This Is What You Want

So I do not get sued: image from
So I do not get sued: image from

Saturday night: sip something with enough firepower to knock reality out of focus. Sunday morning: wake up next to someone’s future wife. Collect your shoes and jacket, maybe wonder where your own future wife is waking up. Pick up coffee on your way to the train. Walk faster, man. Act like you want to be here. On the weekend you are on one of those planets in Interstellar where the clocks run faster. Every second of Saturday and Sunday time you have to pay back with 2.5 seconds of time during the week.

Monday morning: welcome back to Earth. Did you have fun while you were gone, have you recovered. Hope so. Now do your work, you owe us five days. Five days of hurdles, reporting for duty, telling your seniors it can be done. Do what you actually like to do in the leftover scraps of time in the evening. Five days to slog, two days to decompress. And this is the best case scenario; you want the Office Space life. This is reality, you need health insurance. People say to give up everything to follow your passions. Because it worked for them. But for every one of them, 75,000 others run out of money and boomerang back into the workforce and punch in at Red Lobster. One out of 75,000. You might as well be applying to NASA. Bad odds but still—odds. Tempting.

The next Saturday: walk through the metro station on the night of winter solstice as the homeless build cardboard nests. Give them your coins. Hope the young jackass in 2045 will do the same to you.


You Shouldn’t Have Done That

My reader will remember last week, when I asked you to vote for my group blog Sweet Pickles & Corn that was up for a few awards. Well, we won Best New Blog at the K-Blog awards here in Seoul. And it’s all thanks to you.


All thanks to you, boys and girls. We have arrived. And so it begins: the lifestyle of indulgence that comes to the accomplished. Gift bags with silk ribbons will be delivered to your doorstep, just in time for the holidays. Inside: an eight-ball of the finest Bolivian blow my cartel contacts could procure and an autographed copy of the above photo, with the other guy cropped out.

You shouldn’t have. No really–you shouldn’t have. Because if you thought I was a prick before, just wait until you see the demon you’ve conjured by helping me validate myself even more. You just cranked up the knob on the pressure cooker of narcissism that my ego is baking in and broke it off.

Have good week, people. And remember, I love each and every one of you more than all the rest of you.

-Colton, out.

Vote for Fred Colton

Hey boys and girls. Need a quick favor: I’m proud to be a part of Sweet Pickles & Corn, an expat blogging site here in Korea. We’re up for some blogging awards (being given out next Sunday) and we need some votes to boost us up to the top.

So, good citizen, in the spirit of Christmas and good cheer, please click on this link:

and give Sweet Pickles & Corn 5 stars, if you please, so that I may sooner achieve my dreams of rolling around nude in piles of Bolivian blow all day with Victoria’s Secret models. Because that is the life of a writer.

Voting ends today: time is of the essence!

And remember, I love each and every one of you more than all the rest.

Colton, out.

Necessary Lies

I’m out the door with a checkered scarf cinched up like a noose. Saturday night: time to get lit up with some other people in a dark room and let some vodka tonics dissolve that outer shell we’re all trapped in. Time to go lie to some girls with accents. This is Seoul, you meet all types. I tell them I’m applying to grad school for history. If you are a writer you have to tell a lie like this, because no one ever goes out hoping they meet a writer. This isn’t a complete fabrication because I do like history; I read about motherfucking history all the time and this makes me a perennial bar trivia MVP. If I had Netflix I wouldn’t do shit, ever, because I’d be plowing through documentaries on the Punic Wars. But I’m not paying $30,000 just to read more history. But–grad school, yeah. I want to teach history someday, sure. I’m still young enough that this lie holds water. Next year I’ll need a different one.

