Korean Subway Riding for Dummies

Sitting down in a subway car in Korea is a rare experience, especially for the feeble-minded.  Common etiquette designates that you give up your seat to elders, the disabled, and women.  If you are not part of this demographic, ball up and stand. 

Rush hour, though.  Rush hour dissolves all morality.  It is the great equalizer.  It is getting stranded on an island, except not like getting stranded on an island because islands are not as crowded.  In any case, all people are brought down to their animal instincts.  It is the moment of impending death.  It is during this time that sitting is essential for your subway riding experience. Standing and holding onto the handles isn’t so terrible, but actually it is.  Sitting is supreme.

During rush hour, you are squashed against the businessman next to you, the girl with too much make-up.  And just when you think the car can’t possibly fit in more people, AUGH more just did.  If you’re lost in the middle of the crowd somewhere, chances are you won’t be near a pole or a hand strap and you have to hold on to the sweaty man next to you.  Sometimes it’s so crowded you get pasted to the glass window on the door, and you get pushed out as soon as the doors open for the next stop.  Commuters waiting at the stop will try to get in before you have a chance to get back on.  If you are especially feeble you might get stranded at a random stop and you’ll have to squeeze your way onto the next train. 

 Compare this with getting a seat.  The space above you is free, and you can lean your head on the window behind you and fall asleep.   And since no one ever commits the great crime of trying to squeeze in more people in the row (there are designated curves on the seats for a specific amount of butts) thigh room is ample.                  

        Before we discuss tips on how to get a seat on the subway, there are few ideas you need to get ingrained in your head. 

 
The Basics

 
This Is No Time To Be Nice.  As I said, it doesn’t occur to Korean people that it might be common courtesy to let the people exiting the subway walk out first.  In fact, it doesn’t occur to them that they should practice any good manners at all.  So if you want your Korean subway experience to be a pleasant one, you need to do as the Romans do.  Be extremely aggressive and assassinate Caesar if you have to.

 Carpe Seat.  In each of ten cars, there are forty-two seats. That may seem like a lot, but it’s nothing compared to the number of commuters.  Never assume that other people will get up at the next stop.  Now is your only chance in the world.    

 Understand the Rules of Claiming Etiquette.  The seats are all arranged along the side of the car, in between doors.  If someone is standing in front of a seat and that seat becomes available, you’d better burn off your own eyes before thinking about taking it.  That person has claimed the seat as his own.  Korean people are very particular about this.  So.  You must “claim” seats on your own.  Stand in front of a potential seat, and wait there until it becomes available. 

How to Get a Seat

 Location, location, location.  It’s everything.  Your best bet is to stand right smack in the middle of a seating section and hover around as many people as you can.  If you are near a door, your claiming abilities are severely limited, since you'll only be able to claim that coveted corner seat.  Plus, without fail, you will notice that when the corner seat opens up, the person sitting next to the corner seat will shift over immediately so that they are not in between two people.  Without fail.  So hover around the middle of the row.  Take a wide stance; claim at least three people.  Don’t let anyone come into your space. 

 Use the stop-and-go’s of the subway to your advantage.  Exaggerate your swaying at stops, and try to claim more than the standard three seats.  You don’t want anyone claiming seats next to you.   If you are wearing a backpack, stand sideways, and fall down on the ground occasionally.  

 Claim people who are alert.  This is just common sense.  Don’t be so foolish as to stand near people who are sleeping.  Let the sleeping people be – they like where they are, and they won’t get up.  I can’t tell you how many times I myself have fallen asleep on the subway, missed my stop, and not regretted it at all.

 Avoid old people.  They only ride subways if they are traveling for more than an hour.  If one of the seats you’ve claimed next to the old person happens to open up, you wouldn’t honestly enjoy sitting next to the geezer, anyway, would you?  Your answer should be no, I’d hate it.  I hate old people.  This is no time to be nice.

 Look for middle and high school students.  If you can stand the smell, that is.  They are marked by white school uniforms.  They are bratty, and tend to grab a seat even if their stop is next.  You’ll rarely see a young student travel for more than 10 minutes at a time.

 Avoid thirty-something to middle-aged women.  They have no shame.  They disregard all of the rules of claiming etiquette.  They will tear you to pieces.  Don’t be fooled by the decoys they carry around, which they call infants.  They are manipulative, and will not lose a fight – avoiding them is the best way to deal with them.

