Hello from Korea

(Yes, Julie, I'm Asian.)

I'm at my uncle's appartment right now, where I have been since last Wednesday, Korean time. (They're 17 hours ahead; think 7 hours behind Olympia, but tomorrow.) I'll refrain from making the silly "Writing from the future" joke. Couldn't feel a pun for it.

Life's temperatures have been alternating between two Olympia weather conditions: A cold December day without rain, when outside, and July with the windows open when inside my uncle's appartment. He likes things hot. Sometimes when we wake up, the temperature is 29°C (84°F). It was like that one night when the family was watching TV, and he then put his coat on. If they believed in former lives, I'd say he was a very brightly colored Amazon treefrog before.

My time outside has been walking around downtown Seoul with my cousin, Hi-Young ("Hee Hyung") and her boyfriend. She and my aunt Maria have been intent on having me see Seoul sites, get myself slightly cultured. I've enjoyed the experience, and taken over 200 pictures so far (most of them even in focus!). I got a nice camera the day before I left (model DSC-T5), and am very happy with that decision; I got to photograph my grandma, getting her to smile, and show her a picture of my brother and bird. It made her happy to see family outside of the nigh-19-year-old photo album my mom's siblings have of my family.

About my grandma: She doesn't have much longer to live. Her liver has functionally died, and her gall bladder has stopped working, so food can't be ingested anymore (just vomits up after ten minutes). She's getting glucose via IV for sustenance, along with a few other substances, to prolong her living. Unfortunately, she's also suffering an onset of pneumonia, so she has frequent fevers, too. The doctor's prognosis is that she will die within a week.

I will be here until she does die. It makes her very happy to see my mom and I, so neither of us will leave before she goes.

Well. While I'm here, I will read e-mails and respond to them. However, I'm trying not to spend much time on the computer, besides writing in my travelogue (which I'll publish when I get to some photo-editing software in English, and not cutely confusing), and doing some work for my office to cut down on the weekends I'll have to work for making up vacation time I'm taking but don't have. I'm also rediscovering the lost art of sitting down and reading a book. It has been quite relaxing.

I'll be back in a week. In the meanwhile, here are a puppy and some guppies.

— A big dog seen by a farmer's store / greenhouse we stopped by a few days ago.

— Seen in a Korean department store. Can you see the fat one? Man, was he fat. (This is my present for Julie, more fish for her aquarium.)

AFK

American Flown to Korea.

(What I thought was) Chris Harris on Chuck Norris

I'm trying to not be a downer this weekend. I thought I'd start by going to Fools Play tomorrow night. But it turns out I'll start by pointing you all at CGH.

http://www.thisischris.com/2006/01/chuck-norris.html

Soon leaving the continent.

I'm going to Korea Tuesday. Consider my e-mails held. I may bring a company laptop for just-in-case emergencies in the websystems, so I'll check my e-mails. I do intend to leave the machine lying dormant for as long as possible while in Korea. That is, unless 'net cafés turn out to be interesting places to spend time in, or my relatives turn out to be Javascript junkies. (Not likely. The most academic I may get is talking with an aunt about her fresh start in statistics.)

But I'm not going for pleasure. I will take the opportunity to clear my electronic palette, except for a camera. But I believe I'll find enjoying myself to be a morbid prospect. I have a deeper reason for going than seeing my grandma one last time, but I wish to tell it to Meredith next.

À Corée avec Tristesse

Aaron and I had a talk, two years into college, during winter break. Cassie was conked out on a nearby couch, as the evening hour had morphed to morning with vertical clock hands, but we were still awake. He asked me if I planned to go anywhere, in some unknown, small number of years. The hour let me ponder usefully that question, which made a gentle demand of my pretty latent dreaming ability (it was the middle of my Computer Science year).

I don't know if I thought it then, or months later, but from that conversation, I swam through possibilities and determined there were three places I wanted to go. I want to visit France, for the sake of not letting my years sous Sousbois rot away in the annals of my lingual center. I want to visit Japan, hopefully while Katie's there, because I can use some near-epilectic excitement walking down the high-lit streets of that Electronic Nexus Katie she told me about. I also want to visit (South) Korea, to see what it's like when you're –really– outside of the 'States.

I refuse, however, to go to anywhere without a guide translator. While it would be fun to walk around like a child and take in the sights, eventually I'm going to want to have some more interesting conversation than directions to the nearest 'loo.

Katie would be a fine translator for Japan, since she doubles as a good buddy and knows a few of the sights I'd want to see. I don't know who I'd ask to be alongside me in France, but that country isn't a priority at the moment. As for Korea, my hope was to take my mom, give her her first vacation that lasted more than a day since...1996, I think. I say that in all seriousness; she doesn't relax for more than an hour at a time. It's a studious habit she picked up from being the eldest child in a Korean family, having the responsibility of siblings and the title of Oldest. I'd like to know she's still capable of relaxing.

