I’m Still Here

just not posting everything I write. No, what you type is no good, go stop sucking. Go do more things to throw fuel on the fire. Without an influx of raw material you smother. But then when you go do things you can be stressed about it. When I move around in the world I’m afraid of making imperfect observations. Missing the most clever angle on something. If I don’t get it right then my editor won’t let me publish it. My editor is me. He’s kind of a dick, real hard to impress, but thank God he’s there. If you could see the slush pile of dumb half-thoughts in my head you’d want to euthanize me.


All Right All Right All Right


Capture 5

The Crusade has received a facelift. Dig it here.

New bios for the whole lot of us are here, and damn did they all do a good job of writing them, and for those of you who think we’re legitimately conceited, you can fuck off, because in our new “About” section I provide a rebuttal that explains how we’re actually not.

Babe, Gordon, Underdaddy, Sam, GZ and YuMin all put me to goddamn shame, so get the hell off my page and go read some of their stuff, awright?

Right, Thanksgiving

Didn’t happen this year. I live in Korea and my girlfriend is French and my friends are all Canadian or British except for Kyle but Kyle takes anti-social to Ted Kaczinsky levels. Ergo the day just kind of slid by. I was at work, my Korean co-workers screeching at each other like car alarms. Thinking guns in this country would be a great idea. Not saying I would EVER shoot up a school. Ever! But if someone else did, you know, then school’s out early.

So no Thanksgiving dinner and thank God for that. Dry, dry turkey and acidic cranberry sauce you can de-grease a car engine with. Pies baked by people who can’t bake. My Thanksgiving dinner was a bag of almonds and also a carrot/green-pepper smoothie and no booze; on the caloric level I am inherently better than you.

Not being home is a mixed bag. I’m just like you in that my family does kind of suck, but I do miss them. I miss the townies I came up with. I don’t miss the annual Chore-a-Thon. Up at 8 goddamn 30 a.m. to help mom in the kitchen, drive to the store three times throughout the day because people forgot key ingredients. I definitely miss trolling my relatives during partisan debates.

But really, Thanksgiving=whatever. It’s a hollow dry-run for Christmas. Christmas without the dopamine. I heard the Pilgrims started Thanksgiving but Lincoln rebooted it. I like history in general but both the Pilgrims and Lincoln have always felt shot-of-Nyquil boring to me. As boring and meh as the holiday itself. And Lincoln really did seem like kind of a smug fuck, didn’t he?

I’m thankful every day. Thankful for luck, for the random, statistical aberration that I am. One of the 1% of people who ever lived who spends eighty safe, warm years trying not to get fat. I think about it all the time. It goes beyond thanks. It’s almost a survivor’s guilt kind of thing.

Well that’s it. Also today I wondered if the turkeys pardoned one year just end up getting slaughtered the next year.



An Ever-So-Brief Brush with International Celebrity

I mean hell yeah I’d be an actor or a model but I absolutely refuse to chase it through traditional channels. Only if the opportunity falls squarely into my lap. It has to be that I was discovered while in the midst of carrying on my unassuming existence. In the back of my mind I was always like, look, I can wear the fuck out of a suit. If I just stand in the middle of a city long enough then something good is going to happen. I went to Seoul in a suit ten thousand times. Finally this Samsung commercial came down the pipeline and I was like: OK this is it. I am DONE! being a peon, done now and forever more; this is my exit strategy. Finally, a valid excuse to be unintelligent. After all these years of fretting over abdominals for free it would be nice to get paid for it. Went full-stop on the booze and printed out smoothie recipes.

And then I get a message on Kakao Talk from the model guy in over Noksapyeong. His handle is SUPER KEVIN. He said that Samsung re-scheduled the shoot for during my working hours. In Korea you can skip work but only if you’re dead. There was no way to disentangle myself from the fate of reporting to my desk at 8:30.