 As a last resort, stare pretty young women down.  They may get freaked out and get up.  Otherwise, they could be flattered and you’d have yourself a date for Friday night.

   
            Advanced tip:

Get into a car which is strategic for commuters to transfer to other lines.   Most commuters are experienced enough to get into the car that will let them walk the quickest path to the next train, so they are likely to get up frequently.  

Three Butler Buddies

 From  "Dennis J Lee (dennisl@Princeton.EDU)" <dennisl@Princeton.EDU> 
Sent  Friday, August 5, 2005 5:29 am
To  cuga@princeton.edu
Subject  Welcome to the Class of 2009!

 
Hello!

This summer, I've used the phrase, "Nanda goreh!!!"  many times, because sometimes that's all one can say.

I am welcoming you to the potentially great class of 2009!   You are undoubtedly more intelligent than I am, but that doesn't mean you are smarter than me.   Actually, yes it does.  You are smarter than me.

If you're confused, so am I.  There's apparently some sort of new program called Butler Buddies.  I got assigned some people to email, so that you would be all excited about coming to Princeton.  Um.  A little about myself, I am a sophomore, and i don't have a major.   I like music and sports.  My name is Dennis.

I don't know anything about you, except that I can guess you are Japanese American, or Japanese.  If you aren't, then that is bacca on my part to assume such a thing.   But I'm supposed to encourage you and get you excited for the school year! Hooray!

Princeton is awesome.  REally.  The tone of this email may not give you that feeling, but it is awesome, in case you didn't know.   Butler is not so awesome, in case you didn't know.   You happen to be in 1942, which has a one computer cluster, but not much else.  I was in 1940 last year, which is the same as 1942, except it has one less computer cluster.  Really, the dorms aren't bad at all.  I liked my room a lot.

Princeton is awesome because of the girls.   They're all so unappealing, all men can study.    I'm only kidding, of course.   Not  everyone studies.    What you will find is that everyone around you is amazing.  They'll be normal, and then all of a sudden they'll reveal retractable claws, or something ridiculously amazing.   One of my best friends is an origami expert., and another friend got 11th place in the National Spelling Bee.   And you're Japanese!  Which is amazing in itself, so you've got a head start.

Most people find their niche at Princeton at some point or another.   That is when Princeton becomes awesome.  The first semester is a lot of getting used to, friends, studying, food, blah, and if you are an engineer, you learn new skills like, how to rejoice over a B.  

This is the most unorganized, horrible welcoming letter.  I apologize.  I have too many paragraphs.

Okay well, I don't really know what to say, other than, Princeton is the place to be.   I didn't want to go to college last year, but now it's my home, and I'd be afraid to leave it.  

Please, please, email me back with any questions you have, or if I offended you in any way, let me know.    If you want to know about campus groups, majors, or any kind of boring little thing, let me know.    ARight  Cuga.  That could be your nickname next year, if it already isn't.

Dennis Lee 

From  "Dennis J Lee (dennisl@Princeton.EDU)" <dennisl@Princeton.EDU> 
Sent  Friday, August 5, 2005 6:01 am
To  dsassaro@princeton.edu 
Subject  Princeton Class of 2009

 
Hello David.   I know nothing about you, except that your last name could potentially be dangerous, because it starts with Sass.   I'm sure it makes for some annoying jokes.  I am your Butler Buddy, which some people might cleverly change to But Buddy, but that is really not appropriate, so I will not talk about that.     

So Dave Sassaroli is in the butt.  I bet they got a kick out of that.   No worries!  Butler is widely known as the worst residential college in terms of niceness, but Walker is probably the best dorm building in Butler.   I think you're gonna be living right next to my dorm - I'm in 322.

I won't really tell you much about myself, just in case you decide you don't really feel like being friends with me, which I totally understand.   I wouldn't normally want to be friends with anyone who signed up to send out emails to incoming freshmen, because those people are usually the most fake and annoying people.   Actually no, I am just thinking of the girl that made me sign up and do this.  She told me that I would only have to write one letter, but they ended up giving me three.  figures.

Since I have three But buddies, this may make you think that you are not special, but you know you are because you are going to Princeton.   Princeton is amazing because everyone seems pretty normal until you learn that your roommate once stole 8 pounds of popcorn from the dining hall. 

