I think the reason why I dreamt about taking a peek into Cartic’s apartment with binoculars is because I had a partial viewing of Alfred Hitchcock’s “Rear Window” a previous night. Partial, meaning that I started the movie while eating dinner with Yvonnes, but then her friend Charlotte came to visit so we stopped the movie.

Yvonnes (a extended nick name I gave her, pronounced yuh-von-NES) just flew to China on American Airlines. I would guess she would be coming back to America on China Airlines.

It struck me that the Beijing International Airport was quietly empty. It struck me that the Korean International Airport was quietly empty, but then again, I was not there during the World Cup.

European Traveler to Korea speaking in his or her native tongue: Oh look. He must be Korean. “Anyounghasehyo!”
Alfred: Um, hello.

Looking from behind and over a blue couch facing the window, There was no one in Cartic’s apartment, but sitting in front of me was a bald man with a gun. In both instances, I did not see Cartic, nor am I familiar with his belongings to know that it was his apartment, but I knew it was his apartment, and I did not see the gun the man was holding, but I knew he was carrying one. Call it dream sixth sense.

One time in India, Rachel (six years old) came up to me and asked me a question.

Rachel: Hey, Alfred. I bet you don’t know what’s on top of our building.
Alfred: I don’t know. Is it a bird?
Rachel: How did you know?

I didn’t know there was a dead bird up on the ceiling where we lived. Call it dumb luck sixth sense.

During nights at the Doctor’s quarters where we stayed in Pune, India, the cows would come out. Peering through the second floor window, I could see three cows roaming about. The next day, we found mounds of cow dung loosely piled in casual places around the hospital.

I took a black telephone from a side table by the blue couch and brought it back with me through the hallway behind me, then into the bathroom. My first instinct was to dial 0 for the dream operator, but the operator asked me to hold on the line while she connected me to someone else. Illogically, I hung up and called 911 next. Reality: When watching “Panic Room” with my kids (I don’t really have kids, but I like to call my church youth group my kids) and Tinna.

Jodie Foster pulls out existing telephone wire and connects it to the dead panic room telephone. Once she acquires a dial tone, she calls 911 when an operator also tell her to hold. She hangs up and calls her ex-husband. I guess I would have called my ex-wife, but since I do not have an ex-wife, I did not call her in my dream.

Following the path of the sun, the sunflower

Following the path of the sun, from the morning east

From the rising morning east to the setting dusk west, the sunflower moves its entirety, following the path of the sun as we should move to follow the light of God.

From the rising east to the setting west, the sunflower moves its entirety to follow the path of the sun as we should move to follow the light of God.

Am I expecting an impossible perfection when it comes to watching the US not deserve their tie versus the 2002 South Korean World Cup Team? My first reaction is to stop watching US “Soccer,” because I find it too frustrating to watch them kick to no one in particular, to lose control of the ball, to simply play at an embarrassingly amateur level. I put soccer in quotes because US “Soccer” is not real Football. They are lucky to have tied the South Koreans. They are lucky to have beaten Portugal. I do expect too much from Team USA and I apologize for my frustrated fervor. I will only reserve it for first, my beloved Philadelphia Seventy-Sixers, Philadelphia Eagles, Philadelphia Flyers, and Philadelphia Phillies.

The night I ate an Original Grand Slam Breakfast from Dennys, I dreamt that I was married to Korrine Clark. Reality: Korrine is married to Aaron Larson, both of whom just had their first baby. In the dream, Aaron passed away, so I in turn and strangely enough married Korrine. Together we lived in an apartment that had an extended hallway leading into a living room that looked onto other apartments through a large movie screen of a window. With a pair of binoculars, I was able to look across into Cartic’s apartment.

I first met Cartic when Huyen drove me back to Rochester at the end of Thanksgiving weekend. Cartic rode up front with Huyen while I shifted in the back seat from right to left to right taking color photos of Western New York’s golden red autumn sun setting sky. Somewhere along the way from Quakertown, Pennsylvania to Rochester, New York, I learned that Cartic is from India.

One of the things I miss about India is their domestic sodas. There is of course Miranda in flavors of artificial orange, lime soda, and mango juice; Thumbs up cola and the occasional club soda.

