Announcement of the advent of a transpacific UFO wreck
Me from the immediate future in one of worse case scenarios
Unless a calamity strikes the planet earth, I’ll have set foot in America by the evening of the 7th of June with the most rustic F.O.B. awe you can imagine. And I shouldn’t look back from there. This America is the best representative of her in my paltry knowledge, namely NYC where I will take advantage of its noted public transportation system and hopefully a fragment of opportunities that I believe are being hatched even at this writ(h)ing under its broad cityscape.
No romantist fantasy involved – I clearly know what I signed for: a warts-and-all cinema verite without any artistic value and possible release date. I had been vegetated by my fatalistic despair and insurmountable ugly desires but eventually opted for a deadly venture to there (move!) instead of a tepid death to my being in here fucking Korea. This choice, disgracefully squeezed out of the ashen skin of my corporeal life, was almost inevitable (I have nothing to lose. So don’t call me a loser). Why it’s deadly?; For practical purposes, I have no contacts in NYC (cue Bourdieu) and I couldn’t afford even a student visa, which means I am not equipped with a proper means to legitimately survive out there and that’s the background from which I come to this point; I must land whatever gig that’s available to me as an alien ASAP, so if you happen to stock any handsomely entwined ropes to tie my american livelihood – in your warehouse, attic, toilet, wherever they might be, please show me. I’m a responsible, punctual, industrious worker of strong working class ethic trained in a variety of menial manual labor (mostly for $4 an hour, no kidding !!!) and there’ll be no language barrier for sure. Bussing tables, washing dishes, mopping the floor, housekeeping, schlepping goods, bike messaging, feeding your cute wayward iguana, dumping garbage … If you ever take on me, I’ll perform my duty like a bulimic scarfs food ! For goodness’ sake, spare me from serving in a Korean restaurant with my beautiful hair cut and the dread of encountering yet another SSN monster on Craigslist. And importantly, don’t forget that I’m a fucking hipster. My blurb about your new album would have a greater level of crafty bluff and be capable of ringing up more $ on your part than any blurb your lazy friend comes up with skipping your record stoned.
I hope this letter will appeal to latent sympathy and streaming kindness in your heart in a wakingly positive and warmly captivating way. I’m such a fuck up that I’m afraid I don’t have anything to give you in return if you extended your hand of Midas to the leaden passage of my immediate future. But don’t people donate to Japan Relief or something like that? In my understanding, this is a bigger, graver cause with no need to use money. So why not? And who knows? I might tattoo your saintly name on the left side of my chest. Think of all the great relationships the internet ever enabled you to have and shed your bashfulness for the time being, and then contemplate my email address firstname.lastname@example.org. You know what you wanna do.