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Korea Blog: When Expats Podcast (or, the Pleasures and Sorrows of Teaching English)

Before I moved to Korea, I prepared for the experience in part with podcasts, both Korean shows to further familiarize myself with the language and English-language ones made by Westerners already in Korea. But that was half a decade ago now, and all the Korea expatriate podcasts I’d enjoyed — Seoul SyndromeChance and Dan Do Korea, and other titles that escape me — have vanished down the internet memory hole. But for every Korea expat podcast that fades away, at least one rises in its place, and now as then an iTunes search will turn up a handful of shows whose makers have managed to put out episodes in the past few months. Having logged a few expat years myself at this point, I thought I’d tune in to the offerings of the current crop of Korea-based Westerners with microphones to hear how their perspectives on life in the Land of the Morning Calm compare with my own.

Listening took me back to the period of my American life during which I wrote “Podthoughts,” a weekly podcast review column for the podcasting network Maximum Fun. These were the years 2008 to 2014, a time when podcasting itself had yet to become quite as powerful a cultural phenomenon as it is today. A decade ago, the mainstream still seemed to regard listening to podcasts, let alone producing them, as a niche hobby, if it regarded them at all. Now everyone even mildly famous is expected to host a podcast or two, and every subject, no matter how obscure, is expected to have at a show dedicated to it. In my columns I used the shorthand TTWGBAC to denote what then just felt like the most common genre of podcast, Two Twentysomething White Guys Bullshitting About Culture; these days, that demographic’s penchant for podcasting is taken as given, whether for the basis of jokes or calls to diversify what has rapidly become a medium more relevant, in some ways, than the mainstream.

Not much has changed in the world of Korea expat podcasting, whose standard form could be called Two Twentysomething White Guys Bullshitting About Korean Culture, except the guys now tend to be thirty- and fortysomethings. And while there are sometimes more than two of them or they’ve brought aboard a female co-host, they do, for the most part, remain white. But the lack of ethnic variety is less disappointing than the lack of occupational variety: like most podcasters, Korea expat podcasters have day jobs, and as far as I can tell, those day jobs all involve teaching English. “Let me guess,” a man I met in England as soon as he heard that I live in Korea. “You graduated college, couldn’t find a job, went to Korea to teach English, and decided to stay.” I’ve experienced countless variations on this interaction in the United States, Canada, and elsewhere, and have everywhere given the same response: no, I’ve never taught English myself, but 99 times out of 100 you’d be right.

Read the whole thing at the Los Angeles Review of Books.

From my interview archive: the biographers of Nick Drake

I came to the Nick Drake party earlier than some, but later than many: much later, certainly, than Patrick Humphries, Trevor Dann, and Peter Hogan, all of whom I invited on The Marketplace of Ideas to talk about Drake and his music for the 40th anniversary of his debut album Five Leaves Left. All three interviewees had written books about Drake’s three albums, once almost forgotten but now long since rediscovered, and the short life during which he recorded them.

Five Leaves Left‘s 50th anniversary passed last July (somehow I’d previously been under the impression that the album had come out in September), and in the past ten years the body of Nick Drake-related literature — along the Byronic legend of the man himself — has expanded further still. More books have come out, of course, but so have more radio and television documentaries, as many of which as possible I rounded up for my Open Culture post on the semicentennial of Drake’s debut. Drake’s fans exhibit a stronger fascination than ever, and his music also somehow sounds less dated than ever.

The startling timelessness of Drake’s records, especially Five Leaves Left, has fomented a great deal of speculation among musicians and recording engineers alike. “I’ve never been attracted to hypersensitives or depressives,” Robert Christgau wrote recently about the lack of attention he’s paid to Drake over the past 50 years, and when I first heard Five Leaves Left back in high school — a time when nothing could have exceeded my contempt for acoustic guitar-strumming melancholy — I might have been expected to dislike it too, but the crispness of his sound, as well as the complexity of his idiosyncratic guitar tunings, appealed to the audiophile and obscurantist within me. (My favorite band, then as now: Steely Dan.)

