Rob's World

This is me and Ryan, my best friend of the last 12 years. Check out his blog, Burning Stick Man at www.burningstickman.blogspot.com. Burning Stick Man: The Stick Man Cometh and He Doth Burn(TM).

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One Last Delivery
The night temperature had fallen into the low fifties, maybe high forties, and the rain chilled it further. Jake wore a rain coat over his uniform, and the two pizza boxes he carried were protected by one of the plastic warming bags that so many pizza delivery brands used to protect their product. Shielded as he was from it, the rain was still an unwelcome addition to the evening.
“I’m supposed to go to friggin’ Chestnut Street, where I’ve never been,” he muttered as he walked to his gray ‘89 Grand Prix. “It’s night time, so it’s hard to see street signs as it is.”
The rain would sit in bunches on his windshield and door windows, and even with the wipers working to clear it away it would further impede his vision. He hated his damn job, hated the damn orders. But as he reached into his khaki’s to find the cold key in his pocket, he told himself it was the last of the night. As he stuck the key in the door and turned it, he worked to convince himself that after that he’d be done.
Another batch of deliveries finished, he thought. Another day’s work complete. It was becoming a nightly pep talk.
Tossing the plastic bag in the passenger seat, he stuck the key in the ignition and fired it up. With the engine going, his hand moved from slender, cold keys to the equally cold but larger weight in the change bag he wore around his waist, just to make sure it was still there, another of his nightly re-affirmations.
One day I’m gonna forget it, and the manager’s gonna hand me my balls, he thought, pushing up the brown hat that read “Spicolli’s Pizza” on it so that he could massage his forehead.
Then he pulled out onto the street and headed downtown. He was about a block from his starting point when the felt the first vibrations near his crotch area that meant there was a call on his cell phone. He let out a grumble, began to steer with the right hand, reach for the phone on his belt loop with his left, then stole fleeting up and down glances at both the phone and the road.
The glowing glass brought the number of his pestering caller to light, but revealed little to his frayed memory. Of course the area code was familiar, but he drew blanks on the final seven digits.
“Six-six-four,” he said. “Who the hell do I know that’s six-six-four? I know somebody, but what town…”
Even so, he pushed the “send” button with his left thumb and brought the phone to his ear.
“Uh, hello?”
The voice was light, petite even, not the kind that typically causes dread.
“Jake?” it inquired.
It’s Sue, he realized. Crap.
“Yeah it’s me,” he said.
“Hey, it’s Sue.”
“Yeah, hi. How are ya?” he deadpanned.
“Pretty good. What are you doing?”
“Working.” He had an optimistic side that his job had not quite succeeded in snuffing out, and that side was telling him that this could potentially be the end of the conversation.
“Oh.” She paused, as if to get his hopes up. “For how much longer?”
He turned his mouth to the right, away from the receiver so that he could mutter “Dammit” without being heard, then turned back.
“If all goes well, it’ll be about a half-hour before I get off.”
“Well, what are doing after that? I was wondering if you wanted to come over.”
He looked toward the ceiling briefly and let out a sigh.
“I’m probably going to Ron’s place. We were gonna play a little poker, drink, you know. I’ll probably have to stay over for the night ‘cause I’ll be in no condition to drive home afterward.”
“Oh,” she said, an answer whose brevity did not squelch its disappointment.
“Soooo, maybe some other time…?” he said.
“Are you mad at me?”
“What?” he said, as he shifted into the right lane. “I’m just spending a Saturday night at Ron’s like I’ve been planning to all week. I’m not mad at you, but you can’t expect me to change plans just like that because you call me out of the frickin’ blue at eight-forty.”
“I just thought you might be uncomfortable, I don’t know, after what happened Sunday night.”
“What, we went to the movies Sunday night and I went back to your place afterward? We had a good time, why would that make me uncomfortable?”
“I don’t know why. It’s just that you never call me. I leave messages on your phone but you don’t call back. I was thinking that maybe things had moved too fast for you, I don’t know.”
“Look, Sue, it’s a busy time, okay? I’ve not had a moment to spare this week. I’ve either been working or at home recuperating from working. That’s how it is in the city, always a delivery to make. Now, I’ve been plannin’ somethin’ all week, and you can’t just expect to displace everything in my life when you come along.”
“I’m sorry, I just…I’m sorry. I really am.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Her voice, which had been sinking into the self-loathing pit it often descended into, began to chirp up a bit.
“What is it you do again? You know, at work.”