So that was it. One snap of serendipity. From rising star to sinking star in the span of a week. Well at least I have the extremely-lucrative blogging world to fall back on. My fate lies with you people, it would seem.

Big Night Out: Portland Edition

The one in Maine, aka the one most of America doesn’t realize exists. New Year’s 2014. A night that came and went with all the excitement of a wet firecracker. Getting to the bar was like fighting through the Fall of Saigon. Me and Steve and Eric were the only ones in the venue who would even understand that reference. The only ones there born in the 80s. Let’s never do this again, I said. We’re too old for this.

Turn 26 and the bar brats are already grating on you. You hate them because they’re fresh. At least there’s some solace to balance the envy. You know that nothing new ever stays that way. We all fade.

This girl grabbed my pocket square. Why are you wearing a suit, she said.

I’m a trial lawyer, I told her.

Whatever. No you’re not.

Yeah I am, I represent the Pokemon Corporation.

Then the countdown started and the crowd had us crushed chest to chest and we had to kiss by default. She was uncomfortably thin but somehow also had really big cheeks. Oh well; what better way to start the new year than by settling. Nowhere to go but up.


Outside it was -5 degrees. We couldn’t find Steve and everyone’s phones were dead. And transport back to the hotel was an issue.

1 a.m. on New Year’s Eve is the best hour a taxi driver will have all year. Leaned the fuck back in their warm cabs like they’re in a Roman chariot procession. All the power. After this magic hour, nowhere to go but down. Fifty dollars to get twelve blocks to the hotel, all the drivers said. If I were a millionaire I’d still have walked it out of spite. Uber should pay me for this post.

Eric and I made it back by taking cover in heated lobbies on our route. Dashing fast from between buildings like we were under fire. Shit-faced we wouldn’t have registered the acid wind. The odyssey would have just been a loud blur. Hitchhiking, lobbing snowballs at women, etc. But we were stone-sober after waiting forty minutes for each drink back at the bar. Never again, we kept saying.

More drinks back in the room with all the young kids. 22 year-olds spending the absolute pinnacle of their lives in the gray slush north of Boston. Steve was there. He’d actually gotten a taxi but realized halfway through the ride he had no money. The driver ejected him on the side of I-295 and he slid down the hill back into town. Wandered into the middle of a street fight and had to pick a side. I took a beer from someone’s pile and sulked because I felt like the only one in the city without a story. Steve ended up stealing this post out from under me.


The sun came up ultra-bright. Ten thousand hungover dimwits on the Eastern seaboard Instagrammed the clear day with hashtags about new beginnings. I felt superior because I knew better by that point. It’s a magical time when you figure out the new year isn’t magic. It’s just January. The first day of which was going to be the same as 9,000 days that came before it.


Unless you do something really different. We brunched and drove back to New Hampshire. Not long after that I went to another country. I’m still there and don’t think I’ll leave any time soon because the taxi drivers here generally don’t act like twats.


This post was published today over on the Crusade.


The Most Boring Thing You’ll Read All Day

Notes From Korea: 11/21/15

Aw fuck I should not be blogging. I should be finishing this short story about time travel. But I feel like if a few days go by then my blog’s heart stops beating and then people will check my page and see nothing new and think: see I knew he wasn’t for real. He’s out of ideas.


Yeah well even if I am out of ideas I can always turn into a troll and savage the work of others. Like for instance I got Michael Connelly’s new book and man, the guy is coasting. You can feel comfort and overconfidence coming off the page. You can tell he’s at the level where he bangs out a limp draft and emails that fucker right over to the editor and two months later it’s on a shelf. Good story but he needed to take a machete to the prose before he published. He mentions the same detail twice in the same paragraph and uses bottom-shelf phrases no one should ever use like “as far the eye could see.” Alas, another one of the greats goes flat.


