Friday, March 31, 2006


Edit: Happy April Fool's Day, everyone. Rest assured, if the wife and I ever plan on having -- or are taken by surprise with -- another one, and it so happens to be a boy, we'll give the name Marvin-Curtis some serious consideration.

Last week, I mentioned that I have some big news to share. I really wanted to make the big announcement sooner, but there were some complications which arose, and I decided to wait until everything was 100% OK. Sharp readers may have caught a few of the subtle hints I dropped, though.

Things are fine now, so here it is:

My wife and I are very happy (ecstatic, even) to announce that we are parents. Again.

That's right; our second child, a son, was born in the early morning hour of 2:33am, on March 25th. I had wanted to spread the news then, but as I mentioned there were some concerns which arose at the time, because the baby was 3 weeks early (in contrast, our daughter was 2 weeks late; can't these babies stick to the schedule?).

Yesterday, our new little guy (named Marvin-Curtis, after 2 of my favorite singers) and my wife were able to finally come home from the hospital. You may have noticed that I had some free time last week (more than usual, I mean); that's because I stayed home from work and looked after the little girl. No mean feat, for sure, but we had a blast, and she's really, REALLY excited to have little brother at home now.

As am I. The wife and I are both beat like Neal Cassady, but of course it's all worth it. I hope all of my valued Psychedelic Kimchi readers look forward to reading more about Marvin-Curtis in the future as much as I look forward to writing about him.

Kids rock.

Tight Like Gnat Booty

It's not often that I agree with Stern & Co., but it appears that the madness will soon end, as next season the L will ban tights, leotards, and tutus.

Here are some choice excerpts from the article:

Although NBA officials are not publicly commenting on the issue, sources say that the league simply does not like the look of players wearing visible hose.

Players who wish to wear tights are required to send the league a written request from a team doctor detailing a "medical need" for the leggings. That's because the league, according to sources, believes that some players are merely wearing them because they like the look.
Vince Carter not included, that is ridiculous.

Yet there are numerous players who insist that wearing full-length spandex under their uniform shorts keeps limbs warmer and looser than anything seen previously in the NBA. Dallas Mavericks swingman Jerry Stackhouse is widely seen as the pioneer of this practice...
Stackhouse bristles at the notion that he's merely trying to be fashionable..."They just hold everything together.”
I ask, would anyone want to be part of a trend started by Jerry Stackhouse?

The sight of tights on an NBA player has inevitably been mocked by some -- Denver's Marcus Camby chastised peers for wearing "pantyhose" -- but became more commonplace this season after Bryant unveiled his leggings in November. James wore them briefly as well in January after injuring his knee, but the Cleveland star hasn't been seen in spandex for more than 25 games ... in part because he grew weary of answering so many questions about them. Bryant has since decided to play tights-free in the Los Angeles Lakers' past five games.
Finally, some reason (and/or coercion).
[Andrew] Bogut recently told the Associated Press: "I don't like how it looks, but I don't play basketball for looks."
Few do. That's why you rarely see dunks and fancy passing. Wait, Bogut plays in the WNBA, right?
[Joe] Smith told the AP: "It's something to keep you warm. It keeps my knee from swelling up, keeps some tightness around it so it won't blow up on me when I'm out there. It's meant a lot to me. It's made me a new woman."
OK, I made that last part up.
More than five percent of the league's players have worn tights at some stage during the season, including five of its top 10 leading scorers.
This is obviously a covert plan to overthrow the government.


Part of me hopes this doesn't go through and that the players are allowed to wear whatever the fuck they want. But the other part of me, the part which doesn't like watching my favorite players run up and down the court dressed like mincing gay-boys, is eagerly anticipating the tights kibosh.

Regardless the outcome, what this recent turn of events has made me realize is that I can make a difference, that I do have a voice.

I'm awesome.

Thursday, March 30, 2006

The Top 10 Annoying Korean Celebrities

On average, I watch about an hour of TV every day, which -- except for when there's a basketball game or lingerie special on -- is 60 minutes too long. Not to tell you something you don't already know (and raise the ire of Netizens the country over), but there isn't anything redeeming about Korean TV. Nothing. It's garbage. It stinks. It molests children and scams old ladies out of their retirement pensions. If it were a gaseous element, it would be chlorine. If it were a poisonous animal, it would be the poison arrow frog. If it were a tyrannical leader, it would be Roger Waters.

You get the point. Whenever I watch Korean TV, I get a little infuriated and turn a little less sane.

You may say well then, Sparkles, why don't you just not watch TV? Yeah, right; what else am I gonna do, read a book? Look who's being naive now.

I've been known, on occasion, to hurl objects and shout curse words such as "fucking bugger bitch" and "whoring cunt bastard balls" after too much television. My wife was none too happy when the last time I experienced one of my "episodes" her church group was over, let me tell you. Then again, it may have been because, during my outburst, I was as naked as the day I was born.

Regardless, it was then that I realized I need help.

As such, my anger management counselor has advised that I try to rid myself of this anger by purging it here, at Psychedelic Kimchi. I swear, if this doesn't work I'm going to murder him.

Please keep in mind that I hold no real animosity towards these people, and I'm sure that, in real life, they're all swell individuals who would donate a kidney to a sick child. But seeing them on my TV causes me to snap like Billy in Silent Night, Deadly Night. I'm sure I'm not the only one.

Without further adieu, I give you The Top Ten Annoying Korean Celebrities:

10) Kim Su-Mi

I had originally intended to title this post The Top 10 Most Punchable Korean Celebrities, but, with an old woman on the list, couldn't in good conscience. I may be a spazz, but I'm no monster.

Most annoying trait/feature: Those fucking chompers. Kim Su-Mi, Sloth from The Goonies called: he wants his teeth back.

9) Yoon Da-Hoon

Unbelievably, this douchebag has achieved hunk status with much of the nation. Almost as unexplainable as Vince Vaughn being the runner-up for People magazine's Sexiest Man Alive. Almost.

Most annoying trait/feature: That shit-eating grin. As Parker Posey once aptly commanded, wipe that mouth off your face, bitch.

8) Cha Seung-Won

If I see this gaywad eating in another television commercial, I will seriously lose my shit.

Most annoying trait/feature: He has this really nasal, husky voice, like Jim Carrey playing Vera Demilo on In Living Color.

7) Bae Yong-Jun

Yonsama, Yonsama! If Sally Jessie Raphael had a younger, Asian brother, he would look like Bae.

Most annoying trait/feature: What's the deal with that fucking hair? He looks like he should be guarding Buckingham Palace.

6) Bong Tae-Gyu

This dude looks like one of the Ghoulies. I should probably admit that he's on the list mainly because he got to make out with Kim Ah-Jung in a recent movie, and for that I am infinitely jealous.

Most annoying trait/feature: General troll-like appearance.

5) Noh Hong-Cheol

Mix one part Ichi the Killer with 2 parts Jerry Lewis and you'll have this turdburger.

Most annoying trait/feature: Whenever he grins maniacally and clasps his hands together, which is always.

4) Jeong Jong-Cheol

This peon looks as though he's being perpetually kicked in the sack...and enjoying it.

Most annoying trait/feature: A tie between his infuriatingly annoying voice and his face, which looks like a Garbage Pail Kid's, or the dude from Big Trouble in Little China whose head explodes.

3) Bi(*snicker*) aka Rain

If I start writing about this hamster penis I'll probably be here all day, so let's just say that Bi is to cool as Paris Hilton is to chastity.

Most annoying trait/feature: I'll let the picture above speak for itself.

2) Lee Jun-Gi

If Jack and Anna Lucia want to convince more castaways to join their army, all they need to do is show them this.

Most annoying trait/feature: Men, even gay ones, should under no circumstance wear make-up. I feel very strongly about this.