“I told you, I’m a delivery boy. At Spiccoli’s.”
“How’s that going.”
“Oh, hell. I’ll tell you how it’s going. I just missed my turn ‘cause I’ve been talking to you. Now, I gotta go, okay? I’ll call you this week.”
“Okay, that’s all right. Have a good night.”
“Yeah,” he said, then hit the off button. It was a rough way to end the conversation, but he would have time to sweet talk his way back into her apartment some other time. It’s not like she had anything or anyone to leverage against him.
He had been traveling south on Market Street and had been supposed to turn right onto Volunteer Drive, then take another right onto Chestnut. As he turned the car left, guiding it into a center lane so that he could make a U-turn, he realized that he didn’t remember if it would be the third or fourth street on the right that was Chestnut. He lingered in the turning lane for a moment, and as much as it pained him, dialed the seven numbers on the cell phone that would put him in touch with Tim, the store manager.
When he had all seven plugged into the phone and had sent the call on it’s way, he made his turn north and pushed the cell to his ear with his shoulder so he could drive with both hands.
After three rings, Tim picked up the phone.
“Spiccoli’s Pizza, how may I help you?”
“Tim, it’s Jake. When I turn onto Volunteer, is Chestnut the third or fourth street on the right? I can’t see very well out here because of the rain.”
“You mean you’re not there yet?”
“Ken, I’ve still got five minutes. Third or fourth?”
“That’s what you said about the Mendez order Wednesday night, Jake.”
“Tim, c’mon, that’s a rare case, they had a pit bull in their yard. You know how much a rabid dog screws up a delivery.”
“It’s the third right after Volunteer. When you’re on Chestnut it’s the second on your left.”
“Yeah, I got that part. Let me ask ya, Tim, this Applegate I’m going to, is that the lawyer Applegate I’ve seen in the papers, you know, the prosecutor?”
“Yeah.”
“They don’t have any small children, do they? Kids always scream and yell when they see the pizza man,” he said as he turned onto Volunteer.
“No, their kids are grown up by now or away in college. On Saturday night it’s just him and his wife at home.”
“All I need to know, thanks.”
“Okay, I’ll see back at the office. Be quick about it.”
“All right, fine.”
Again he turned off the call and put the phone down. Again, he started muttering.
“Douche bag manager, been promoted for so long he doesn’t know what it’s like out here any more.”
Chestnut loomed just yards ahead on his left, so he began to brake and put on his turn signal.
“Just one more,” he said. “One more.”
Volunteer was a ritzy neighborhood with brick two- and three-story houses. The third house on the left was red brick, with a driveway that stretched thirty yards slightly uphill from the road. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, grunted, and turned, only now realizing how much in need of more power-steering fluid he was.
“Always needing something, aren’t you Becky?” he said to his vehicle while massaging her steering wheel affectionately. “Maybe Monday.”
He sat the car in front of the parking garage, adjusted the hat downward, and grabbed the plastic heating bag. Then he stepped onto the sidewalk that arched ever so slightly outward before leading into the steps, the porch, and the front door.
Jake let out a yawn, used the pizza bag to push the doorbell, then began fumbling through the change bag at his waist.
A thin man with dark but graying hair both on his head and above his top lip answered the door in a dark blue sweat suit. It looked like the man Jake had seen in the papers, except he must have worn contacts in the courtroom. This guy had on glasses here, casting a pale reflection of brown pizza boy’s uniform.
“I got your pizza here,” Jake said.
The inside part of Applegate’s eyebrows sank in between his lenses and his mouth opened slightly, as if he didn’t know which question to ask first.
“Pizza? I didn’t order any pizza.”
“Well,” Jake said, “I guess that means I’m here to kill you.”
His left hand whipped out the magnum he’d been carrying in his change bag. The first shot entered Applegate’s chest, bringing him to the ground. The second shot struck him on the left side of the forehead as he lay there, assuring that he wouldn’t get up again.
Jake kicked the dead lawyers legs out of the way and shut the door. He looked throughout the living room, with its white painted walls, its burgundy furniture, its hanging paintings of fruit and English villages, and saw no trace of the wife. He’d have to go looking for her, to make sure the police weren’t notified until he was safely back at HQ. The beautiful part was that, since he’d used a silencer she wouldn’t be expecting anything.
He headed for the staircase at his right that would lead from the living room to her bedroom. He just had to finish this delivery, then he was done.

Ring finger

She smiles,
she laughs,
she sits beside me in graduate English class,
perhaps my standards aren’t what they used to be.

