In this episode, our antagonist Kim's highly disciplined mind allows itself to roam and settles on a source of extreme irritation- our own Tom. Is Kim's fury directed towards our budding anthropologist well founded, or is he suffering from a dangerous obsession? What grisly trap awaits poor Thomas, who may very well be guilty of nothing other than gross insensitivity?
Kim pushed aside his plate, letting Sing Chow lick the last splashes of soy sauce from the edge. He spun a half-circle in his chair and landed perfectly at his keyboard, typing before his chair had even settled from the shudder of the spin. No time for Tai Chi tonight, not with this masterful final email waiting to be sent. Wriggling his fingers, he giggled to himself and pushed the power button. He felt as if the computer’s rebooting was taking hours, and he let himself go into a reverie, unusual for his practical and efficient mind. That stupid, stupid Tom Ozanski. What a stupid man. His loud loud laughing and his insistence that ketchup slather everything (what a sacrilegious use of tomatoes, which had sustained his people during those difficult early years in the mountainous Wyoming- of all the states to pick, nearly impossible to pronounce!); his ill-fitting, polyester American football jacket, worn daily from early fall until late spring, regardless of whether or not he was indoors or out, and in ignorant defiance of the recently posted (and Tom-induced) sign in the office requesting that employees “Kindly wear an appropriate variety of clothes during the work week”; but worst of all was Tom’s incessant hinting and roundabout conversation: Just yesterday Kim had entered the lounge to find Tom mentioning to Gerald how terribly cold the walk home would be, especially because his mother had washed his only gloves in the warm cycle when he had “repeatedly reminded her to wash them in the cold cycle, inside out, lest they shrink.” The barbarism of Tom’s indirect request for a ride home had made Kim spin his pencil through his fingers with unusual fury, and with feigned naivety he cornered Tom by offering him a hand towel with which to protect his hands for the walk home; he had even offered to wrap Tom’s hands using a “traditional and ancient Asian technique”, but then reneged, citing the potential difficulty of removing the hand towel upon arriving home. Conveniently, Gerald was intrigued by the idea of a hand towel replacing gloves and Tom’s irritating hints were lost in the shuffle of the ensuing conversation.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT
A short commercial break…“Thomas the Anthropologist” will return after the following public service announcement (well, if a certain Nikid counts as 'the public'):
The following message is a call to arms against an apocalyptic international cloning project.
Recent news reports from myriad respectable sources have revealed an effort by Japanese scientists to clone the “extinct” wooly mammoth. By harvesting the intact DNA of the prehistoric beast from glaciers and tar-pits, researchers are confident that they will be able to coax into existence this giant elephant-like arctic dweller. Such prospects have been met excitement and encouragement by the Asian scientific community; I, on the other hand, greet such irresponsibility with alarm. Consider the following:
- The adult wooly mammoth weighs over 18,000 lbs., can reach speeds of 55 mph, and is armed with tusks the length of a mid-sized school bus.
- Wooly mammoths have been found with the bodies of hunters frozen in their intestines; such discoveries suggest an insatiable thirst for human blood.
- We have no idea of how children wooly mammoths behave. Consider a two thousand pound puppy: playful and cute, yes; but deadly.
- During the golden age of the wooly mammoth (the first ice age), this nearly invincible killing machine stood alone and untouched at the top of its food chain. Among its victims were the Tyrannosaurus Rex (so-called “King of the Dinosaurs”), the pterodactyl, the brontosaurus, and other animals hundreds of times larger and stronger than the modern homo sapien. Why must this gigantic animal be cloned? Why not the Dodo bird, if something MUST be disturbed from its extinction? Have we not enough threats?
With this said, I would like to offer a compromise to the Japanese, our Eastern brothers. On their end, I would like a written statement (in English) that the wooly mammoth will not exit the borders of their historic island, and that the scientists in question will provide the population with information on methods of controlling/exterminating this animal. In a special way, I demand a clause be included that explicitly guarantees that the wooly mammoth will never enter the northeastern United States, which includes the state of New York. Finally, the wooly mammoth must never be used as a weapon of mass destruction. On my end, I will terminate the movement against the cloning of the wooly mammoth in Japan.