1) Kim Jong-Guk

What makes this fruit no. 1? Besides anachronistically being the inspiration for LL Cool J's You Can't Dance, KJG also has the dubious honor of having "sung" the most annoying song in the history of the multiverse.

Try watching that whole video and not getting the urge to blow your brains out like Budd Dwyer. Go on, I dare ya.

Most annoying trait/feature: That fucking song! Arrrgggh!

[rips off ears]


You know what? I'm actually starting to feel a little better. Minus the torn-off ears, of course. After I visit the hospital, I think I'll go down to Goliath and just be a fuckin' dickhead!

Increase the peace.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

"I got a dog named Kubrick..."

Separated at birth? You be the judge.

Solar Eclipse, 2006

HAL 9000, 2001

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Spring Cleaning -- Gangs of New York

I saw Martin Scorsese's Gangs of New York when it was theatrically released here in the winter of 2003. At the time I thought it was a great picture; not Scorsese's best, not by a long shot, but great nonetheless. I bought it when it was first released on DVD, but only today, almost 3 years later, got around to watching it for a second time.

It's a tricky film. It looks great, is well-acted (save for Cameron Diaz, who is a fairly talented actress but stinks in her performance as Jenny Everdeane), and the plot never gets too bogged down, which is commendable for a film that runs almost 3 hours.

Then again (here it comes), the characterization is piss poor, the narration -- always a crutch for a movie with a poor narrative structure -- is pointless and sounds as though it was written by a 10-year-old, and the film's main theme, a call for bipartisanship between republicans (the Natives) and democrats (the Dead Rabbits; love the name, by the way) in the aftermath of 9/11, is trite.

Henry Thomas's character, Johhny, perhaps best exemplifies the film's dearth of good characterization. He is Amsterdam's only friend (and that's stretching the definition of friendship a tad, because there's no comraderie between them), but he never displays any likeable qualities, and when he betrays Amsterdam to Bill the Butcher (expertly played by Daniel Day-DeNiro) and is later forgiven by Amsterdam, we not only want Johnny to get what he deserves -- which he does -- we also begin to hate Amsterdam, Leonardo DiCaprio's character, for being such a patsy.

And, seriously, what is so likeable about Amsterdam? DiCaprio turns in a good performance (he'd be one of the greats were it not for the fact that he seems more content resting on his laurels than being a prolific actor, which all the greats were), but his character is so bereft of redeeming qualities, and is such a, for lack of a better term, pussy, that it's much easier to root for Bill the Butcher, who is one of the more memorable and bastardly movie villains to come along in recent times.

Yes, the acting is wonderful for the most part; but it's like putting caviar on a Big Mac, or breast implants on an ugly woman: you can only get so far with an inherently flawed structure.

Likewise disappointing is the music which plays throughout the film. There are some sublime pieces, such as the propulsive drums and flute before the opening battle of the Five Points, but they are overshadowed by music and songs -- one of the biggest offenders of which is the rock score during the carnage of the Five Points melee -- that are awkward (and that's being kind) and have no business in the film's context. As the film closes with U2's The Hands That Built America, it's hard not to mutter an expletive in frustration. I won't even start on Howard Shore's recycling of the music he used in the Lord of the Rings pictures, or the annoying appearance of fiddlers and songstresses near the end of many a scene.

File this one under Scorsese's short list of misses, slightly above the cinematic abortion that was Bringing Out The Dead. I'd recommend Gangs of New York to serious fans of Scorsese, but, honestly, there's a lot more in the film to dislike than to like. Praise Orson Welles that America's greatest living director was able to redeem himself with The Aviator, one of the finest films, in my opinion, of the past ten years. He's still got it, but for each triumphant film he makes, he needs to surround himself with editors, screenwriters, actors and producers whom he is comfortable with and who compliment him. Unfortunately, Gangs of New York doesn't appear to be one of those films.

The Final Four:

Seven Samurai
Training Day
Once Upon a Time in America

The Matrix

Recently, my iPod has been refusing to turn off, which, admittedly, is better than it not turning on, but still not entirely reassuring. Luckily I've been keeping it plugged in to an outlet and a set of speakers, so I can just pause it when I want it to chill-the-fuck-out. But this brings me to my point: technology is largely a bitch goddess.

The simple truth of the matter is we never realize how much we need some piece of techno-garbage until we have it, and then the threat of something going screwy on the damn thing so paralyzes us with fear that we tip-toe around the object as if it were an idol to the angry Apple gods. I've lived in Korea for 18 months without an iPod, so why does the prospect of living without one now so fill me with apprehension? Because back then I didn't know what I was missing. But now I do.

My mother worked for a tech-firm when I was growing up. Actually she worked for the tech firm, and if your gears are grinding trying to figure out what I mean, yes, I did grow up in the Seattle area and yes, I did graduate from Redmond High School. So it's the techies you're thinking of.

My mom used to come home after a long day's work and shake her head in disbelief. She was a simple girl from Buttfuck, Central-Washington-State and she had never imagined the kinds of things they did at the Redmond campus, nor the kinds of cars they bought with the kinds of money they got paid to do it. My mom's dad had owned a gravel company. He dug pits for a living. And now here she was with this company who, during her tenure, damn fucking near conquered the corporate world and sure as shit put her kids through college and set her up pretty nicely for retirement. And she would look at us, my brother and me, and say "Boys, just get your college degrees in computer science. You just sit inside in front of a screen all day and you can drive a Lexus home to your massive mansion lakeside."

When she tried to lure us into careers in programming we wondered if she had ever met us. Sitting in an office all day was so far from what either of us ever wanted to do that it ranked at the absolute bottom of any prospective career lists. We would riff on her career advice, inventing jobs that, while horrible, still managed to sound slightly more alluring then the one she was describing. "Boys, what the job is, is they sew you up in a sack, and then they beat you with baseball bats for eight hours, and then you can drive your Lexus home to your house on the lake!"

I know that all the things I own are just varying levels of technology, including my running shoes and my jump rope, and I know that the march of progress is more or less inevitable. But as my wife and I listen to our incredibly old washing machine go into its spin cycle with our fingers crossed, praying that the fucker holds up just until we can get out the door to go to Japan tomorrow, I can't help wondering who is serving who.

At least this blogging program is actually uploading images today, which is never a given, let me tell you. Or is it? Can you see these pictures? If not, then the machines are winning. Better start running for Zion.

You can find TMH blogging seven days a week at -ed.

Monday, March 27, 2006

Jesus Saves!

To this day I have no idea why my mother's cousin kept so many animals. Horses, goats, sheep, dogs and cats; she lived on a big estate, but I wouldn't exactly call it a farm. And she didn't eat or sell her livestock, for she was a vegetarian. Nor did she use them for breeding. I guess she just liked taking care of animals.

She never married, and one summer while visiting my brother suggested in a whisper that maybe she was a lesbian. My mother overheard and admonished him. That's how discipline ran in my family: no slaps upside the head, what we got was a disapproving look and sometimes a "hush up" or "mind your manners".

Anyway, the summer before I started the 2nd grade we were vacationing in Nova Scotia and made the yearly trip up to Glenda's (my mother's cousin). You'd think that with all those animals it'd be a riot, but the most we were ever able to do was hang in the barn, trying to catch kittens, because the year prior my eldest cousin had fallen off a horse and broken his femur. Way to ruin it for the rest of us, Calvin.

My cousin Jack, my brother and I were bored of sitting around listening to the grownups talk about whatever it was they talked about (what certain women wore at church on Sunday, and who liked to indulge in spirits a tad overzealously is what I remember), so we decided to play hide-and-go-seek outside. In the pantheon of games that kids play, hide-and-go ranks second only to tag. And tag with 3 people sucks. Unless it's sexual tag with a guy and two gals, I suppose.