That was the plan. From that chat with Aaron last year, I was letting things swim into place, ambling in my head into the formation of a plan. Too slow.

My mom got a phone call last night, from her eldest little brother, who is, like the rest of her side of my family, still in Korea. My grandmother is in intensive care. She has days to live, and desperately desires to see my mother.

Nobody in our family has a valid passport right now. My aunt told us there may be a place in Seattle that would create a passport with but a day's wait; but it wasn't a sure shot. The quickest any of us can get out of the country for sure is about sixteen days.

Mom talked with one of her siblings again tonight. Hal-moe-nee (what I've always called her) is on life support now, and has improved since last night, but probably won't get off of the machines. Besides fear of her mother's coming death, my mom's also afraid that she could run out of money to pay for the health care. (South Korea's health care runs like the US's, where the government only pays for economically challenged people.)

Can you think of any greater insult, than to not be able to afford a few more days of life? To have to borrow money with all the negotiating handicap of your deathbed? The only just health care is social. Running hospitals like businesses presents the most gruesome of situations.

Well. At the least, we're comforted that Hal-moe-nee is hanging on. She direly wants to see her oldest daughter again. But she can't talk; whatever her condition is, bodily functions are being stricken down by it. The best my mom can do is talk to her on the phone, listening to Hal-moe-nee sputter back.

"Alex, I tried to call you today," Nuvo once said to me (approximately), probably on the way to a dance a few years ago. "But, you were out, and your mom picked up instead. She told me you were out, and said a few more things to me. After we hung up I immediately proceeded to spend ten minutes explaining to Eisel how adorable your mother is."

But I don't know if Nuvo has ever heard her laugh. I mean, really laugh. I've only heard it twice in my life. The first time was watching "The Best Bits of Mr. Bean," in a scene in a church. In the scene, Mr. Bean was trying to sneakily eat a candy, and I think also deal with a gas-passing situation. She had sat down to rest her feet, and saw Atkinson's sidelong, sweeping glance as he unwrapped a krinkly-plastic-encased ball. Her chortle was ...pristine. It made Mr. Bean even funnier, by amplifying the laughter inherent in the scene.

The second time I heard her wholly laugh outside polite conversation (indeed outside) was discussing a conversation she had had with a woman (I shan't say where). The woman had a 'uge booger. It was a dangler. It took my mom's stoic Korean upbringing to keep her face and voice straight. After minutes of this suppressive torture, the boogie dropped down the centimeter necessary for detection. Inwardly mortified, the woman excused herself to the bathroom; when the door closed, my mom doubled over, nearly pained from seeing that.

The woman emerged a few minutes later, and proceeded to finish the conversation they were having. There was talk, gesture, nodding; but soon, my mom's poker face had to be summoned again. The lady was apparently too dainty to pluck the nose goblin from its one- or two-hair perch; so, instead of extracting the attention grabber, she put it back in. But all the nodding jarred it loose, and bloop! sunshine it did receive, basking undetected by lip hairs.

I forget how my mom got through that. If, that is. But she told my family (dad, me, Damian, uncle and aunt) this story, and laughed hard enough to be in pain again. She laughed hard enough that it became a chortle by lung constraint. I don't care who you are, if you're over 10, that story's funny. Her laughter had such a genuine tone to it, though, everyone was in tears, our cheeks encouraged by her into being the tensest muscles in our bodies.

Her emotion can be so clearly displayed, conveyed, and assumed. Normal conversation with her, in her bubbly, broken English, is comforting, fun politeness that you can't ignore. Her crassness with disappointing things Damian and I did in our youth was pretty stilling, as was the way she punished a friend and I once for playing in the clothes dryer, by making us hold our arms out straight for five minutes. (That was goddamn hard, I tell you what.)

When she was called last night, she started crying. Lost a lot of sleep. I didn't know anything about what was going on with Hal-moe-nee until today, when Tom & Chris (uncle & aunt) came over and she mentioned she couldn't sleep because she was crying all night. Up 'til that point, her voice was normal, even, polite. But then it changed completely for the worse.

She cried, and spoke her impending loss before she spoke her English.

32"

"I'm about to fire you."

For four seconds, silence was absolute. There were no moving body parts to create any noise - no wing-tipped foot tapping on the densely carpeted floor; no shifting arm to rustle a jacket sleeve; no blinking.

"I respect what you did to that jerk greatly as a person. Hugely. There was no less an epic bang you could have ended that meeting on. There was no greater cannon you could have sent him home in! I want to take you out for a beer," a light, two-handed table slap, "Right now. We can go to Ricardo's, relax a few hours, assuming you still have your cards in your desk. We could take Stan, Jim & Tim, since they saw it, too. My own ethic would demand no less. But."