These girls, they want to see ambition, but the right kind of ambition. Someone is going to have to pay for a minivan someday, remember. So they want dull-eyed jackoffs who are going for their MBA and will be able to afford boarding school tuition. That, or they want guys who play in live bands or have enough family money to go skydiving in New Zealand one month and reef-diving off Boracay the next. I really hope I meet a blogger tonight, no girl has ever said as she applied cherry-red lipstick. That is a historical fact. Unless you work for an entity people have heard of, you can’t tell a girl you’re a writer. There’s something about that one word that makes nether regions go Sahara dry. You can actually see the eyes glazing over. Saying you’re a writer is the ultimate cockblock, the avada kedavra of cockblocks. It’s the worst thing you could possibly do to hamper your bedroom prospects, short of castrating yourself with a leather hose and some garden shears. Because everyone is a writer. Name someone who isn’t. You might as well try to impress someone by saying you breathe oxygen. No girl Skypes home saying: Daddy, he’s, he’s great, he’s an unpublished writer.

So, you lie. You talk about getting drunk on ski trips and you tell the legendary tale of your friend’s 21st birthday blowout in Bangkok, but you don’t talk about your book. It’s like trying to hide a drug problem. It’s like being Bruce Wayne, having to go out and lie to people and pretend this other half of your life doesn’t exist. My name is Fred is this the kind of shit I have to do when I’m out. True story.


Winter is Here and No One Will Ever Love You

7:15 PM and the whores are clopping to work. Still in their skirts and heels, and it’s December. Not even leggings. It’s winter in Korea, I can see your goosebumps from the end of the block, how can you dress like this. That is dedication. But I get it; the wares must be displayed. It’s a different type of prostitution here. In Thailand your average hooker gets sold into it by a family member and ends up stuck in a ping-pong parlor in Bangkok for 10 years. In Korea college girls get into it because they can spend a few hours a week in the starfish position and earn enough for a Gucci tote.

It’s winter in Korea. Already, even though we’ve still got more than two full weeks until the solstice. But winter here has engaged in what is commonly known as a false start. It’s already here. The sun is gone and the toothpaste tube in my bathroom is frozen solid as a railroad tie. I step outside and it’s like I just did a shot, my nipples go hard enough to cut glass. The Siberian wind, the very wind that made Stalin’s gulags what they were, blows out of the north and cuts down the peninsula. It’s too early for this. But apparently even the seasons in Korea cheat. I shouldn’t be surprised. We’re talking about a country that was barred from holding SAT exams last year due to rampant cheating; too many Korean kids were beating native English speakers on the written section.

It’s winter in Korea. Well, it is winter–but am I actually in Korea, I wonder. This place can’t be on planet Earth. This is just a dead rock, lost in space. We have been forgotten by the sun. No life or love can flourish here. You are alone and you will be alone forever. The love of your life probably lives ten miles away but you’ll never meet her because who’s going to go out to the bars when there’s sweatpants and Netflix inside.

Welcome to Lazy Season. When the cold of the universe seeps through the atmosphere and makes you shiver like you swallowed a jackhammer. Every second is a battle. Just get inside go inside get inside get warm stay warm be warm never leave the warmth.

How we deal with this brutal chill is, of course, how we determine who is a man and who is a mere boy. Fuck it, I will gladly mark myself down in the boy column. The pussy column, actually, if there is one. If I were a shopkeep’s son in Kandahar the War on Terror would have ended in December 2001. The CIA black baggers would have been shocked how easy they had it with me. Toss me out in that bitter Afghan winter night and three minutes later I’d be clawing at the door and admitting that it was I who planned 9/11. They wouldn’t have even have had to fill up the waterboarding basin. Lil’ Bushie would now be serving his fourth term at the request of a grateful nation.

Once I reach shelter, that heater is coming on. Fuck the planet, fuck my hypothetical grandchildren. If global warming is the cost of staying warm, global warming it is. How can I help. Can I take a flamethrower to some icebergs or perhaps some acres of rainforest, can I club baby seals to death, can I drown seagulls in a fifty-five gallon drum of crude oil. I don’t even know how it works, to be honest. Just—whatever it takes. Let’s just keep this planet hot as balls. You think you have convictions, see, until you get really cold.

Bush 2016.