I loved to play hide-and-go-seek, and excelled at it prodigiously. I was a pro, hiding myself in places no one would ever dream of looking. If HAGS were part of academia, I would have been offered a hide-and-go-seek scholarship to Yale; if it were an Olympic event, I would have represented my country in Barcelona. To this day I'll often find myself out someplace and suddenly remark to myself say, that would make a killer hiding place. You may step away from the game, but the game never steps away from you. Not entirely.

My cousin was picked to be it, and I and my brother scurried off to hide. I did my best to lose my bro; he knew what an expert hider I was, and every time we played would follow behind me and try to hide in the same place in which I hid, the biter.

After shaking him off my tail, I looked around frantically, because my cousin's count was winding down.

"Five, four..."

Where to hide? Providence, don't let me down!

"...three, two..."

C'mon, c'mon! Look harder, man. See.

" Ready or not, here I come!"

I saw.

What I saw was a dilapidated dog house half-hidden by weeds and long grass. I ran up to it, checked to make sure no dog was inside, then crawled in.

Admittedly, it wasn't the best hiding spot I ever discovered, but it was impressive enough in a pinch. I knew my brother would be found long before I was discovered.

But then I heard this funny noise, like electric shears. Presently I felt a sharp pain in my leg. Then another, and yet another.


I ran out of that charnel dog house as fast as I could. By the time the swarming wasps had pushed the invading force (me) far enough away, I was stung eight times on my right leg, twice on my left, and once on my right middle finger.

I cried -- because of the stings, sure, but mostly I think because I had forfeited a game of hide-and-go-seek. I still haven't fully recovered from it.

Adding insult to injury was this: I was forced to recuperate inside, in the presence of my parents and relatives, listening to their inane chatter. And my wounds were annointed with margarine. I guess summoning a witch doctor to expel the mysterious venom coursing through my veins was too much of a hassle.

Fifteen minutes later, I started itching all over like I had the DTs. At first my parents (mostly my father) reprimanded me for doing so, but when I took off both socks and started scratching my feet furiously, as though they had been rubbed with poison ivy, my mother was hit with a realization that ended up saving my life.

"Dear," she said to my father, "what if he's allergic to bee stings?"

My dad, famously known in our family circle for his apathy, dismissed the idea. But when hives soon broke out all over my body, I was rushed into the back seat of our car (yes, that car: the 1984 Buick LeSabre, this anecdote being the culminating chapter of what I call The Buick LeSabre Trilogy) and we drove towards the nearest hospital, which was 30 minutes away, at least.

I don't remember much before my trachea finally swelled enough to cause me to pass out, and what I do recall nobody, my folks included, believes me about. But I don't have any reason to make this up: blood started to trickle from my ears, and when I looked at my hands, I could see blood coming out from under my fingernails.

When I regained consciousness, I was lying in a hospital bed, my mother and father standing next to me on my left, my uncle John on my right. I no longer remember what soothing words my folks had for me, but I do remember my uncle informing me that, on the latest WWF Superstars show, The Honky Tonk Man had smashed his guitar over some jobber's head while the referee wasn't looking. It's little things like that which make those ailing feel better. Good ole Honky Tonk, man.


For the next 5 or 6 years, I would receive a shot of bee venom every week (2 shots per week, initially). My last visit to the allergy doctor revealed that I am desensitized to the stings of bees, wasps, hornets, yellow jackets and injured pride (seriously, I can dribble on myself while using a urinal and not miss a step).

You know the drill by now, I'm sure. Time for some disordered dispatches :

1) Ray Allen has officially assumed the mantle of "most fearsome shooter whose hands you absolutely don't want the ball to be in during the final seconds of a close game". The Sonics, up by 7 with under 2 minutes to go, turned the ball over and were choking worse than any team I've seen in a long while before Jesus stepped up, draining a three -- with Tim Duncan's arm looming over him, no less.


What an exciting finish, which is all the more reason to lament the fact that the Sonics won't be part of this year's post season. They're a fun team. Here's hoping they get it together and return next season (even though 'Shard won't be around, which also saddens me).

2) As good-ole Jack Burton once(always) said(says), "sonuvabitch must pay". Today I turned on the tube, to give the little angel her daily dose of Grover, Elmo, Ernie and the homosexual guy he lives with, only to discover that my cable company, ABN, realigned the channels and 86ed AFN from their lineup. It's not even available as a pay channel! That leaves me with a grand total of zero English-language channels. Sure, I could have CNBC and Arirang TV if I pay for them, but that's sort of like paying to have someone kick you in the balls. I'd take it if it were free (Betty Liu is sorta cute, and the Arirang shows are fun in a kitschy Full House/ "prodding a canker sore with your tongue" kind of way), but paying for it? Neeheeheeawwwthanks.

Raising my ire even further, ABN has apparently turned the broadcast volume down on all English-language programs, so if I switch from, say, a Korean movie on Ch. 38 to Beauty and the Geek on Ch. whateverthefuckchannelOnStyleisnow I have to turn the volume up about 75 notches in order to hear it, and have to turn it down again when I switch back.

Oh, and did I mention that one of ABN's lowlife workers stole my cell phone when they were in to install cable after we moved here last spring?

That company is the bane of my fucking existence.

3) It's the magic number, at least it used to be (though 32 is still the Magic number).

4) Is the new 3.

Saturday, March 25, 2006

Monsieur Maman

You know what separates the blog-men from the blog-boys? I just got through half of this post when my PC crashed and everything I'd written was lost; but, me being a TBW (Tru Blog Warior; peace, Ron), I'm not going to let that stop me, not gonna let that slow my roll. So here I go, one more 'gin. If you find the following boring and/or stupid, chalk it up to me writing it for the second time from memory, and/or you being---

On Saturday I once again had the immense pleasure of taking care of the little girl, solo. The fire department wasn't called, and neither was an ambulance. I'm 2-for-2. Here's how things transpired:

9:50am -- The Pacers and Pistons are playing on AFN. Dig it! I ask the little girl whom she's rooting for, the white team (Indiana) or the blue team (Detroit). "Yellow team!" she exclaims. Profound. I take it she's cheering for the Pacers.

10:50am -- This game is playing out like a Mars Volta record: it's technically sound and interesting to those who appreciate the skill involved, but it's long and trying for even the most hardcore of fans. The little girl -- whom from here on out, for brevity's sake, we'll refer to as the LG, LO, LA, or 18L -- looks weary. If she could vociferate her thoughts exactly, I'm pretty sure she'd say "dad, this game is draining my patience like the Skeksis draining a Gelfling's lifeforce."

11:26am -- Danny Granger (whose nickname should totally be Power Granger) has his potential game-tying shot blocked by Ben Wallace at the buzzer. "Dad, why didn't he score?" the LO asks. I tell her that, sometimes, what we hope for doesn't always turn out the way we want it to. She just stares at me like I'm crazy. Blame Ben Wallace for making my daughter a nihilist. Then she asks me for a cookie. "Sorry, darling; no cookies for you. You totally jinxed the outcome of that game. You're lucky I'm even talking to you right now, Jinxie Jinxington."

11:55am -- Story time. We run through most of the Dr. Suess library before I hit her with the propaganda that is Where The Wild Things Are. God bless Maurice Sendak.

12:29pm -- I have officially invented the best home sport ever, even better than "tag in the dark basement" and "use only your feet to prevent the balloon from touching the floor". The LG and I take turns throwing a soccer ball at the TV room's light switch, trying to turn it on and off. After my impressive streak of 5 in a row, the LO shows some pluck and takes the ball right up to the switch, yelling "slam dunk!" as she bashes the ball against it. What a cheater/innovator.

