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The Dynamitegun Guide on How to Travel to Anyplace

Specifically though, to Korea.

Ah, yes, the far east. Whether it is a primitive yearning to move across country and state to seek greener pastures in which to bilk your progeny for gas money, all of us, sooner or later, feel the need to stretch our legs and relocate to another sun-bathed patch of earth in this greatest country of the United States. This is why I moved to Korea. Yes, it is now a part of America. Don't believe me? Well that aint the Korean flag flying at the front gate, now is it, pal?
But please, let me assuage your misconducted angst.

I'm assuming that everybody is wondering

where the hell I have been for so long. As much as I'd like to spin a yarn about fighting disease in darkest Africa or slaying yeti for furs, the truth is that I'd just completely run out of ideas for Dynamite Gun. So I did what any writer worth his salt does when he forgets his roots and contemplates writing for the official (your town here) magazine. I joined the Army! So for the past four months I was fighting for scraps with the average joe, with the common man, regular 'fellas' and 'homies' in America's home of the Infantry, Fort Benning. Of course to my dismay, time for writing lengthy discourses whilst out in the field was severely limited, and photography was strictly prohibited. Upon attempting to assuage their fears of international terrorism with promises of quips and flowery prose in the pages of Dynamite Gun, I was met only with angry stares and many, many pushups, sprinkled with scads and scads of varied manner of homosexual insinuations.

The Remains of the Tail

A styrofoam box of gelatin-coated tailbones is all that stands after this gluttonous feast.

My last full before leaving the United States was something I never thought I'd actually eat. Oxtails with a generous helping of red beans and rice, with fried plantains for dessert. I'd never actually make it to the plantains, which, by the way, are actually little more than really tough bananas. After spending a weekend with my family, visiting the famed Coca Cola museum- where, by the way, I learned that Coca Cola has most definitely improved the quality of life on earth for all people, no matter what those scoundrels at Pepsi say- I get to my hotel to find just about the best accommodations that a regular Joe like myself could ask for. Three mirrors at the vanity is just the beginning, and do remember that since all of us at Dynamite gun like to look our dern-dapperest, because I instantly had to check all reflective surfaces in the room before I purchased my stay to ensure that my visage would not be compromised by substandard lighting or angles. I was duly satisfied.

I also noticed the super duper high-technology hair dryer that was probably screwed into the wall the instant I arrived, because it was exactly the height of my hairline. Of course, with a high-and-tight, I had no need for a hair dryer, but I respected their efforts.

I feel the need to mention the oddity of the sight of an ironing board with no iron to be found, but upon closer inspection, I found the reason why there was no iron. It seems that some reckless traveler before me had spoiled the ironing privileges for everybody.

Last but not least, the bed table. This is what makes the hotel stay so memorable, and not because it made me feel like I was living in a complete dump, but because it made me feel like I'd entered a place where people were sitting on milk crates, beckoning me amongst throngs of haughty laughter and crimson faces, tossing me a cold 'one', and allowing me to crack that baby open on whatever surface was available. I felt so comforted by this that I had to photograph it.

So, after a night of hard-earned sleep, it was off to the airport. It was a fine trip. I tried to talk to the driver of the shuttle, but oddly enough, he had zero interest in what I had to say. I have no choice but to attribute this to his lack of english language skills, since it is virtually impossible to NOT partake in the palaver that follows me everywhere I tread. Still, I wished him merry, gave him a too-generous tip, and he got out of there.
Fast forward...oh...a few hours. I'm now on the plane- Air Korea flight blah blah. Do I still have my ticket? Can I still give you the actual flight number? Yes, I can. So Now the strangest thing about the Korean Airline is how small it is.
Case in point: my laptop. I own a Gateway FX gaming laptop. It isn't a small laptop, with its 17 inch screen. I figured that I was an American, so I might as well buy the largest possible item. It makes sense, right? Well, let's see how far my hubris got me on the plane, when I attempted to put this beast on the tray table, which is roughly 1/3 the size of the average American tray table.

So, for the entirety of the trip, I had to sit there and watch my Seinfeld on a laptop that was sitting between me and the guy next to me. It's a good thing that there was nobody in that seat because he would have been pretty uncomfortable with my computer on his lap the entire time. So this is what it looked like for a good long time...over 14 hours, actually.

You didn't think I wouldn't discuss the airplane food, did you? NEXT!

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