I look around to see if there are security cameras, that I might submit a video of the park to the professional parallel parkers' association for prizes or honorary membership.
The most subtle of my creations, the Columbo sandwich solidifies my legacy. It is made with generous slices of cheddar cheese and summer sausage on a dinner roll spread with mayonnaise. It sounds a bit base, I know,
I'm excited to use my screwdriver, but– I've learned this from my Dad– you have to curse a bit.
I'm walking through a building on campus where there are workers doing renovations. A fellow is singing as he polishes the floor. "Careful," he sings, making eye contact, "sharp bits on the ground.
People walk around campus in December with big sticks and knock the mo-gwa out of trees. Doesn't matter if they bruise when hitting the ground– nobody is eating them anyways.
A lady gets on at Osan and asks me to let her get past to here seats. I am ready for this. I am up in a tinkle and let her in.
In kitchens all over Korea, there are little lines of grubby blue plastic sticking out of sink drains, cupboards, and stove-top grease hoods.