12:45pm -- Time for lunch. Today's menu consists of whatever I could find in the fridge, which wasn't much. I'd tell you what I whipped up, but I don't want revealing what I cooked for dinner to be anti-climactic. Let's just say I'm a firm believer of the "ketchup goes well with everything " school of thought.

1:02pm -- My mother-in-law calls. The LG picks it up and spends the next 2 minutes saying "yes he did! He did too! I'm not lying, he did!" When I get off the phone, I ask her what her grandmother asked. "She wanted to know if you fed me."

1:12pm -- I tell the LO it's time to get dressed and go to the playground. Because I was bored just sitting around watching her play, I had her sit on my lap as we went down the slide. There's a reason more adults don't do that. Those things are made for people with short legs. Thankfully only my pride was hurt.

1:50pm -- Is there a phrase any sweeter to a child than "Let's go to the store"? I doubt it.

1:53pm -- I scream, you scream, we all scream for...frozen orange juice? You're the boss, kiddo.

[brief musical interlude: Orange juice on ice, is nice; orange juice on the ice; drink real Florida orange juice; Orange juice on ice]

(a large bag of shrimp chips to the first reader who points out what film that's from. Hint: it's neither Midnight Run nor Midnight Express)

I myself opt for a chocolate fudge bar. Because I'm a homosexual.

2:00pm -- More books! Man, that Dr. Suess was smoking some shit when he came up with One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. Also, I noticed for the first time that at the front of the book there's a This book belongs to: ______ thingy, and the name written in the blank space is Jessi. Who the fuck is Jessi? I did a quick memory jog and remembered that my mother gave the LA that particular book. Mom, you're buying gifts for your granddaughter at yard sales now?

Anyway, if Jessi is reading this: I now have your book. And your parents don't love you and wish you were never born.

2:30pm -- TV time. I and the wife don't really like the little girl watching Jjanggu (perhaps more commonly known as Crayon Shin-Chen), but for some reason she loves the show. That and Maruko. Pray for me.

2:48pm (by the way, these times aren't 100% accurate, but deciphered correctly they do reveal the secrets of Lost) -- I try to make her fight it, but she nods off to sleep, and nothing I do -- nudging her, poking her with the TV remote, playing Flight of the Valkyries loudly -- can wake her up. She has a tendency to take long naps during the day, which means it's harder than Chinese arithmetic to get her to fall asleep at a reasonable hour later on. Looks like we're in for a long night.

2:49-5:25pm -- I spend the time she's asleep flipping endlessly through television channels and pondering whether or not I have enough time to watch Gangs of New York (Tuesday. The Spring Cleaning review is coming Tuesday. If I don't write it by then, I promise to donate 3000 doll hairs to PETA...that works better when you say it out loud).

5:30pm -- Time for dinner. I try to make an omelet, but completely forget to mix the eggs, milk, etc. in a bowl before pouring the mixture into the frying pan, so what I end up making is scrambled eggs with melted processed cheese on top. That and rice. The LG says it tastes great. Who says kids are picky eaters?

During her meal (it looked appetizing enough to me, but I had a "chicken club sandwich," a bag of "Doritos," and a 700ml "beer," all of which I bought at the local "7-11", waiting for me in the fridge) some egg falls on the LA's lap, to which I say "that's not where it's supposed to go; it's supposed to go in your tummy. In your mouth, into your tummy, and, eventually, out your bum-bum as POOPIE!."

"Dad, don't talk about that," she deadpans. I'm crushed; my puerile potty humor can't even impress a two-year-old.

5:57pm -- Study time. We spend the first 15 minutes doing numbers, then the next 15 on the alphabet. As teaching aids I employ Biggie's 10 Crack Commandments and Fritz Lang's M.

6:28pm -- Cleaning time. I wash and rinse, the LG dries. Then I wash and rinse again, and dry, because the LG keeps dropping the dishes on the floor.

6:44pm -- The poopie the LO kept crying wolf about the whole day finally rears its ugly head. "Are you done yet?" I keep asking her. 20 minutes later (she's like my grandfather on the can, for god's sake) I wipe her bum and flush. Man alive, she makes more chocolate than I do. Seriously, her deposit was larger than the circumference of a bicycle wheel! It was all I could do to stop myself from taking a photo as evidence. My sincere apology to all fecalphiles who are reading this.

7:10pm -- "Daddy can I watch Sesame Street?" Don't need to twist my rubber arm, darling. I need a break. Instead of a Sesame Street dvd, she chooses the Disney version of Alice In Wonderland. I pop it on, call my wife to see how she's doing, and check my e-mail. 15 minutes later the LG is crying. "What's the matter?" I ask. She tells me that the movie is scary. "You never have this problem when we watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre," I remind her.

7:12pm -- I switch Alice In Wonderland off in favor of something considerably less psychedelic and frightening: Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Just kidding. I put on Finding Nemo. "When this movie's done, it's time for bed, alright?" I say. She gives me a look that says just who do you think you're fooling, old man?

8:08pm -- The LG takes a quick t.o. from her movie and asks me to take a photo of her feet. Um, okay. I'd upload the photo were it not for the fact that she was sitting on my lap when I took it, and you can clearly see that I'm wearing a Toronto Raptors Vince Carter warmup jersey. It was laundry day, alright? Lay off.

8:40pm -- God, I need a smoke. How much longer until she falls asleep? 2 hours? Three? Getting people to do my bidding without using the power of hypnosis sucks. But ever since I messed up in college by hypnotizing a girlfriend and stupidly persuading her to swallow everything, I vowed to only use my powers for good. And getting free cable.

9:10pm -- The movie is over, and I have officially run out of ways to educate, entertain, and edutain. I'm lost. Then, like a beacon through foggy, treacherous waters, the LO shouts "crayons!" How stupid of me. Crayons. Of course. "Draw a picture of daddy," I request.

Apparently I look like a brown line with a squiggle at the end.

9:30pm -- The LA let's out an audible sigh, and I think we're entering the first stage of sleepiness, but then she laments "it's utterly tragic how short John Cazale's career was." "I'll John Cazale you in a minute," I threaten.

10:01pm -- "OK, time for bed. For real this time, no joking." I brush her teeth and dress her in her jammies. Then I spend the next 40 minutes pretending to be asleep, hoping the 18L will follow suit. It doesn't work. She's obsessed with making hand shadows on the wall.

7:46am, Sunday -- Hngh? Who turned on the light? What time is it?


So that's how I spent my Saturday, with the most beautiful girl in the whole world. If you found that diary somewhat lacking in thrills and adventure, don't worry: next week I'm off to Hawaii! My suitcase is packed, and I didn't forget to include my Tiki idol. Should be fun.

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Face it, Tiger...

A heads up for my 0.000001 million readers: something big is percolating, and I may not be around to post for a few days. I might be able to get a post in on Saturday, but I'm not sure. Regardless, when you next hear from me, I'll hopefully have some pretty cool news to share. Until then, here's a nifty anecdote. I have a busy day tomorrow, and need all the sleep I can get in. Don't worry; all will be revealed in due time.


When I was in the 11th grade, and shortly after I got my driver's license, I and and my brother, usually with 3 or 4 of our friends (the Boat was big enough to seat 4 in the back, and sometimes we even squeezed 1 or 2 in the trunk), would drive out to the racetrack -- I no longer remember the name, but I know it ended in Downs, though that's likely the racetrack equivalent of saying I know a Korean guy from Seoul named Kim (ever heard of him?) -- and bet on horses. The track, located 30 or 40km from our home, wasn't a regular haunt, but we went there on occasion. I never ended up winning any money; I always bet on horses with names I thought were cool or cryptic, never looking at the score sheets (or whatever they're called). I think the most I ever won was 12 dollars. My bro and friends fared slightly better, but none of us ever won big. Nobody ever really does is the truth.