I fantasize being a guest on Late Night with Conan O’Brian and as I sit down on the sofa to talk to Conan, I reveal two bottles of Duke’s Lemon from a paper bag that I’ve carried onto the set

Conan: Oh, I see you brought us some drinks. -Laughs nervously- What are these? Wine coolers?
Alfred: No, Conan. This is Duke’s Lemon. Try it.
Conan: Duke’s eh? -looks into the camera- Duke’s, the official drink of the Ku Klux Klan. -drinks Duke’s Lemon- Hey, this is not that bad. I feel like putting bed sheets on my horse.

I had a vivid dream the night we went to the carnival because I ate so late at night. It’s a myth I’m going to share with my children: if you eat late at night, you will have nightmares. I was still slightly nauseous (out of my mental lucidity) after coming home from Dennys. I had two pancakes, two sausages, two bacon strips, and two eggs over easy. They called it the Original Grand Slam Breakfast. It would have been nice if they provided toast to complement the eggs.

I got over most of my fears concerning roller coasters by understanding that I would not die by riding them. In the same fashion, I’ve become fond of vivid dreams and nightmares. Vivid dreams and nightmares are just like roller coasters. You are chased by crazy people with machine guns, and you’re hiding from them in cabinets, drawers, on the ceiling, but they will find you, and utilize their machine guns on you, but in the end, you wake up, trying to go back to the vivid dream.

I will be rooting for Team USA when they play South Korea in the World Cup. Why? Wasn’t I born of two Korean parents, thus making me physically Korean? Shouldn’t I then be rooting for South Korea? Well simply, I just know the American team. The South Korean team are strangers to me. They would be football players with different numbers on their backs. How crazy would it be if they all had the same number? I know and admire the defensive skills of US defenseman, Eddie Pope. I can’t say I admire anyone on the South Korean team only because I’ve never seen this World Cup team play. I think that’s fair. When I saw South Korea play Bolivia in the stands of Foxboro Stadium where the New England Patriots play, I was rooting for South Korea. Please, I don’t hate South Korea, nor do I hate Bolivia, I just know the United States much better.

I saw the fear in Andrew’s face when normally one would describe him as an energetic monster. It was his first time to go to a carnival, only eight years old. His fear subdued him into a quieter child. When talking to him, I noticed his eyes looking elsewhere, almost sleepy. He also took the fact that he was not tall enough for many of the rides very well.

Andrew: I saw you on Spin Out.
Alfred: Really?
Andrew: Yup, and your hair went like this:

Andrew stepped on the bench next to us then raised my hair within his hands.

I have the same feeling of dread when someone asks me to go drinking with them at some party as I do when someone asks me to go to the amusement park. I’ve thought it out, and I believe the correlation lies within the fact the both drinking alcohol and amusement park rides takes me out of my mental lucidity. Both make me nauseous, and if the alcohol or ride is particularly bad, I will suffer from headaches. So I could say that I do not like to be outside of my comfort zone. I like to be tucked away, and safe. This is not true either. I’ve done many a crazy stunt in my life, which has lead to my near death on one occasion, and to the hospital on other occasions. I believe a more accurate analysis of my neurosis is that when I’m tussling with the Rochester Police or falling of cliffs, I am extremely lucid. Lucidity seems to be everything to me. I hate to be blocked in the head. I keeps me from writing. It’s as simple as that, thus I could never be a beatnik writer. Give me a choice between a block in my head or constipation and I will easily choose constipation. Give me a choice between alcohol or a amusement park ride and I would answer, “I’m waiting for an alcohol ride to come out so I don’t need to make a choice, or wait. I could drink alcohol while riding an amusement park ride.” Does anyone want to sit next to me?

The combination of funnel cake, onion rings, pop corn, cotton candy, black concrete, rumbling steel, old vinyl, pop music, blinking lights, screaming, laughing, crying, all make up the heavy air of the carnival. It’s cheap, nauseating, and American. Break two plates with a baseball and win Scooby Doo. Flip a plastic frog into the center of the lily pad and win a frog. Toss a ping pong ball into a fish bowl and win a fish.

