Monday, April 28, 2008

K-Clubbin'...It's the Hip Thing to do in K-Town!

I have a friend at work, a fellow engineer, who happens to be Korean. He was the guy who braved the elements of mild weather to help find me a suitable surf board. This past Saturday, he drove down to my place and we went surfing.
After an exhausting afternoon he made the following offer:

"Do you want to go to Korea Town for some Korean Bar-B-Q?"

It goes without saying that I accepted the offer and soon we were grilling "all you can eat meat" at our table. After an hour of constant eating in Korea Town (K-Town to the locals) we paid the tab and were on our way.
As we were driving my friend pointed at a club looking place and said, "That's a Korean club." So I asked a seemingly ignorant question, "What's so Korean about it?" Little did I know that Korean Clubbing (K-Clubbin' to the locals) is actually a very different club scene.
Now, I'm no clubbing expert (I don't know if I've officially ever been to one actually) but here's what I would do in a normal situation: I would go to the club, I would get drunk, I would make a fool of myself, maybe talk to a couple of girls and therefore scare them away, I would go home (not necessarily in that order). Seems like a pleasant evening.
Here's what would happen if I went K-Clubbin': I would first make reservations for the appropriate number in my party, I would then go to the club with a group of dudes (most likely Korean), we would order a couple of bottles of liquor (probably whiskey), and if we felt so inclined we would ask to be "booked."
Booked? Yes, "booked." Let me elaborate, in a K-Club, there are normally tables of dudes and tables of girls and these tables are mixed amongst each other. The wait staff at these establishments are assigned to a number of dude tables as well as some girl tables. So, if I were to say, "Excuse me fine sir, I would like to get booked," the waiter would then consult his log of tables of girls who have also agreed to get booked. The waiter would then talk to one of these girls, bring her over to me, and introduce her. She would then sit down for some friendly conversation and I am then obligated to give her some of the alcohol that me and my dude friends bought earlier. Let me take this opportunity to clarify something: these girls are just girls that are also attending the club that night. They are not in anyway hired, like some of you may be thinking.
Anyway, it's at this point that the K-Club experience and the normal club experience would probably converge for me. I'm sure I would say something that would scare her off and I'd probably have a good laugh at it, and that's all good. It's ok though because I'm K-Clubbin'. All I need to do if just flag down the waiter again and inform him politely, "I'd like to get booked...again."
Now, I haven't been K-Clubbin' yet, so this is all word of mouth but I need to see for myself how this system works. Who knew social situations could be so structured.
So, I ask you dear readers, "Who wants to get booked?"

Til Next Time

P.S. Do you watch the television series "Weeds?" Me neither, but I've heard of it and I've heard it's funny. Regardless, they were filming an episode on my jogging route this evening. Again, however, I regretfully report that I didn't not see any celebrities.

States: 26
Countries: 7

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I like Korean barbecue.
Clubbing in Korea town is called K-Clubbin'.
If you go K-Clubbin' you can elect to get booked.
Who wants to get booked?

Friday, April 25, 2008

What Makes a Strong House? ... A Healthy Foundation of Course

So, it's been four weeks and you may be wondering, "Are you getting better at volleyball?" The answer, regrettably is a resounding, "No."
Remember how I told you that the intermediate class seemed less intermediate and more, how do you say...athletically incompetent? Well, since then the intermediate class has been split into two smaller classes: Intermediate and Intermediate Beginner. Being the modest and humble person that I am, I choose to group myself with the intermediate beginners where I was promised, "more instruction on the fundamentals."
Let me paint a picture of what the intermediate beginner class looks like: Picture 15-20 people standing on the beach with volleyballs in their hands. The instructor explains the next activity in a moderately to crystal clear manner. The majority of the students respond with blank looks and annoying questions. The instructor, growing increasingly frustrated, says, "Alright, let's just give it a shot."
What happens next can best be described by visualizing a handful of bouncy balls being dropped on the pavement. Can you see it? The bouncy balls are bouncing every which way...they have scattered in every direction. That's exactly what happens every Thursday night in the intermediate beginner class. The instructor says, "Go!" and volleyballs scatter in every direction. It's rather unproductive.
It's ok though, they're nice people. They just need a little more instruction on the fundamentals...me included.