But one autumn night, a few weeks after school had started and we all rightly should have been home studying biology or geography, something amazing happened. We spent around 3 hours at the track, at first betting on races and later trying to buy beers with fake IDs (I was the only one who wasn't served, because I looked -- I probably still do -- like I was 12 years old). Nobody won more than 5 bucks; and it's rather depressing being a teenager and hanging out in a track bar with scores of greasy old guys, so around 10 or so we decided to call it a night. We were halfway home when my brother realized he had left behind his backpack. Dammit. Of course we had to go back, but none of us was happy about it.

I pulled in. My brother got out and ran to get his bag. We remaining smoked and listened to a cassette (The Beatnuts' first, I think) on the car's shitty tape deck, which I was convinced inspired Nas's line never put me in your [car deck] if your shit eats tapes.

The guy was taking far too long, so after 15 minutes I and Professor Paul (we loved to give our friends ironic nicknames; he was a high school dropout) went in to look for him. I can't remember why now (I think it was because the track was closing), but we couldn't go any farther than the main lobby. Bored and annoyed, I purchased a Lottario Bingo ticket to whittle away the time.

It was neon pink, and I scratched it with my car key. That I will remember forever. My brother came back shortly -- after much hardship he discovered that his bag was taken to the lost and found -- and hastened us to leave, but I had the fever: I only needed 3 more to complete a square on the 4th box, which, to use a tired sports analogy which I made up, is about as common as a NL pitcher batting for the cycle.

I got the square with 2 spots left unscratched. To this day I don't recall whether I scratched the remaining ones or not.

But it didn't matter. I had just won 50,000 dollars. Keep in mind that this was Canadian money -- I'm pretty sure it equals 500 million American.

The next day our father showed up at the racetrack to claim his(my) prize. We told him everything the moment we arrived home the night prior.

What I did with that money is a tale for another time, though it's fairly boring and doesn't really deserve mentioning. Let's just say that I never had any loan debts, and that it's fun waking up and swimming in a back yard pool in the summer.

Sometimes, miracles (if I can take the liberty and call it that) happen.

And sometimes they happen twice. Thrice, even.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

OK Computer, Track 5 (Heat vs. Pistons)

I have never been more ready in my entire life to do this right now.
Never. It's all been leading up to this moment.
All right now, right here.
My whole life, right here....
-- Beastie Boys, Alive

Well, not exactly my whole life, but at least my whole week. Winning this game means a lot to Miami, who are 1-7 against the league's other top 4 teams. They need to prove that game in February wasn't a fluke, that they can hang with Detroit's starting five. Can they do it? Let's dispense with the trivialities and see:

I bet Pat Riley is looking forward to this game as much as I'm looking forward to writing a Spring Cleaning review of Gangs of New York. Can it really be considered as spring cleaning if I don't finish until next winter? We might see Things That Smell Like Cum pt. II before I get around to watching those last 5 flicks...I believe the world is made up of 2 kinds of people: those who don't like Shaq, and those who are going to heaven when they die...OK, no way I'm missing the start of this one. I turn on the TV at 9:58...If this blog were included on, I'm pretty sure most of the comments would read as follows: "he's funny, sometimes, and that little kid of his is cute (must get it from the mother) but what the fuck is up with all the basketball crap? I stopped reading a long time ago. Somebody wake me when he stops writing about Lebron Jordan and Dwayne Wayne, or whatever their names are."...I think I once saw Richard Hamilton and Tayshaun Prince with Sally Struthers in an infomercial for the Christian Children's Fund...Tip-off time: 10:06...Good to see Shaq back after missing their last game with a sore thumb. He makes his first shot...Since we're going to have to endure the tights era, at least for the forseeable future, can't ESPN, ABC or whoever get the players to wear tights that are sort of like the bluescreens used in Hollywood? Wouldn't it be cool to look at Jason Williams and see the solar system on his legs, or look at Wade and see his legs on fire? Wouldn't it?...Williams drives to the hoop for a layup. Boy, he can motor when he wants to. Or maybe it just looks that way because the Detroit players don't want to guard him too close, for fear of getting cooties...Udonis Haslem takes and misses a jumper, completely ignoring a wide-open Shaq under the basket (골밑!)...He doesn't make the same mistake twice...Tayshaun looks kinda like that exhumed Russian corpse from Hellboy...The Pistons are settling for a lot of perimeter jumpers...Our first timeout. Miami looks to be in control early on...That goddamn commercial is on again! No joke, they show it during EVERY commercial break. It's gotten so bad that I find my self singing the words alone to myself. 미녀는 석류를 좋아해, 자꾸자꾸 예뻐지면 나는 어떡해, 거울속의 나를보면 정말 행복해, 미녀는 석류를. Somebody please shoot me. By the way, I was at E-Mart on Tuesday and they were almost completely sold out of the stuff. The lesson? People are sheep...Udonis Haslem sorta reminds me of a young Charles Oakley, right down to his jumper...I just read today that there's an 80/20 chance that Amare Stoudamire could return for the Suns' game on Friday. To quote Han Solo: I have a bad feeling about this...I could swear I just saw DJ Muggs (of Cypress Hill) in the crowd. After seeing Don Nelson at the Oscars and dismissing it as a possible hallucination, I'm going with my gut on this...'Toine just hit a 3-pointer. Um, way to go, Antoine. Have you lost some weight recently?...Shaq just picked up his 2nd foul, after which the camera turns to Riles, who yells "fucking bullshit!"...Nice looseball tip from Wade to an open 'Zo for the dunk...Mourning with a block that was clearly goaltending...At the end of 1, it's the Heat 21, the Pistons 19. Before the commercial, ESPN replays Riley's "fucking bullshit!" shot. Ah, the NBA: fun for the whole family. I can't imagine Emperor Stern would be pleased if he saw that...I think the Pistons could add Stephen Hawking and Gary Coleman and it would improve their bench dramatically...Ben Wallace has post moves like I have 3 testicles...'Toine with a floater. Um. Antoine, is that a new cologne you're wearing? You smell nice...Mourning is down! Mourning is down. Shit! Kudos to the D fans for clapping as he walked toward the locker room...You know what this means, right? Potential for more Michael Doleac. Yay!...Haslem's playing well...'Toine with another tre. Um, Antoine, you have kind eyes...The Heat are up by 12...Just out of curiosity, does one wear those tights over or under one's socks? Or do they cover the toes? This is need-to-know stuff...Is Miami's assistant coach in the Nation of Islam or something? Who wears bowties in this day and age? Besides douchebags such as Tucker Carlson, I mean...The report from the locker room is that 'Zo will not return. The report from my stomach is that the hot dogs and broccoli & cheese soup I ate for breakfast will...Wade has only 3 points so far. It's nice to see his teammates stepping up for him...Wade misses an open layup. Ugh...At halftime, it's Miami 43, Pistons 35...The Pistons can't buy a basket. Something tells me that won't be the case for the rest of the game...If a player shoots an airball which is caught by a defender, is it recorded as a steal?...Awesome alley-oop from Jason Williams to Shaq...I think Ben and Rasheed Wallace could team up to form the greatest wrestling tag-team ever. They could have a handicap match against Ron Artest and his multiple personalities...Shaq is playing like it's 2001. I guess that answers the question about whether or not he can turn it up when he needs to...The Pistons have narrowed a 12-point deficit to 3...Wade actually hit a 3-pointer. I think that means his 3-point shooting percentage goes from negative 5% to negative 4.9...Shaq and Ben Wallace are currently perfect from the free throw line. Cue the Twilight Zone theme...After watching that Park Ji-Seong commercial for the billionth time, I am officially declaring war on the annoying 'Dae Han Min-Guk!' chant. It's gotten so bad that I was watching a Korean high school basketball game between Yongsan and Jeonju high schools, and the crowd was shouting it intermittently during the match. Does that make sense in a game where both teams are from the same country?...Like Mumra, the Palace crowd has officially awoken from their ancient slumber...It's a tie game with 1:55 left in the 3rd quarter...Nice J from Wade to retake the lead...Rip Hamilton hits a tre to give Detroit their first lead of the game...As Gorilla Monsoon used to say, time to batten down the hatches. We could be in for a big 4th quarter...after 3, it's Detroit 60, Miami 59...Very quiet game for Dwyane Wade...'Toine with ANOTHER 3. Um, Antoine, you have a nice smile...When he was a kid, did 'Sheed see Pennywise the Clown, and is that why he has that patch of white hair?...Antoine tries for another 3. Airball. Your breath smells bad, Antoine...Wait, the Pistons have cheerleaders!?...A 4-point lead for the Pistons, their biggest of the game...Shaq has been saving Wade's ass all game...Pistons by 6 with 4:49 to play. I think I'm going to throw up. Again...ANOTHER lane violation. This is ridiculous...Telling stat: the Heat have 16 turnovers, and that's more than Dwyane Wade has in points thus far...You can't see it, but I'm making a "Steve Francis sitting on the Knicks' bench" face right now...'Toine with another airball. Antoine, you dropped out of college, you only took one vegetarian cooking class -- it's a joke (props if you get that reference)...Hey! What do you know? The refs finally called a foul against Dwyane Wade...Antoine hits a 3. Too late, Chucker Norris...Final score: Pistons 82, Heat 73...Guess I was wrong about it being a big 4th quarter. I need to take a shower; I feel dirty...Player of the Game: Chauncey Billups...Fuck.

