얼마나 세계

A couple weeks ago, I was bored, and I ended up on North Korea's official website (http://www.korea-dpr.com/). It's kind of interesting, as far as propaganda goes. There's an in-depth biography of the "Great Leader," photo galleries of organized vacation groups - you can even register to go on one of these highly regulated 8 day trips, for just 2,350 euros (no cell phones or credit cards allowed).

But what intrigued me most was the Gift Shop section of the site. In it are any number of North Korean souvenirs. T-shirts, hats, laptop bags, beer steins, iPhone cases, greeting cards...you name it. It's all there, available for purchase. And the artwork is actually pretty cool. Propagandistic, colorful images invoking prosperity and strength. Like this one:

I actually purchased a baseball t-shirt, magnet and water bottle for myself. I'm sure I'm on some sort of government watchlist now, but whatever.

What struck me as most interesting, however, was that the gift shop is operated by CafePress. CafePress is an online retailer that sells all this junk - if you want t-shirts or ball caps with your company's logo on it, CafePress will print 'em up and sell 'em online, just like they've done for the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. CafePress is an American company headquartered in San Mateo, CA.

And when I received my gift shop trinkets in the mail the other day, I looked at the bottom of the water bottle. Guess where it's made?

America.

I'm not really sure what to make of this strangely transparent commercial relationship that exists between the U.S. and the DPRK, considering all you hear in the media is that North Korea is our sworn enemy, ruled by a megalomaniacal madman. But I do know this: if I can buy a water bottle from North Korea, I should be able to buy a cigar from Cuba. I mean, come on already.

Guest Kvetch

As always, I'm honored to have people send me Guest Kvetches. This one comes from my good friend Jessie.


I love NY. Just as the t-shirt says. I love its long city blocks lined with pre-war deco-esque buildings. I love its ceaseless swelling sea of yellow cabs, mouthy citizens, killer shopping and the-best-meal-I-ever-ate eateries. I love that I saw a tranny Hasid once. New York is awesome.

But on a very recent trip to my favorite mecca of much, I found myself stupefied by a so-called “guest room” in a 4 star establishment. Now, when you’re traveling on business you can’t complain. Your airfare and stay are paid for. You get spending money for meals (or really cute fitted blazers with gold sailor buttons from really cute little hipster shops on Bleeker).

But there are limits.

Upon checking in, I was given the key to room 835. Eager to get inside after a long work and travel day, I slid my key into the slot, waited for the light to flash green and tried to push open the door. But something was obstructing its path. It wouldn’t open more than 7 inches. Strange. So I hoisted my luggage ONTO and OVER MY HEAD, pushed it through the door, sucked in and squeezed myself into the pitch darkness. It was the BED that hindered the door from opening. I therefore stepped ON the bed just to get to the other side of it, and therefore, into the room. I felt around for the “light”. A dim, Ikea desk lamp bolted to one of the four tiny walls. But never mind its low voltage. I had the brightest room in the hotel! Because every few seconds the 5-story, neon Billy Elliot sign would buzz and flash manically into my tiny window and light up the night. Wowee. 


I swallowed hard and opened the door to the airplane bathroom provided. The cold, stained, metal fixtures were ripped out of an old 747 for certain. When I flushed, it even popped loudly, startling me. I had to get the fuck out of there immediately.

With my coat still on, I headed back down to the front desk where I asked politely for another room. This coming from a girl who feels badly sending back an appetizer. When the concierge aloofly dismissed my articulate ask and informed me that the “hotel was full” and there are “no other available rooms,” I asked to speak to the manager. When she emerged from behind a black curtain (truth) it took her but a millisecond and the touch of a keyboard to half smile and give me a key to another room.

So wait. The concierge just lied to me? Again, weird.

The second room was definitely a step up. Still tiny, but not scary. And, I didn’t need to exercise contortion to get into it. I did however, continue to enjoy neon mood lighting…but this time from Mamma Mia. At least I know the words to that one.

God love ya, New York.

Eyesore

I went to dinner with a friend last night. While we waited at the bar for our table to be ready, she began telling me a story about something or someone, but I was having trouble paying attention, because I was distracted by the woman sitting behind her, a couple seats down the bar.

This woman, while otherwise attractive, had a hideously disfigured eye. She reminded me of one of the zombies on The Walking Dead. She wore glasses, which masked it a little bit, but it clearly appeared that her right eyeball was rotated about 75 degrees backwards, into her skull, and what was visible of her iris was clouded over with a milky blueish cataract. It was, in a word, disturbing.

I interrupted my friend in the middle of her story. "I'm sorry," I said. "I can't really focus on what you're saying, because the woman behind you has the creepiest eye I've ever seen."

"I have to see it," my friend said.

"No, it's not possible for you to just turn around and look. We have to somehow switch places so you can see it from where I'm standing."

She casually pretended to drop something, I shuffled over so she could pick up this imaginary object, and a few seconds later we had switched positions. I saw her face register mild horror. "I don't know how you were able to listen to even one word of my story," she said.

"I didn't," I said. "I couldn't."

The woman was with a man who, god bless him, did not betray anything out of the ordinary while he was conversing with her. I don't know if they were married or if it was their first date, but I felt bad for him. You can't avoid looking at something like that; it's not like a cauliflower ear or a hook-hand: you look someone right in the eyes when you speak to them.

This woman knows full-well how off-putting her zombie eye must be; the least she could do for her date, and the rest of society, is wear sunglasses, or an eye patch. That's what they make them for.