a quiet birthday party

I visited my #3 Ajumma tonight because she had asked me over in order to throw me a quiet birthday party. I think she has long felt a lot of sympathy since my mother passed away, and she doubtless feels a bit lonely since her husband, my #3 Ajeossi, passed away from liver cancer in January of 2019. So I went over to her place, and her eldest son—my cousin Gi-yeol—was there with his young son. Gi-yeol is a professional singer. Like my brother Sean, he performs at prestigious venues with prestigious groups, and he also does plenty of tutoring on the side. A musician's life is never easy. Gi-yeol named his firstborn something like "Ayn" (pronounce it like the German "ein," i.e., "ah-een"). You'll see a few pics of him below.

In fact, we'll start off with a shot of Ayn (not sure of the romanization; I'm basing it off Ayn Rand), who is developing a bigger-than-life performer's personality like his dad's:

And here's my cousin Gi-yeol:

A wide shot of the meal as it was being assembled:

Gotta get that "V" sign in there, or as Biden might say, you ain't Korean:

It went whenever I did go... until it ended up on a plate:

Myeolchi bokgeum (anchovies):

The star of the evening—bulgogi:

The traditional birthday soup is miyeok-guk, i.e., seaweed soup:

Since I'm unmarried, I guess some chonggak-kimchi is appropriate (chonggak = bachelor):

Little galettes of meat and egg:

Japchae:

After almost sixteen years here, I still don't know the name of this dish:

And here is #3 Ajumma, painter extraordinaire, who almost managed to avoid scolding me for my weight tonight until she made a silly remark about my hefty man-boob while she was forcibly stuffing W100,000 in cash into my shirt's breast pocket:

The Paris Baguette chocolate cake, which Ayn loved:

The ritual candle-stabbing of the cake:

A cool shot of the cake in shadow when the lights were turned off:

Happy Birthday!

Turning 51 isn't anything special. It's not even a prime-number birthday. I think I have to wait for 53 to celebrate my "primacy." After that, I think the next prime-number birthday is—what—59? I'd note that 61 is the next prime after 59, but I'll consider myself lucky if I make it past 60. With my history, in which both sides of my family have trouble making it beyond 60, it's best to think of this as, quite possibly, my final decade of life before I either cark it or go radically downhill thanks to a constellation of bad habits.

Don't worry: I say this with more amusement than gloom as I stare into the yawning gulf of my own nonexistence. I don't fear death at all (although, like a lot of people, I fear certain ways of dying): death is either going to be a great blankness that I won't even experience or, quite possibly, the next great adventure, and I'm already reconciled with either outcome.

I suppose the one outcome that would bother me would be reincarnation: I can say with assurance that, after living this life, I'll have absolutely no desire to live this life again, re-suffering all the bumps, scrapes, fears, and anxieties of childhood, relearning all the hard-earned lessons learned in my previous life, etc. No, thanks. Once around the samsaric circle is enough, and it's easy to see why Indian religions believe in samsara yet generally fear and loathe it: Indians don't want to be recycled, either. Better to strive for blessed release, for moksha—liberation from the wheel of samsara.

Oh, and as for the prospect of hell: that would bother me if I believed in it.