Til Next Time

P.S. I found a place down the street from me that claims to sell Chicago Style Hot Dogs. I haven't tried it yet, but by the looks of it they are missing half of the ingredients. They do, however, claim to use Vienna Beef Hot Dogs and that goes a very very long way.

States: 26
Countries: 7

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
It's been 4 weeks of volleyball.
I'm not getting any better.
Picture a handful of bouncy balls.
We need more instruction on fundamentals.

Monday, April 21, 2008

Stop Bugging Me...Said the Annoyed Cockroach

As I may have mentioned before, my apartment is owned and operated by a church. My apartment building resides quite obediently in the dunce's corner of said church's parking lot. There is at least one pro to this situation: lots of parking, but there are certainly cons as well: lots of local parking on drunken nights (Thurs.-Sat.).
One con that may not coming instantly to mind is this: there are always people around my apartment in the mornings. These people aren't residents of the apartment building like some of you might be thinking, they are just people who for one reason or another decided to park in the church's parking lot. Take the construction workers across the street for instance, they all gather 'round their trucks and drink their morning coffee and love to make a lot of noise (mostly in Spanish). Take the little old lady cleaning up the parking lot, she is doing a good deed (surely as a volunteer since she wasn't wearing a bright orange jumpsuit) yet she seems very upset and quite surly. Perhaps that's because of the young punks that are skating on the other end of the parking lot, shouldn't they be in school by now? Stupid punks.
So you get the idea: there is a wide variety of people that I see in the mornings. This morning, though, I was a bit taken aback by what I emerged to see. Just as I opened my door to leave for the morning I came face to face with an exterminator. Yep, a real honest to goodness exterminator. I said a "Good Morning," he reciprocated and as I got into my car I thought to myself, "Ah, the good church is taking precautions." You see, the exterminator was hard at work spraying the exterior of the building and that made me feel good...a landlord that cares. But that thought quickly faded and was replaced with, "What could have happened here to make an exterminator necessary?"
So my ride to work this morning (which was longer than usual, mind you) was filled with thoughts of gigantic ants and intergalactic roaches. I pictured huge space slugs sliming over all of my things and eating all that is made of paper. The spiders that scurried about in my head weren't really spiders. You see, normal spiders have eight legs, mine had 15 and were the size of small eco-friendly hybrid automobiles. The kind of nightmarish visuals that I conjured up this morning only belong in movies and the amazon (especially movies about the amazon). It was a hellish morning commute indeed.
Then, as I got a grip on reality, I flipped to the other side again thinking, "Regardless of what the infestation is or was, the good church has hired a helping hand. That's a positive thing." But, I couldn't help but think, "Good thing I live by a church because only god's exterminator would have a chance against the devil bugs that live under my apartment. Those horned creeps are tough and in a battle between holy bug spray and evil bugs, evil is bound to win. Evil just has too many legs."
But, at least they're fighting the good fight.

Til Next Time

P.S. Yes, I went surfing again this weekend. I'm not bleeding (at least not any more than I already was) and I did stand up on my board. Staying up, however, is a different thing.

States: 26
Countries: 6

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I live in a church parking lot.
The devil has sent his bug army.
Evil has too many legs
The church is fighting a good fight.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Cow and Pig Parts...An Ode to the Hotdog

There is a hot dog joint in Chicago that calls itself "Hot Doug's" and on it's wall it proudly displays the following phrase:

"There are no two finer words in the English language than 'encased meat,' my friend."