To support my cause, please contact me to purchase a “Keep the Wooly Mammoths in Japan” bumper sticker. Also, I expect the release of my new book, “What’s Wrong with the Do-Do Bird?”, in early 2012.
The following message is a call to arms against an apocalyptic international cloning project.
Recent news reports from myriad respectable sources have revealed an effort by Japanese scientists to clone the “extinct” wooly mammoth. By harvesting the intact DNA of the prehistoric beast from glaciers and tar-pits, researchers are confident that they will be able to coax into existence this giant elephant-like arctic dweller. Such prospects have been met excitement and encouragement by the Asian scientific community; I, on the other hand, greet such irresponsibility with alarm. Consider the following:
- The adult wooly mammoth weighs over 18,000 lbs., can reach speeds of 55 mph, and is armed with tusks the length of a mid-sized school bus.
- Wooly mammoths have been found with the bodies of hunters frozen in their intestines; such discoveries suggest an insatiable thirst for human blood.
- We have no idea of how children wooly mammoths behave. Consider a two thousand pound puppy: playful and cute, yes; but deadly.
- During the golden age of the wooly mammoth (the first ice age), this nearly invincible killing machine stood alone and untouched at the top of its food chain. Among its victims were the Tyrannosaurus Rex (so-called “King of the Dinosaurs”), the pterodactyl, the brontosaurus, and other animals hundreds of times larger and stronger than the modern homo sapien. Why must this gigantic animal be cloned? Why not the Dodo bird, if something MUST be disturbed from its extinction? Have we not enough threats?
With this said, I would like to offer a compromise to the Japanese, our Eastern brothers. On their end, I would like a written statement (in English) that the wooly mammoth will not exit the borders of their historic island, and that the scientists in question will provide the population with information on methods of controlling/exterminating this animal. In a special way, I demand a clause be included that explicitly guarantees that the wooly mammoth will never enter the northeastern United States, which includes the state of New York. Finally, the wooly mammoth must never be used as a weapon of mass destruction. On my end, I will terminate the movement against the cloning of the wooly mammoth in Japan.
To support my cause, please contact me to purchase a “Keep the Wooly Mammoths in Japan” bumper sticker. Also, I expect the release of my new book, “What’s Wrong with the Do-Do Bird?”, in early 2012.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Episode Five 'The False Dichotomy: Chris, the Artiste'
Another minor character is introduced, this being Chris, Tom's brother. This tragic character has fallen prey to the myth of the Great Artist through pure default. Can you think of anyone that YOU know whose personality is composed of default characteristics?
“Boys will be boys,” muttered Tom’s mother under her breath. But when was he going to leave the house? Long ago she’d given up hope that he’d move out; now she just wanted him to leave for an afternoon, even a few hours. At least his brother Chris was going to an actual college, rather than this online mumbo jumbo.
As if on cue, Tom’s brother Chris emerged from the basement doorway and sat down in pointed silence. Chris’ similarities to Tom were limited to his physique- they shared their father’s large limbs, wide hips, and thin, brown hair. Other than that, the two were as different as night and day. Their roles in the family had been firmly established from day one: Tom was the intellectual, the staunch empiricist, leaving Chris, through default more so than any real inclination, with the role of the artist. Not that Chris didn’t take full advantage of his role. It was an unspoken rule in the Ozanski household that each boy was helpless under the force of their ‘nature‘- for this reason, Tom got away with his years of secretive and apparently fruitless research, under the guise of being an unrecognized genius, while Chris, being the family artist, was able to throw any sort of tantrum and pull off any kind of bizarre behavior. Further, where Tom was prone to ’beating around the bush’ and hinting at things rather than stating them, you knew where you stood with Chris. For instance, Chris was clearly upset about something at the moment.
