I haven’t posted here this whole year so today, at the end of 2024, I am posting a story by a guest blogger. This story is written by my son Barnaby. The 72 hours that the story is about was the scariest of my life because I didn’t know if I would see him again. You’ll probably feel inspired to go out and eat Korean BBQ after reading this. I suggest the restaurants on Sawtelle in Los Angeles.

Locked Up Abroad written by Barnaby Duke

So, I was offered to shoot a dance commercial in South Korea. My immediate thought was that I’m not really a dancer in the way they probably expect, but it is a chance to experience a different country and that seems worth it. They offered me a few hundred bucks and a flight there and back — which isn’t that great in the entertainment world, especially since I was spoiled and lucky-as-fuck to have already booked national TV commercials at that point. I could make anywhere from $5,000 to $40,000 in residuals from one day’s shooting in a TV spot.

But I accepted, simply because I was getting a free trip to South Korea. I was pumped and ready, but also concerned about the choreography we’d have to learn when we arrived. See, I can dance and I’ve got rhythm from playing the drums — or as my mom joked, “Having James Brown knock me up to make you.” — but the one thing I couldn’t do to save my life was learn steps. It just wasn’t in my DNA, and I looked like an awkward uncle at a bar mitzvah trying to learn the cupid shuffle. I thought whatever, I’ll improvise and fake my way through it like I’ve basically done with everything my entire life. I’m not that great at anything, but I’m a good bluffer and can usually look comfortable enough to sell it.

A week after accepting the offer I arrive at the airport and meet the other dancers that will be in the commercial with me. They are typical LA dancers with the whole swag, pop-locking through security checks, and moon-walking for no reason––you know the type. In my head I’m thinking what they’re gonna say when they find out I’m just pretty good at jerkin’, which at the time was decently popular, but wasn’t exactly “real dancing.”

We hopped on the fourteen-hour flight to South Korea (yes, fourteen fucking hours), and all I’m saying to myself is, “When we get there, we can finally relax and eat some true Korean barbecue.” Of course, the flight ends up feeling like four days and I’ve got constant back pain from the airplane seats.

After hardly any sleep and a long, dreadful flight, we land and, Wow, I’m thrilled to be there, to say the least. People get up and take the usual thirty-five minutes to exit the plane, which I never fucking understood. You’re telling me that it takes a hundred people that long to grab their one carry-on and get off a plane? Sorry, just a pet peeve of mine. As soon as I walk off the plane, there are six people holding a sign with my name on it –– two security guards, and four other men nicely dressed in suits. I say to the other dancers, “Hell yeah, guys, we have limo service!” Though it seems strange that only my name is on the sign. But my narcissism told me it’s probably because I have the most Instagram followers or YouTube views. I was young, give me a break.

They walk us through the entire airport, which also feels strange, because usually drivers are holding signs at baggage claim. Well, I think, it’s South Korea and maybe they do it different here. After what felt like a twenty-minute walk we arrive at the airport security interrogation office. Panic mode sets in, and I go from, “I’m Justin Bieber and no one can tell me shit,” to “Did I accidentally bring a bomb on the plane?” (Just to clarify, I don’t own a bomb or have access to one.) They sit me down and begin to ask me questions about my passport, which by the look of it, is perfectly normal. The expiration date hasn’t passed, my picture is clear, I know all the info, etc. I’m just baffled and angry because I don’t want to come from a fourteen-hour flight to this. They barely speak English, and in a thick Korean accent are telling me that I stole my passport. I’m arguing now and coming close to yelling, but also having a panic attack because I’m in a foreign country and they can take me downstairs, tie me up, beat me, torture me, and fucking kill me, for all I know. My heart is racing and anger is spilling out and I yell, “You’re a liar!” to what seemed like the main guy. Crickets! Silence! I mean the room became dead silent where you could hear a pin drop (not the jerk move). He looks at me with those movie villain eyes, then looks at his colleagues (other security guys) and says in his very thick accent: “Oh, I liar?” And then again: “Oh I liar?” The fear sent me into into survival mode and I only had one option, and that was to swallow my pride and apologize. So, in my best “Got Milk” commercial acting ability, I began to apologize, but not half ass, for real. I mean, I was on the brink of tears and went on to tell him that I was just scared and didn’t understand, which he probably didn’t get at all. Then for whatever reason, I think he felt bad for a second­­ –– and for that I want to thank my agent, Jeremy Apody, now at LA talent, for giving me a chance to start acting.