My school is green as fuck; they won’t turn on the heaters. It’s a brand-new facility built right in the middle of ancestral Korean farmland, probably seized from the villagers by brute force. I wonder if it’s haunted. Hey that could be a short story too. Pig shit taints the November breeze. Right outside my office window a stock-image Asian farmer in a rice hat hangs out in a graveyard. I catch him watching me type. The creepy thing is that he keeps staring; he doesn’t care that I’ve caught him.


Scrolling down the post-Paris debates on Facebook so that I can feel that my viewpoints are extremely correct. Everyone is correct on Facebook. I’m pro-refugee. Because I’m a refugee. You try eking a decent lay out of the Brick House in Dover, New Hampshire and you’d flee the continent too. Modern America is a failed state for the basic man.


This morning was a 5K on the US Army base in Seoul but I forgot my ID so I couldn’t get past the gate so fuck it.  I’ll rest and go see some people tonight and try to make them laugh. I wonder how all of our conversations would go if it was impossible to fake laughter. Now I’m with the girlfriend (yeah I haven’t fucked it up yet) in Hapjeong Station, eyeballing Koreans on coffee dates who are having a hell of an awkward time reaching common ground. Ah, being single.

Anyway, shit, thank God I got something up on the blog today. Wow, what a snoozer this posts was. If you made it this far, congratulations. At least there’s solace in the fact that even if you put something shitty online, the internet is so oversaturated with shit to begin with that you couldn’t possibly make it any worse. I’ll close with an appropriate quote from the internet’s resident Ranter King Gordon Flanders: “Goddamn this shit is boring.”


And There Was Much Rejoicing

Breaking news: your boy Fred here is out of the game. I found a girl who other guys approach as soon as I turn my head, which is what you want. I found a girl who likes to read books that I approve of. Nothing so smart that I feel out of my depth. And she read my blog and was not thoroughly repulsed. Man this is going to be great; I hope Anne finds out. She turned me down a long time ago but my girlfriend is so much hotter (and younger) than Anne. Young rakes, the field is yours.

Big Nights Out: LA Edition

Behold: my new thing from the Crusade:

When I drove famous people’s cars I would go through their shit. Find mundane objects that would take on some higher meaning because of their proximity to celebrity. Like for instance Justin Timberlake had an ancient iPod with a click wheel in his Audi. Tyrese Gibson (the non-Ludacris black guy from Fast & Furious) had a Monster Energy drink sweating in his Maserati cupholder. And Bradley Cooper’s C wagon was disappointingly clean and devoid of moist panties but I went through his glovebox and looked at his proof of insurance.

When I can’t think of anything to write I wish I’d kept my college valet job in LA. I could have launched an anonymous blog with pictures of litter like a Wrigley’s gum wrapper, but because it was a gum wrapper from a Jenner’s floorboard then it would be ogled. Put something online that people ogle and you get yourself some goddamn blog stats. Get yourself some godamn blog stats and leverage yourself a motherfucking coffee table book deal. Get money from a coffee table book and have a kid valet your car at a party in the Hills and sue him if he takes pictures of the inside.

Standing outside and hearing the laughter behind the gates is the most motivating shit you’ll ever experience. It gives you little fits of insanity. You don’t deserve to be inside chattering, so it makes you want to go home and work. Grind away on something that might get noticed. But you gotta put your hours on the curb first. So what you do to handle it is bring a suit jacket to the job. Throw it on over your valet vest and look like a rich young prick instead of the poor young prick you actually are. Walk into the party to “use the bathroom” and just stay in there. Chat up the security, guys who used to play for the Packers and guys who have been hit by Taliban snipers. Take a shit inside a cavernous black marble bathroom with toilet paper as soft as angel feathers and a separate jacuzzi room inside it. Scoop a plate of mini-quiches. Dance with rich girls who don’t know you’re a peasant. Get a shot of absinthe by the pool and then go back out to park Lambos. Joyride said Lambo in flagrant violation of the no-joyriding rule, which they should have expected. You’re sooner going to convince gravity to stop working than convince a red-blooded adolescent not to floor it while wrapped inside $200,000 worth of automobile. Just know that if you ever become wealthy, a child with absinthe inside of him is going to max out your car’s RPMs in a residential area.

