Elyse Sewell's Journal

Subject:	rubbish mate
Time:	4:07 am.

So, "I think you don't understand our culture" is a line that our agency uses frequently to placate disgruntled models. There are situations in which a girl genuinely doesn't understand the culture; for example, ex-roomie Kvetchka once heard it after she walked out of a job crying and demanded to be taken home to wash her overlacquered hair. Kvetchka, dear, we could totally get away with a shampoo break in Paris, but I think you don't understand our culture. Here in Korea, we must ignore discomfort and work diligently until the job is done, and the boss, not the pretty girl, is in control of the schedule.

I, arrogant prick that I am, fancy that I do understand the culture and have only heard this refrain after protesting true wacknesses. When I refused to get drunk at the agency's mandatory soju party: "I think you don't understand our culture." When two managers went rummaging through my and The Canuck's bedroom, periodically emerging with stuff like quilts and pillows to ask, "Where did you get this?" and I finally snapped, "Why don't you get out of our room?": "I think you don't understand our culture." (On second thought, maybe I really don't understand the culture because I still have no idea what they were looking for or why they were inquiring after the origin of our bedclothes. It is a testament to our ultimate passivity that The Canuck and I, sitting on the couch, just glanced up at each other, rolled our eyes, and turned back to our laptops as two women trotted through the front door, into our room, and started doing god knows what in there. Trying to ask about it would've just prolonged their presence in our hovel. Trying to protest resulted in, "I think you don't understand our culture." And shooing them away with brooms wouldn't work: they know our schedule and could come back to rummage at leisure when they knew we would be out. This zero-privacy situation is ungood. Doubleplus. I know this. But if you think there is any way for us to rectify it, you don't understand our culture).

Sometimes I omit seemingly-irrelevant minutiae from my Livejournal entries in the interest of streamlinin' my narrative. But plots thicken. So here's a previously unrevealed fun fact about my encounter with the tied-up bags of vomit in the trash can yesterday: in addition to the bulimia effluvia, I found two tied-up bags full of fecal matter and shitsmeared bath towels. These I discarded in the waste can next to the puke (one shitbag had been heedlessly flung onto the FLOOR next to the trash cans; ew).

Oh, if only I'd been home when the shit hit the bag, but I wasn't, so I must rely on The Canuck's description of what happened when some agency-dispatched rummager noticed all the bags of excreta newly excavated and sitting on the upper stratum of the waste can. Apparently, the agency owner stormed into the apartment shrieking, "GIRLS! GIRLS! WHO PUT THE DEE-DEE IN THE BAG? WHO DID IT? WHO DID IT? I THINK YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND OUR CULTURE! IN KOREA WE DO NOT DO THIS!"

Wait, they don't shit onto bath towels or in grocery bags here? This country is like so weird.

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Subject:	emesissary
Time:	11:17 am.

I've mentioned before that Koreans recycle their trash fastidiously. Our apartment has four trash cans with color-coded bags for recyclables, combustibles, waste, and food. Every single person in this country is scrupulous about separating their damn trash except, apparently, my model colleagues. I'm sure they're all hunched over their laptops writing hate blogs about me right now: every morning I go digging through the trash fishing PET bottles out of the waste can, styrofoam trays out of the combustibles can, disposable chopsticks and candy wrappers out of the food can, then deliver some speech ranging in tone from the pep-talky, "Come on, guys! Look how easy it is to separate the trash! It's morally wrong not to do it, so let's do it right!" to the outrageously annoying, "Julia? Is this yours? Because I got it out of the food trash can? And this? Isn't food? Actually it is plastic? So you should put it in the waste can? The one with the orange bag? OK?" I said this while waving a quail egg box around in her face; she probably wanted to snatch it out of my hand and slap a bitch with it. But come on, jerks, if you'd just separate the trash I could stop pitchin' hissies.

All right, they may never learn, and honestly, I'm not too exercised about performing this chore myself. It doesn't take very long, it doesn't really gross me out, it's fine. I will do it.

Some new roommates have arrived in recent days; haven't told you about them; nothing exciting. The best part about them is the hilariously rabid rage they inspire in The Canuck with their endless blathering about diet-related inanities. "How much fat is in soy milk? Oh my god, gro-o-ss, this candy has as many calories as a piece of chocolate! I'm being soooo naughty today [referring to 100mL of instant hot cocoa]! I need to talk to the agency about my composite card: they said that my hips were 89cm and they're really 88cm! Elyse, how big are your hips?" This is the stuff of Canuckian homicidal fantasies: she spends each morning glowering over the rim of her bowl of Frosted Flakes as these girls stare at themselves in the mirror, preening, pinching the backs of their legs in order to regard themselves with slimmer-looking thighs.