Amen Doug. That is, as long as the encased meat doesn't come from one of California's biggest fast food chains, "Wienerschnitzel."
Over the weekend I had a taste for a hot dog and figured it was time to see how the Californian's do it. The aforementioned establishment seems to be the only operation in town specializing in dogs so my choices were limited. I checked online for the closest locations even though I already know where one was. I figured I could check out a new area in the process and broaden my horizons a bit. So, that's exactly what I did. I got in my car. I drove to unfamiliar territory. I questioned my orientation (spacially speaking). I made numerous wrong turns. I found my destination. I pulled into the parking lot. I parked my car. I walked up to the window...and they're closed. "Will Open Again Tomorrow," says the crudely written sign. I was certainly way too hungry to wait until tomorrow to eat, so I had to make a decision.
I had two choices: first, cut my loses and find something else to eat on my way back home or alternatively, backtrack and drive to the other local Wienerschnitzel location in an endless pursuit of a hot dog. You can probably already guess that I opted with option number two. I wanted to try those hot dogs so badly that it was going to take much more than a sign (albeit a crudely written one) from a higher power to sway my determination.
So, I drove back into familiar territory. I found my way quite easily. I parked my car...again. They were open. I was happy. I ordered my food. I took it home.
It's at this point in the story where I actually ingest a chili dog, an Italian sausage, and some fries, but I will spare you the details. Not because it is a long winded story. Not because it is a boring story. I spare you because I don't want to make you ill. I spare you because it was an agonizingly unpleasant experience. Every successive bite solidified the scowl of disgust on my face. I'm not sure what I was eating, but it was no hot dog and certainly no Italian sausage. I felt so ashamed to have taken part in this travesty. I still have nightmares.
Now, you're probably asking yourself, "Why did you continue to eat it if you weren't enjoying it?" The quick answer is spite. I didn't want those Wienerschnitzel people thinking they got the best of me. I'm too proud of an eater. Plus, I'm just too darn lazy to make/buy something else.
Needless to say, I won't be going back anytime soon, but I do have a suggestion for a phrase they can put on their wall:

"Nobody actually knows what a hot dog is made of, but our dogs redefine the term 'Mystery Meat.'"

Til Next Time

P.S. In case you're wondering, I canceled my return trip to India and decided to buy a new pair of shoes instead. Turns out it was cheaper that way.

States: 26
Countries: 6

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
Don't eat Wienerschnitzel.
I have the ability to eat for spite.
Nobody knows what is in a hot dog.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

Today I Surfed...And Now I'm Bleeding

Since I've moved here I have inquired to everyone I meet about surfing. If surfing comes up in the conversation, I pick their brain a bit about how to get started. Take a conversation I had with a guy in my volleyball class:

Me: "Oh, you surf huh?
Guy: "Like every day."
Me: "How would I get started?"
Guy: "Buy a board and walk into the ocean."

Sounds simple enough. It's a heads-on approach. I like it. He then follows up with the following:

Guy: "Don't be a toolbox."
Me: "Look at me, do I look like a toolbox?"

He didn't answer the question, he just continued with his point and warning:

Guy: "There are a lot of toolboxes that think they want to surf because it's cool and then they find out it's too hard."
Me: "I assure you...I am no such toolbox."

While I wondered deep down if I was indeed an aforementioned "toolbox," I still followed his advice and with the help of a coworker found and bought a used board. I later went to a different surf shop to find a wetsuit and since it is the spring, these places are having plenty of sales on the older stock. Lucky me.
I found a sales associate to ask for some advice. When I found him I looked him straight in the eye and asked, "What size would you suggest for me." He looked me over, asked my height and weight, and said with a straight face, "Definitely a medium." I'm not one to ignore advice so a medium is what I picked from the rack and I headed to the fitting room.
In the fitting room I disrobed and stepped into the wetsuit. Sure, it was tight around the legs, but they're supposed to be tight...so I continued. Sure, getting my arms in was a bit of a struggle but the material stretches...so I continued. Yeah, I felt a bit snug across the chest, but it'll loosen up...so I continued. But when I started to zip up the back I felt a pinch. That is when I thought to myself, "Perhaps a medium is a bit too small." I promptly started to peel off the wetsuit and as I looked in the mirror I notice my back was bleeding. It seems my skin had gotten caught in the zipper and gave me a bit of a cut. I had sustained a surfing injury without even setting foot in the ocean...quite an astonishing feat.
I continued to peel the wetsuit off of my body and cleaned the blood off of my back. I resorted to using the inside of my favorite sweatshirt and as we all know blood is quite a stain, so I was not happy. And, regardless of how much I cleaned it up, my t-shirt was sure to get a stain as well when I put it back on...it did and I was even unhappier still. With two articles of clothing down, I refused to leave the store without making purchase. I had to make it worth it. So I tried the next size up...a large short. Needless to say, I approached this fitting with a bit more caution and when it was all said and done...it fit like a glove...absolutely perfectly. So, I bought it and was able to go surfing this morning (if what I did qualifies as surfing...but that's a different tale).
Moral of the story: A surfer dude's advice always runs small.

