“In the past, President Musharraf has been repeatedly approached by the Bush administration to take off his uniform, but given the recent arrests of thousands of political opponents and the emergency rule enacted, he felt the time was right and was very comfortable with his decision,” remarked his press secretary.

While the theme of rogue military dictators slipping out of their uniforms has always been a key demand of Musharraf’s political rivals, this act has its detractors. What upsets people like Imran Khan, who heads the Movement for Justice Party, is that “it used to be that military dictators were portrayed in their impressively full regalia. Now you get military dictators dressing every bit the democratically elected leader at the UN, even commanding attention in business casual attire on Jon Stewart’s Daily Show. The result of it is coverage that is very damaging—that trivializes and marginalizes military dictators because it does not give them the respect they deserve as ruthless powerful men who harbor no moral compass.”

Still, other critics insist the Bush administration’s demand for Musharraf to lose his uniform is yet another adoption of corrupt Western caricatures of authoritarian rule.

I got off the last KTX train coming from Gumi, an inland industrial city roughly 3 hours south of Seoul. It was close to mignight. Most of the luxury name shops had long shuttered their windows and lights, yet the train station in Cheonan was just starting its night shift as a shelter for the entrepreneurial homeless. These folks jockeyed for position, some for room to sleep, others to promote their personal brand of misery and helplessness.

Still an hour from my hotel room in Seoul, I quickly navigated through and over people in the station. I had not waited more than a minute outside when a black taxi pulled up to the curb. A Korean man in his mid forties leaned across his passenger seat and unleashed a torrent of his native tongue. The absence of my immediate response didn’t confuse him, but rather effected a transition in his manner and face, like gearshifter sliding into a familiar gear.

“Where?” he asked me.

“Seoul…..Grand. Inter. Con. Tinental Hotel,” I responded in a slow, deliberate manner.

We seemed to reach an agreement. He motioned me in, and I gratefully got into the rearseat. I looked around the cabin and dashboard and found comfort in all the familiar knobs and dials. Below the taxi meter, there was a framed ID photo of the driver and his license details. The pale young man in the photo held a stern look that seemed intended to mask his youth. I snuck a look the driver and found that same stern look now congealed in dark, leathery skin. I spent the rest of the taxi ride contemplating how his life must have been for the past twenty years. This bothered me a great deal that a person had spent the last two decades of his life picking up people, dropping them off, and waiting in traffic.

That night, I reassured myself that my taxi driver must have passed up chances in his life, missed certain turns that could have significantly changed things for him. It turned out to be solace for one night. By the end of my trip, every taxi driver and photo ID I noticed told the same story.

“K, call me when you get home and dressed,” I typed back. I recalled the last time we played basketball with the singular image of Duckie awkwardly dancing about the ball like newly castrated monkey and catapulting it past the backboard. My mind immediately justified my decision as I peered down at my burgeoning belly.

At 530pm, I was hobbling from the pain of wearing borrowed running shoes. Several basketball courts were teeming with young, ghetto-raised Asians and Blacks. The SJ Police Dept readily replenishes these asphalt tokens of municipal generosity, so there was never a worry that we’d lose our audience. And I do say audience because they must have enjoyed watching Duckie and I leap about, playing a solid verbal defense of howling and screeching. What we lacked in physical skill, we made up in emotional harassment. Every time he went up for a shot, I closed the distance between us and squealed unintelligibly while making groping hand gestures towards his tits and ass. After five minutes of intense bball action, my lungs filled with a searing pain that was only exacerbated by the endless laughter.

Our theatrical game of 21 ended just as my sides were about to implode and Duckie’s last ounce of Diet Coke energy expired. I looked to the other courts, and noticed two teenage girls pretending not to notice the ghetto runts and their athletic moves. A thought occurred to me…these guys owe us so much. Without us, they wouldn’t look half as good as they did, and wouldn’t get to insert their penises inside the children of single welfare moms who don’t have the time to instill good moral values to negate the ghetto slut and her sweet baller.

There’s been a similar paradigm in my life recently. I have documented some of the more misguided physical adventures Duckie and I have had, and their frequency and intensity have increased substantially within the last few weeks. We’ve historically harassed each other before, but the other night, we both ended up sprawled all over the floor in the artificial darkness of the office. Having upped the stakes to the point where the usual whooping noises, caricatures, and threats of mutually assured destruction no longer sufficed, Duckie felt compelled to grab my nipple and try to twist it off. It was then I realized I was ill-prepared for this unknown terrain. I didn’t comprehend the escalating physical violence from what had started off as vitriolic verbal heckling.

Last night I had a revelation. Duckie and I were going our separate ways. As much as we hoped to work in business together, there were external forces that sunk this desire. We sensed this chasm growing over the last two months, and were flailing our limbs about trying to avoid the inevitable.