A typical night in Hollywood, circa 2009: stand near Zooey Deschanel while she argues with her (now ex) husband about what lot their car had been parked in. See Brett Ratner roll up with four women and wonder how a man can be so cocky and so fat at the same time. Probably because he was still coasting off X-Men: The Last Stand three years after it came out. Probably because nobody told him that that movie isn’t the kind of thing you can coast on. See Keifer Sutherland come through with an ascot and sunglass lenses the size of pancakes. Laugh at him and called him Queef-er Sutherland. See paparazzi sprinting after David Hasselhoff’s car and wonder who in this world still gives a shit about pictures of David Hasselhoff. Sometimes, see Brad Pitt or Vince Vaughn from far off but they have a cordon of guys around them like Secret Service.

One Saturday night we did a party for this guy descended from the Wells Fargo founder and he came outside wearing a crown and gave us each a hundred dollars. A fucking crown. The night after that was the Emmy’s and we worked the Chateau Marmont. On the curb we saw Colin Firth and Lindsay Lohan and Sarah Silverman and Aziz Ansari and two guys from Entourage. I also got a reciprocal head-nod from shitty iPod-owner Justin Timberlake. Then Erik and I slid into the Chateau after our shift and drank at the Mad Men afterparty in a bungalow. We said we were crew from Two and A Half Men and tried to weasel our way to an after-after party with this girl but she was still sober and unfortunately capable of skepticism. Rich people have superpowers. They sense your lack of polish instantly.

Outside the Chateau we discovered Erik’s car had been towed and we were stranded in Hollywood until dawn. Which is nowhere near as cool as it sounds. It’s just liquor stores and check-cashing joints and pools of sick orange light. A hooker with teeth that bent inward stalked us around and dropped a condom on the sidewalk, asked if we had a place to go for protected sex. We declined but gave her points for the bold condom drop. Made a note to try it ourselves one day in a club.

Just like the Wrigley’s wrapper we got points for our proximity to celebrity. Go get stories at work. That’s how you be the most interesting guy in a group. Until you turn 22 and your celeb sightings start to set off people’s deadbeat alarms. A few months later I ran away to China. Now I have another few years until my English teacher stories set off the deadbeat alarms. Whatever; things could be so much worse. I could wear sunglasses with lenses the size of pancakes and prance un-ironically around my property while wearing a crown. I think I’m the clear winner here.

Thank God It’s My Birthday So I Have Something to Write About

My life has been renewed for a 28th season. I’m in the office celebrating with an oatmeal raisin cookie because Korean birthday cakes are just cool whip lathered over a huge twinkie.

27 was good. I’d recommend it to a friend. This is one of the seasons they’ll talk about when the show is cancelled.

In your late 20s your birthday hits and it’s just, eh. It feels about as good as finding $5 on the ground. Which is still a cool feeling. Today I’m 28. I do believe I’m a man now; I keep catching myself acting all stately and mature. This conceit will last a few days. But now is the sweet spot. The professor years of seeing women who are far too young for me. I wasn’t good at being a boy and I’ve been waiting my whole life for this. I’ll be dead by 32; executed by a jilted frat boy while I’m drinking wine in my study with a sweater on.

I wish my birthday had been yesterday. I got to work and there was nobody here. Turned out everything was closed because of Korean college entrance exams. So I had a free day to be out among the daywalkers. You can’t really feel the pulse of a place until you explore it during work hours. Quiet sunny streets. Kids with Down’s Syndrome out stomping on leaves with each other. Gym at 10:30 A.M. with the menopausal homemakers trying to self-arrest the decline. You never see a Korean girl in the gym. They don’t have to work out.