That would be me, of course.  I guess it's nothing to brag about since you are undoubtedly more intelligent than me, but I have had my moments.    Honestly, Princeton becomes better and better the more you spend time here.    School became fun when I came back from fall break and winter break, because it felt like coming home.  

You'll meet my roommates and me next year, and they are 20 times cooler than I am, so that's a relief.  

This could be one of the worst welcome letters to Princeton, so just email me back any questions you have, or if i have offended you in anyway, let me know.   Im not sure if you want to know about boring things like majors, classes, food, facilities and such.  I also dont know what type of person you are, so I am careful not to make politically incorrect statements againts gays, or use swear words, such as fuck.  

Yeah, so throw me back an email with any questions.  I hope you're excited for next year.   

Dennis Lee '08

From  "Dennis J Lee (dennisl@Princeton.EDU)" <dennisl@Princeton.EDU> 
Sent  Friday, August 5, 2005 6:17 am
To  mhcheng@princeton.edu 
Subject  Class of 2009

Hello, Matt

   I am your Butler Buddy.  I am supposed to welcome you into Princeton, with warm remarks and encouraging rhetoric.

  I don't know anything about you, but I can tell you that you are probably a hell of a lot smarter than I am.   If you aren't, you at least have a higher self-esteem at this point.    But let me tell you, Princeton is amazing.  It is home.  Of course it is not to you yet, but it soon will be.  And then you will be ours.

 Honestly, I think it's weird and annoying that I have to send an email to you.  You are the last of three students that I am sending a letter to, so by this time I am tired.   I'm usually not this weird when I write, but I you are not a real person to me, so I'm having a little fun.

  But alas, you are real person, and you will be living very close to me.  I'm in 322 Walker, with three other white dudes.  They're about 20 times cooler than me.   I'll only tell you a little about myself, in case you decide you don't want to be friends with me.   which is completely understandable.   I'm not a big fan of asian pride either.

 Speaking of Asians, one of my other But Buddies is Japanese.   There are hardly any on campus, so I'm excited to meet him.  I've heard so much about Japanese people.  Did you ever sing that little jingle in Elementary school?  "Bacca bacca chin chin....to you!"

I like sports and music.  I also like the store Target.  

By the way, if you want to know any boring stuff, like classes, majors, professors, food, facilities, shoot me back an email and I will inform you about those things. 

Butler is widely known as the worst of the 5 residential colleges, but don't worry, Walker isn't so bad.  You'll soon find that it's probably the best location on campus, too.   

When I just got out of high school, I really didn't feel like going to college, but it's truly awesome.  You can walk outside naked at 4 am and no one will say anything to you.  Not that that's the only plus, but you know, whatever you're into.  

I'd like to give you advice on things, but I don't know what type of person you are or anything.   I don't know whether you are geeky, ghetto, spikyhaired, fobby, awesome, quiet, or loud.   I myself am relatively a geek, even though I don't play computer games.  

If I have offended you in anyway, or you have any questions,
please please please email me back and i will shoot you a reply as soon as I can. 

Cheers

Dennis Lee '08

Michael Clayton

Near the end of the film, the title character, played by George Clooney, drives his son Henry back home from a relative’s house.  The car ride is seen from a nerve-wracking angle, as if they could crash at any moment.  Clooney’s expression is angry and vacant at the same time.  All of a sudden, he stops the car, and looks straight at Henry. “…You’re not going to be one of these people that goes through life wondering why shit is falling out of the sky around them.  I know that.  I know it.  OK?   I see it every time I look at you.  I see it right now.  I don’t know where you got it from, but you got it.  OK?”  Frustration, anger, uncertainty, and love are all harnessed into a subtle, weary gleam in his eyes – and it’s downright spooky. 

Michael Clayton is a special type of attorney called a “fixer,” dealing with clients’ screw-ups and scandals.  Arthur Edens, the head defense attorney for agricultural giant U/North, is faced with a dilemma: a contaminant in his client’s weed-killer product is responsible for the death of 468 farmers, and he’s the only one that knows about it.  The combination of Edens’s guilt and his bipolarity turns him berserk during a deposition, where he strips naked and proclaims his love for one of the plaintiffs.  Clayton’s job, then, is to cover that up, to make sure that U/North still has the upper hand.  So Edens’s burden is transferred to him.  And when Karen Crowder, chief counsel of U/North, finds out that Edens (and now, Clayton) possesses a document that would ruin her company, she takes decisive, even violent, action. 