I rejoined them 50 minutes later as my parents had just reached the service desk. Three EVA Air agents stood lazily about at the Evergreen Club section while the economy line tapered off near the exit doors of SFO. The next stop was the ticketed security checkpoint. It was a mess. There was that one old woman who was still picking her hairy nose, up to her second knuckle. To make matters worse, some overly bloated boxes collapsed and out came little combs, scissors, and thread spools. The wait was not helped when my mom was the winner of a random security check. They told her to take out her syringes (diabetes) and they investigated each of her little smelly ointment bottles. 5 minutes. 10 minutes. A hemorrhaging of short, squat, Vietnamese people grew behind her.

Just as my mind was about to go mad with impatience, I heard the sound of syncopated stepping. My head snapped to the origin of the noise, and saw a line of green approaching the checkpoint. There they were. Tall, beautiful flight attendants with amazingly tiny waists, splendored in fresh green, floated by, followed by their slim, compact travel cases. They had delicate almond shaped eyes that bejeweled their perfect cheekbones and small ruddy lips. The equally stunning Singapore Airlines flight crew followed closely. Goodness. A group of security guards rushed to the center security point to open the gates for this retinue of Elven beauties. And just like that, they were gone. My gaze returned to the struggling, restless crowd and my mom’s explicit interrogation scene.

“I tell you this for my diabetes,” my mom blubbered, apparently annoyed with the man’s groping of her mushrooms and tea leaves.

They finally let her (and us) go. On the way home, my dad spoke in the “now it is peaceful” voice and reminded me that I would have to work hard in life to expect anything good. He was in full super-martyr mode.

“My life, there is no more happiness, only suffering. My only happiness in life now is to reduce the suffering. Life is very tough.”

It certainly is, especially as a short, pushy Vietnamese man with glasses.

We’re talking about Fry’s Electronics.

She’s a clever little wench, that one. She recognizes her mark and caters to every twisted, jaded, and unscrupulous testosterone niche. She knows I like my memory unbuffered, mixed, and dirt cheap. Her magazine racks of cars, sex, and techie gadgets dizzy the wandering eye. Languishing at her mouth is the long and hapless return line that serves a warning to those who would dare voice their dissatisfaction. Inside, rows of ice cold drinks solicit an in-store sip, knowing you’ll drink it all after the playful tease. Further on, a multitude of “massage” tools innocently eye their would be customers. On one hand she’s stacked with books, while on the other hand, seamy specials vie for illicit attention, as gleaming floor models hawk their best features in the musky din of her high tech Gomorrah.

Petite, black, white, flat, curvy, upright, stacked, plug’n'play, natural, large. She’s got something for everyone. Just when you think you’ve almost got it all, you look around and realize you’re surrounded by unkempt, deluded, and hollow shells of masculinity waiting in line to be cashiered.

Me: 5′4, 105, very sexy, petite and full of energy
(for shopping! I’m always well dressed in my
gucci and luis futon. I’m the usually the best
dressed outta my girlfriends. My friends say I’m
elegant, rich-looking (hehhe but not really!),
stylish, and also I am a very good friend sometimes.
People say that I’m very generous because I always
dress my man up good in versace/polo, you know! But
I’m not all about looks, I also believe in
stability, good relationship, honest and trust, and
nice car (yeah it’s a fashion statement too)

The man I’m looking to spoil? You should be a SWM,
prefarable in your 30s with a high security job so
you can spoil me back! I only want WHITE
professional males to reply to this because there
are some lessons of the orient for me to teach you!
just kidding, please don’t think I’m a easy girl.
I am looking for the true love that will provide my
future.

Please be:
WHITE
6 feet or taller
Generous (and the ability to be generous!:)
Athletic
Polite and highly educated
Good family and nice skin

No perverts please! Hurry, I am waiting for you.

Best response (further proof that desperation is an amazing source of willpower)

From: John
Subject: you’re an idiot

You fuckin’ can’t spell your own purses right! What the fuck is a luis futon? I think you meant Louis Vitton(sic). You sure you’re the best dressed and most elegant? I doubt it. If you’re that good, send a pic and we’ll see about it.
I’m 32 years old, 6′2”, 190lbs, half white/asian. I’m in SF as a investment consultant and I also model part time as a hobby. You better be some fuckin’ amazing chick to post that bullshit on the internet. Prove it.

John

> > — Malaise wrote:
> > > John,
> > >
> > > Pls send your pic. And I’ll send you mine. Don’t
> be
> > > the “idiot”. =)

I don’t have anything to prove, you better back up
your ad. Fuckin’ retarded, don’t play these bullshit
games about how awesome you are. Let’s see it

John

— Malaise wrote:
> Your loss. Please don’t email me again. You have no
> faith, and that is
> non-negotiable.

Don’t fuckin tell me about faith, that’s the last
thing you can lecture me about. Faith is earned and
proven, if you can’t spell Louis Vitton(sic), why the hell
should I believe you.

I stand corrected though, are you cute. You need an
English teacher though. = ) I’d be willing to help.

http://photos.yahoo.com/bayarea_dude94105

John