France, England, Argentina, are among the many former champions who were unsuccessful in their attempts to outfox the impenetrable Juche-based defense of Chollima. Indeed, they failed to even enter our squad's half of the field.
In addition to the tenacious defense, which anyone who watched the glorious squad of DPRK play would surely compare to a brick wall, the Songun-inspired Chollima offense enjoyed triumphs too numerable to catalog. The most triumphant among them was surely Ji Yun Nam's scoring of the final goal of the game against a once-thought-to-be-undefeatable Brazilian squad. It cannot be doubted that this goal will go down in World Cup lore as the most glorious in history.
Because of the triumphs of the indomitable Chollima, which enjoyed boundless success and triumph because of the inspiration and guidance of our glorious leader who inspires and guides us all, it is an indisputable truth that the true champions of the 2010 World Cup are Chollima and Korea.
Dear Leader Kim Jong-il congratulated coach Kim Jong Hun on the squad's successes in the World Cup. Its glories in South Africa surely represent a shining step forward in the advancement of excellence and unification of Korea.
Over the course of its two weeks in South Africa, Chollima continually and definitively demonstrated its unquestionable superiority over the imperialist squads of Japan, United States, and South Korea. Unlike Japan, DPRK's squad was not defeated by Holland. Similarly, in contrast to South Korea, it was thrashed neither soundly, nor at all by the rugged Argentinian squad. And the imperialist aggressors of the United States were so certain of DPRK's superiority that they dared not to face them, bringing further shame to their inferior nation.
Surely the rest of the world cannot deny the radiant splendor of Chollima and the glorious nation they represent. Innumerable teams that were once thought to represent the epitome of soccer excellence failed to score even one goal on the DPRK squad. Italy, Germany, France, England, Argentina, are among the many former champions who were unsuccessful in their attempts to outfox the impenetrable Juche-based defense of Chollima. Indeed, they failed to even enter our squad's half of the field.
In addition to the tenacious defense, which anyone who watched the glorious squad of DPRK play would surely compare to a brick wall, the Songun-inspired Chollima offense enjoyed triumphs too numerable to catalog. The most triumphant among them was surely Ji Yun Nam's scoring of the final goal of the game against a once-thought-to-be-undefeatable Brazilian squad. It cannot be doubted that this goal will go down in World Cup lore as the most glorious in history.
Because of the triumphs of the indomitable Chollima, which enjoyed boundless success and triumph because of the inspiration and guidance of our glorious leader who inspires and guides us all, it is an indisputable truth that the true champions of the 2010 World Cup are Chollima and Korea.
Friday, June 25, 2010
June 25 - The End of the Interview
So it sounds like you have a pretty good understanding of what the position entails.
Yes. Mostly client development and maintenance, particularly in the private sector. Basically almost exactly what I was doing with Boeing.
Only without the TPS reporting system.
Ha ha. Right.
Well, as I'm sure Henderson already told you, we've narrowed it down to you and another candidate, and it won't be an easy decision.
Of course.
Both of you are tailor-made for the job, you come highly recommended from people we trust in both the public and private sectors, and you clearly know the industry.
Thank you.
I hope you'll indulge me one final question. It's a bit old school, but . . .
Of course. Please.
What would you say is your biggest weakness?
(chews his lip) My biggest weakness . . .
(raises his eyebrows)
Wow, that's not easy. But I guess I'd have to say my biggest weakness is . . . CHEESECAKE!!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!
Ha ha ha ha.
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!
Ha ha.
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!
(rubs under his eyes)
HA HA HA Ha Ha ha ha . . . Cheesecake . . . Whoo, ha ha.
Well, thank you for your time. We'll be in touch.
Yes. Mostly client development and maintenance, particularly in the private sector. Basically almost exactly what I was doing with Boeing.
Only without the TPS reporting system.
Ha ha. Right.
Well, as I'm sure Henderson already told you, we've narrowed it down to you and another candidate, and it won't be an easy decision.
Of course.
Both of you are tailor-made for the job, you come highly recommended from people we trust in both the public and private sectors, and you clearly know the industry.
Thank you.
I hope you'll indulge me one final question. It's a bit old school, but . . .
Of course. Please.
What would you say is your biggest weakness?
(chews his lip) My biggest weakness . . .
(raises his eyebrows)
Wow, that's not easy. But I guess I'd have to say my biggest weakness is . . . CHEESECAKE!!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!
Ha ha ha ha.
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!
Ha ha.
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!
(rubs under his eyes)
HA HA HA Ha Ha ha ha . . . Cheesecake . . . Whoo, ha ha.
Well, thank you for your time. We'll be in touch.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
June 24 - Beefy Blows off the Stress
Music gave John "Beefy" Yonezawa more joy than anything in the world.
It had always been that way. Music made him free. Whenever he played his trumpet he closed his eyes and it was like towering mountains, crashing seas, soaring landscapes, majesty, grandiosity, monumental beauty on an epic scale.