“What ‘timeless’ means to me is that is sounds like it was made yesterday,” Dann said to me in our interview, especially when compared to other records from 1969. “You’re talking about the era of records like ‘Get Back’ by the Beatles, you’re talking about Led Zeppelin I. Those records, when you hear then now, they’re great records, great performances, but the recording of them is somehow mushy and old.” The same might even be said of a more directly comparable if slightly newer album like Colin Blunstone’s One Year, which I also keep on high rotation. But “you put Five Leaves Left on now — bang. It sounds like he’s in the room with you. I think that is one of the great attributes those records have, this sound so shiny and new and modern whilst at the same time touching some very deep and subconscious themes.”

The great thing now about Drake’s music now is, of course, that “he died all those years ago, so we’ll never know him. So (a), he never gets old — he’ll always be that beautiful man making that beautiful music — and (b), he never says the wrong thing in an interview. He is exactly who he is, and he always is able to be discovered by a new generation and owned by them.” And so the party continues.

Korea Blog: Our Language Battle, Korea’s Surprisingly Addictive Game Show of Vocabulary, Expressions, and Proper Spacing

If you want to understand a society, watch its game shows. The principle behind that advice has come to light with the advent of such entertainment sources as the Game Show Network, on which Americans can catch clear, sometimes too-clear views of the foreign societies that are Americas of decades past. You don’t stay tuned in to a 1970 broadcast of Sale of the Century because you care about who takes home the brand new Dodge Dart Swinger; what compels you are the aggressively trend-adherent aesthetics, and even more so the personalities of the everyday people who appear as contestants. Not subject to the same behavioral standardization as television professionals, they present and express themselves in a manner that exudes the place and time in which they live, all the more faithfully for its inadvertence. Hence the value, should you find yourself living in a genuinely foreign country, of finding a game show to follow.

Having found myself living in the genuinely foreign country of Korea, I’ve lately also found myself watching Our Language Battle (우리말 겨루기), a game show that has aired every Monday evening on KBS since 2003. Though it occasionally invites celebrities, and this past July even brought on members of the National Assembly, it usually pits four everyday Koreans (or four teams of two, usually family) against each other in a test of their knowledge of the Korean language. It begins simply enough, with the contestants buzzing in to guess the words or phrases that fill in a crossword-style board, but soon the challenges get dramatically harder: separating folk spellings and regional variations from the officially standard, filling in words missing from old television and newspaper clips, and — most difficult of all, even for contestants who otherwise dominate the game — properly re-spacing a text whose words all run together.

Read the whole thing at the Los Angeles Review of Books.

From my interview archive: audio dramatist and ZBS Foundation president Thomas Lopez

I’m listening again to selections from the archive of long-form interviews I conducted on the public radio program The Marketplace of Ideas and podcast Notebook on Cities and Culture between 2007 and 2015.

I still remember the moment I first glimpsed the cover of Dreams of the Amazon in the CD section at my local library. I must’ve been nine or ten years old, still a few years shy of getting into music, so I don’t know what impulse other than pure curiosity could have brought there. But something about the giant skull, the stone temple, the waterfall, and the crystal city above, all rendered in a vividly colored, Art Deco-esque style, convinced me that I had to hear it. (Looking back, the resonances with other things I was enjoying at the time are clearer: Tintin, 70s Choose Your Own Adventure books like Mystery of the Maya, the PC adventure game Amazon: Guardians of Eden.)

Dreams of the Amazon turned out to be a radio drama, though at the time I didn’t know what a radio drama was. For a while I just called them “ZBS productions,” since ZBS was the name of the company that made Dreams of the Amazon. I didn’t know at the time that ZBS stood for “Zero Bull Shit,” or at least it did when the organization was first founded as a commune on a farm in upstate New York back in — you guessed it — 1970. ZBS’ original mandate laid out a mission of using full-cast radio dramas to “raise consciousness,” as was the style of the time. (A childhood spent listening to my dad’s Firesign Theatre records had already accustomed me to both this form and this sensibility, not that I could have articulated what either group was going for.)