Big plans, it’ll be a big year. I mean, it actually won’t, but I like saying it will be. This year I’ll stay abroad. Take all the good shit on my blog and make a travelog ebook out of it. You monkeys will all buy it because I won’t reiterate that it’s just my classic blog shit and then I’ll be set. Come on guys we can do this. Crowdfund my beer and apartment and my pursuit of luxury. So that when you read this blog a year from now it’ll just be a picture of me with my middle finger flipped up.

OK there’s the bell. Where’s the beer at?

Zen Shit

Ambition was making me nauseous. So I gotta stop checking the blog stats, gotta stop looking up famous people on Wiki and thinking: this person became a success when they were younger than I am now, so it’s time to hate myself.

Success just means a lot more work at a much higher level and hoping the thin ice holding you up doesn’t break. Or it means that you prune up in a jacuzzi and then get bored and become an asshole. If you don’t have to work then your whole life is that extra, antsy third day of a three-day weekend. You OD on free time and the possibilities smother you. Your worker drone brain isn’t built to handle it. Watch TV and you’ll wish you were reading and vice-versa. Watch TV and think about all the shit you’ve never done because you’re watching TV. Like apple-picking or taking a salsa class. Realize you’ve wasted your life so far and you will definitely waste the remainder of it. Better to be at work where that mental purgatory never sets in.

Goddamnit, I can’t believe I’m writing in defense of drudgery after throwing a tantrum about it online for the past year.

But anyway why obsess with success when I’m already there. My young-douche-in-Korea blog is easily the best in its niche. Great, fuck it. Just put stuff on it and don’t worry about it. I could probably sell more books. But Christ, have you actually tried marketing your book? I’d rather get another chlamydia test stick rammed down my dick than do that shit for ten minutes. Spend an invaluable hour of your life begging for a review or tweaking your Amazon search terms. People will still click to your page and think $.99 is too much, and you know that the whole time you’re marketing. Ten minutes of doing the business work behind writing feels like 10,000 hours. I just want to write, fuck the rest. That’s all I’ll do. 

In the meantime I should just go to work and be glad I’m going to work. If you work then you’re royalty. It hasn’t happened yet but soon the conglomerates will win and automate the blue collars out of existence and poverty will be the default.

Every morning I slide off the mattress too early and my eyes hurt and I walk a mile to work and play the Nerdist podcast on the way. Guests on it like you wouldn’t believe. Like Bill Gates and Tom Cruise but they’re boring and never give an inch. Then you’ve got Will Forte, who’s got fuck-you money and his own show, who comes on and unloads, says the stress at the mountaintop is debilitating and he can’t even take a day off to ski. All right then, so we all have to slog it out. I don’t know where I got it in my head that I would grind my way to a magical life where I never had to do things I didn’t want to do. The VIPS are all busy as we are and everyone wants to get off the ride and that’s such a relief to know.

This is some wise shit that most of you already know. But since I’m finally getting old now, it’s my turn to say it.

As you were.

Big Night Out: Shanghai Edition


Once upon a time I lived in China for two years. And in June 2012 it was time to go home, so I flew from Hong Kong up to Pudong International in Shanghai. 14 hour layover before the long run over to JFK.

The best SAT word to describe my mood that day is “despondent.” No more China meant no more novelty. No more China meant no more getting laid simply because I existed. Being a white man in Asia is like being a hot woman anywhere else in the world. You should try it. No more China meant no more $40/hour tutoring gigs. I’ve never been arrested but I have been sent straight from recess to detention and this was the same feeling.

Flight at 7 a.m. 14 hours left in Asia. I bought a ticket for the Maglev bullet train going downtown.


The train goes 430 km/hr which is 268 m.p.h. You ride it and you’re in a jetliner forty feet above the pavement. The tracks are laid out right next to rooftops. Then you go over a highway and you’re riding four times faster than the cars. You can’t ride the Maglev in America because we don’t pay to build anything except tanks.