Monday, March 20, 2006

Baby, don't you know, my Heat will move your soul?

I said you wanna be startin' somethin'
You got to be startin' somethin'
-- Michael Jackson

What's the time? - it's time to get ill
-- Beastie Boys

I need to move to a better clime, someplace where it's warm all year round. Anywhere where white people aren't getting their heads chopped off will do. And here's the reason: waiting for winter to end sucks, because I can't play basketball. Maybe there are a few indoor courts around, but you probably need some kind of membership to play there, and, considering that I only have time to play once -- twice, if I'm lucky -- a week, shelling out for a membership at a club that has an indoor court isn't financially sound. Plus I bet there'd be a bunch of little kids there. And I hate every kid whom I haven't fathered.

So, if I want to play basketball, I have to wait until Old Man Winter finally goes into hiding. Let the record show that, this year, that day was Sunday, March 19.

The wife and girl went to visit the in-laws in Daejeon on Saturday, so I had the day to myself. After work, I stopped by Samsung Plaza, did some eye shopping, and picked up the new Harry Potter dvd. I got home and put it on, but for some reason I couldn't keep my attention on the movie and ended up watching a few episodes of The Twilight Zone instead. Then I took a shower and got drunk while listening to music. That's what I do when I have the day to myself, I've learned.

I knew the weather on Sunday was supposed to be nice, and the thought of b-ball had crossed my mind, but I put the idea to bed the moment I stepped off the bus at Seohyeon station on Saturday afternoon. The wind was blowing harder than Dizzy Gillespie on PCP, and I figured Sunday would probably be the same.

So, as I said, I got drunk. Not "passed out in the bathroom with my head on the toilet bowl" drunk, but pretty close. I woke up at 9 o' clock on Sunday morning with a headache the size of the national debt, and all signs pointed to me spending the rest of the day nursing a hangover. But then a funny thing happened. One might even say a miracle. I got up, took a leak, drank about a litre of water, and went back to bed. I didn't think I'd be able to fall asleep again, but I did. When I woke up an hour later, my headache was completely gone. I cooked two "pork cutlets" (I don't know what the hell those things were made of, but I'm 95% sure it wasn't meat -- at least not the kind that comes from animals), drank some Pepsi, and surfed the 'Net for 20 minutes.

Hey, I feel pretty good right now, I thought to myself. And the sun is shining. And it doesn't appear as though there's much wind. Fuckin' A.

I took a quick shower, threw on my ball attire, and took the bus down to Samsung Plaza (the best courts in Bundang -- maybe all of Korea -- are close to Seohyeon station, next to the Tancheon river).

I shot around for 45 minutes or so (not too rusty, either) before, finally, someone else showed up. I really expected a lot more people would be there on a Sunday. But then I remembered that Korea was playing Japan in what Gary Sheffield refers to as that "made-up" event, the World Baseball Classic.

Anyway, this guy, an engineering student at some university in Seoul, the name of which I no longer remember, asked me if I would like to play a little 1-on-1. Actually, what he said was "man to man," but I got the jist. And, no, he didn't try to touch my penis, nor I his.

We played 3 games to 7. I lost the first two (7-6 and 7-2, respectively) before regaining some semblence of self-respect with a 7-4 win in the third game. He then left to watch the Korean team get their butts handed to them by Japan (I was rooting for Korea, but I'm always a relieved when they're ousted from big sporting events, because it means I don't have to listen to all the nationalistic fervor/propaganda that goes along with Korean teams and athletes doing well), and I stuck around for another 30 minutes or so, practicing free throws and jump shots.

I was pretty exhausted by the time I got home, and even managed to get a slight sunburn. But with my pale complexion, the flame of a lit match could probably burn my skin from 3 meters away.

All in all, a good Sunday. Definitely the best this year. I'm no atheist (not even an agnostic, really), but I firmly believe that you don't make up for your sins in church. You do it on the court. You do it at home. The rest is bullshit and you know it.. I hope Jesus and his sidekick Orko (and Martin Scorsese) can forgive me if that is possible heresy.


If you're still here after that long-winded tale of How I Spent My Sunday, I have some further basketball-related news for you: my prayers have finally been answered. Super Action finally showed a Miami Heat game (vs. the New York Knicks) today. I was fortunate enough to catch it, and scribbled down my thoughts.

(By the way, Super Action will broadcast the Heat/Pistons game on Thursday, too. Let the good times roll! Unless they lose on Thursday, that is, in which case I'll stop shaving, and changing my clothes.)