By the early 1990s, the time of Dreams of the Amazon, ZBS productions had grown much slicker-sounding (and featured fewer words of wisdom from the likes of Ram Dass), but they weren’t much less trippy: in its opening scene, protagonist Jack Flanders is approached by a Brazilian-sounding woman who seats herself at his table and proceeds to remove her hair, face, and skin (sonically accomplished, so I’ve heard, with vegetables and rubber gloves), revealing the crystal skull of the cover beneath.

Flanders bumbled into all kinds of mystical and metaphysical trouble around the world (with sound effects invariably recorded on location) from 1972 to 2016, the year his voice actor Robert Lorick died. Incidentally, the actor who initially brought Lorick into ZBS fold happened to teach the acting classes I was taking around the same time I first picked up Dreams of the Amazon. This looks like a striking coincidence now, but at that age you just sort of take things as given (much as I did with the fact of Seattle’s being the center of alternative comics at the time).

Today I would have all kinds of questions for my teacher (who also died in 2016) about the experience of making radio dramas among relatively hard-working hippies building on the conventions of pre-World War II American popular culture. But I did eventually get talk to ZBS Foundation president Thomas Lopez, nom de guerre “Meatball Fulton,” after launching The Marketplace of Ideas. He told me of his then-recent realization that the Jack Flanders series is ultimately about “loving kindness,” which on one hand may be exactly what you might expect someone who emerged from this particular cultural milieu to say, but on the other — upon reflection on my own 25 years of listening to his work — makes perfect sense.

Korea Blog: A Liberation Day Protest Raises the Question, How Anti-Japanese Is Korea, Really?

Koreans hate Japan. Even those who know precious little else about Korea — that place with the spicy food, all that pop music, and the troublesome neighbor? — know that. But in recent years public expressions of anti-Japanese sentiment have been hard to come by here, at least from the under-80 set. Any outside observer might rightfully have asked, do Koreans really hate Japan? When the last generation to remember suffering under Japanese colonial rule passes on, won’t the bad blood dry up entirely? But the past few weeks have breathed new life into Korean resentment against Japan, a feeling that culminated in a protest march through downtown Seoul last Thursday — very much not coincidentally National Liberation Day, when Koreans, both South and North, celebrate Japan’s defeat in the Second World War.

I say “the past few weeks” because I’ve only been in Korea that long, having spent the month and a half before that in the West. Even when I’m out of Korea I make sure to keep up with Korean news, and from it I got the sense that a rumored “trade war” with Japan had grown into a fairly serious matter. Few other stories got much airtime on the television screens on the train back into Seoul from Incheon Airport — a train whose walls were also lined with advertisements for a newly launched Korean budget airline and its many Japanese destination cities. When I got back to my neighborhood, I saw anti-Japan posters here and there along the streets, and even a group of identically dressed college students doing dance routines in favor of boycotts against the country. But it can only have made actual Japanese people in Seoul so uncomfortable, since quite a few of the voices I heard as I made my way home were speaking Japanese.

My first serious thought about all this was a thought shared by many an apolitical Korean: I should see if there’s a sale on at Uniqlo. The Japanese clothing chain has become one of the most visible businesses at which Japan-boycotting Korean consumers have refused to spend money. So have the high-design household-goods retailer Muji, the discount shop Daiso, and even 7-Eleven, whose prevalence in Japan has caused some to mistake it for a Japanese brand. Japan has also seen a drop in tourism from Korea, on top of the loss caused by the belief (uncommon in the rest of the developed world) that the whole country has been dangerously radioactive since the Fukushima Daiichi power plant disaster of 2011. Pictures of signs denying Japanese customers entry to Korean businesses have circulated on social media. And a middle-aged man went viral by smashing up his own Lexus on video, shouting about his embarrassment at owning a Japanese car.