‘And you, Chris? How was your day?’ Asked their mother carefully. Secretly, she was relieved that Chris had not followed in Tom’s reclusive and clumsy footsteps. Being the younger of the two, he’d even run several enthusiastic (while unsuccessful) campaigns for presidency of various art oriented clubs in high school. However, lacking the diplomacy of a politician (the startling behavior attributed to his ’artistic’ temperament by his family was, unfortunately, often viewed as just a plain lack of social grace by the student body), he’d graduated high school with his eyes on another prize. Last year, he’d entered the local community college majoring in nothing less than fashion design. While his mother had tried to be open minded about her son’s chosen career path (it was the 21st century, after all), Chris seemed to be spiraling farther and farther off of the beaten track in his attempts to revitalize the fashion world. As of late, he’d taken ‘retro’ to unprecedented lengths by emanating the fashion of 18th century Europe. Yes, Mrs. Ozanski admired her son’s thinking ‘outside the box’, but sometimes she wished that Chris would step back inside the box. She found it trying to have to explain over and over to friends and family alike why Chris wore a powdered wig.
Chris wrinkled his nose slightly as he eyed the macaroni and cheese. ‘
‘Haven‘t we any goose- or pudding?’, he griped, with a slight British accent.
Chris believed that, like an actor, a fashion designer must throw himself whole heartedly into his art. His lace collar and cuffs, variety of wigs, and skin tight pants were accompanied by an aristocratic air and a taste for the delicacies peculiar to the late 1700’s- snuff, goose, oranges and pudding, for example.
‘No, Chris, we don’t’, Mrs. Ozanski answered patiently, spooning a steaming lump of mac and cheese onto his plate. A loud thump resounded from upstairs, followed by a high pitched scream. She inhaled sharply, and the ball of pasta tumbled to Chris’ starched breeches.
‘Thomas?’ She cried in a strangled voice, ‘Are you OK?’
Chris squealed, jumped to his feet with little grace, and, delighted at his mother’s mistake, began to scold her, shaking his fork with a happy vehemence: “You piglet! You horrid, horrid piglet- my breeches!”
“Oh, Christopher, calm yourself: why, there isn’t even a mark.”
Chris looked down at his pants, and much to his disappointment, saw that the mac n’ cheese had tumbled harmlessly onto the kitchen floor.
“You’re still a piglet.” Chris mumbled as his mother began to collect the mustard colored noodles with a paper towel.
“Excuse me?”
“Nuthin’.”
Chris returned to his seat, but not before giving his mother a withering scowl and crossing his arms in protest.
What has caused this scuffle upstairs? Stay tuned!
“Boys will be boys,” muttered Tom’s mother under her breath. But when was he going to leave the house? Long ago she’d given up hope that he’d move out; now she just wanted him to leave for an afternoon, even a few hours. At least his brother Chris was going to an actual college, rather than this online mumbo jumbo.
As if on cue, Tom’s brother Chris emerged from the basement doorway and sat down in pointed silence. Chris’ similarities to Tom were limited to his physique- they shared their father’s large limbs, wide hips, and thin, brown hair. Other than that, the two were as different as night and day. Their roles in the family had been firmly established from day one: Tom was the intellectual, the staunch empiricist, leaving Chris, through default more so than any real inclination, with the role of the artist. Not that Chris didn’t take full advantage of his role. It was an unspoken rule in the Ozanski household that each boy was helpless under the force of their ‘nature‘- for this reason, Tom got away with his years of secretive and apparently fruitless research, under the guise of being an unrecognized genius, while Chris, being the family artist, was able to throw any sort of tantrum and pull off any kind of bizarre behavior. Further, where Tom was prone to ’beating around the bush’ and hinting at things rather than stating them, you knew where you stood with Chris. For instance, Chris was clearly upset about something at the moment.
‘And you, Chris? How was your day?’ Asked their mother carefully. Secretly, she was relieved that Chris had not followed in Tom’s reclusive and clumsy footsteps. Being the younger of the two, he’d even run several enthusiastic (while unsuccessful) campaigns for presidency of various art oriented clubs in high school. However, lacking the diplomacy of a politician (the startling behavior attributed to his ’artistic’ temperament by his family was, unfortunately, often viewed as just a plain lack of social grace by the student body), he’d graduated high school with his eyes on another prize. Last year, he’d entered the local community college majoring in nothing less than fashion design. While his mother had tried to be open minded about her son’s chosen career path (it was the 21st century, after all), Chris seemed to be spiraling farther and farther off of the beaten track in his attempts to revitalize the fashion world. As of late, he’d taken ‘retro’ to unprecedented lengths by emanating the fashion of 18th century Europe. Yes, Mrs. Ozanski admired her son’s thinking ‘outside the box’, but sometimes she wished that Chris would step back inside the box. She found it trying to have to explain over and over to friends and family alike why Chris wore a powdered wig.