Eight hours later, and multiple calls to my parents, trying to figure out the issue, I discovered that my dad had reported my passport stolen or lost. It had been replaced by a new passport, but I had somehow found and taken the “lost” one with me. So, by the looks of it, my passport seemed perfectly valid, but in the system it came up “stolen or lost.” My parents talked to the US embassy and tried to figure out options, but Korea wasn’t budging. Finally, I was told that I couldn’t enter the country and would have to fly back. Unfortunately, the only flight back was twenty-four hours from then.

It is now one or two A.M. in the Seoul Airport and the entire place is closed and pitch dark. With no booked flight back, they left me in the airport alone where I would have to be for the next twenty-four hours. I felt like Will Smith in “I Am Legend” walking around that place. Keep in mind, I still fear the dark and nighttime, not nearly as much as I did, but it’s still hiding in me. I would find random benches to attempt sleeping, listening to music, playing phone games, but nothing was making the time go by faster. Now, I don’t think I’ve told anyone this next bit, but since I’d like to be one hundred percent transparent, here it goes. In my final attempt to get tired and hopefully some sleep, I walked into the public restroom, which at the time was vacant but large enough to hold maybe fifty people, and pulled up some porn and masturbated. In all honesty, the mix of adrenaline and an orgasm got me tired and I fell asleep, though in a very uncomfortable position. Which is probably the reason I still have this much back pain at thirty.

The twenty-four-hour wait was starting to feel like school, when you’re watching the clock, waiting for the day to end, and it feels like it’s moving in slow motion. Finally, at about six A.M., or whenever the airport opens, I start to see human activity. I wait outside of the only establishment that makes me feel close to home: Starbucks, who I’d like to thank for wallet-raping me for overpriced, burnt coffee. It takes me about twelve minutes at the register to order because nobody in this airport speaks a lick of English, even though the US and Korea are allies (this Korea, not the one up north).

So, I’m walking around with my overpriced, burnt cup of joe, going to different airlines, trying to change my ticket and book a flight back. After arguing with airline employees for hours, I was finally given a boarding pass. Then several more hours of waiting, attempting any and every activity to suppress my boredom. At last, I board the plane. I take my seat in relief, but also disgust, that even after sitting and doing nothing for almost forty-eight hours, I’m about to be on yet another fourteen-hour flight. But at least I’m going home after contemplating what life would be like in that Korean basement cage. I’m happy I dodged that bullet (maybe a real one).

I’m feeling paranoia waiting for the plane to get in the air, thinking that some evil security guy is going to come and drag me off. I close my eyes and start praying to the God I never believed in. If there was a time to prove you’re real, here it is: “Please God, whatever you are, man or woman, or they. (Maybe God uses ‘They’ as a personal pronoun.) Please take me back to LA where the Starbucks baristas speak English and I can jack off in the peace of my own home.” An unusual prayer, I admit. But it worked. He, She, or They listened and the plane took off into the Korean skies and flew back to the Jewish mecca — not Israel, but Los Angeles.

My mom is there to greet me when I land, and I can tell you the thrill in her eyes was probably the same as November 9, 1990 when I burst out of her. Her smile was all I needed, and my anxiety from that awful fucking trip to hell left me. I felt right at home.

We start walking to her MINI Cooper when she looks at me and says, “I have a surprise for you.” I’m thinking OK, cool, probably food. Maybe sushi? She knows I can fuck up some sushi. Then I see, sitting there in the front seat, the Korean interrogation officer (aka Kim Jung Un), as she looks at me and says, “This is your new stepfather.” HAHAHHAHAHA. OK, I’m just kidding, that last part didn’t happen, but holy shit how funny would that be if it did? Really, we just drove out of the airport and most likely went to eat somewhere amazing because my mom loves to spoil me with amazing cuisine.

I guess to end this, I should probably say that it might not have been the best experience, because I never got to enter Korea. But I do have this wild story that I get to tell to my kids and grandkids – and maybe that made it all worth it in the end.

 

 

Tags: Barnaby Duke, fredde duke, jerk dancing, travel nightmare, worst airport experience

This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 31st, 2024 at 12:24 am and is filed under Conspiracy Theories, Storytelling. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.