Read the whole thing at the Los Angeles Review of Books.

Korea Blog: The Suicides in South Korea, and the Suicide of South Korea

Every journalist covering South Korea must, at one point or another, write about suicide. Not only do a greater percentage of people kill themselves here each year than anywhere else (though Lithuania comes close), the very act of killing oneself can plausibly be tied to other widely lamented conditions in Korean society. A CEO’s suicide might result from the pressures of a “hypercompetitive” economy (as might that of a long-unemployed father), a student’s suicide might result from a low score on the all-important college entrance exam, a young woman’s suicide might result from being attacked by her social-media followers (or even from the failure of a cosmetic surgery procedure to deliver the expected results). But trends more recently identified by global media may produce a subject as reliable as the suicides that happen in South Korea: the suicide of South Korea itself.

The quantitative view of this national suicide involves a figure of which reporters have already made much: Korea’s startlingly low birthrate. “In 1960, South Korea had a total fertility rate of more than six children per woman, high enough to cause a population explosion,” writes Bloomberg’s Noah Smith. “A country needs a fertility rate of about 2.1 — a little more than one child per parent — to maintain long-term population stability. South Korea’s fertility is now about half that number. And it’s still falling.” The country’s record-low birthrate of 0.98 puts it below even the famously fertility-challenged Japan, which still manages more than 1.4. As soon as Korea’s figure was reported last year, doomsayers began projecting the trend toward predictions of what year, exactly, the very last South Koreans would die off.

Good riddance, more than a few Koreans in their twenties and thirties might have thought, as long as they take this society with them. The refusal to reproduce as a kind of protest against the expectations of modern Korea has proven an appealing media angle, and this summer has seen a good deal of coverage of the so-called “no marriage” movement among these younger Koreans. The impact of its name in Korean turns on a difficult-to-translate linguistic distinction: while calling someone “unmarried” in English has no strong connotations, the word’s standard Korean equivalent, mihon (미혼), implies that its object may not have married yet but one day will. An alternative term has thus gained traction in recent years: bihon (비혼), which suggests a deliberate choice not to marry, and thus not to engage in anything that comes along with marriage.

Read the whole thing at the Los Angeles Review of Books.

Open Culture posts on Jorge Luis Borges

Since 2012 I’ve written about all manner of topics at Open Culture, and you can find a selection of some of my favorite posts over the years in the Open Culture section of my essays page. I often write there about writers, and few writers as often as Jorge Luis Borges. Here are all my posts on the author of “The Aleph,” “The Garden of Forking Paths,” “Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius,” and many other mind-expanding ficciones besides:

You can also find more on Borges by other writers in the Open Culture archive.

Korea Blog: 43 Reasons Everything in Seoul Is Good and Nothing Is Bad (or Something Like That)

Waiting to step off a bus here in Seoul not long ago, I got an idea for not just a tweet but a whole Twitter thread. As usual, I had just tapped the exit-door reader with my transit card — but strictly speaking, it isn’t a transit card of the kind used in Los Angeles or New York, one you have to keep topped up with periodic money refills at a machine. It’s just my regular bank-issued debit card, the one I use to buy everything. It also works not only on all the buses and in all the train stations in Seoul, but on all the buses and in all the train stations everywhere in South Korea. Having by now grown used to that convenience and other, even more convenient conveniences besides, I got to wondering whether they’ve collectively made it impossible for me to live outside Seoul, let alone in any of the comparatively ramshackle cities of the West, ever again.