Karl heaved a breath out, his shoulders, chest and smile compacting into much less jovial a volume. His hands were resting on top of the desk in his office, but he retreated them to his lap. They suddenly felt uncomfortable being close – nay, exposed – to the discomforting man sitting in the chair across the desk.

"But, I'm not here as a person. I'm here as..." He gave a quick sigh, expunging out the suddenly soulless term that came first to his mouth. Your manager. You-encompassing. He studied a little thread escaping from the seam of his pants, reaching towards the crease resting on top of his thigh. Hoping for the thread to grant him a new word, he looked up again and opened his mouth, flapped his tongue within, pushed air through, and hoped that the thread had given him a new word.

"...a business." Representative!, he thought, As a business representative. Entity. A second word! He inhaled, but too slow to convey to either of the two in the small office another, grace-saving word was on the way. Crap. It was all he could do now, to move his eyes from Peter's left eye; to his right; to his cheek, avoiding Peter's absolutely focused stare; back to his right eye; and then ashamedly to his desk's corner. It was a sharp corner, perfectly square; funny how the tip of the desk was where ninety degrees met three times, making broad planes, one sweeping between Peter and himself. Thirty-two inches was all the relief Karl had from this man that, up until hopefully just two minutes from now, is of his employ. Yet, having to fire Peter made him feel unbearably close. To release Peter would mean holding him in the first place; Karl felt as though Peter was a block of rabidly freezing ice, tucked under his arm, flush against the kidney.

"So," Peter started, nothing moving above or below his mouth, "Are you saying if I were to punch you, right now — you — then I wouldn't be punching a person, but... a business?" He cocked his eyebrow. "I don't think so. A person'd recoil; swell the cheeks; puff the eyes; tense the fore's, curl the fingers – throw a hand back at me." Peter took a breath through his nose, a deep, strictly-diaphragm breath visibly hidden by the folds of his shirt. Though it could not be seen, it was heard. "A business would just shrug and call security in, even if I were to keep on punchin'. No, sir, I'm immediately asking you if what you think you're doing is right as a person."

Karl assumed Peter's frosty pose, relaxing into a poker player's rigidness so his face would not betray the shock at Peter's hypothesis, and what it passed on. "Your threat wears a glass veil, Peter. Perfectly transparent, orally cumbersome, and negotiably clumsy."

Karl started low breathing. Letting his chest rise and fall could be interpreted as puffing up, intimidating; however primitive that may have sounded, this conversation was now running the risk of degrading into quite unprofessional fisticuffs. Looking now through his peripherals, Karl measured Peter's pose. Peter was upright, though his head was tilted forward ever so slightly, not requiring his neck to tense. His neck actually looked pretty relaxed, and his hands were hidden by the desk in his lap, so he probably wasn't thinking of testing Karl's "Personhood."

The top button of Peter's pink work shirt was undone; he must have been expecting such a light day. What a rude turn it had taken, in that meeting three long, long minutes ago.

Karl sat back, relaxing everything, purposefully leaving himself open. Peter may be a little hot in the head, but Karl knew that he just didn't have it in him to strike an unprepared opponent. Besides that, Karl had his own addage on potential fights like this: Don't fuck with a guy in pink. He's either a complete pansy you'd feel dirty about hitting later, or his comfort with himself is complete – his appearance, his physique, his capability. There's no punch like a pink punch.

Without leaning his torso forward, Peter stood. His eyes looked down at Karl, but his face stood in place. Karl suffered a five second loom. Peter looked forward, and said, "I accept."

For three seconds, there was no blinking.

"I'll go to my desk, and get my cards. I'll take the rest another day."

He turned around and opened the door to Karl's office, stepping out into the hall and hanging a left out of view.

For six seconds, there was no loom. Karl stood up and left his office, left the building, climbed into his car to head down to Ricardo's. There was a one-holed, glass peace pipe he had to offer. His ethics demanded no less.

First Dance Thoughts of 2006

I danced with a girl last Tuesday who had a wonderfully bright smile. She had her blond hair back in a pony tail, and a long, sky blue summer skirt. She contented herself with looking at the floor behind me while we danced, which was fine; the angle left her looking deep in thought, but not like dancing with me was a challenge that required a lot of thought (though it is, according to some bewildered Oly follows). Her light grin was continuous. That was marvelous to look at, though I fear I stared.

The face is important in partner dancing. If you don't look like you're having a good time, then, well, what's your partner to think? That you're just going through the motions, being "Polite?" I find that insincere. There is at least one girl in Tacoma that I don't dance with because, ever since the first time we danced about six months ago, every time since then she has not smiled once, but she does smile with some other guys (most, but not all, of which do Blues). She even looks bored sometimes. Kind of a confidence-sucker, to think your partner isn't having fun. So I've chosen to not demuse her.