Chris wrinkled his nose slightly as he eyed the macaroni and cheese. ‘
‘Haven‘t we any goose- or pudding?’, he griped, with a slight British accent.
Chris believed that, like an actor, a fashion designer must throw himself whole heartedly into his art. His lace collar and cuffs, variety of wigs, and skin tight pants were accompanied by an aristocratic air and a taste for the delicacies peculiar to the late 1700’s- snuff, goose, oranges and pudding, for example.
‘No, Chris, we don’t’, Mrs. Ozanski answered patiently, spooning a steaming lump of mac and cheese onto his plate. A loud thump resounded from upstairs, followed by a high pitched scream. She inhaled sharply, and the ball of pasta tumbled to Chris’ starched breeches.
‘Thomas?’ She cried in a strangled voice, ‘Are you OK?’
Chris squealed, jumped to his feet with little grace, and, delighted at his mother’s mistake, began to scold her, shaking his fork with a happy vehemence: “You piglet! You horrid, horrid piglet- my breeches!”
“Oh, Christopher, calm yourself: why, there isn’t even a mark.”
Chris looked down at his pants, and much to his disappointment, saw that the mac n’ cheese had tumbled harmlessly onto the kitchen floor.
“You’re still a piglet.” Chris mumbled as his mother began to collect the mustard colored noodles with a paper towel.
“Excuse me?”
“Nuthin’.”
Chris returned to his seat, but not before giving his mother a withering scowl and crossing his arms in protest.
What has caused this scuffle upstairs? Stay tuned!
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Episode Four: 'The Anthropologist's Mother'
As you continue reading, consider these questions:
How does Tom's perception of himself differ from his mother's perception of him?
Does this episode change your own perception of Thomas, both as a human and as an anthropologist?
“How was your day, honey?” Asked his mother, a plump grey haired woman with kindly, albeit anxious eyes. She worried about her son sometimes, holed up in his room. She wished he’d go out dancing, or meet a nice girl, something other than just working and clicking away at that computer. At forty four, he was no spring chicken.
“Fine, Ma.” Tom said through a mouthful of mac and cheese. His mother sighed: she hadn’t gotten more than a one word answer out of him in thirty years.
“Good mac n cheese?”
“Yup”. Tom took a big gulp of milk and set his glass down with a bang.
“I wish you’d be more careful with the glasses, Thomas.”
“Sorry, Ma” Tom said. He heaped another plateful of pasta, refilled his milk and bounded back up stairs.
“Boys will be boys,” muttered Tom’s mother under her breath. But when was he going to leave the house? Long ago she’d given up hope that he’d move out; now she just wanted him to leave for an afternoon, even a few hours.
How does Tom's perception of himself differ from his mother's perception of him?
Does this episode change your own perception of Thomas, both as a human and as an anthropologist?
“How was your day, honey?” Asked his mother, a plump grey haired woman with kindly, albeit anxious eyes. She worried about her son sometimes, holed up in his room. She wished he’d go out dancing, or meet a nice girl, something other than just working and clicking away at that computer. At forty four, he was no spring chicken.
“Fine, Ma.” Tom said through a mouthful of mac and cheese. His mother sighed: she hadn’t gotten more than a one word answer out of him in thirty years.
“Good mac n cheese?”
“Yup”. Tom took a big gulp of milk and set his glass down with a bang.
“I wish you’d be more careful with the glasses, Thomas.”
“Sorry, Ma” Tom said. He heaped another plateful of pasta, refilled his milk and bounded back up stairs.
“Boys will be boys,” muttered Tom’s mother under her breath. But when was he going to leave the house? Long ago she’d given up hope that he’d move out; now she just wanted him to leave for an afternoon, even a few hours.
Monday, December 13, 2010
'Thomas': A Miniseries. Episode 3. 'The Gift'
We've now been introduced to the two characters Kim and Thomas. A relationship between the two has been implied, while not fully established. We now examine Thomas' character in more depth, particularly his self proclaimed gift of having a cross cultural sixth sense.
