I'm changing all my strings; I'm gonna write another Travelin' Song.

Things are looking up. A few snags here and there, but I keep my chin up and push through my heartaches and headaches. I’m sitting in a coffee shop in the Daecheon bus terminal. This weekend I went to Daejeon (the capital city of my province) with an affectionate friend. She shopped for her father’s birthday present and I drank copious quantities of coffee and tried to rationalize my caffeine dependency. There are worse vices, but apparently warming your neck three times a day with searing battery acid is not everybody’s idea of a good time. Something about a woman’s scorn. Whatever.

I think my package from Mum is in the air by now. The young man goes leaves his friends and family to discover something new and uncharted. His hasty search leaves him weary-eyed and heavy-hearted, after forgetting his name and burying his books. The young man sends a letter to old friends begging them to forgive his cultural betrayal, but they turn their heads and raise their noses in disgust. But Mum was still there. Mum sent coffee, cheese and bread pudding. Mum loved her little boy. Mum sacrificed life and limb to keep his tummy full and his feet pointed in the direction they should go. Mum showed photos to family and friends praising the life she had made. Others pointed and interrogated the photos of the soldier of linguistic imperialism, but Mum just smiled and prayed and shrugged off the young man’s shortcomings and celebrated his triumphs. I love you, Mom.

Daejeon reminded me a lot of LA. Bright lights. Big city. Houses of ill-repute. Queer smiles, fake friends and sensationalized portrayals of women splattered across merchant walls. If it weren’t for the sub-zero temps and four inches of snow, I think it would have been a magnificent place to be this weekend. Thank God for the internets. I watch the Real World and The Office every week and this keeps me grounded. I don’t have enough drama or awkwardness in my life so I choose to outsource it. Sweet. I may not know what’s going to happen in the feud between Chet and JD or in Angela’s (fictional character, mind you) twisted relationship with Dwight, but for those 20-45 minutes I am concerned about something else besides which sam-gyup-sal (it’s a certain cut of pork) restaurant I’m going to eat at. For those 20-45 minutes I get to partake in a kind of internationally endorsed voyeurism that’s hard to come by through most other media.

Different subject. There’s this song called “Pretty Girl” that just came on the radio that is freaking hilarious. Not only does it exemplify the feminine ideal in this country, it is so absurdly blatant about that portrayal that at first I couldn’t discern whether or not the lyrics were just inane or some kind of satirical feminist commentary.

Either way, it is freaking amazing.

My bus leaves in a few, so next week: same time, same place, yeah?