I am supposed to be looking at the textbook
I am supposed to be reading along while the professor recites
lesbian poetry; instead
I am looking at left hand
her right holds the book we share, the one I forgot to bring to class.
I am reading her hand.

Her thumb, a think stump compared to the others,
her index finger, longer and thinner than the thumb,
her middle finger, longer than the index, slightly bent,
her pinkie, the shortest and thinnest of all,
all of them white and narrow,
all of them adorned with silver polish at their apex.

I’d like to touch each of them
but that object on her other finger,
the one I don’t like to mention,
that silver object crowned with cubic zirconium,
it won’t let me.

Brother-in-Law

A rock —
with it’s hard surface and jagged edges —
can break open objects
if there’s enough force behind it.

What happens
in man’s mind
when he leaves his wife,
when he leaves his children
and says “boredom?’

If I took a rock
and put enough force behind it
to break open your skull
and break into your mind
would I find the answer?

Or would it just make me feel better?

(This was written after my first week in Korea. The status of said relationship has improved dramatically, at least from my standpoint, since these words were first put to page.)

Maria — had the name not come into use on its own, balladeers and playwrights would have surely invented it. I’ve loved a Mary, I’ve nursed a crush upon a Marie, but until now I had not known a Maria. For Americans, it’s a moniker steeped in fascination. For this American standing on a porch with a Canadian girl bearing both a Portugese surname and given name, it’s the only word I can think of. Although, periodically, the words “brown eyes” also creep in.
It’s our last night together in Seoul. We’re missionaries who left homes and jobs in North America to come here and teach English and Bible. Before I came I heard the snickers from those who thought the mission was to find a spouse and/or get laid, rather than to do a good deed. I shrugged it off, because I knew there was something much bigger at stake, something they weren’t seeing. And yet, here I am, struggling to tell her how I feel, and knowing I must before stifling these emotions sends me ulcers and a possibly early grave.
It’s 9:30 p.m., and we both have to pack for bus rides in the morning, mine for Suncheon on the southern tip of the peninsula, and her for another location in the area of South Korea’s sprawling, teeming capital. I’ve scratched her back when her eyebrow betrays stress, jabbed her delicately in the arm or gut when it looks like she’s about to fall asleep during orientation. She puts her hand on my shoulder when thoughts of the year ahead overwhelm me in ways I can’t see but are visible to her. This night we’ve promised to exchange e-mails and see each other on vacations, plus we’re now exchanging our first, actual hug.
But she has to know that’s not enough.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she says, after unwinding those arms covered in long, soft blue sleeves from around my shoulders.
“Yeah,” I say, before placing my feet one step lower, so six-feet-four-inches of me can look five-feet-nine inches of her in the face. For a moment neither one of us says anything. I can’t tell what she’s thinking; since I’m busy biting my lip and mustering the will to speak. I extend my left hand and take hold of the right side of her waist, and my eyes finally meet hers.
The conversation I’ve been anticipating for days begins with: “What are we gonna do?”
These words may determine whether I begin a new relationship. These words might also get me cut off entirely, causing her to avoid me rather than foster a vain hope.
The response I get is much more nuanced than either of those.
It begins with, “Uhm, right…”

The good news is that I seem to have been doing a lot of things right in the last week. The bad news is that there’s another guy in the picture. However, “he’s not meeting my needs,” she tells me.
We move away from the porch, into the parking lot and I place my gallon of bottled water and the carrying case for my laptop aside so she and I can talk this out. The nice-guy approach that I have attempted numerous times, only to be branded a “friend” has paid dividends here. However, she needs time — time to find out if the other guy will make more of an effort, time to adjust to this new environment.
And time to decide if I’m what she really wants.
It’s now 10:30 p.m., and I should be going. My new friend who happens to be a beautiful girl is about to step into her apartment again. My pop culture knowledge is asserting itself, and must be let out. It has manifested in the form of a certain blonde bane of the undead, her vampire paramour and their doomed love.
“In the last episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel shows up to help her kill...” I know the character’s name, but “some bad guy” comes out instead.
“Some bad guy?” she says, snickering.
“Yeah, but he’s not important. The point is, afterward they start talking about their relationship and she tells him, ‘I’m cookie dough.’”
In the show, of course, she went onto explain the metaphor, meaning that she wasn’t done “baking.” Maria needs no further explanation, evidently, because she’s already begun rolling her eyes.
“Well, Angel starts to walk away and then Buffy calls after him and says that she might be done baking sometime in the near future. Angel says, ‘I’m not getting any older,’ and then strides confidently into the darkness.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to stride off into the darkness.”
“Okay,” she says with a smile. “Just grab your bag and your water bottle before you start striding.”
“Okay, I’ll see you in the morning,” I say, before beginning my amateurish David Boreanaz impersonation.
Walking down the first of several hills that lead to my temporary apartment, I begin thinking, Nice guys don’t always finish last. Sometimes they get an honorable mention.