Right there at my bus stop, I began a thread of “things Seoul has that give me serious reservations about ever living in any other city” as follows:

  1. The card I pay for transit with is just my regular debit card (so no need to “fill it up”) and it works in every city in the entire country
  2. Every subway station has bathrooms, without exception, and not the kind you would only use under great duress
  3. Almost every subway station has coin lockers (just a name, since I pay with the aforementioned debt card), so you seldom have to worry about dragging bags, etc. around all day
  4. You save your table at a coffee shop by putting your most expensive personal item down on it. You don’t ask a nearby random to guard your stuff if you have to go to the bathroom
  5. A Starbucks can move into a neighborhood — or more than one Starbucks — without “driving out” the smaller chains and indies, which just seem to multiply as a result
  6. Literally everything I would ever need in life, up to and including higher education and hospitals, lies within a ten minute walk of home. (This is in no way an exaggeration)

Read the whole thing at the Los Angeles Review of Books.

Korea Blog: The Making of a Dictator in Anna Fifield’s “The Great Successor”

I first learned of Kim Jong Il at the same time I learned of the country he ruled, and for years thereafter had no image to associate with North Korea but that of the high-living, Hollywood-obsessed Dear Leader with permed hair and platform shoes. This was back in my high school days of the late 1990s and early 2000s, a time when it came as a surprise that eccentric third-world dictators still existed at all. In subsequent years Kim would become more and more an international figure of fun, a process that culminated in his appearance as a grotesque marionette in South Park creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone’s film Team America: World Police. By the time Kim died in 2011 I had learned much more about both Koreas, North and South, but the only thing that struck me as notable about his son and successor Kim Jong-un was his having been born the same year as I was.

Though less of an oddity than his father, Kim Jong Un has proven to be the more compelling figure, especially to consumers of news in the West. That goes even more so for producers of news like Washington Post Beijing bureau chief Anna Fifield, who began her career in Asia in 2004 when the Financial Times sent her to Seoul. She eventually developed a desire to “find out everything there was to know” about the current ruler of North Korea, and its fruit is the new book The Great Successor: The Divinely Perfect Destiny of Brilliant Comrade Kim Jong Un. Applied by Fifield herself or not, that subtitle reflects the tone of the book, many of whose chapters open with epigraphs quoting the characteristically bombastic, tortured English in which North Korean propaganda pronounces on such subjects as the “monumental edifices of eternal value” built across that “socialist land of bliss,” the “thrice-cursed acts of treachery” committed a disgraced party member (Kim’s uncle Jang Song Thaek, whose subsequent execution was ordered by Kim himself), and the “icon of cultural efflorescence” that is the city of Pyongyang.

Few observers can resist the chance to poke fun at North Korea’s rhetoric, or indeed any other aspect of how the impoverished, belligerent “Hermit Kingdom” presents itself to the world. At the same time, the country also offers its observers an almost unparalleled opportunity to fire off high-handed pronouncements of their own, usually moral in character, on everything from the gulag-like system of prison camps made for dissenters to the enforced drabness of the clothing and hairstyles seen on the streets of the capital. “May you soon be free to follow your dreams,” Fifield writes to the people ruled over by the Kim dynasty in her book’s dedication, a statement neither particularly patronizing nor self-serving, which makes it quite refreshing by the standards of writing and speaking on North Korea — standards against which The Great Successor measures in every way as a superior work.

Read the whole thing at the Los Angeles Review of Books.

일기: 데이비드 호크니 회고전

데이비드 호크니는 영국 화가이지만 그의 제일 유명한 그림은 로스앤젤레스 풍경을 묘사한다. 1967년에 그렸던 <더 큰 첨벙>이라는 그 그림은 가장 인상적인 로스앤젤레스를 보여 주는 예술 작품들 중 하나인 것을 부인할 수 없다. 한국에 이사오기 전에 로스앤젤레스에 살았던 나는 <더 큰 첨벙>을 사진이나 동영상에서 본 적이 많지만 그 그림을 직접적으로 볼 수 있게 된 곳은 바로 서울시립미술관이다. 지금 거기에서 열리는 데이비드 호크니 회고전은 50년대부터 현재까지 그려졌던 다양한 형태를 가진 테마로 여러 작품들을 전시하고 있지만 내가 꼭 가려고 했던 이유는 오랫동안 실물이 아닌 매체로만 봤던 <더 큰 첨벙>이 있기 때문이다.