Ah, horseshit! The game was supposed to start at 9:30, but we all know that NBA games don't tip off until 10 minutes (at least) after their scheduled start time. So what do I see when I turn on the TV at 9:40? We're already 2 minutes into the game. I didn't even get to hear the NY fans cheer louder for Shaq and Wade than they did for any of their own guys...For some reason, ESPN shows a graphic with the final score of the historic 1966 NCAA game between Texas Western and Kentucky (that TW team was the first in college basketball with an all-black starting lineup, and the subject of the recently-released film Glory Road). This causes one of the Korean announcers to say awkwardly "um, Texas Western have defeated Kentucky," before his colleague jumps in and sheds some light. Way to help your colleague save face, Announcer No. 2...Jalen Rose hits a J, and Poison's Every Rose Has Its Thorn plays. I'm not even kidding. That right there just shattered the Gay Scale...Man, Shaq's looking good: 4 of 4 to start the game. Too bad he's aging like a meth addict and will have to sit in a few minutes...As we all know, Stephon Marbury is the best point guard in the NBA. Sure, he's tied for 10th in the L with 6.6 assists per game, but it's all about making your teammates better...With all the early talk about how this Heat team doesn't have what it takes to beat Detroit because they haven't been together long enough, might I remind everyone that this is Flip Saunders's first year with the Pistons, and that they have no bench. And that his name is Flip...Malik Rose just dunked on 'Zo like 'Zo was Shawn Bradley or something. Then he throws both arms emphatically, because he's excited or because he thought there should have been a foul, I cannot tell which. He's given a T for his little display of emotion. Funny stuff, though the head camera guy should be fired for not switching to a closeup of Larry Brown's reaction...58.2 seconds remaining in the first quarter, and El Chucko enters the game. You might know him by his alias: Antoine Walker...Is Zo's other kidney ailing or something? Jerome James just dunked on him. By the way, doesn't James look eerily similar to R Kelly? I'm sure there's a pee/kidney joke there somewhere, but I can't figure it out...Jesus, can we stop the madness already and make wearing leotards prohibited in the NBA? Both Dwyane Wade and Jason Williams are rocking them. You know you're living in an unjust world when it's OK to wear attire fit for ballet dancers, but shorts which extend past the knee are outlawed...I know it has nothing to do with the game, but I had to include this quote from Bill Simmons: Programming moment of the season: During the Clips-Suns game on Wednesday night, ESPN showed back-to-back Vince Carter commercials: One for Nike, one for T-Mobile. Sadly, they forgot to run his Massengill ad for the trifecta...Holy shit! Joe Crawford just yelled something fierce at Larry Brown. Strangely, LB didn't get hit with a T. See, that's what more refs need to do: instead of t-ing up a player or coach who gets out of line, they should just yell back at them like Joey Crawford did. Why don't you go fuck yourself, you old bag of bones!? Nobody around here likes you anyway! Who's to stop them? Way to sound off like you've got a pair, Joe...the newly-emasculated Larry Brown shouts "Steph! Steph!" as Marbury runs past. Predictably, Stephon doesn't even bother looking at his coach...Shaq slams down an awesome putback, but it's whistled offensive goaltending. Total bullshit. Violet Palmer is one of the refs this game, by the way. Just saying...You know what? I just realized who Larry Brown reminds me of: Mr. Dewey from Saved by the Bell. It's uncanny...I've always wondered how the sound of the players' sneakers squeaking on the court is picked up on TV. I can understand the swish of a basket, because the nets are miked, but how is it that sneaker squeaks (that's the actual nomenclature; look it up) are so audible? My theory is that it's prerecorded and played like the laugh track on a sitcom. Someone should look into this...Where the hell is Steve Francis? I wish I were paid 30 million to sit around all night watching a basketball game...The score at halftime: Miami 49, New York 46. Don't let that score fool you; the Knicks have as much a chance of winning this game as I do of being named UN secretary general...I like the recent "Wade for MVP" talk going around lately -- because the guy is my favorite player -- but can't fully agree. First, take a look at the Heat's schedule since the All-Star break. And second, he shoots the 3 like old people fuck. Still, I'd pick him if I had a ballot. Which is probably why people like me shouldn't be allowed to vote for league MVP, and why he will ultimately finish, like, 5th or 6th in voting come June...Eddie Curry is fat...'Zo's getting a lot of blocks...Jason Williams took a 3-point shot with no Heat players anywhere near the basket. Just like old(bad) times...You know, with all the Knicks substitutions, I keep thinking they have like 40 guys on their roster. Maybe they do, and Eddie Curry and Jerome James are hiding them under their uniforms...The fans really seem to love Nate Robinson. I wonder, if he were to miss 15 consecutive jumpers before finally hitting one, would they still cheer for him? Probably...Jason Williams just threw to D-Wade one of the sickest alley-oops I've seen in my life...Zo now has 7 blocks...Make that 8. Has a bench player ever made All NBA Defensive First Team before?...Why do the Korean announcers always have to shout 골밑! whenever an offensive player has the ball under the basket? I have eyes, I can fucking see that the guy is under the basket...Random observation: I think I've seen more lane violations this season than I saw in my previous 20 years watching NBA games...Final score: Heat 111, Knicks 100...Player of the Game: Dwyane Wade.

Until Thursday...

Friday, March 17, 2006

Road rash. Writer's block. Soylent Green. Saviour. Precociousness.

One Sunday during the spring of whichever year it was that I was in the eighth grade, a classmate and I decided to take the bus to the newly-opened Mapleview Mall. I wanted to buy the cassingle for Quincy Jones's Listen Up (because it featured Big Daddy Kane and Melle Mel). But even if there wasn't anything in particular that I wanted to buy, we still would have gone, because, to suburban middle school kids, the opening of a new mall is a cultural event as exciting as fortuitously finding a stack of your uncle's Playboys, or a presidential assassination. In fact, if the lunar landing had occurred -- pretending for a moment that it actually happened, instead of being filmed on a Hollywood soundstage by Stanley Kubrick, which any intelligent person knows is the truth -- on the day a new mall opened, I and everyone I knew at the time would have chosen to visit the mall. That kind of thing doesn't happen every day, you know.

Anyway, because Ontario has this stupid thing called the GST which automatically adds like 700 dollars to anything you purchase, I didn't have enough money left for the bus home. So we walked. As we neared my house, my classmate and I noticed a lot of blood near the curb of the road which runs adjacent to my street. Obviously there had been some kind of accident. Or a stabbing. I was seriously hoping for the latter.

That hope was dashed, however, when we entered my house and I found my brother, scraped and bloodied, sitting on the downstairs bathroom toilet, holding a facecloth to his mouth.

"Hi guys," he said, almost cheerfully. Needless to say, I was spooked. He looked worse than that dude from American History X whose face Ed Norton's character stomps against a curb.

Which is sort of what happened. After entering the kitchen and getting the full story from my mother, I learned that my brother, always the competitor, had taken up a challenge to see who of his friends could achieve the fastest downhill speed on a bicycle. See, a mutual friend of ours who lived up the street had gotten a bike speedometer for his birthday (every boy's dream present), and while I and my classmate were sipping Orange Juliuses in the mall food court, my bro and his pals were playing bicycle deathrace 2000. To my brother's credit, he won. But by the time he had reached the highest downhill speed, there wasn't much street left, so he slammed on the handbrakes, they locked, and he was thrown over the handlebars, smashing his face against the curb. The poor bastard is lucky he didn't break his neck or end up with brain damage (that last point is debatable, however).

His initial, amiable stupor soon wore off, and 5 minutes after I arrived home he began howling and screaming. I thought the stupid fucker was going to die.

You're probably wondering why he and my mother were still at home instead of on their way to the hospital. Good question. The reason is because my father had gone out grocery shopping, and our other car -- a certain 1984 Buick LeSabre that frequent Psychedelic Kimchi readers will remember -- was in the shop. If cell phones were as ubiquitous then as they are today, it wouldn't have been a problem, but at the time all my mother could do was wait for my father to return. I was hoping he'd get back pretty fast, too: my brother's howls were seriously starting to freak me out. Plus I was hungry, and hoped my father would hurry the fuck home already so I could have me some Pop-Tarts.

Fifteen or so minutes later my father was back. My moms admonished him, because obviously the old man had failed to hear her psychic call. Men are stupid that way.

My brother's list of injuries was as follows: broken collar bone, broken wrist, a couple of skin grafts, and a lot of dental surgery.

These days? The guy is as ugly as ever, but not due to that boneheaded accident. He's always looked that way. Mercifully I was saved from inheriting those genes.

What's really funny, at least to me, is that the artificial crowns he got are way smaller than his originals, so that now, whenever he smiles, his incisors are more pronounced and he looks like a vampire.

As usual, there is isn't really a point to all this. But since it was the guy's birthday last week, I figured I'd give him some shine. And that lengthy intro seems as good as any. Yep, you guessed it: time for some more meandering missives:

1) This afternoon I had some free time, so I thought to myself why not do a blog entry? Bad idea. For some reason, I just can't write during the day. For me, writing anything halfway interesting before sundown is like a 90-year-old man successfully getting a hard-on: you try, but eventually give up because you realize it's not going to happen, no matter how much you want it to.