Thus far in my brief blogging career I shared my various writings on a daily basis. I have nothing to add today. Sometimes there just isn't time to share the inspiration, but hopefully such time will be allocated later. You can rest assured that when such a day comes, the postings on this page will be up to the standard set so far. I will not pander, patronize or sell out. Blogs come and go, but integrity and independence are forever.

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At least that's what the press release said.

There were a good many tidbits of information passed on to me in my first few weeks in South Korea that I couldn’t help but find a bit disconcerting. Right after my flight arrived in Seoul, I was taken by van to the headquarters of the Seventh-day Adventists language institute, during which the academic dean pointed to a large stone structure connected to an overpass by the river. “Do you know what that is?” he asked.

After I shook my head laterally, he answered, “That’s in case North Korea ever invades, they can drop that on the road to buy people more time to get away.”

If there’s one thing a guy having just left home and come to a distant country for the first time doesn’t want to think about in the first four hours, this would be it.

The second alarming bit of information took place upon my arrival at the temporary guest housing in Seoul, where I was kept during orientation in my first week. I noticed a sign on the wall that read, “Please do not flush toilet paper down the toilet. Koreans put toilet paper in the waste basket after use. This is especially important to remember while staying in guest housing.”

While our definition of a “civilized society” often is based on several factors, like economic status, equal rights for all citizens and whether or not they can elect their own leaders, where toilet paper is placed “after use” has since moved substantially higher on my list.

The anecdote that alarmed me the least at the time but probably had the longest-term implications took place after I was assigned to teach in Suncheon, about a four-five hour drive south of Seoul. The director of the Suncheon institute, a Korean Adventist minister everyone calls Pastor Moon took me and some others out for dinner at a traditional restaurant, replete with chopsticks, tables six inches from the ground and dagger-eyed stares if one’s be-shoed feet should make contact with the floor.

Having been brought a plate full of various vegetables we could add condiments to or mix with rice, Pastor Moon pointed to a selection of green peppers and said, and I quote, “Don’t try this, it will kill you.” He elaborated, saying that it was too spicy for him.

This was, in fact, basic syllogism: Pastor Moon has lived in Korea all his life and is well-acclimated to their culinary tastes. Therefore, if a type of food is too spicy for him, then I, as a foreigner who wasn’t a huge fan of spicy meals to begin with, would probably lose all command of motor skills and the use of at least three of the five senses after a single bite.

Something you might not know, because I certainly didn’t beforehand, is that the people of Korea eat the hottest food on earth. I am not exercising my rhetorical tendency toward hyperbole when I say so; they are quite proud of the fact. They eat spicy food several times daily, often considering the food of other countries stale by comparison. A book the new Adventist teachers were given actually said that South Korea tops the worldwide list for stomach cancers, but this does not slow them down.

For them, it’s the sensation: they can exercise the senses of taste and touch at the same time. For a Westerner not accustomed to their diet, a single meal can give one the sensations of running a 10K, suffering from influenza and mourning the loss of a loved one all at once. When the teachers all gather to eat together, the following conversation can often be overheard:

Korean Teacher: How is the food?
Me: *Sniff* I promised myself I wouldn’t get emotional.
Korean Teacher: This is not spicy for me. This is normal.
Me: *Blows nose loudly*
Other Foreign Teacher with More Experience: You’re going to have to get used to the spicy food, Rob.
Me: How do I say, ‘Waiter, I need my water refilled for the twelfth time’ in Korean?
Other Korean Teacher: Does it taste good?
Me: Yes, actually, it tastes great. Is there a fire extinguisher I can use on my lips?

However, I don’t want to give the impression that the Korean staff haven’t been accommodating. They have worked very hard to make sure that I and the other foreign teachers are settling in. They regularly visit my apartment to make sure that I have enough to eat and offer other tips so that my stay will be enjoyable. Pastor Moon himself regularly visits with fruit and other help, including household advice like: “Don’t leave your fan on and close all the windows and doors while you sleep. You could…uhm, die.”

So while there are always adjustments to make in a new place, in the end it’s really all about the people you meet and the experiences you have. I’ll write with more of these events next week.