Pretty simple, right?  If you tried to figure it out the plot yourself, though, the movie might have passed you by and you would have missed some of the best writing in recent years.  Screenwriter and director Tony Gilroy is shrewdly self-aware – his Bourne scripts haven’t exactly been centered on dialogue.  So while his last screenplay started with a suspenseful chase, Gilroy’s directorial debut starts with a fervent Edens monologue that provides the thematic lens for the film.  “Is this me? Am I this freak organism that’s been sent here to sleep and eat and defend this one horrific chain of carcinogenic molecules?  Is that my destiny, is that my fate?  Is that it, Michael?  Is that my grail?  Is that the correct answer to the multiple choice of me?”  The camera focuses on nothing in particular: an empty room, a janitor, a stack of papers.  It’s a declaration: this isn’t a flashy action flick, so pay attention.  

Careful, cerebral, and eloquent dialogue in a film is pervasive, and it enhances every aspect of it – the scenery, the silences, and in Michael Clayton’s case, the ambiguous expressions on George Clooney’s face.  I don’t mean to discount Clooney’s sublime performance, but with the lines like he has, who could have messed this up?  When the end credits start to pulsate on the lower right corner of the screen, the camera focuses on his eyes.  He stares out into space as his taxi drives him aimlessly around New York City.  This goes on for two minutes; those two minutes give moviegoers enough time to, first, realize that the movie is over, second, internalize how bad-ass that last scene was, and third, reconsider the moral dilemma Michael Clayton may or may not have won. 

The film’s power comes not from any moral victory, but from its careful, profound portrayal of a man struggling in today’s corporate world.  “You can’t just suddenly stop and say ‘that’s it, game over, I’m into miracles.’ ”  And its essentially unmarketable title emphasizes that the movie isn’t about making the right decisions or about beating the enemy, whoever that may be.  The focus is quite literally Michael Clayton, who is human, modern, multi-dimensional, and aching inside. 

It's cheating, I know, but I haven't written much lately.
 

Stanford Application Essay

“Simplify, simplify, simplify,” intoned Thoreau. If you were to follow Thoreau’s advice and scale back your possessions, what would you keep, and why?

For one, I would keep my toothbrush.  

Firstly, I hate morning breath.  I’d say to “multiply, multiply, multiply” toothbrushes so that no one will ever again reek of it.    

Secondly, taking care of teeth just makes sense.  Any one of those tiny advice books you see near the cash register at bookstores will tell you to brush your teeth often.  Then they might even provide helpful reminders, like “your teeth are one of the few parts of your body you keep for your entire life.”  And of course, once you lose your teeth, they can never grow back.  

Thirdly, toothbrushes cannot be shared.  I would never be able to convince my friends to lend me a toothbrush, nor would I want them to (for obvious reasons).  My other dental care products can be spared.  I could probably mooch off my friends a couple swigs of mouthwash, or even a few feet of floss.  So while my other dental care products can be spared, having my own toothbrush is essential.    

But lastly and most importantly, I love my toothbrush.  When it’s time to replace my brush, I always insist that my parents buy the same model for me at the local Asian market.  It comes in assorted colors, but I have had an off-white one for as long as I can remember. At the edge of the handle is a translucent-orange cushiony grip, where it says in Korean, “Ehl-Keeto.”  No one, including my parents, knows what this means. My dad   thinks it is the name of an ancient martial arts expert.  My brother suggests that it is referring to where it might have been made: Quito, the capitol of Ecuador.  The owner of the Asian mart simply said it is a typo the company never bothered to fix.  Whatever the case may be, to me, “Ehl-Keeto” signifies that it is my toothbrush.  I see toothbrushes that come from big companies, like “Oral-B,” that claim to have a secret design that enhances teeth cleaning.   Some brushes have colorful cartoons on them, like Donald Duck, or the Little Engine that Could.  My family owns a couple of those electronic brushes that do almost all of the brushing for you.  But I am convinced that no one has a more exotic or exciting toothbrush than mine.     

I wouldn’t keep my toothbrush just because it has a useful purpose.  Life would certainly be a little more difficult without useful things such as my computer, my school supplies or my refrigerator.  But my most prized possessions are the ones that help create my identity and make me unique – things like the sticker-covered tag on my violin case, my owl alarm clock, or my “Sammy 2000” hat.  They are not simply sentimental mementos.  They remind me to be proud of who I am, and not to be ashamed of being different.   So while my toothbrush may not be straight from Ecuador or be endorsed by a tae-kwon-do legend, I take much pride in the fact that I am the only one with a strangely colored Korean toothbrush with a bad typo.