What is the worst part about them, you ask? I'd neglected my trashwalla duties all weekend and was separating an unusually overflowing heap this morning. PET bottle into the recycling. Cookie box into the combustibles. Beer can into the recycling. Four reeking tied-up grocery bags full of liquid vomit? Um. Does that go into the food can?

Aww, shit! Bulimic betty in the house y'all! Throw your Russell's sign in the air!

The temptation to leave an obnoxious, emoticon- and exclamation mark-studded note is almost irresistible:
"IN THE FUTURE, PLEASE PURGE INTO THE TOILET!!!! :) THANKS!!! <3 THE MANAGEMENT :)"

Or I could provide a helpful label for each garbage can:
"COMBUSTIBLES/RECYCLABLES/WASTE/FOOD AND BULIMIA OFFAL"

But I think I'll do the the humane thing: determine the identity of the rogue puker and give her a low-toned "Hey, can you cool it with the bags of barf? It's really stinking up the terrace. Thanks, girl."

Tied-up bags full of barf. Tied-up bags full of barf! This is how we live.

Comments: Read 279 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	good morning sugarland
Time:	9:58 am.

Oh, the longer I go without posting anything the harder it is to find something worthy. Let Mr Jared ease my transition back to regular fireside chatting.

In other news, I talked to my beloved homeland agent last week: "Elyse, how would you feel about a month working in Shenzhen, China? I can get you a lucrative contract, but it's going to be hard work. Like, three jobs per day hard work. Maybe too hard work. But think about it."

I've worked in China many, many times before, but never for more than three days, and the work is always very strenuous. But I'm sticking to my It Ain't Coal Mining Scale of Modeling Work Difficulty, and I'm going to do it. Adventures will happen; stuff will get snacked upon. Lurid public art will be scoffed at. I'm going directly from Seoul to SZ (do not stop in Hong Kong, do not collect 500mL of Malted Vitasoy).

About a year ago, I remember reading that the People's Republic of China had blocked access to Livejournal.com from within the country. (Here is Wired's article about it.) Since then, I've had LJ comments to the effect of, "Ugh, it sucked when I was in China and couldn't access LJ," but also several like, "Hi from China!" Does anybody know the real deal? Is LJ blocked, and if so, can someone suggest a way that I can still blog when in 'Zhen?

Finally, O Korea, thou art home to the world's best socks.

Comments: Read 207 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	saturday fun page
Time:	1:32 pm.

If you visit another country a lot, what are some things that you always bring back to your homeland? Stuff that's available in one place but not another, or much cheaper somewhere else? My ex-man used to request shipments of metholated Tempo brand tissues and packets of Super Hot Tonkotsu-flavored Nissin Ramen from Hong Kong: Asian marketeers though we were, we never saw that stuff on sale anywhere in the United States. I love to buy a big bottle of purple Palmolive Aromatherapy body wash upon landing in HK; nothing else anywhere is so simultaneously fragrant and cheap that you don't feel guilty about using five full squirts in a single shower.

When ex-roommate Kvetchka went back to Russia, she stuck a whole pineapple in her suitcase.

Melatonin is not over-the-counter in the United Kingdom. Also, one of my British bookers once described the cachet of all-white cigarettes: "In Britain, all cigarettes have yellow filters, so when I pull out an ultra-light Marlboro in London, people are like, 'Ooh, you've been to America!'"

My friend in Slovenia demanded that her American friends ship her some heavy-duty showercaps because she couldn't find any above grocery-bag grade.

In Mexico and Canada (Edit: Canadian commenters have informed me that this ain't true of Canadian coke anymore. Sorry.), Coca Cola is sweetened with sugarcane. In the United States, with corn syrup. My mom brings back a six-pack of the Mexican stuff every time she crosses the border.

Some previous resident of our models' apartment went to Thailand and brought several boxes of Thai bouillon cubes (Knorr brand) back to the apartment. I've been cooking carrots in the Tom Yum-flavored ones and wholeheartedly approve.