Downtown Shanghai in eight minutes. I got to Longyang Road. I wanted to go to Pudong and stand on top of something tall. Pudong is China’s Manhattan. Pudong is the first thing Google Images shows you of Shanghai. It has that big Pearl Tower which is the first image you associate in your head with “Asia.”

I got off at a random metro station. Ended up two blocks from the World Financial Center. 101 stories of money, shaped like God’s bottle opener. I went inside and paid the guy in the blue uniform to take the elevator. When I got to the top it was night.

The view from the top of Hong Kong and New York is textured because you’ve got the bays and rivers. Up above Shanghai it’s just high city, going on absolutely forever. The observatory is 100% glass. Floors walls and ceilings. You walk the length of it like an intergalactic warlord surveying his capital. Under your feet are a hundred trillion lights heating up the planet to a boil. People whine about global warming but I look at Shanghai at night and think: this is worth it. The view is such that you can’t help but get existential. I wondered why I was leaving. I think it was some vague perception of responsibility. And guilt over having fun for two years. Like I wasn’t allowed to not feel stress. Like I owed it to America to grind it out and be bored again.


9 p.m.

I wanted to eat a meal that was too expensive and then I wanted to get laid for free. Two years in Asia and I’d gotten used to coming up with ideas and then having them work out. Once I went back to America all my ideas would stop working and I think I could already sense that.

I had a black suit in my backpack and I put it on in the lobby bathroom of the Financial Center. Then I walked a mile out to the Huangpu River ferry. Passed a huge dragon carved out of a bush at the base of the Pearl Tower. Passed a Hooters too. I was going to cross the river over to the Bund. The old French Concession. Picture a long row of gold palaces on the riverbank and that’s exactly what it is. Like twelve Versailles lined up, probably. I don’t know. I’ve never been to Versailles.


I checked my bag at a club but didn’t go inside. For my last supper I got ravioli and Heineken at Bocca. Fifth floor of one of the palaces on the waterfront. A place where the waiter has a big napkin on his arm and hovers behind you like an indentured servant and the water only comes in the sparkling variety and costs seven dollars. My table faced the window and I looked back out at the Pudong bank towers and thought important thoughts about myself. I took slow sips of beer. The meal felt like a ritual, maybe a memorial service for the part of my life that was ending.

The chef was Italian and came out to see how everything was. I asked him about the nightlife and he gave me a handwritten hit list on a thick piece of paper that he folded in half. I gave him 400 RMB ($75) and left.



First up was Zeal. Two palaces over. Hot crowd, same view as Bocca, ten dollars for a Stella. I leaned on the rail and drank. The visuals were overwhelming me. It was one of those movie bars where the whole scene is somehow really dark and really bright at the same time. The tables had lights inside of them. The girls had Hennessy in clear buckets. The girls had perfect, perfect legs.

I didn’t realize I was in VIP and this Chinese kid in a tux told me to leave. Rich people have observational superpowers like Sherlock and can tell if your suit costs under a grand. I acted like I didn’t understand Chinese so he switched to English. Then I acted like I was French and didn’t know English and he wrinkled his nose and flapped his arms a little. He had a security guy come over and move me back to the bar.

A black girl in a black dress was talking to a Serbian in a black tee and she left him and came up to me. Said she was American, in charge of customer relations or something. She was paid to mingle with foreigners. I made a few condescending cracks about the kid in the tux and she brought me to meet the owner, an old German with a Jagger face. He was clearly fucking one of the girls in VIP. He brought me to his table and gave me a whiskey sour. He asked what I did and I gave him the most glorious bullshit of all time. I said I worked in “industry.” Which was technically true because don’t we all work in an industry. I shared my drink with the American girl.

There was an energy to the night. Things were clicking. One last night in Asia. I made sure to salute the kid in the tux when he heard me speaking English. When I read about China’s economic slowdown I think of him and hope he’s personally bearing the brunt of it.