I hope.

(Note to readers: This is poem written for class in the style of Walt Whitman)

1
Mosh pit beside me! I feel one of your bodies slam into mine!
Crowd of five-thousand, I feel your collective body odor
encircling mine.

Crowds of men and women—okay, mostly men—attired in sweaty t-shirts, how
Curious you are to me!
In your Volkswagens and Chevy’s you came by the hundreds,
leaving your homes, are more curious to me
than you suppose,
And those that shall travel to these concerts in years to come are
more to me, and more in my reminiscings, than you might
suppose.

2
The immeasurable bond we share at all times, no matter what is
popular on the radio at the moment,
The rowdy, yet organized seating structure, myself lost in crowd,
each fan lost in the crowd yet part of the seating structure.
How similar this concert is from their 1997 tour,
The glories of the Master of Puppets album sit along side
the better numbers from Load, the many wonders of the
self-titled album meshing with Kill ‘em All, sometimes
even segueing into one another,
The banging of Lars Ulrich’s drum kit in perfect timing with
our heads,
Concert-goers on tours to come, these bonds we will share,
The certainty of more concert-goers, their raised fists and sore throats.

Others will pay the sixty-five dollar ticket prices and clamor to find
decent seats,
Others will arrive hours earlier and watch the rush,
Others will join in banging their heads in unison, and making the sign of the devil
with their outstretch hand,
Five years hence, others will see their heads banging, silhouetted by the
spotlights in summer nights,
Another decade hence, or ever so many decades hence, other
concert-goers will see them,
Will enjoy the kick-ass riffs, the bruisings of the mosh pit, the
lulls when the band performs one of it’s ballads.

3
It avails not, album nor song preference—age avails not,
I am with you, you sweaty Metallica fans of this generation, or those of you
who’ve been fans since Ride the Lightening,
Just as you shed a tear during “Fade to Black,” I also wept like small child,
Just as you played air guitar during “Eye of the Beholder,” I also pretended,
Just as you are relieved by the catharsis that comes from singing
“Seek and Destroy”, I too am relieved,
Just as you are sensitive enough to appreciate “Nothing Else Matters”
yet hardcore enough to know the lyrics to “Whiplash”, I also know.
Just as you look throughout numberless days for tour dates and news of their
latest album, hoping that it would rock, I look’d.

I too many and many a time swapped lyrics with friends of old,
Watched the official web site, saw its black background glittered with red,
red and white letters telling of band news, giving up their secrets,
Waited as they took years off at a time to recover from the wears and tears of
touring and left fans with whetted appetites,
Waited through their record, release, tour and rest cycle hoping they would come
the to South,
Saw the gleam in mine own eye reflecting from the computer screen,
Had my fervent hopes raised when they announced they’d come to Atlanta,
Felt the bearing weight of anticipation as they days crept ever more slowly
toward July 7,
Felt the taunt of expectation when they played first in other regions,
Felt the hot sun as I waited in elongated lines outside the Georgia Dome,
Felt the unspoken competition for a decent view as the hour approached,
Saw the band enter during the strings and chorus of “Ecstasy of Gold,”
Saw them as they played the opening of “Creeping Death,” saw the other
fists pumped in appreciation,
The roadies at work tweaking sound level, dashing about to plug or unplug wires,
The giant box-shaped amplifiers, the tilting motion of the spotlights, the slender necks
of Gibson guitars,
The steam rising from hundreds of shirtless young men, the occasional security guard
wandering from row to row,
The voices gradually growing more hoarse after each anthem, the demands from
James Hetfield that we keep singing along,
The fireworks launched with yellow streaks, set to go off during “One,”
The wave-like bounce in the crowd, the gaps that opened as the mosh pit formed,
the chorus of “yeah!” that followed each song,
The patches of crowd that went silent during older portions of the band’s catalog
that they didn’t know the words to,
The fans who started following when the self-titled album came out, or perhaps
it was Reload, or perhaps they only enjoyed particular songs like
“Enter Sandman” and “Until it Sleeps,”
The fans who knew every word to every song recorded sing 1983, even though some of
us were but fours years of age at the time,
All of us cast our hands to the sky in unison, our white arms covered in perspiration,
reflecting the glow of the yellow spotlights in the dark
of a midsummer night.

4
These and all other thrash metal fans are to me the same as to you,
I loved well these 220 beats-per-minute staples, loved well the 120 b.p.m. songs,
The smelly young men there were all (a little too) near to me,
Others who attend in next tour the same—others who will pay upwards of
seventy dollars for mediocre seats,
(The time will come, though I have spent my money to-night and am broke.)