Edit: I just took my German male model pal to an import grocery store in Seoul, and he shrieked, "OH MY GOD! GERMAN BEER!", sprinting to the refrigerator and emerging with ten Heinekens clutched to his chest. Ha! Here in the land of Cass and Hite, I guess a Teuton just needs a Heine sometimes.

Second edit: OK, HEINEKEN IS DUTCH! Thanks! I didn't know the provenance of the damn beer; I just believed the German dude. And secondly, my German pal and the German bedroom invader are two different people.

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Subject:	movie time and boast post
Time:	12:22 am.

The song is "Can't Change My Style" by the Drags. Hope you like it!

"Seoul Style."

PS Last time it was movie time, somebody left a comment like, "I thought this was just some random band video and wasn't going to watch it." Yeah, I never watch random band videos on blogs either. But this here movie, I made it, and it's only 1:30 long so it's not much of a time investment.

PPS I struck a deal with the devil: for every two months I spend sleeping on a box spring, I will receive one job shooting on location in Mauritius. Awesome! Unless somebody throws acid in my face or my tits fall off, I'm going at the beginning of May.

PPPS One last little thing before I hit the box spring. I had a fab banchan this evening: chilled shredded wet seaweed. Everyone at the table went nuts for this apparently rare presence on the banchan stage and we had a synchronized brontosaurus moment as we all took our first bite then sucked the dripping tail of plant matter into our maws. Pond pose.

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Subject:	united 955
Time:	2:34 pm.

The way he might spin it in his blog, if he had one, which he doesn't, because he isn't cool enough: "Ach, so this Canuck and I decided to go haff lunch, and ve tried to invited her roommate, but all she did vas screaming on me vhen I am going into her room. Vat a bitch!"

The way it happened: My roomie returned to Minnesota this morning. Her disgustipating, effeminate, ultraskinny German male model boyfriend lurched out of her bunk bed, bade her goodbye, and IMMEDIATELY TOOK UP WITH THE CANUCK WITHOUT EVER VACATING OUR APARTMENT. They watched movies and chatted all morning as I pressed my ear up to my door like, "Ashley's gone. Why the hell has this ultraskinny disgustipating male model idiot not left yet? Oh my god, is he now hanging out with The Canuck? Oh my god! He is now hanging out with The Canuck!"

O Canada, I know that this aside doesn't fit in with this entry at all, but can I please just insert that I fricking love Canadians? You guys have this national attitude that is so excellently agreeable; all the Canuckian model roommates I have known have been rock-solid girlfriend material. Triple thumbs up, True North. Keep on doing what you're doing.

So. Anyway. I was slumped over in bed, scrolling down DListed (which has been a positive work of art this week, don't you agree?), when this outrageous German motherfucker opened the door of my room and walked in, presumably to invite me out to wherever he and The Canuck were going. "Out!" I shrieked. He advanced. "GET! OUT!" The message penetrated his Teutonic skull and he mumbled, "Oh, sorry," and retreated. Ha-a-a-a-a-a-te. I HATE the feeling of no privacy. Oh, and have I mentioned this? Models' apartments' beds are always uncomfortable, so I didn't even bother to investigate the discomfort of this particular one until two nights ago. A box spring! A box spring! I don't have a mattress, I've been sleeping on sheets on top of a bare-ass box spring! Somehow this struck me as so ridiculously pathetic that it is undeniably hilarious: sleeping on a box spring with no one to love me! Lying down on a dirty motherfucking BOX SPRING every night! Ha! You think you're lame? Just think about this every time you're feeling low: box spring, Dude. Box spring.

Update: I talked to The Canuck. According to her, this German fool stormed my citadel amidst her protestations that "Elyse is going to fucking KILL you if you go in there!" According to her, he wasn't coming in to invite me out to lunch; he wanted to borrow something from my encyclopedic collection of cables/cords/connectors so he could DJ some of his dogshit German techno for the (non)amusement of the crowd. So there's that mystery solved. My diagnosis? BAH!

In other news, The Canuck and I also reviewed the details about the presence of the German fool in our apartment inthefirstplace. I euphemized it thus: "I'm really sorry that I was so rude to your friend, but man, Canuck, that guy was making me uncomfortable." Replied she, "God! I didn't want him over here, I was glad you kicked him out, thank you, and fuck me for being incapable of being mean to people!" So my diagnosis of "BAH!" stands, now enhanced and fortified with Canadian approval.