I got the American girl’s number and then left Zeal so I wouldn’t burn through my cachet of goodwill with the owner. And so the girl would miss me. Game 101: act much, much busier than you are.

1 a.m.

I did a hit and run of another bar. 18th floor, koi ponds pointlessly laid out around tables as obstacles. I was talking to a thirty year-old Chinese girl who she said she’d been to Everest the year before. She showed me her summit pictures. I took her number and went back to Zeal. The Serbian guy was still there, orbiting around the edge of VIP, and I saw his mind explode when I walked in.

I went back into VIP. Do you have a couch, I asked the American. Which is a great question. She said she did. She also said she knew the Serbian and she didn’t want to piss him off so it was better if we left separately.

Then she slid me her address and I pocketed it like people slide me papers discreetly every day.


Twenty minutes in a taxi, south through Shanghai. I wondered if she gave me a fake address. When the taxi pulled up I had five hours till my flight took off.

The guy dropped me at the wrong apartment tower and I scaled a fence to get into the right courtyard. An unnecessary move to be sure; I could have just walked around until I found the gate. But try pitching that to a man with sex on his mind.

Up in her place she had made up the couch. Plausible deniability. She’s a woman so even if she wanted something to happen she had to pretend like she didn’t expect anything to happen. She got in her bed to play with the Photo Booth on her new MacBook. I followed.

You’re not sleeping in here with me, she said.

Come on Fred, I thought. Game time. Tonight you’ve won everything and made it all the way to the Super Bowl. Now cap it off.

I know, I told her. I just wanted to thank you and give you a kiss goodnight.

I made some faces for her webcam and then we kissed and I played it slow. Real easy with the tongue at first. After ten minutes she told me to get a condom.

In Shanghai I was James Bond for a night. Actually I beat Bond. In Skyfall he didn’t get laid in Shanghai.


I woke up so tired I was nauseous. Three hours until takeoff. Ninety minutes minimum to get to the airport. I hustled north. Half in a desperate rush, half-hoping I missed my flight so I could get lost here. Become that old German club owner, but become him before my face got craggy like his.

Back on the Maglev train I watched the sun boiling up over the towers. Asia woke up and I checked in and flew off. I’d steeled myself for America to be bad but it worked out even worse than that. I went to interviews and told lies about corporate synergy and task prioritization. They could see me gagging on my own bullshit. I am neither a smart nor competent man. I’m a guy who goes places and does what he can to get by while he’s there so he can fuel his wasteful writing addiction. Think of the applicable skills I could have developed or the connections I could have made with all this time invested on the keyboard. Whatever. Those are for boring people.


I’m back in Asia now. In six months from I’ll probably be riding a motorcycle through Vietnam with my cash burning up faster than the gas in my tank. My best friend at home just got a good job selling loans. He’ll still be there six years from now. One of us is jealous of the other one.


Big Night Out: Seoul Edition


This was originally published today over on the Crusade.

Drunk Post: Cass Fresh

Hi, Internet. Your boy Fred here, reporting live from Seoul on Saturday night from outside a Ho Bar. Swag is turned up because of the suit and I’m loaded off some Cass. Cass is lightweight peasant brew, my friends sneer. Well yeah. But you seem to have forgotten that we’re peasants.

Flat-assed Korean girls everywhere. One has a hat that says I’M SWAG and another one has a hat that says QUEENS GET THE MONEY. Man the music in here is too loud. This rapper is telling me he’ll fuck my girl, without even trying, but then later in the same song he boasts she’s swallowing his ejaculate because she’s so wasted. Wait so why are you bragging. Any dude can walk into a club where women are drinking. Average dudes accomplish that every weekend. I want to totally flip the tables now and fuck a rapper’s girl and then blog about it. Watch your back, 2 Chainz.

So the mute beggar just came up and I gave him my small bills as per standard operating procedure. He never remembers me. Then another guy came up for a selfie because I’m tall and this made me angry. But it also pisses me off when people deny me attention because they resent my height. I guess this is a parable that proves I’ll never be happy.