And he was good. Solidly good. Good enough to play professionally and quit his day job and have a respectable career.
But he wasn't stellar. He was a solid B or even B+, but not an A. Not the next level. If he were a baseball player, he would be single A, maybe double A. But not Major League.
And he was OK with that, he was OK not being on the cover of Downbeat and recording on Blue Note. It wasn't that he lacked ambition; he just wanted to play. And the fact that he could actually make a living doing so was the biggest cherry imaginable on an already unbelievable cake.
Everything changed on the night when his wife was in a car accident and had to be taken to the hospital. It didn't turn out to be anything serious, the accident, but at the time it was very stressful for him. He was just about to go onstage, when the police called him from the emergency room and told him that his wife had been in an accident but that she was fine. He even talked to her and she herself insisted she was fine and that he should play. And she sounded convincing and he believed her when she said she was OK.
But he didn't know she was OK, not when he took the stage or at any point during his set, but what could he do? He had a gig and he was a professional. He played.
And the stress he felt that evening had a profound effect on his playing. It gave his playing an extra edge, an adrenalin spike, a 100-proof shot of raw emotion.
The fans noticed it and responded. The ovations he and his combo received that night were unlike anything they'd ever gotten.
His manager noticed it too.
And she also noticed its absence: A week after Beefy's wife's accident, when everything was back to normal and Beefy's wife really was fine and Beefy's combo had its next gig, his playing had lost that edge, that tension. It was still good, but it didn't pack that same urgency. The audience still liked him and his combo, though. They just weren't as enthusiastic as they had been on the night of the accident because he wasn't as good.
A few weeks later, the manager of the club they were playing in accused Beefy and his combo of arriving late to the venue, which was patently untrue. Beefy was never late. However, the manager threatened to not pay them unless they played an extra 30 minute set.
The argument was still unresolved as they took the stage, and Beefy blew the audience away. So jaw-rattling was his performance that the club's manager backed down immediately and apologized. He plied them with free drinks and told them not to worry about playing the extra set--just play again next Saturday, any Saturday. Just come back.
His mind at ease, Beefy and his combo took the stage for the second set, and it was good--but not nearly as good as it had been when his stress level was so high because of the argument.
This confirmed his manager's theory about stress being what brought about the radical improvements in his performance. And so from there, it was an easy managerial decision--and one she kept from Beefy--to keep him under as much stress as possible whenever he performed.
For his solo east coast tour, she "lost" his trumpet and gave him a shoddy replacement. She also booked him in rat-trap hotels in sketchy neighborhoods, and secretly paid his neighbors to keep him up all night long by (pretending like they were) having sex.
It worked. The more stressful the conditions she created, the better his performances (and paydays). At least at first. The problem was that stress is a relative thing. In time, he got used to the terrible travel conditions. And when it got to the point where terrible, stressful conditions were the norm, they were no longer stressful and thus didn't have the same effect on his playing. And so his manager had to raise the bar.
She told him the small label his combo was on was considering dropping them. She conspired with his combo to threaten a walkout if he didn't meet their impossible to accomodate demands. She slipped sound mixers cash to walk out in the middle of a gig.
The increasingly stressful situations she put him in continued to keep his stress level--and performance quality--high, but he also continued to get used to it. And so she had to continue cranking up the tension. Next up: Rumors of his wife having an affair with her boss, the bassist, others. Bomb threats. She got his wife on board and talked her into telling him she'd found a lump.
It quickly got to the point where each night he played, the stress he was under was almost unfathomable. Imagine a sleep-deprived air traffic controller doing his job on a tightrope while people below are shooting off Roman candles. He was fried, constantly on the edge.
And yet his playing was spectacular, and people noticed. He and his combo were booked into bigger and bigger halls. Major labels came sniffing. Audiences grew exponentially, and the money kept rolling in.
And no matter what kind of stressful scenario his manager cooked up, eventually it became normal for him. She secretly hired a former interrogator from the CIA to devise ways to keep ratcheting up the tension for him. And every situation they came up with worked great until he got used to it, and then they had to find a way to kick it up a few notches. They hired someone to mug him. They demolished his bank records, stole his identity, started a fire at his house, and kidnapped his wife.
And then finally he snapped.
For the first time ever, Beefy was late to take the stage. It happened at a headlining gig at Lincoln Center.
His manager went to his dressing room to check on him, and he was catatonic. All his vital signs were fine, but he didn't move, didn't respond to anything. He just sat still and stared at the space in front of him like he was frozen in suspended animation.
He never played again, never talked again.
He was put into a nursing home, and that's where he is to this day.
Most days he sits by himself in a corner. His fingers twitch like they're pressing trumpet keys. He spends his days with his eyes closed, thinking about majestic mountains and crashing seas, playing the music he loves in his head. Smiling.