푸른 수영장과 키가 큰 야자수들이 있는 현대건축의 단독주택을 담고 있는 <더 큰 첨벙>은 로스앤젤레스의 이상형을 그리고 있다. 그러나 영국 지방 출신인 1937년생 데이비드 호크니의 눈에는 그러한 장면이 실제보다 그가 느꼈던 로스앤젤레스 실제 그 자체인지도 모른다. 20세기 중반에는 데이비드 호크니 뿐만 아니라 소설가 크리스토퍼 이셔우드와 건축 평론가 레이너 반함과 같은 많은 영국인들은 오래되었고 전통적인 유럽 도시보다 빠르고 자유럽게 팽창하고 있는 로스앤젤레스로 가서 사랑에 빠졌다. 크리스토퍼 이셔우드와 레이너 반함이 썼던 책들은 내가 매우 좋아하는 로스앤젤레스에 대한 책들 중에 하나이다. 그 책들은 크리스토퍼 이셔우드의 소설 <싱글 맨>과 레이너 반함의 <더 큰 첨벙>이 실린 표지가 있는 비소설 <로스앤젤레스: 네 가지 에콜로지의 건축>이다.

21 세기의 로스앤젤레스는 나를 여전히 매혹시키지만 60년대에 처음으로 갔던 데이비드 호크니 같은 영국 사람의 입장에서 본 로스앤젤레스는 매력적인 도시일 뿐만 아니라 신세계처럼 보였을 것이다. 세대와 국적이 다른 데이비드 호크니와 나는 공통점이 많이 없지만 우리 둘 다는 자기만의 방식으로 로스앤젤레스의 매력을 즐긴다. 게다가 로스앤젤레스에 살고 있는 영국인인 데이비드 호크니와 서울에 살고 있는 미국인인 나는 모국이 아닌 나라에 거주하고 있으면서 그 나라를 관찰한다. 그러나 그림을 그린지 60년이 넘은 데이비드 호크니는 나보다 관찰력이 훨씬 더 뛰어난다. 그가 예전에 한 인터뷰에 따르면 그는 보는 방식에 관심이 많다고 했고 나는 서울시립미술관의 회고전에서 그 말을 증명하는 증거인 작품을 많이 찾을 수 있었다.

회고전을 보고나서 <더 큰 첨벙>이라는 그림 뿐만 아니라 1974년에 나온 영화도 찾아서 봤고 그 것은 내가 즐기는 다른 많은 영화들처럼 여러 장르들과 형태들을 한 작품 속에 섞었다. 얼핏 보면 <더 큰 첨벙>은 데이비드 호크니에 대한 다큐멘터리처럼 보이지만 허구인 장면들도 포함한다. 그 색다른 형태의 영화 줄거리는 데이비드 호크니가 전 애인이 등장하는 <예술가의 초상>이라는 그림을 그리는 과정을 다룬다. <예술가의 초상>은 작년에 9천만 불에 팔렬지만 내가 데이비드 호크니를 부러워하는 것은 성공도 부도 아닐 뿐만 아니라 관찰력도 아니다. 무엇보다도 부러운 것은 바로 영화인 <더 큰 첨벙> 속에서 볼 수 있는 그의 집중력이다. 영화 속 데이비드 호크니가 그림을 그리는 장면을 보면 그가 일하면서 작품 외에 다른 아무 것도 인식하지 않는 고도의 몰입감이다. 그러한 몰입감이 없었다면 <더 큰 첨벙> 같은 그림을 그리는 데에 필요한 로스앤젤레스를 보는 방식을 찾을 수 없었을지도 모른다.