Why do I love the bumper car? Is it because the bumper car is one of the few rides where the riders interact with each other? In line - waiting for the bumper cars to stop dead - watching electric blue lines spark from the grated metal ceiling to the curled strips of metal held by poles attached to the back of each bumper car - the cars stop - the people get out and walk to the back - to the exit - the attendant lets the next wave of drivers through the gate - we seek our own car - red, blue, green, yellow – jump inside - the large vinyl cushion turns along with the steering wheel back and forth - waiting for the electricity to be switched back on so we can crash into each other for another five minutes.

I can easily see that Y Girl is still in love with J Boy. Even though he’s treated her with indifferent disregard, she finds it illogical to stop loving the person she’s loved for the last three years. I'm afraid that if Y Girl never discovered J Boy cheating on her with another woman, J Boy would continue to hide his secret from Y Girl; (He’s has been hiding it for two months before) then their relationship would deteriorate in a cruel and ugly fashion. J Boy would have continued to mistreat Y Girl, thus confusing her and deepening her depression (also caused by school). I can imagine her sitting in a dark room, staring at a computer screen, asking me on her cell phone, “I don’t understand, Alfred. Why is he treating me like this?” Thankfully, I did not have to answer, “I have no idea,” said in a helpless manner.

I try to drink lemonade to cleanse my palate but the heavy sesame oil remains in the air.

The drain to my kitchen sink is defective. Water refuses to go down it.

I heard thunder rumbling across the sky from outside my apartment. Reflections of yellow-orange from the streetlights above created a light hovering mist while the rain, black as the glossy streets outside continued to fall. Occasional cars swish-slid past through the window where I have raised my Venetian blinds up halfway. This time the thunder came in waves of deep knocking. Boom – boom – boom. Who’s there? God.

A couple of weeks ago, I encountered the perfect rain. It was the type of rain that comes during the slight warmth of early spring. It's a sad nostalgic rain that creates quiet drops falling on a windshield before you start the car. Breathe deep enough and you can breathe in the rain, the sadness.

I look forward to the early humid evenings when the grey sky slowly rumbles with thunder. When the rain comes, it comes down in lines of water hitting the ground, creating quick circles within puddles. The heavy humid air breaks and the smell of wet grass and trees take its place.

I want to express the joy I have when studying in the periodical reading room on the second floor of the University of Rochester’s Rush Rhees Library. I considered working in the library, but I believe working in the library would make me despise it, so I've decided not to.

Library: What, I'm not good enough for you?
Alfred: No, it's not that. I just ...
Library: What?
Alfred: Please, let me try to finish what I was going to say.
Library: Fine.
Alfred: Thank you. Now what was I saying? Mmmm. Ack, I can't remember. Oh, oh yes, look, we're good friends right?
Library: Right...?
Alfred: I don't know. It's just that by working in you would, well, change what we have together. I have these great memories of studying, walking up stairs, taking the elevator, looking up books, all inside of you. All of these actions I've done on my own volition. What would happen to our relationship if I were forced to resort your books, or look for a book, or even check out strange books for complete strangers? I would be in a way working inside you for someone else that will come in between our relationship.
Library: You're such a purist. But if you worked inside of me, our relationship will become more intimate. You'll learn secrets about me, discover rooms, levels you've never thought existed. You'll have access to every room to me. Don't you want to know what more there is inside me?
Alfred: I don’t know. I'm so content with what we have now. I'm not sure I want go deeper.
Library: You bastard. I hate you.
Alfred: No, don't say that. You don't hate me.
Library: Don't talk to me ever again.
Alfred: You're getting too emotional. Are you willing to throw away our friendship?
Library: Just go. Get out. I don't want to see you now. You didn’t even see me during your graduation.
Alfred: I thought I explained this. Graduation means nothing to me. Seriously, if anything, graduating has put a my life on hold.
Library: What do you mean?
Alfred: I mean that at least I had a defined goal in during college: finish my degree. Now what? I’m in the same predicament as Dustin Hoffman was in The Graduate. I’m standing on a moving walkway in an airport looking blankly forward with Simon and Garfunkle singing in the background.
Library: Come on. Work here.
Alfred: I’m sorry. I really can’t. I’m done with this University, at least for the time being. Who knows? I might be back for graduate school to further delay facing the real world.
Library: I hope you do. Then you’ll come to study.
Alfred: Of course.