It had always been that way. Music made him free. Whenever he played his trumpet he closed his eyes and it was like towering mountains, crashing seas, soaring landscapes, majesty, grandiosity, monumental beauty on an epic scale.
And he was good. Solidly good. Good enough to play professionally and quit his day job and have a respectable career.
But he wasn't stellar. He was a solid B or even B+, but not an A. Not the next level. If he were a baseball player, he would be single A, maybe double A. But not Major League.
And he was OK with that, he was OK not being on the cover of Downbeat and recording on Blue Note. It wasn't that he lacked ambition; he just wanted to play. And the fact that he could actually make a living doing so was the biggest cherry imaginable on an already unbelievable cake.
Everything changed on the night when his wife was in a car accident and had to be taken to the hospital. It didn't turn out to be anything serious, the accident, but at the time it was very stressful for him. He was just about to go onstage, when the police called him from the emergency room and told him that his wife had been in an accident but that she was fine. He even talked to her and she herself insisted she was fine and that he should play. And she sounded convincing and he believed her when she said she was OK.
But he didn't know she was OK, not when he took the stage or at any point during his set, but what could he do? He had a gig and he was a professional. He played.
And the stress he felt that evening had a profound effect on his playing. It gave his playing an extra edge, an adrenalin spike, a 100-proof shot of raw emotion.
The fans noticed it and responded. The ovations he and his combo received that night were unlike anything they'd ever gotten.
His manager noticed it too.
And she also noticed its absence: A week after Beefy's wife's accident, when everything was back to normal and Beefy's wife really was fine and Beefy's combo had its next gig, his playing had lost that edge, that tension. It was still good, but it didn't pack that same urgency. The audience still liked him and his combo, though. They just weren't as enthusiastic as they had been on the night of the accident because he wasn't as good.
A few weeks later, the manager of the club they were playing in accused Beefy and his combo of arriving late to the venue, which was patently untrue. Beefy was never late. However, the manager threatened to not pay them unless they played an extra 30 minute set.
The argument was still unresolved as they took the stage, and Beefy blew the audience away. So jaw-rattling was his performance that the club's manager backed down immediately and apologized. He plied them with free drinks and told them not to worry about playing the extra set--just play again next Saturday, any Saturday. Just come back.
His mind at ease, Beefy and his combo took the stage for the second set, and it was good--but not nearly as good as it had been when his stress level was so high because of the argument.
This confirmed his manager's theory about stress being what brought about the radical improvements in his performance. And so from there, it was an easy managerial decision--and one she kept from Beefy--to keep him under as much stress as possible whenever he performed.
For his solo east coast tour, she "lost" his trumpet and gave him a shoddy replacement. She also booked him in rat-trap hotels in sketchy neighborhoods, and secretly paid his neighbors to keep him up all night long by (pretending like they were) having sex.
It worked. The more stressful the conditions she created, the better his performances (and paydays). At least at first. The problem was that stress is a relative thing. In time, he got used to the terrible travel conditions. And when it got to the point where terrible, stressful conditions were the norm, they were no longer stressful and thus didn't have the same effect on his playing. And so his manager had to raise the bar.
She told him the small label his combo was on was considering dropping them. She conspired with his combo to threaten a walkout if he didn't meet their impossible to accomodate demands. She slipped sound mixers cash to walk out in the middle of a gig.
The increasingly stressful situations she put him in continued to keep his stress level--and performance quality--high, but he also continued to get used to it. And so she had to continue cranking up the tension. Next up: Rumors of his wife having an affair with her boss, the bassist, others. Bomb threats. She got his wife on board and talked her into telling him she'd found a lump.
It quickly got to the point where each night he played, the stress he was under was almost unfathomable. Imagine a sleep-deprived air traffic controller doing his job on a tightrope while people below are shooting off Roman candles. He was fried, constantly on the edge.
And yet his playing was spectacular, and people noticed. He and his combo were booked into bigger and bigger halls. Major labels came sniffing. Audiences grew exponentially, and the money kept rolling in.
And no matter what kind of stressful scenario his manager cooked up, eventually it became normal for him. She secretly hired a former interrogator from the CIA to devise ways to keep ratcheting up the tension for him. And every situation they came up with worked great until he got used to it, and then they had to find a way to kick it up a few notches. They hired someone to mug him. They demolished his bank records, stole his identity, started a fire at his house, and kidnapped his wife.
And then finally he snapped.
For the first time ever, Beefy was late to take the stage. It happened at a headlining gig at Lincoln Center.
His manager went to his dressing room to check on him, and he was catatonic. All his vital signs were fine, but he didn't move, didn't respond to anything. He just sat still and stared at the space in front of him like he was frozen in suspended animation.
He never played again, never talked again.
He was put into a nursing home, and that's where he is to this day.
Most days he sits by himself in a corner. His fingers twitch like they're pressing trumpet keys. He spends his days with his eyes closed, thinking about majestic mountains and crashing seas, playing the music he loves in his head. Smiling.
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