5
What is it then that sends us?
What are the school bills and car bills and rent that seek to prevent us
from seeing our favorite band?

Whatever they are, they avail not—tuition avails not, and the rising cost of
gasoline avails not,
I too, drove here from a distance several hours away,
I too will be dead tired during my summer class in the morning, catching
rest on the wooden desk beneath my face,
I too will face questions from parents about how I spend spare cash,
In the evening among crowds of metalheads sometimes I wondered if this
was the best use of my time,
While singing along to “Sad but True” I wondered if I would need my speaking
voice the next day,
I too received my identity through my fandom,
I had made the sacrifices necessary to be a fan, and what I should be I
knew should be in fandom.

6
It is not upon you alone that popular music falls,
Pop threw its three minute singles down upon me also,
The best songs it seem’d to me too dissonant and pretentious
The great bands as I once recognized them, were they not in reality
radio-friendly?
Nor is it you alone who know what it is to be a sellout,
I am he who knew what it means to sell out,
I too, purchased the CD of Nickleback,
Creed, Bush, Silverchair, Korn, Limp Bizkit, Staind
Had CDs, cassettes, singles, MP3’s, posters, t-shirt, I should have not bought,
Heard grunge, pop-punk, hip-hop, nu-metal, glam-metal, worst of all, rap-metal,
The fair-weather fan, the fashion victim, the poser reflect in my CD purchases,
The Will Smith, the Kid Rock, the Sammy Hagar-era Van Halen, in my CD
collection,
The Bon Jovi, Everclear, Offspring, Linkin Park, the Blink 182, all
of in these in my collection,
Was one of the fads, the trends, and the styles on MTV,
Flaunted my trendy purchases for young girls hoping they’d notice me
in approaching or passing,
Felt the weight in my wallet diminish as I wasted income, or the resignation
when I see them collecting dust in my CD rack,
Saw many groups I respected languish in the underground or as opening
acts, yet I spent not a dime on their efforts,
Listened to the same Korn with the rest, the same screaming, yelling,
clichéd lyrics,
Play’d the album that that still sends royalties to record labels and corporations,
The same album, the album that is what music business makes it, as popular as
they say it is,
Or as forgotten as they say it is, or both over- and underrated.

7
Their next summer tour approaches,
What songs you will know the words to, I knew as well as you—I brushed
up on the older numbers in advance,
I memorized lyric sheets and song directories before you were even a fan.

Who knows what kind of crowd will show up on those evenings?
Who knows how they will enjoy the songs off the St. Anger album?
Who knows what distances they will travel to attend, I am as good as smelling
you already, for Metallica fans are not known for good hygiene?

8
What song can ever be so poignant and yet rock so hard as “One,” off the
epic …And Justice for All Album?
Clean picked chords at the beginning and machine-gun riffs at the denouement?
Lead guitarist making his Stratocaster cry and moan, lead singer commanding
from the stage, the bass player doing his part and staying out of the way?
What band can better them that batter our ear drums with power chords, and
with voice I have longed to hear say sing of Lovecraftian things that
should not be as we chant along?
What is more awesome than this which bonds me to the women or men—okay,
just men—who stand beside me?
What brings us together tonight, and pours your sweat glands into my nose?

9
Rock on, Metallica! rock with the rhythm guitar, and beat the bass drum!
Mosh on, energetic and misunderstood metalheads!
Hard-hitting anthems during the encore! batter with your speed me,
or the men and, uhm, men in concerts to come!
Come in your Volkswagons, countless crowds of concert-goers!
Raise up your fists during “Battery!” throw out your voices during
“For Whom the Bell Tolls!”
Spend, impoverished and devoted fan! dish out your savings and buy second-rate
seats!
Forget everything outside while you are here, inside the sea of fandom!
Listen, open and thirsting ears, to the lengthy “Welcome Home (Sanitarium)”
or the more radio-friendly “King Nothing.”
Sound out, voice of James Hetfield! loudly and musically sing the chorus,
“Just call my name, ‘cause I’ll hear you scream!”
Spin, old Metallica albums! play the songs that didn’t need MTV airplay to
become concert anthems!
Play the new songs, the songs some consider too polished and popular, depending
on the tastes of the listener!
Consider, you who purchase these albums, whether I may not be banging my head
at the same time you are;
Be firm, rail against the boy bands and support those who languish in the
underground fighting against pop music;
Wail on, lead guitarist! play with melody, or play with the inspired dissonance
of “The Shortest Straw;”
Support the riff, you bass player, and faithfully hold the rhythm section till
the four-, six- or eight- minute song is finished!
Pound, wooden sticks, to the drums of Lars Ulrich to the motion of my neck,
or any one’s neck, in the perspiring crowd!
Come out, support crew from behind the curtain! get the speakers and equipment
on stage in Memphis, Indianapolis and Phoenix!
Sing, James Hetfield, lead singer of all singers! but take some due time off to rest
your vocal chords!
Loom large on stage, you gods of metal! cast long shadows on the Billboard
charts! bring white noise and dark subject material to our boring
suburban lives!
Our presence, now and in tours to come, indicates what we are,
We necessary fans, continue to purchase albums and concert tickets,
Otherwise the band couldn’t maintain its current lifestyle and have to get
real employment;
Thrive in future albums—record speed-metal favorites, mid-tempo songs,
more melodic and thoughtful ballads,
Diversify, and don’t worry about those afraid of change,
Keep your energy and intensity and you will keep your smelly fans,

