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memoir

Human Gutterballing

 

by Pablo Harris

 

“Damn, man, you’re still here?”

“Hey.”

“Don’t you have a bed? A house? I know you do. Why don’t you try and visit it sometime? I mean, shit man, you know you’re welcome here but sometimes, I just want to open the door, come home from work, walk into my place, and not have this lazy fuck sleeping, crop-dusting on my couch. So you just been laying around, dropping ass in here all day? Open a window or something, man.”

“Yeah, uh, sorry.”

“Do you even remember last night?”

“Most I think. Not everything.”

“So, what do you remember?”


The Offense Rests: a (Rather) Cross Examination of the Jehova’s Witnesses


The Girl Who Peed In Her Shoe

by Mr. Motgol

I met her at Al’s Bar, which was the greatest place in LA, as far as I was concerned. It was a haven–a shelter from the nauseating, status-obsessed banality that made up so much of the city’s night life–an exquisite dive full of honest, friendly people, with live punk rock music seven nights a week. The music booker was a smiling lesbian named “Toast.” That tells you all you need to know.


Strange Memories in Busan


The 6th stage of Grief: Laugh it off


Defending the Lady’s Honor

by Mr. Motgol

Ha-bin was always a messy drunk. Every time she went out she got catastrophically hammered. British chick wasted. A weaving, incoherent puddle of babble and drool. But unlike a British chick, Ha-bin wasn’t tall and brawny, with ancient, boozy Viking blood pumping through her veins. Instead, she was a small Korean woman with zero natural tolerance for alcohol. As a result, every time she touched the stuff she turned into a chaotic wreck. You could set your watch to it.


One Shining Moment: March Madness, Epilogue

 

By Pablo Harris

3am was the loneliest time for Paul on the deserted streets amidst the hundreds of high-rise condos in Myeongji New Town. But it was there, in those late nights/early mornings, that he always felt a contented kind of loneliness. So he walked down to the Family Mart, dropped W12,000 on a calling card that would give him 47 minutes to call the West Coast and cracked a tall boy of Cass. He walked down to the water and sat on a concrete wall along the estuary of the Nakdong and began to dial.  


I Drink, Therefore I Puke

by Das Messer

I’d been lucky enough, before expat life, to have never have suffered a true hangover. Many Sundays of my adult life had been spent sympathizing with my groaning brethren, serving them bacon and eggs and scouring medicine cabinets in an attempt to replenish their collective loss of electrolytes, while they sneered enviously at my sprightliness. After moving to Korea, however, I watched helplessly as my golden youth slipped through my fingers and the once elusive hangover became more than a vicarious pain. What follows is an account of both my very first real hangover, and the most tragic one thereafter.


March Madness

by Pablo Harris

010 or 051. All calls he ever received here always began with these prefixes. So when 006-180-9951-0299 flashed on the vibrating LG in his palm, he didn’t quite know what to think. 006 followed by eleven other digits he didn’t recognize? It  must be from abroad. Thinking the worst, he was expecting to hear some tragic news from back home. Why else would anyone call direct from the US to the ROK?

“Excuse me, I got to take this, Babe,” pardoning himself before stepping through the heady smoke of grilled flesh and cigarettes and the maze of low-lying tables to the door.

*  *  *

“Hello?”


Communication Breakdown


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