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(of San Francisco) I
just got back from a 2 day trip to San Francisco, California (as
opposed to San Francisco, Michigan, right), this week. I had to go to a
medical conference, and I've got the $869 charge on my credit card for
the syllabus to prove it.
 The
pic above is proof that I went to (or at least got very close to) the
medical conference. Medical update: Vasopressin is the new black. Now
on to the interesting stuff.
Amy didn't go because she couldn't bear to leave baby home for two days (with my mom) and she gets too nauseated on planes to take care of baby. So my brother and I went and his girlfriend gave us a tour.  We went to Ameba, a mega-sized music store. My brother mines for rare music the same way I mine for rare Corean art and mythology. They had some Corean CDs and movie DVDs too. I picked up Sword In the Moon, mostly because of the Choson suits of armor in action.  My
brother's girlfriend took us to the Asian Art Museum next. Best tour
guide ever. The bulk of the exhibit seemed to be Hindu sculpture, which
I have a secret love for. Although I remain loyal to Corean art, it was
the richness and sensuality of Indian sculpture and mythology that
inspired me to dig deeper into Corean art and mythology in the first
place. Although Amy will say it was because my first girlfriend happened to be Indian.
Mmmm ... dry humping.
 With
my collection of Corean art books, I'm pretty sure I've seen every form
and style from the Umma-land. Which is why the ten foot tall scroll
pictured above completely awed me (and also why I ILLEGALLY took a picture of it in the museum).
The style was definitely traditional Choson but the patterns, colors,
and size seemed unusually novel. Could this have been the mythical Lost
Art recovered by archaeologist-adventurer Inchon Cho from evil imperial
Japan during World War II?
No, actually it was done by a brilliant Corean art student a couple of years ago and donated to the museum. The spirit of the Tiger of Shinshii runs strong in that student. In the guardian's right hand is a dragon, much like my drawing of Sun Su. In it's left hand is a magical orb. I found a couple of great Corean books I hadn't seen elsewhere too. Real treasures.  The picture above is either a playful shot with my brother, his girlfriend, and a Tyrannosaur exhibit, or a metaphor about committment. 'Nuff said.  After walking past enough barred windows and security gates to make any Detroiter feel at home, we finally made it to Haight Street, or Hippie Heaven.  Here we had a discussion about the medicinal uses and legalization of marijuana. I don't smoke anything but I'm not against its legalization either. Regardless, as long as strip clubs are legal, I'm good.  This is me and my brother squinting at this West coast phenomenon called The Sun. You Californians don't know Seasonal Affective Disorder until you know Michigan Seasonal Affective Disorder.  We
made it to Chinatown, but despite what I've learned from Western
cinema, there were no Chinese princesses looking for a great White Hope
to rescue them from evil Chinese mandarins. There were a lot of
grandmas eagerly selling inexpensive qi paos (Chinese dresses) that were made
in Vietnam, though.
Amy loved the matching shirts I bought for her and Ooseung. When shopping for Amy, I've learned to pick the exact opposite of the gaudy pornstar style I would normally like to see on her. Works every time. Sigh. Chinatown mostly just made me wish I had time to visit Koreatown.  My brother, being a bartender, had to check out as many bars as he could. This was the Dragon Bar, not very busy on a Tuesday night at 5 PM. They had a disco ball, and a widescreen in the dance room showing kung fu movies. "Every good bar has a disco ball" according to my brother. We saw a lot of disco balls. I didn't drink though. I was the designated walker. __________________________________
 KALI VICE The
next day, we were without our lovely tour guide, so we did what
anyone with testosterone-secreting sacs between their legs would (at least want to) do
while travelling - bought gifts for our women, and then went to the HUSTLER strip club. (Amy knows.)