While packing what was inside my dorm room desk, I came across this penny that had the tail side worn down smooth as if was the perfected skipping stone washed by the constant wearing of the ocean. Some machine minted this penny in 1945 during the start of the Second World War. Tilting the smooth side of the penny against the light reveals an apparition of letters that once boldly said:
One
Cent
Fortunately, I have no memories of World War Two. I wonder how quickly I would have died with a rifle in my hand.

There are not many more things more pathetic than two DJs playing music for nobody. They stood there with expressions on their faces that asked and whined at the same time, “Why are we here? This is stupid. Why are we here? This is stupid. Why are we here? This is stupid.” It may be disconcerting to a DJ have people ignore a his and of course her performance. There is no call and response, especially when people are there to eat free hamburgers, hot dogs, and cubes of cheese. But perhaps there will be that college girl who will shout out, “Ooh, I love this song!” then try to grab some guy's hand, but the guy’s too embarrassed to dance at a picnic. But maybe that DJ will notice the joy he or she is providing during the picnic, then will try to match the song that’s he’s spinning with another similarly nostalgic song. Say he and again she plays “Under Pressure” by Queen and David Bowie then plays “Walk on the Wild Side” by Lou Reed. That, in my opinion would be a nice nostalgic one-two punch. Pow, pow.

I want to kill myself to get this frustration out of my head. It would be so easy, but no. I’m supposed to be patient carry some self control, and wait it out. Let the frustration take it’s course while I sit, watching it subside. I can hear whispers ebb back into the green ocean swirl. I often imagine running a knife through my skinny stomach. One point in, then running the knife across, through the side of me. Then I would be out of my comfort zone, I would realize what real pain is. I was ready for death the day I fell off a cliff on a little island of Rapu Rapu in the Philippines, but I did not die. “This is it. I’m going to die. I’m ready,” were my thoughts while I was falling. I then collapsed onto rocky floor.

Nervousness rose in Melody’s voice, “We’ve been hiking for about two hours. Where is this village? There’s no sign of it.”
“I’m sure we’ll approach it soon. All we have to do is hug the coast. I said it’ll be the next village along the coast.”
“It’s going to get dark soon. Maybe we should turn back, and start again early the next morning.”
My watch had ten minutes until four o’clock. The sun would set a little over three more hours.
“I don’t think we should worry, but let’s keep going until four thirty. If there is no sign of the village, then we’ll turn back so we can return to the other village before the sun sets.”
After a few minutes, the trail we’ve been following forked into two paths. One path went down onto a beach, and the other led into the island.
“Which path are we going to take?”
“Well, the village is on the coast, so it’ll probably be surer to take the trail down to the beach. We’ll be sure to hit the village.”
The beach was a small white sanded beach. Every step revealed tiny flies that would jump and bury themselves into another portion of the sand. I felt the Philippino sun through my soaked tee shirt. The beach then turned into small boulders, which we had to climb and jump from boulder to boulder until we had to rest on the edge of a cliff ten meters above the rocks ocean below.
“This can’t be right. This can’t be the right trail.”
“It’ll be okay. Look, there’s a trail past the cliff.”
I checked my watch: ten minutes past four o’clock. The edge of the cliff was narrow with a patch of long grass before the wider trail began on the other side. I took a step with my right foot on the patch and made sure my foot was secure. I went head first over the cliff as I swung my other leg past the patch.
Rachel and Melody screamed my name, “Alfred!”
My chest hit the face of the rock as my arms wildly searched for something, a root, a notch in the face, anything to grab onto. My desperate clawing into the rock flipped me upright with my back to the rock face. I looked down and waited to die in the rocks below. I held a ready peace over my imminent death.
My knees buckled at the impact of a large boulder I crashed onto. I realized I had my eyes closed, and when I opened them, I saw the sky, distant from where my body lie. I sat up, and looked around. Rachel and Melody were still on the cliff above me.
“Alfred! Are you okay?”
“I think so. I can’t believe I just fell of a cliff.”
There was blood seeping from lesions on my ankles and back. I checked my body. I was sore all over, but nothing was broken.
Rachel called from the cliff, “I’m coming down.”
Melody kneeled down in shock. I checked the time, but my watch broke off my wrist.
“Are you hurt?”
“I can’t tell. I think the adrenaline’s masking the pain. I think I can get up.”
Rachel stopped the bleeding on most of my wounds, and I found that I could continue to the village.
Melody was adamant, “We have to go back.”
“What time is it?”
“A quarter till five. We have about two more hours of daylight.”
I paused to think, “Let’s keep on going until five o’five. If there’s no sign of a village then we’ll turn back. We have flashlights so we can afford an hour or so in the dark. The village has to be near.”
“Alfred, you just fell off a cliff. We have to turn back.”
“I feel fine for now. What if the village turns out to be only a few minutes away? That’ll be much better than turning back and hiking for two or three hours. I don’t know if I could handle it.”
Melody was quiet as we continued down the trail, but Rachel was in wonder to my falling off the cliff.
“I can’t believe you fell off a cliff.”
“I know, I can’t either.”
“What are you going to tell Jeremy?”
“I’ll tell him I fell off a cliff.”
After a few minutes, we met a man standing in the middle of the trail.
“Excuse me sir, where is the next village?”
“It is very near.”
“Can you tell us how far is it?”
“Five minutes walking.”
“Thank you.”