Til Next Time

States: 24
Countries: 6

P.S. I think my sweatshirt can be salvaged as long as I'm OK with blood stains on the inside, but I'm afraid that I had to say goodbye to that loyal and loving t-shirt. Morale in my closet is at an all time low.

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
"Buy a board and walk into the ocean."
I did.
"You're definitely a medium."
No I'm not.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Yep, I'm New...I'm Still New

I'm still new enough at work (and the company is big enough) that it isn't uncommon for me to meet someone new on any given day. Today was one of those days. We did the whole introductory thing like normal people do (I have my half of the conversation down to a routine) but then she asked, "So, are you settled in?" My answer to that question (on which I had no rehearsed response) was as follows: "Well, when I'm out in public, I don't feel like people are staring, pointing, and snickering at me thinking, 'That guy is from out of town.' So that is a good feeling."
Reflecting upon that conversation I wondered if it is a common thing to walk the streets of a new place in constant paranoia. I'd like to think it's not that common, but I also like to make excuses as to why I'm special (Did I ever mention that I'm left handed?).
Regardless, actually settling into a place is a blessing and a curse. Sure, I may be able to tell you where the closest gas station is, or where you can find some decent food, but I can no longer say, "Sorry, I can't help you. I just moved here." And let's be honest, pleading ignorance is just easier.

Til Next Time

States: 24
Countries: 5

P.S. For those of you who were concerned, I have good news. British Airways finally located my bag and delivered it to my door. The bad news is that I evidently forgot a pair of shoes in India. So now I have two choices: go back and get them (they could be any number of places) or buy a new pair. I'll get to packing.

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I'm not that new, but still new enough.
I meet new people from time to time.
I was paranoid for a while.
Ignorance is bliss.

Saturday, April 5, 2008

Volleyball...AKA "How I Plan to Look Awesome on the Beach"

When I moved to Southern California (So-Cal to the locals) in January there were two activities I told myself I would try. One was surfing, which still seems quite intimidating, and the other was beach volleyball. The entire time I've lived here I've told myself I would take steps towards these goals "as soon as I get back from India." Well, here I am, back from India.
You can imagine my excitement then when I had the following conversation with a friend at work:

Me: "I'm bored and I'm procrastinating."
Friend: "My friends and I are signing up for a volleyball class, wanna join us?"
Me: "Like, totally."

So, I did. For this particular class there are three levels of beach volleyball competence: beginner, intermediate, and advanced. My friend and her friends took it upon themselves to sign up for the intermediate level which made me a bit uneasy. Sure I've played a little ball in my day, some of which even took place on a beach, but people here take volleyball to a different level. I'm pretty sure (but don't quote me on this) that if a child can't serve a volleyball effectively by the age of three, the parents ship the kid to a colder climate (i.e. Montana or Canada) as to not embarrass the family. So the pressure was on.
This past Thursday was my first class and here's what I saw: a beginners class that looked surprised when someone held up a volleyball and told them quite accurately, "This is a volleyball," there was an advanced class that seemed quite comfortable on the court (read: they look awesome), and then there was the intermediate class. The intermediate class seemed split 30/70. Only about 30% could probably be described as intermediate volleyball players while the remaining 70% were only slightly less surprised when someone showed them what a volleyball looks like.
My point is, I think I made the right choice in choosing intermediate...being the natural athlete and all. And maybe I jumped to conclusions about how seriously volleyball is taken around here.

Til Next Time

States: 24
Countries: 5

P.S. I saw a license plate frame this morning that read, "My Other Car is an Enterprise Rental." To me, that doesn't make much financial sense.

This Post For Those With Limited Attention Spans:
I moved here in January.
I want to surf and play volleyball.
People here disown their children who are horrible at volleyball.
I am a natural athlete.