It was a nice place, for a pit of seething sin. We were pretty much the only guys there since it was just two in the afternoon. But like the country song goes, "it had to be five o'clock somewhere," even if it looked like permanent midnight inside. My eyes hadn't even adjusted to the darkness when barely dressed women flew from the shadows and attached themselves to our arms - the second closest appendage to the wallet. My dancer's name was Kaleilani; she was half-Samoan and half-Native American and considered herself both and neither at the same time. She asked me if I was "mixed" first. Her hapa-sense must have been tingling. She was a "student" of course - every exotic dancer says they are a "student." I guess that sounds better than "I plan on hustling lost souls with my boobies for the next ten years." She maintained that dichotomy of physical closeness yet unspoken detachment that her profession requires; not unlike my own. I tell her no lies about what I am - married, two kids, just visiting. I am honest but not without vice, just by the fact that I am here. "Oh, we had three of the funniest sixty-year old guys in here last night. They were here for some surgeon's conference," she says. Man, I hope when I'm sixty I'll have a twenty-year old dancing for me then too. Amy says she'll even pay to watch. It's a bit overpriced. Kalei says it keeps the clientele nicer. She liked the movie Sin City; her favorite character was Rosario Dawson's queen of Oldtown. "What did you think of Jessica Alba's dancing?" I ask. The dancer shrugs, "She's no professional. Wanna dance?" When she takes me in back, I enjoy the breathing in my ear, the perfumed scent, the heavy grinding, the (small but natural) breasts in my face aren't bad either - all the sweet girlfriend things that disappear once you get married. Why do these things go away? I still feel detached from it though. Kaleilani doesn't even take her bikini top off. She doesn't need to. I can only see her silhouette in the shadows anyway. The brief lip contact surprises me. Most dancers don't do kissing - it's too personal. I'm sure wives don't appreciate it much either. Kissing is dangerous - it's how the kumiho, one of the few truly evil beings in Corean mythology, steals your soul. The kumiho, or fox woman, passes an orb from tongue-to-tongue back-and-forth in a hypnotic kiss until your soul is hers. ... I remembered there was a way to turn the tables on the kumiho during the kiss though. What was it again? Butterfly kisses on my eyelids next. That's weird. Amy likes that too. ... When passing the orb from tongue-to-tongue, to avoid having one's soul taken, one must .... In between the gyrations, she kisses my cheek. My forehead. It's ... sweet. Feelings click inside me like the combination tumbler on a vault. ... the orb, something about the orb .... The kissing. It's a turn-on trick. The grinding alone isn't going to do it. She's neuromancing my intimacy code. Maybe this is Kalei's way of ensuring repeat clients. Most exotic dancers do not want you to orgasm - it's wet, it's messy, and it's supposed to be all about the fantasy, not prostitution. Maybe I should have stuck with the standard lap dance option. My bad. ... the orb is the source of the fox woman's magic. It is the soul-stealer.... She puts me on my back and mounts me. Last time I was in this position, some big ass smelly guy was trying to twist my arm off at the shoulder. Her face is in shadow when she rears up, but I can still make out a Cheshire cat smile. Was that a tongue piercing? ... the orb. You have to swallow it. Then the kumiho is powerless against you. I hold out, control it, and actually get a little bored before the time is up. Pleasantly bored. Happy for the feeling and smell and sounds the dancer has given me. Relieved but not spent. "Did you like it?" Kaleilani asks putting her heels back on, damp with sweat from her dance of sinful healing. "Yeah, it was nice. Thank you," I say and pay. I keep the energy and she keeps the money. Fair exchange. ____________________________________
 REDEMPTION This kind of thing never happens when I'm in Michigan. But it's the second time it's happened during a vacation trip for me (the first time was five years ago at a journal convention).  So my brother and I went to help the old man up and out of traffic. He complained of vertigo and couldn't even stand. Then another woman showed up to help too (or maybe she thought we were going to mug the old geezer). We brought the old guy to the curb. I asked a few diagnostic questions about his meds, history, checked his pulse for irregularity. I changed from my usual unimposing low-talking me-mode to my louder, more direct and confident doctor-mode. A cab driver called an ambulance. "When's our plane? Do we have time to wait?" I asked my brother. "Not really," he winced. "Ambulance should be here in ten or fifteen minutes. Let's wait and see," I shrugged. "You guys can go if you want," the helping woman said, "I'll stay and wait with him." "Nah, that's okay," Mark replied, "My brother's not about to leave this guy. It's just who he is, he can't help it." I hadn't thought about it that way, but he was right. This old man was my patient now, and I was the best person to help him, whether it meant just waiting for the ambulance to arrive or beating blood back into his brain if he CPR'd on me. It felt different, better. Like I was the right guy in the right place at the right time doing the right thing. You don't get to feel like that in the hospital for some reason - too many patients, too many concerns, where each success just means more time to fix more potential failures. But this old guy, in the beautiful sunny afternoon, crystalized the whole point of it all - one bright life in a city of bright life. The whole worth saving. But it wasn't just me - my brother, the cabbie, the helpful woman - all of them jumped in to help without a second thought. Thanks for reminding me where my heart is, San Francisco.  _____________________________________
THANKS GOING OUT TO:
CCFA.org
... Someone from this organization sent me a link to provide to anyone
with colitis or Crohn's, or anyone I scared regarding colitis or
Crohn's a couple of entries back.
Stepphia Eric the Daysleeper Roe |