I normally counter act my loneliness with the company of women.

Susanna: You know too many girls.
Alfred: I can’t help it, I find myself attracted to them.

And to deflect, I’m trying to remember if Susanna was the first Swedish girl I knew. I think so, but she had red hair and wore tinted contacts to make her eyes look green or blue, again, I cannot remember. One of the reasons why I cannot remember very well is because I met Susanna on the big island of Hawaii in 1997.

Alfred: Have you ever been to Trollhattan?
Susanna: What?

Trollhattan, Sweden is where the Saab headquarters are. I’ve dreamed of going to Trollhattan, to set foot on the soil where those crazy ingenious automobile designers decide what is beautiful.

Saab 9-3 convertible: Do you think I’m fat?
Saab automobile designer: What are you talking about? You’re not fat.
Saab 9-3 convertible: Yes I am. I’m not pretty at all.
Saab automobile designer: Have you been reading those magazines again?
Saab 9-3 convertible: They say I’m expensive to maintain.
Saab automobile designer: Don’t listen to them. They don’t know you. I know you.
Saab 9-3 convertible: I don’t know ...
Saab automobile designer: What kind of engine do you have?
Saab 9-3 convertible: 2.3 High-Output Turbo putting out 230 horses.
Saab automobile designer: 230 horses? Do you know how sexy that is?
Saab 9-3 convertible: I guess.
Saab automobile designer: You guess, you know.
Saab 9-3 convertible: Stop lying. I know you’ve been eyeing that Cooper Mini.
Saab automobile designer: Uh ... what?
Saab 9-3 convertible: You know that little hussy. Cute isn’t she? You want her, don’t you? You used to love me, but now, I’m old and tired. They shouldn’t have redesigned me. You loved it when my top came off, with the wind whipping through you hair.
Saab automobile designer: No, it’s not true. I have no feelings for the Cooper Mini.
Saab 9-3 convertible: Stop it, stop lying to me. Why don’t you just admit you’ve driven in that Cooper Mini. I caught you the other day.
Saab automobile designer: Yes, it’s true. I’m so ashamed. She didn’t have the same feel I get from driving you baby. I never want drive that floozy Cooper Mini ever again. Come here, baby.
Saab 9-3 convertible: Don’t touch me. Leave me alone.
Saab automobile designer: Come on baby.
Saab 9-3 convertible: I’m leaving you. Your no good for me. I’m going to find a job and make a living.
Saab automobile designer: Job? What can you do?
Saab 9-3 convertible: I’ll deliver cakes.
Saab automobile designer: Cakes? Okay, you go ahead and deliver cakes. You’ll be back, and I’ll be here waiting.
Saab 9-3 convertible: Good bye.
Saab automobile designer: Oh, you’ll be back.