And finally, this is for all y'all who don't look twice unless there's a picture. From Fukuoka, Japan, home of the godawful ugliest public art ever. Ever. Ever! Hey, lady, the bird dick you're getting is probably far from satisfactory: there is no such thing as bird dick! Hump away; cloaca wilt thou get, and nothing more.

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Subject:	this entry sux
Time:	12:55 am.

Ew, I haven't felt writey in several days. Been grinding (you know what I keep in the lining). Models who say, "It's just a job"? Yeah, some weeks, it is. I get to the salt mines in the morning, regard the number of outfits I will have to wear that day, then become a transparent eyeball as I endure hair/makeup and wait for time to pass until the job is over. Still taking great pleasure in sullying sample designer clothes though:

I got horseshit on the Ferragamo.

And this shit:

On the Louis Vuitton.

Whoops! Guess those garments won't be on the rack at the next sample sale.

Notice those hands holding up the light fixture that would ordinarily be sitting on the ground? That photographer had a new (to me) technique whereby his two minions would hold up the lights and run around pointing them at my ever-motile ladypose instead of me having to aim my ladypose at a stationary lighting apparatus. Ah, freedom! I could turn right or left as I wished! Chin up or down according to my capricious pleasure! Two hapless photo assistants doing all the work as I simply turned my fat head hither and thither. Luxury.

[Beloved manager Sin obediently dug my camera out of my handbag and took both of the above pictures of me on set. Thank you, Sin.]

Ugh, my roommate The Canuck, who had been sitting with me at the kitchen table, typing away, has just sloped off to bed with her eyelashes still crusted with white mascara. Now my L'Oreal Ellnett-lacquered hair and I are slumped over alone, feeling guilty that we're not in bed ourselves. Tired! I'll leave you with a tidbit from my visa run to Japan earlier this week.

Comments: Read 166 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	third girl
Time:	8:49 pm.

Spring sprung suddenly on Korea; sap rising, spirits high, weltschmerz practically nonexistent. I've been tripping through the streets scantily clad, perpetrating obnoxious sillinesses like sniffing at my arm appreciating the way the scent of my new Korean rosemary soap lingered on my pelt. Mm, spring fever.

I had this lush lunch:

At this cool place:

And I found a sweet potato-flavored snack cake that I liked the first time I came to Seoul in 2005. Unfortunately, my #1 favorite snack from that trip, the soft tomato-flavored popsicle, seems to have been deep-sixed.

Kvetchka has returned to deepest Siberia, leaving behind only the bag of millet that she would make for breakfast, hot, with milk and sugar. She was replaced immediately with Becky. She's from Tashkent, but in reply to my thrilling conversational gambit, "So you are Uzbek?" she shrieked, possibly offended, "No! I am Russian and Tartar!" Hm, OK. I haven't a clue about which races of Mother Russia don't want to be mistaken for which. Incidentally, Kvetchka's final treachery was to break this posted rule, leaving me with a tolet stool full of soil into which I DROPPED MY STICK DEODORANT. This is no small matter; a tube of Secret is a treasure to hoard here on the continent of the rolling-ball kind.

And finally, this isn't a club banger, just a quick video of my eerily quiet ride on the train Saturday afternoon.

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Subject:	boom bip
Time:	3:21 pm.

Oh, dicksticks! I got reprimanded for bloggin'. As you may have guessed from my annoyingly cryptic last entry, my vee to the eye to the ess to the eh type of stuff is not quite barely legal at the moment. The Gentleman of a Certain Fabulousness told me to take down all the text in my LJ; if I "want to make a site," I am permitted only to post pictures. Uh, OK. I will flout this recommendation. My plan is to leave the locked Seoul entries locked for now, pave over them with a few new, nonincriminating ones, then unlock them again when certain stamps get stamped in a certain miniature blue book later on this week. Ugh, sorry about the lockdown. I just want to post whatever I want whenever I want, all over the internet, using my real name, and to talk shit about half the people I know using their real names, and not have any undesirables discover it, ever, and I also want my laundry to fold itself. Is that so unreasonable?

In other news, it's a rainy afternoon here. According to

borninjeans, Korean acid rain will make your hair fall out (that's why true Seoulsiders are never caught without umbrellas). My roommate The Canuck got me an Easter gift of M&M's, and I have a fresh book to read. All signs point toward a return to bed.

(ETA: Confidental to Koreans: That's The Canuck on the cover of the new Elle Girl.)

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