Although I am kind of happy. I’m neither lonely nor broke and about one out of ten times I sit down to blog something good happens. Resisting the urge to feel guilty about it all; last Sunday I was happy and Googled the migrant crisis to bring me back down to Earth. Oof, that really did the trick. But shit, I gotta figure out next year. What job should I get and where. Money money goddamn fucking money. I remember after my first summer job I had like $2000. And since I was a kid with no bills, so you might as well double that figure. It was 100% pure spendable income. I had never had that much money before and I truly, literally, actually thought it was impossible to spend that much in a human lifespan. I miss being that stupid. At least there will always be drunkenness and that’s pretty close.

Time Capsule: November 5

I was gonna title this post: “Korea is Stupid” but all countries are stupid. People are people, wherever you go. With Korea you have to be more precise. Korea is adorably stupid.

Exhibit A: on this day last year a prim shrewish envoy from the Education Bureau observed my third grade class and afterward she gave it to me with both barrels. “When you wrote the date on the board,” she said, “Your handwriting was smaller than when you wrote the vocabulary.”

Oh, my God. And I call myself a teacher.

Midnight Threeway


Checked the phone after the guitar on Monday night and there was the invite. Everyone needs to know that this is a thing that happened to me, that this was an option. Korean Catwoman from Halloween round 1 on Friday and her friend with the mouse ears. I encountered her while I was out with Mario and Mo in Itaewon, having the kind of night alcohol was invented for. We stole a bottle of honey bourbon from a promoter and ran around pouring it into people’s mouths. I had my navy suit and too much pomade, looking like I spend all day drunk-driving South American economies into the wall. Hi Catwoman.

Itaewon Pic

Threesome. I didn’t go. All the way out in Gangnam: 40 minutes by cab since I live in Incheon which is the Tattooine of Korea. And hey look at the time: almost midnight. And hey look how old I am. I’ll be 28 next week and 28 seems young but it’s not. Profound energy dropoff, by now I sleep so much it’s like I just got home from war. Midnight threeways are a young man’s racket. 28, you’re old but walking around wearing a young man’s face. At my age Cobain had already blown his head off and Hemingway had already blown up with that fucking snoozer about cafes. And plus what if I got all the way over there and the girls were hookers. Worse, what if they weren’t hookers and conversation was required. Minus another hour of sleep. I had to teach in the morning and no vagina is worth being sleep deprived at 8:30 A.M. in a room with thirty children screaming like they’re on fire. Not even Helen of Troy’s virginal, reincarnated snatch, milking endless hard spurts of ejaculate out of you, would quite make up for that. And I was already in bed, and Korea is cold as a space station these days. Not even a threesome with lithe creamy-titted Koreans can get me out of bed. All week I’ve been holding my piss in for hours on end because I’m unwilling to fish out my dick with icy hands.

They could have had me but they said the wrong words. They were too shallow. Say you like my suit and I stay in bed. But say you like my blog and well, I’m on the way over.

Eyes Closed, Mouth to One Side

Gordon Flanders is killing the blog game. If you’re gonna read anyone’s drunk rants, make it his:

Conceited Crusade

Look I ain’t going to stand here and tell you what the deal is, because you already know. Somehow the decision handed down was it’s time to talk about one word, and one word only, and this week, the word is “drunk.”

Now normally I come up in this bitch and try to avoid disappointing EVERYONE in my life by spending about five minutes trying to put together something clever worthy of being on the same general URL as these luminaries who have the audacity to label themselves crusaders.

You may remember me from such posts as

No One Gives Three Shits When People Say the Word Dopio, Because What the Hell Does That Even Mean Anyway


Short Story About a Man Outside Who No One Gives Three Shits About Or Can Even Hear If He’s Saying Dopio and Besides Which Has No Distinguishing Features Whatsoever…

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