Consider this as you read: does this story seem to be a criticism of or a celebration of anthropology?
A quietness came over Tom, a phenomenon that had happened only a very few times in his life. It was a sort of reverie that he couldn’t explain, an unfettering of the mind, a liberation of the soul. And it always preceded what Tom liked to think of as inspiration, a lucid vision of what he was meant to do in the coming moments. The first time that he recalled it he had been about seven or eight, sitting in the school cafeteria with a Chinese foreign exchange student, that sickening smell of tan noodles rising from his plate; another time had been waiting for the late bus home from school, and he had been offered a ride home by a Nigerian man. Tom liked to think of his forcing Chang Lee to pour ketchup on his noodles as another fall of the Berlin Wall; smaller yes, unpublicized as well, but to Chang Lee, equally as important; likewise, he’d understood the extreme danger of even exchanging glances with the Nigerian man that snowy afternoon, and his decision to report him to the crossing guard had been absolutely warranted. He knew Nigeria’s past, ripe with insurrection and violence; and anyway, how could he have known that his mother had arranged the ride? Tom had a “cultural sixth sense,” something that could not be taught, nor learned, but something that allowed him to merge seamlessly into any crowd, from any nation, at any time.
Walking purposefully to the computer, he googled ‘South Korean, supplanted, audacity’. Nodding knowingly at the 6,899,435 results, he clicked on ‘refine search’ and added ‘passive aggressive’. It took an unusual mind to understand the deep relationship between cultural anthropology and psychology, and Tom had understood it from day one- once again, he could only explain it as intuition.
The results were more than he’d hoped for. Smiling, he leaned back and scanned the list expertly. There were a few towns, generally rural, that produced an unusually audacious breed of South Koreans. It seemed that property regulations had been dissolved with the spread of communism, and in one particular village, all housing and privacy had become obsolete. Before long, neighbors would find friends and enemies alike sleeping on their floors and eating their food with not even a trace of shame. This same village was liberated from the communist regime by NATO forces in the late 90’s, and the entire population was transplanted to select areas of the world due to a tragic oil leak (which also rid the world of the already dying Silga Bird). With their unbending reverence for reputation along with their deep-seeded brazenness, this strange breed of Asians found themselves shunned by the capitalist and selfish masses, who were anything but supportive of the odd and unexpected Diasporas. Meager attempts at mental rehabilitation funded by certain international organizations had only left these ambiguous immigrants with an unshakeable sense of entitlement. Furthermore, Korean clan systems were highly topographical, and the surnames were strongly indicative of the micro-cosmic patria from whence they arrived. These facts meant two things: Tom could retrieve the most likely/ possible surnames of the cyber criminal in question, and he could locate his/her whereabouts. Voila.
Bingo. The three hundred or so inhabitants of Xian Cho had been sent via freightliner and then a shipped in a small fleet of Greyhounds to a small mountainous village in (none other than) his own native Wyoming. From there, it was assumed that the refugees had sought employment after realizing that they would not subsist off of the vegetable gardens sprouting on window sills, roofs, and in small back yards. Further, it had been primarily the male populace that had ventured out, leaving the women and children to tend to the peppers, tomatoes and squash- this only meant one thing- Tom’s good friend was a man.
Tom jotted down his progress in a trembling font:
“1) S. Korean, 2) from Xian Cho (look up derivatives of this name, possible attempts at Americanization- Johns? Johnson? John Joe?), 3) Male, (his projected height and skin tone given diet of squash, tomatoes, peppers, and noodles), 4) computer savvy, 5) relation to possible employment, w refugee visa”
Carefully folding up the list, Tom placed it next to his computer. It seemed as if it had been only moments, but he was surprised to see that it was already 5: 30- din din time! His stomach answered with a growl, and Tom raced down stairs to the smell of his favorite dish- mac and cheese.
Stay tuned for the next episode!
Consider this as you read: does this story seem to be a criticism of or a celebration of anthropology?