I do not love my mother to the extent that she loves me. When she has a dream about me, she calls me to see if I’m alright. Whenever she senses there’s something wrong in the tone of my voice, she asks who’s bothering me as if she were an Italian boss ready to give the order for a hit. Somewhere in our conversations, my mother needs to know my predictions on when I will be married.

*in Korean
My Mother: When are you going to find a girl for yourself?
Alfred: Tomorrow.
My Mother: Aw, you...
Alfred: [laughs]
My Mother: Are you eating?
Alfred: Yes.
My Mother: You have to eat fruit.
Alfred: I know, Mom. I am. Don’t worry.
My Mother: I have to stop worrying, don’t I?
Alfred: Yes.
My Mother: I won’t. I’m your mother.
Alfred: [laughs]

If she calls me and finds out that I have been unusually violent by slamming my head against a heavy oak door and breaking two windows with a rocking chair, my mother will hang up the phone, climb into the car, and drive six hours in the middle of the night from Cherry Hill, New Jersey to Rochester, New York without a hint of hesitation. I’m afraid I will be the same with my own children.

One of the reasons why Fargo is a good film (as opposed to bad) is the loneliness all the characters portray with the exception of Francis Macdonald’s character. What offsets her potential loneliness is the baby she carries in her womb. This loneliness drives each character to a point of desperation where William H. Macy is willing to have her wife kidnapped so he can share the ransom with Steve Buscemi and his partner Peter Stormare. Even Steve Park is desperately lonely as he explains to Frances MacDonald that that his wife died of a disease I can’t remember at the moment. There’s this delicately awkward moment when he moves from his seat opposite of Frances MacDonald to sit on her side of the restaurant booth. Steve wants his hole of loneliness to be filled with Frances’ love, but Frances becomes offset by Steve’s approach and asks him to sit on the other side. Thinking about it, Steve is so lonely that he would not know how Frances’ love could fill his void even if Frances responded to Steve. What does Steve want more: love or Frances MacDonald? Perhaps I need to watch this scene again. Anyways, we later find out through another source that Steve Park’s character has been lonely all his life, which makes the previous scene in the restaurant more poignant. Good job, Coen brothers.

I thought Rochester was a lonely tundra and it literally was for many a semester, but man, for me to live in the world of Fargo is to admit there is no God and will eventually be tortured by my own loneliness for the remaining worthless days of my life. Thank God there is a God or else I would have been bleeding somewhere with a concussion after failed attempts to destroy myself.

The Coen Brother’s latest, The Man Who Wasn’t There, is also about a lonely man – Billy Bob Thornton’s Ed Crane. He searches for something to fill his void such as investing in a new technology called dry cleaning and providing piano lessons for Scarlett Johansson’s character, Birdy. Like Steve Park, Billy Bob Thornton tries to fill his void, but remains lonely. Like with my depression, Billy Bob Thornton has given up and has accepted his loneliness (whereas I accept my depression), and is able to objectively recall the events in a film noir style leading to his execution. I am able to objectively explain to other depressed people that I know what it means to be depressed, but unfortunately, I can give them no easy solution.

Roger Deakins’ cinematography in The Man Who Wasn’t There is so beautifully forced and stylized, it dangerously dominates the entire film. The shots become an element separate to the action and the actors and in the process, I’m wishing for even longer shots of the black and white world Deakins’ has created. Black and white photography removes extraneously confusing color, leaving a purified textured image of the subject in its surroundings.

So some lady calls me from the English department and asks if I can come in so whomever can take photos of me for commencement.

"I'm sorry, I won't be participating in commencement."
"Oh, why not?"
"It's a long story ..."

In some strange way, I had my little graduation ceremony through that phone conversation.

"Well, congratulations.¨
"Thank you.¨

My personal commencement will continue when I find the time to walk to Academic Support and ask for my diploma. If you want to witness this event, let me know ahead of time so I can have time to wonder why you would waste your time by watching me go up to a counter and ask the University for my diploma. Maybe if you're lucky, you'll see me get mace in my rhyming face. I will focus on the bitterness of life in each sip of grapefruit juice from my mug purchased from a teashop in Seoul's Insadong.