We have waited, and will always wait, we intense, misunderstood
metalheads,
We receive your output with arms outstretched, and are for now
satiated,
Not any more this week shall be able to frustrate us, or withhold
satisfaction from us,
We use you, but will not abandon you for Slipknot—your albums
are on permanent rotation,
We are not worthy—we love you—there is good in even
your worst albums,
You kick ass in your live concerts,
This tour or the next, you kick ass in your live concerts.

(Note to readers, yeah, all three of you: You may remember this as the second submission to the Post-Intelligencer, sent in the first week of September. But, just for posterity's sake, I'm posting it nonetheless.)


My first and second times on a plane were in 1999, and from what I recall of that trip, security measures certainly have changed. These days laptop computers must be in plain sight, shaving razors are left at home and security guards wield metal detectors without hesitation, not to mention clippers in case a prospective passenger bears suspiciously sharp fingernails.

But even in those less cautious times, a first fling in a flying machine was an intimidating prospect. One could site statistics of airline safety until their countenance turned cobalt and this would generally fail to assuage one’s deepest concerns, namely: “This thing is really, really high off the ground.” As such, the person who is on their first ever flight is generally easy to spot: they are the ones whose necks appear trapped at an angle allowing them to look at nothing save the airline window. Recent government studies by top scientists have isolated the exact thought process of these passengers during the first hour of any given flight: “This is as high as we need to go, right? Right???”

My third time on a plane took place on the morning of Aug. 21, when I flew from Nashville to Chicago before boarding the plane which would bring me to Seoul, South Korea. Though my six-year gap in aeronautical expeditions had left me unprepared for the resurgence of my first flight fears, I can confidently say that this trip was different from those, because this time I had a window seat for an even better look. Yes, I knew that only about one in a million flights crash, but if mine topped that particular fraction this would be slight comfort.

Though the Nashville flight was booked with an American company, those who did the booking evidently sought to prepare me for the cultural experiences ahead by sitting me beside an Asian man, and to accustom me to my coming geometric difficulties by preparing an incredibly low hanging overhead storage compartment.

After entering my window seat with my 6’4 frame bent forward at a 90-degree angle, I noticed that the two seats across the divide had a symmetrical arrangement to ours: compact Asian man with easy access to the aisle placed beside a lumbering Caucasian folded into a window seat.

During the portion of flight in which the waitress distributed what passes for on-flight nourishment, myself and the other passenger with WASP-like characteristics both ordered Pepsi. Meanwhile, (Warning: Ethnic generalization to follow) our more centrally-located flying companions ordered fruit juice, perhaps believing that caffeine would offset their intentionally stunted growth that allows them to sit comfortably in airplanes.

But, had I to do it all over again, I probably would have treasured that hour or so flying to Nashville, rather than staring at the ground wishing for the plane to land, and then wishing it would land but just a little slower, please. I say this because, despite the strategically located Asian men beside me, this is the last time I can remember being part of the majority cultural demographic. The moment I stepped into Chicago’s international terminal, suddenly my identity was that of Pasty McAnglo, he of the greatest vertical dimensions, lightest complexion and worst scores on standardized math tests within a 100-yard radius.

And this feeling continued after I boarded Korean Airlines. After several hours, how high the plane is flying becomes a secondary concern well-behind wondering when the flight will end, allowing you once-neglected access to the blood flow of all extremities. In truth, it was only a 13-hour flight felt but substantially longer for all of the following reasons: 1) The in-flight movie was Miss Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous.