In the wake of September 11, 2001, the anticipated slew of quick paraphernalia and literature was respectfully, or perhaps conveniently, limited.  After all, how do you begin to convey the emotional effects of September 11, 2001?  Do you make a video documentary?  Do you write it down, bind it?  Do you paint it?  Are you even supposed to try?

How do you describe how Oskar feels as a young boy who has lost his father?  Will a list of identities and emotions do?  

            Will a novel do?

Jonathan Safran Foer deals with this immense topic in his newest novel, which explores a deconstructionist philosophy popular among new writers.  Imperfect words just aren’t enough – so throw in whatever the hell else counts as writing.  Devoid of the mystical shtetls and oy gevalts of his first novel, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close contains photographs, colored ink, blank pages, one-sentence pages, and a gut-wrenching, cheap-shop flip book at its end.  If he could have, Foer might have used electronic pages, complete with pop-up textures, and virtual reality. 

             Whether Foer is bored with conventional rhetoric or just unable to create it, critics accuse him of the latter.  But the question remains: how do you go about describing the anger, madness, and loss after an event as dramatic as the destruction of the World Trade Center? 

Oskar spends much of his time throwing around different solutions to this problem. As he sleuths his way through New York, trying to find the owner of a mysterious key left behind by his deceased father, he tries to make sense of why his father died and – whether he is conscious of it or not –  why he feels the way he does.  He daydreams about special shower water that would cause his skin color to change according to his mood.  He invents a book that contains every word in every language. “You could hold it and know that everything you could possibly say was in your hands.”  He thinks up ambulances with electronic signs that automatically spell out the last thoughts of a dying patient. 

This sort of emotional autism is inherited from his grandfather, a mute, and a survivor of the Dresden bombings of World War II.  Oskar’s grandfather exists in the book through letters, sprinkled in between Oskar’s journey.  He writes about his attempt to make a telephone call. “I broke my life down into letters, for love I pressed ‘5,6,8,3’ for death, ‘3,3,2,8,4,’ when the suffering is subtracted from the joy, what remains?  What, I wondered, is the sum of the life? “6,9,6,2,6,3,4….”  The numbers go on for a full, desperate, two pages.  The implicit question: can life be quantified?  And are words any different?  Oskar’s grandfather’s letters often run over fifteen pages, yet it still isn’t enough, and he keeps “running out of room.”  The lines on the page literally get closer and closer together, until the words are an illegible black scribble.  

            Okay, so maybe it’s a bit annoying, and we get the point.  Yet it is precisely Oskar and his grandfather's inability to express themselves properly that makes their stories more poignant, more agonizing.  With the same virtuosity that swelled in his first novel, Foer elicits a cathartic spew of emotions, in whatever way is appropriate. With Oskar, it’s writing in all caps.  It’s obsessively mulling over his last words to his father.  “‘Dad?’ ‘Yeah buddy?’ ‘Nothing.’”  For Oskar’s grandfather, it’s using note cards (one-word pages) and recycling phrases like, “And I wouldn’t say no to something sweet,” and “I’m sorry.”  Forget for a moment that Foer uses fill-in-the-blank passages, photo illustrations, and flip books, or anything else that some would consider cheating.  Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close feels like what the title suggests – it makes you laugh, squint, and grimace.  By the end, I was moved to tears when I learned that Oskar could have talked to his father one last time before he died – but was frozen in front of the answering machine, unable to find words, unable to pick up just before the towers went down. 

            Foer’s attempt is both earnest and courageous, showing that more isn’t necessarily less.  This makes him every young writer’s champion; he avoids straight prose, employs gimmicks for cheap, doodles on the page, and all the while succeeds tremendously.  And if you’re not a believer in Foer’s new inventions, Oskar’s colored water invention is something to consider:  “It would be a good invention...[because] many times…you know you’re feeling a lot of something, but you don’t know what that something is…But with the special water, you could look at your orange hands and think, I’m happy! That whole time I was actually happy! What a relief!”  If there is a more brutally honest, earnest, and moving attempt at harnessing the emotions and the realities of September 11, I have yet to see it.