A quietness came over Tom, a phenomenon that had happened only a very few times in his life. It was a sort of reverie that he couldn’t explain, an unfettering of the mind, a liberation of the soul. And it always preceded what Tom liked to think of as inspiration, a lucid vision of what he was meant to do in the coming moments. The first time that he recalled it he had been about seven or eight, sitting in the school cafeteria with a Chinese foreign exchange student, that sickening smell of tan noodles rising from his plate; another time had been waiting for the late bus home from school, and he had been offered a ride home by a Nigerian man. Tom liked to think of his forcing Chang Lee to pour ketchup on his noodles as another fall of the Berlin Wall; smaller yes, unpublicized as well, but to Chang Lee, equally as important; likewise, he’d understood the extreme danger of even exchanging glances with the Nigerian man that snowy afternoon, and his decision to report him to the crossing guard had been absolutely warranted. He knew Nigeria’s past, ripe with insurrection and violence; and anyway, how could he have known that his mother had arranged the ride? Tom had a “cultural sixth sense,” something that could not be taught, nor learned, but something that allowed him to merge seamlessly into any crowd, from any nation, at any time.
Walking purposefully to the computer, he googled ‘South Korean, supplanted, audacity’. Nodding knowingly at the 6,899,435 results, he clicked on ‘refine search’ and added ‘passive aggressive’. It took an unusual mind to understand the deep relationship between cultural anthropology and psychology, and Tom had understood it from day one- once again, he could only explain it as intuition.
The results were more than he’d hoped for. Smiling, he leaned back and scanned the list expertly. There were a few towns, generally rural, that produced an unusually audacious breed of South Koreans. It seemed that property regulations had been dissolved with the spread of communism, and in one particular village, all housing and privacy had become obsolete. Before long, neighbors would find friends and enemies alike sleeping on their floors and eating their food with not even a trace of shame. This same village was liberated from the communist regime by NATO forces in the late 90’s, and the entire population was transplanted to select areas of the world due to a tragic oil leak (which also rid the world of the already dying Silga Bird). With their unbending reverence for reputation along with their deep-seeded brazenness, this strange breed of Asians found themselves shunned by the capitalist and selfish masses, who were anything but supportive of the odd and unexpected Diasporas. Meager attempts at mental rehabilitation funded by certain international organizations had only left these ambiguous immigrants with an unshakeable sense of entitlement. Furthermore, Korean clan systems were highly topographical, and the surnames were strongly indicative of the micro-cosmic patria from whence they arrived. These facts meant two things: Tom could retrieve the most likely/ possible surnames of the cyber criminal in question, and he could locate his/her whereabouts. Voila.
Bingo. The three hundred or so inhabitants of Xian Cho had been sent via freightliner and then a shipped in a small fleet of Greyhounds to a small mountainous village in (none other than) his own native Wyoming. From there, it was assumed that the refugees had sought employment after realizing that they would not subsist off of the vegetable gardens sprouting on window sills, roofs, and in small back yards. Further, it had been primarily the male populace that had ventured out, leaving the women and children to tend to the peppers, tomatoes and squash- this only meant one thing- Tom’s good friend was a man.
Tom jotted down his progress in a trembling font:
“1) S. Korean, 2) from Xian Cho (look up derivatives of this name, possible attempts at Americanization- Johns? Johnson? John Joe?), 3) Male, (his projected height and skin tone given diet of squash, tomatoes, peppers, and noodles), 4) computer savvy, 5) relation to possible employment, w refugee visa”
Carefully folding up the list, Tom placed it next to his computer. It seemed as if it had been only moments, but he was surprised to see that it was already 5: 30- din din time! His stomach answered with a growl, and Tom raced down stairs to the smell of his favorite dish- mac and cheese.
Stay tuned for the next episode!
Thursday, December 9, 2010
'Thomas' Episode 2, Kim Jang Yung
We now introduce Episode 2 of our miniseries 'Thomas'. As you read, you may want to consider these questions:
How is Kim Jang Yung connected to Thomas- if he is at all?
Does Kim strike you as sinister or friendly?
Do you sense something ominous in the future of Kim or Thomas?