The Balboa class Wednesday was good, though light in subject matter if trying to describe it. Dave and Christine taught the single-step basic. For an hour. I found it a fine hour, however, and didn't want to forget a few things:

• The only time the lead's left foot goes back is at the beginning step of the dance; left goes forward on all other 3's (in single-step) or 4's (in duple-step). I need to remember that because I get the leg-actions backwards.
• When the feet come together (1-2, 5-6), the toes should be lined up. Else, the balance gets muddled, and backwards-forwards motion becomes awkward, and legs get in the way, et cetera.
• Balance: The balls. The frame work is chest-to-chest, slightly off-center. Oh man, an aside that was too darn cute: Christine told us her favorite mnemonic for Bal, but warned Dave so he could cover his ears (which he did, moaning "Oooaaargh, I hate this," la-la-la-ing away): "Tit in the pit." But, the frame: yes, off-center, at least one of the follow's boobs is flush against the lead's chest, so the balance is against one another. The place to have weight on the feet is on the balls — on the heels, you're too far back and can't lift legs easily; on the toes (felt by feeling toes curl up propping you up) is too far forward, and throws the balance off.

When Oly hosted its April day-long swing event a few years back (I forget if the Eagles or the Jitterbug Club hosted this one), there was a pair of Balboa classes. They were damned cool, made everyone feel flashy. Two of the teachers, members of a dance troupe from Seattle (either Zah Zu Zay or the Rain City Rugcutters, depending on the year) really showed off some stuff by going from Bal in a lightning-fast song (probably faster than Seven Come Eleven (recording recommended for sampling, not download, only for the sake of server strain)), and then transitioned to what looked like a Lindy/Charleston hybrid: Charleston kicking, in the Lindy body-path pattern. I'm pretty sure that move is called The Breakaway.

Katie and I figured it out tonight! It's easiest from face-to-face Charleston, and the lead just kicks backwards on one instead of forwards, angling the hips to get a good backwards momentum from the kick. Knowing the pattern of 1-4 is the left leg, 5-8 is the right, is the trick to doing the Breakaway.

It feels good doing that move, because it's so...widespread (bodily), and violent. Good potential damage stock if you aren't checking behind yourself. I haven't kicked anyone in any move so far, though I almost nailed Kevin two summers ago in a back-kicking floor-slap.

It's so satisfying taking up so much floor.

Electronic STDs

Evenin', Jen.

hello

I had a strange parallel today.

?

Have you heard of the Sony DRM debacle with their music CDs?1

yeah

Ok, hold that thought, I'm going to talk about porn.

lol

okay

Real sex:  Risks, among other things, pregnancy, social strain, relational strain, and probably worst, diseases.

yup

A solution:  Abstinance.  And for the impatient-for-wedding-day type of folk, there's masturbation to ease one's wild-feeling days along.

Eventually, usually at the ripe age of 12, there's an introduction to porn.

heh

An argument about the topic of porn is that it pushes new media along;

There's some comfort to the male mind in knowing there's another way to get girly pictures, with greater ease.

And behold the wonder of the internet!  Girlies galore, with minimal interaction!

But.

There's still some interaction - from client machine to server.

yeah

So, in a slightly abstracted manner, porn is like sex on the computer - serves the purpose of the viewer getting sufficient kicks, involves certainly-erotic content.

yeah

satisfies the same requirement

Now, what happens if the horny viewer is flying through freebie sites, through some search engine query?  Not all of them are going to have strictly...singularly-minded content.

Some of them may have, gasp, Trojans.

Or keyloggers.

/Spyware.

Etc.

-Viruses-.

yeah

Aimed at a slightly distracted audience

So, computers are subject to the same rules of STDs, with their own slightly-different-sounding branding.

Point being, if you surf the web for porn, use protection - the human rubber translates to antivirus, not using IE (of which exploit-a-plenty is available, the worse being through Java...), disabling scripting, disabling Java.

hehe

Now.

yeah

Off of that subject, there are other completely benign activities which you never expect to carry the same risk.

Case in point:  XCP, Mediamax software.

Inserting a music CD into your drive bay - how could that cause harm?  Behold, rootkit!  Huh?  Root-what?  Waaaaah, my computer!

yeah

Sony BMG's DRM scheme is the computer representation of AIDS from the toilet seat.  Only, it happens in the computer world.

¹: Latest coverage from BoingBoing, the fifth round of news posts, is listed here.

Web Log: Hard Gay

I don't speak a word of the language, besides Mac-oh-do-na-ru-do (I think that's McDonald's) and nan-ji. But. You don't need lingual skills to enjoy this.

http://www.nickdenton.org/002182.html

Cute outfit. I hate to think it'd chaff.