I must say, however, the flight attendants on Asian airlines are very dedicated to their jobs. Towards the end of the flight, I was served a fish dinner by a lady who asked, in her limited English, if I wanted Tobasco sauce with it. Having not come down firmly on one side of the Tobasco-with-meals issue, I shrugged and said, “Sure.” After waiting a couple of minutes, I started my meal anyway. As the last piece of fish entered my gullet, she returned with Tobasco in hand.

“Oh, I sorry,” she said while bowing with hands folded. “I bring you another.” I was unsure of what she meant until another fish dinner arrived to accompany my precious hot sauce.

“I sorry,” she reiterated, continuing to bow.

“It’s okay, really,” I said, while thinking, Don’t go do something ritual to yourself with one of the plastic butter knives.

But despite the occasional cultural misunderstanding and ill-conceived Sandra Bullock vehicle, I arrived in Seoul and was picked up by representatives of the Seventh-day Adventist language institute. At 9 p.m. South Korean time, and 26 hours after the trip began, I arrived at my temporary Seoul apartment, where I marked the occasion by uttering the well-regarded international slogan of good will: “Jet lag, shmet lag, where can I lay down?”

Former Post-Intelligencer reporter Rob York now teaches English in South Korea. He can be reached at rjamesyork@hotmail.com.

(Note to readers: This was written in August and published in the Post-Intelligencer the week before I left.)

When those you know discover your intentions to move away, it usually results in remarks like “Oh, really?” followed by requests for phone numbers and/or mailing addresses. My decision has prompted these responses, but the conversation tends to take a different quality upon word of my destination.
“So when are you leaving?” they’ll ask.
“Near the end of August,” I respond.
“Now where is it you’re going?”
“Actually…South Korea. I’m going to be teaching English,” I’ll say, and wait for their reactions.
The variations have been entertaining. My personal favorites: “Not North Korea, right?” “Are your parents okay with it?” and “Have you warned them about your freakish height?”
For your edification, the answers to these questions are, “No, I’ll save a voyage to a Stalinist regime for my second overseas trip,” “Yes, they’ll let someone else feed me for the next year,” and “This may be my only chance to be good at basketball.”
And then there are those who have simply wondered, “Why?”
That answer is much longer. I’m going through my church, so some think of it as a noble call to service. Some assume that I’ve been looking for a way out of Paris. Others are certain it’s just the lure of Asian women.
In a way, all of these reasons have contributed, though I’ll let you guess at which of those three ranks highest. I learned about the opportunity earlier this year through an advertisement in a magazine published by Seventh-day Adventists. I’ve long desired to travel, but South Korea had not been high on my list of places to see, and not only because of their proximity to a five-foot-tall lunatic armed with impossibly gelled hair (Kim Jong-Il, not Clay Aiken).
But then I began to tell myself that this was a real opportunity. “Self,” I said, “You want to come back a few stories to tell. You want to do some good for society, even if it’s in a foreign land. You want to see more of the world and be a more thoughtful person because of it.
“You want an entire culture to look to you in awe because of your freakish height, and this is that chance.”
There is something not entirely altruistic about the journey, because it’s not just about what I can do, but what South Korea can do something for me. In a sense, I’m leaving because rural West Tennessee is boring. In another sense, I’m leaving because I’m boring, too.
I think of my ordinary life, and I compare myself to people who rose to prominence by making a difficult choice. I think of Meriwether Lewis, who overcame a less-than-masculine-first name and ended up having a cross-country expedition named for him, when he could have simply remained another government employee in the early years of our republic.
I think of Harry S. Truman, who overcame a tragically stunted middle name to become the president most responsible for the election of Dwight Eisenhower, when he could have simply remained another senator from Missouri.
And I think of Arnold Schwarzenegger, who overcame having a name even he can’t spell to become governor of California, when he could have simply remained your average, run-of-the-mill bodybuilding champion/movie star/real estate magnate worth north of $300 million.
With these and other inspirations in mind, I’m leaving this week. I’m trying to pick up the language, but so far it sounds like someone with an Asian dialect making incomprehensible baby sounds and looks like a series of ornate kitchen utensils. I really have no idea what to expect, and no one I’ve spoken to has much of an idea either; they keep referring to concepts like “yen” and “Geisha” which are strictly Japanese. But whatever I find out, I promise to keep you posted.

Former Post-Intelligencer reporter/photographer Rob York will be teaching English and religion in South Korea for the next year. He can be reached at rjamesyork@hotmail.com.