Kim Jang Yung opened the door to his small flat, and entered nimbly, the door hardly making a sound as it eased shut across the vanilla carpeting. Sing Chow, his graceful Siamese, leaped silently onto his shoulder as he pulled dry rice noodles from his cupboards. It felt good to be home. Out there he lived under the heavy stares of his coworkers, was becoming worn by their intolerant murmers (“Do they think I can’t understand them?), and it only began to fade when he settled before the soothing glow of his 26” HP monitor. He knew he was untraceable, invincible in the endless expanse of the internet. No one murmered or stared online. He was sdued19, raceless, faceless, androgynous and odorless. There was no loud laughing in cyber space, an American trait that he found particularly irritating. He’d summed them up quite cleverly if you asked him: They laughed, and they forgot. But they would not forget him: not tonight, anyway.
Enjoy!
How is Kim Jang Yung connected to Thomas- if he is at all?
Does Kim strike you as sinister or friendly?
Do you sense something ominous in the future of Kim or Thomas?
Kim Jang Yung opened the door to his small flat, and entered nimbly, the door hardly making a sound as it eased shut across the vanilla carpeting. Sing Chow, his graceful Siamese, leaped silently onto his shoulder as he pulled dry rice noodles from his cupboards. It felt good to be home. Out there he lived under the heavy stares of his coworkers, was becoming worn by their intolerant murmers (“Do they think I can’t understand them?), and it only began to fade when he settled before the soothing glow of his 26” HP monitor. He knew he was untraceable, invincible in the endless expanse of the internet. No one murmered or stared online. He was sdued19, raceless, faceless, androgynous and odorless. There was no loud laughing in cyber space, an American trait that he found particularly irritating. He’d summed them up quite cleverly if you asked him: They laughed, and they forgot. But they would not forget him: not tonight, anyway.
Enjoy!
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
'Thomas': A Miniseries
Since I don't have time to blog these days, I thought that I would share with you, my eleven followers, a story written by me and my brother a ways back. I'll do a bit at a time so that you have time to 'digest' the story (pardon the pun).
Tom sat stunned: another email from sdued91@hotmail stared back at him, unread. The subject was the familiar, “hello, u!”. Scratching his sweat pants, he leaned back in his chair, thoroughly unsettled. Who could possibly have the nerve to hack into his personal email not only once, but continuously? He pondered the possibilities, and given his cultural anthropology background, he concluded that this sort of audacity was only found in South Korea or a small tribe in western Tanzania (who would’ve thought his degree would be used for this!?).
Pushing himself out of the chair, he shuffled over to the bookshelf thoughtfully, and pulling out a well worn Introduction to Cultural Anthropology book thumbed through the pages.
‘Ah’ he said softly, stopping at a page and running his finger down it. ‘Yes, yes , yes…” He walked back to the computer and sat down, putting on a pair of bifocals. ‘Arranged Marriage… Avunculocal Status… Audacity.’ He stopped, whistled under his breath, and looked back at the email.
“This can’t be right,” he muttered to himself, running his hand absentmindedly through his thinning hair. He felt a cold sweat burst on his forehead.
Stay tuned to find out what out what happens to Thomas, the budding anthropologist. The harrowing series of events that Thomas will soon be rattled by will keep you on the edge of your seats! And there was no pun, I just wanted to confuse you.
Tom sat stunned: another email from sdued91@hotmail stared back at him, unread. The subject was the familiar, “hello, u!”. Scratching his sweat pants, he leaned back in his chair, thoroughly unsettled. Who could possibly have the nerve to hack into his personal email not only once, but continuously? He pondered the possibilities, and given his cultural anthropology background, he concluded that this sort of audacity was only found in South Korea or a small tribe in western Tanzania (who would’ve thought his degree would be used for this!?).
Pushing himself out of the chair, he shuffled over to the bookshelf thoughtfully, and pulling out a well worn Introduction to Cultural Anthropology book thumbed through the pages.
‘Ah’ he said softly, stopping at a page and running his finger down it. ‘Yes, yes , yes…” He walked back to the computer and sat down, putting on a pair of bifocals. ‘Arranged Marriage… Avunculocal Status… Audacity.’ He stopped, whistled under his breath, and looked back at the email.
“This can’t be right,” he muttered to himself, running his hand absentmindedly through his thinning hair. He felt a cold sweat burst on his forehead.
Stay tuned to find out what out what happens to Thomas, the budding anthropologist. The harrowing series of events that Thomas will soon be rattled by will keep you on the edge of your seats! And there was no pun, I just wanted to confuse you.
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