Korea North

Oh, North Korea! Proud Bizarro-version of my half-homeland!

I've had the ol' DPRK on my mind a bit recently, not the least of which because, like a canker sore that refuses to go away, the Little Dictatorship That Could keeps calling attention to itself in irritating ways. Of course the Big News involves the two journalists and Bill Clinton (who is totally getting a free "massage" out of this somewhere), and his smooth-talking their way out of a North Korean prison. And as always there's the hope that they won't build a bunch of nukes and sell them to the highest bidder (although I fail to see how this is a problem, because can't we just ask the Chinese for a loan so we can buy them ourselves?). And, oh yeah, the ever-present knowledge that their people are starving and brainwashed.

But of more import to yours truly--whom, you may recall, is a self-centered sac de la merde, as the French probably don't say--is the way North Korea has affected me, in my daily, almost comically fruitless existence. First and foremost, there is the self-inflicted wound that is my "Get Il" t-shirt, purchased long ago from the Onion website. It is comfortable and hilarious, which are two of my favorite adjectives, and thus I wear this shirt whenever I can get away with it. It puts a nice little humorous spin on everybody's favorite lunatic despot, and was probably the best 15 bucks or so I ever spent.

However, there is a downside, one which I was completely unaware of until a few months ago, when I went to see The HolyTailfeathers at the Funhouse and met Brooke's (aunt?), who was very nice but also unfortunately very willing to inform me that I looked quite a bit like the face on my t-shirt. In her defense, she probably didn't realize it was Kim Jong-Il's face on my t-shirt, and that in effect she was saying I looked like a deranged Asian man-God or, similarly, a loony old Korean woman. Nonetheless, the damage was done; the knife had been inserted, twisted, and made the requisite squelching sound; my genetic heritage had swooped upon me from the deepest recesses of the past and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I am going to be one ugly fucker when I get older (insert "but you're one ugly fucker now" retort here).

Truth be told, I was somewhat flattered to be told I shared a likeness with Kim Jong-Il, as previous incidents had informed that I looked like B-list Hollywood leading men (your John Cusacks and Jeremy Pivens) and, even more unflatteringly, sorority-girl-swoon-inducer Dave Matthews (although the man telling me I looked like Dave Matthews himself looked like Dog the Bounty Hunter, and had just finished crooning a couple of Creed songs karaoke-style). So to be told I resembled a power-mad, wannabe film-director, revered-by-his-hordes-of-underfed-and-depressingly-oppressed-people world leader? Pretty cool, actually.

The other reason I woke up this morning with my mind stayin' on Kim Jong was the fact that some people--mostly well-meaning although I suspect in some cases they're trying to be ironically funny--ask me, upon being informed my mother is Korean, if she is from North Korea. Which might seem like an innocent question to you full-caucasoids, but is really kind of dumb, and has a negative connotation akin to asking someone who says they're from Virginia if they're really from West Virginia (the connotation there being that West Virginians are all inbred mouth-breathing halfwits [they are]). It's a question that truthfully doesn't bother me too much, but does puzzle me, because I can't imagine there are that many actual North Koreans "in the wild," so to speak, and that if there are, that they are allowed to mate with pure, red-blooded American white males. That is, outside of laboratory experiments and niche porno films.

Maybe it isn't so much an ironic mockery or thinly-veiled sneer as it is wishful thinking. This is what I'd prefer to believe; that there are people out there so genuinely interested in meeting a real-life North Korean, or at least someone with some DPRK DNA running around inside them. It would be like meeting a mermaid, or at the very least the freakish offspring of someone who had fucked a mermaid. So in that sense I'm much more welcoming of the question, although there is a little part of me that wonders why it would be so great to meet someone from North Korea over the soju-loving, capitalism-embracing, awesomely-violent-film-making South Korea. What, is our particular brand of Korea not exciting enough for you? Not enough of that outlaw allure? Might I remind you of our short-track speed skating prowess? That's right, Americans: we are pretty good at that particular ignored sporting event.

So maybe that is it, then: North Korea is the bad-boy, the rebel, the morally corrupt but ultimately lovable ruffian, while good old solid dependable South Korea plays the square. It's a little Far East version of The Fonz and Richie Cunningham; although I would point out that even Richie Cunningham got some action every once in a while. Ladies.