For many people, graduation has become a necessity. Once you finish college, you must go to graduation. I guess for me, graduation is not even close to the pinnacle to what I've done and seen and will be doing. Pause and build up to: why should I perform a ceremony that celebrates something so unimportant in my life with all these other strangers who (if I may quote Haruki Murakami) are like the clouds in the sky? They have nothing to do with me. I shouldn't even be writing about this on a pure sense, but I've been getting calls and letters inviting me to gather with my fellow graduating class and eat a hamburger with them.

"Um, hi. Are you graduating as well?"
"Me? Sure, that's why I'm here. Aren't these hamburgers great?"
"These are hamburgers!?"

I cannot remember how many times I have been to Hooters. It's not a big deal really. The waitresses seem tired, but I can't really say why they are tired. Could they be tired of being looked at? I don't know, I know a lot of girls who would love the attention of groups of men, especially if they were being paid. I wonder if I could work at Hooters. I could wear a suit and tie (because I know Hannah likes that sort of thing) and serve those men who actually bring their dates to Hooters. When I used to work for the Swedish pharmaceutical company, Astra Arcus USA, the rest of the IT Department would go to Hooters, Fridays for lunch. I'm not about to be the one that refuses the invitation.

"Hey, Alfred. We're going to Hooters for lunch."
"Um, well the thing is, I can't eat and stare at the same time, so well, I can't go."

So, I've gone to Hooters a couple of times, and after driving past Hooters of Rochester with Justin, I had the urge to be nostalgic in a strange way.

"Let's go to Hooters."
"What? Okay."

I made the mistake of ordering my hamburger medium rare. What I meant was medium well, or just plain medium. You could still see the shreds of raw hamburger twisted moist against each other. What made me eat it? Partially it was because by nature, I do not complain about the food that I am being served, and partially I was intrigued. There must be a reason people order their steaks and hamburgers rare, but after having diarrhea from my medium rare hamburger from Hooters, I could not think of a good reason.

I've always had diarrhea after eating raw ahi fish in Tahiti, but I didn't care. This was the best fish I've ever had. Their cheese covered steak wasn't bad either. I don't think I've ever ate so well anywhere. On so many occasions, I tried to fit that last piece of apple crepe into my fat firm stomach.


Floating Underneath ٥ Alfred Lee

I stole from work to meet her
In the long hallways of a
High school five blocks away.
The sunlight through the window
At one end barely reached
Our toes under our shoes.
At the hall's end she explained
She wanted to fly east, across
The United States,
Stop in Los Angeles, then
Fly past the equator to
French Polynesia.
"Think I'll meet Marlon Brando?
He'll take me aboard his sea
Plane to his private island."
Only her eyes looked up at me
While her face shadowed down.
Her teeth under her smile.
"Who knows what'll happen?"
Determined to go, she
Pulled down on my sleeve, begging,
But what would my wife say?
I could not leave Manhattan.
My legs were anchored into
The cement, the streets.
Outside the window, she noticed
A red balloon caught
In between the crooked arms
Of an oak tree below.
The wind carelessly rocked as it
Slightly sprung between
Two branches of the tree.
Taking my hand, we ran out
The building to the oak tree.
The string dangled far from
Her finger tips on tiptoes.
She pleaded for me to reach
The red balloon for her.
I told her I could
Only by levitating.
Both of her eyebrows rose,
But her eyes narrowed.
She stood behind me as
I took off my shoes.
My toes under my socks.
I explained that my shoes were
Too heavy, weighing
Me down to the ground.
I levitated a foot
Off the ground, took the string
Then slowly landed.
"How did you do that?" She asked.
"Magic," I answered, but she
Did not believe me.
I smiled as her face looked up
Into the sun through the leaves
Creating shadows waving
Across her face.
When I gave her the balloon
She simply let the string go.
I followed its assent into
The clouds like her disappearance -
Last seen sunbathing
On a white sand beach
Wearing a two-piece bathing suit.
Her eyes under her shades.
She went to Bora Bora,
But I imagined her in
A dark deep forest
Bending over
Pulling carrots from the earth.

My friend ignored her dresses
And blouses in my closet
When he helped me move
Out of my apartment to
Leave my wife, to live in the
Wilderness, in the trees.