I found that out the hard way. Here's the excrement my mind vomited:

I woke up and after breakfast took my daughter outside to wait for the bus. I didn't put her coat on. It was a little chilly, because it was morning, but I knew it would warm up later. She didn't complain.

The bus is supposed to arrive at 9:13, but it was 2 minutes late. As we waited we saw some magpies fly back and forth over our heads. The little girl hid behind my leg when a mother and her two children approached. I wanted a smoke.

After the bus came and took the little girl away, I made some coffee. I drank it. I lit up a cigarette and opened the windows.

What a pleasant morning. Not too cold, but not too warm, either. Just right. Like the baby bear's bed, chair, and porridge to Goldilocks.

I watched the Clippers play at Phoenix. The Suns got off to an early lead and it was never close. Boring game.

Sometimes I wish I had a vagina.

2) How many calories are there in a can of Spam? There was nothing else around to eat yesterday, so I decided to fry up a can of the meat-jello, which had probably been with our household longer than our daughter. I cut it into three slices, and it seemed a lot for one person to consume, but I didn't want to waste any. I sprinkled the slices with salt and topped them with ketchup.

I don't expect anyone besides myself would be foolish enough to make that their lunch, but on the small chance that you one day find yourself in a similar situation and it crosses your mind, do yourself a big favor and dead the notion before it has a chance to germinate. You know you're in for some gastrointestinal punishment when you start to get painful cramps while you're consuming something. And you know you're a class-A moron when you realize it and continue eating away regardless.

A day later and I still can't burp without tasting smoked pork bi-products.

It's enough to turn a man toward vegetarianism. Almost.

3) Yesterday, while on my way home from work (with Spam juice no doubt oozing from my pores), I came across an interesting scene. A bunch of kids in tae kwon do uniforms and an old woman were standing around a tree, looking up. It didn't take me long to figure out that one of the little rapscallions had in jest thrown his mate's book bag up there. The old woman, espying me approaching with a long umbrella resting under my right arm, beckoned me to rescue the out-of-reach bag.

I agreed, dextrously navigated an abutment of large stones, and with my umbrella pried free from amongst the branches the mislaid book bag. It fell, and I managed to artfully catch it with my unengaged left hand.

My favor was met with a chorus of cheers and thank-yous. Presently I stepped down, brushed my hands off, and replied that it was no trouble, no trouble at all.

With a long umbrella as my Excalibur, I will someday make this helpless nation my kingdom.

4) Last week our daughter began attending a new pre-school. My wife and I were keen on it because they offer English lessons twice a week. When, on Tuesday, I questioned the little angel about what she learned in English class, she said "stand up, sit down."

Obviously she's far more advanced than that, so, because I want her to get some enrichment, I wrote up some possible conversation starters which my wife and I will prepare the little one to ask her teacher, beginning next Monday. They are as follows:

- Have you forgotten the face of your father, gunslinger?

- Please explain the function of a cyclotron.

- Which rapper rocked the best jheri curl?

(If her teacher fails to respond 'MC Eiht,' I have instructed the little girl to bite with exteme prejudice.)

- I shit bigger'n you.

- Do the requirements of your E-2 visa explicitly state that you have to dress like such a douchebag?

- Head or gut. Hurry up and pick one before I pick for you.

- Please pronounce this word.

[little girl hands flashcard with the word calliope written on it]

Failure to do so correctly will lead to your immediate dismissal. I know people in high places, don't think that I don't.

If I don't take steps to ensure the quality of my daughter's English learning, who will?

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Megaton B-Ball 2006

That shit just be callin' me man, it be callin' me, man... I just got to go to it!
-- Pookie, New Jack City

It's spring again
Everybody knows it's spring again
To the girls and boys and people above
This is the time to fall in love
-- Biz Markie, Spring Again

This is a very special time of year. March Madness is about to start; the NBA regular season is slowly drawing to a close, and teams are gearing up for the playoffs; and, after a slight hiccup, it's finally getting warmer and is probably going to stay that way (knock on wood) -- which means I, Dr. Julius Sparkles, will soon be dusting off my black Nikes and hitting the ball court, like Muslims making the pilgrimage to Mecca. Or rushing towards poorly-guarded overseas embassies.

I turn 28 this year, which means I'm probably at my prime as far as athletic performance is concerned. There's a lot of gas still in the tank, but I'm at that point where I'm willing to admit that some chinks are showing in the armor. It's probably all downhill after this season, so I'm going to play as frequently and as hard as possible, and pretend like it's a contract year. Watch out imaginary world -- I plan to average a triple double this season in the BPL (Bundang Pick-Up League). Those 6th graders are so toast.

That's my official prediction (if, by the way, you're in Bundang, or willing to make the trip, and want to play some ball, send me an e-mail). As for the real league -- the one I didn't create in my mind -- I have some thoughts on what the future holds for those guys, too.

New Jersey

They don't have a strong enough bench to make much noise in the playoffs. Plus, there's always a chance that Wince could fly to Mexico on the eve of a game 7 in order to put the final surgical touches on his transformation into a woman. An ugly woman with hops.


Both AIs and C-Webb are going to come strong in April. But, as with NJ, their lack of depth will prevent them from getting very far. When am I going to start seeing Free Iverson T-shirts?


Paul Pierce's awesome play this past month has come too late for them to make the playoffs. The biggest non-Pierce related story in Boston has been the emergence of Ryan Gomes (who?). If they fire Doc Rivers, they might be competitive next season.


I'm really excited that Rob Babcock won't be making this summer's draft choices. Tip for Brian Colangelo: try to get a replacement for Chris Bosh, because he's not going to stick around. Even if he says he intends to, don't listen. We've heard it before. Hell, T.O. is my home team, and even I wouldn't want to play there.

New York

I don't think Isiah could possibly make any more stupid moves, but I've been wrong about that numerous times. Look for them to try to get Kenyon Martin. I wonder how many bodyguards Isiah has. He should probably double that number. Just saying.


Ladies and gentlemen, your 2006 NBA Champions. And your runner-up for Coach of the Year (props, Avery).


First, probably the stupidest thing you could do if your a Cavs fan -- besides making Bill Bixby angry and saying "Beetlejuice" three times -- is boo Lebron. It takes a very special, stupid fanbase to do that. Congrats, Cleveland; Your fans (even if it was a minority, the rest should have beat them senseless) are dumber than Marlee Matlin. Yes, he stunk up the place in the 2nd half of that game -- but Lebron is like the hot girl whom you've implausibly convinced to go out with you, and you have to keep complimenting her if you want to have any chance of getting some pussy.

The Cavs'll get to the second round, during which Lebron will end up devouring all of his fingers (the thumbs are where the good meat is, 'Bron) on both hands. Even with stubs, he'll still be an All-Star, I predict.


Wait 'til next year, Indiana. Sound familiar? Sorry. You're not going very far this post season. Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men. Can we have Rick Carlisle quit and take the (soon to be, at least in a fair world) vacant Raptors head coaching job?


They'll hold that final playoff spot. Lucky for them their biggest threat is...


Poor Kirk Hinrich. Luke Ridnour gets an invite to tryout for Team USA and Kirk doesn't? Kirk, you're the MC Search of b-ball, and Luke is Milkbone. You're the Brokeback Mountain of hoops, Kirk. Don't worry, even if they put together a decent team, they're still going to be coached by Mike Krzyzewski, which is even dumber than hiring Larry Brown to coach the 2004 Olympic team.

Anyway, I see the Bulls making a run for KG. They'll get the 2nd pick in this summer's draft, take Adam Morisson, and then have to decide whether to trade away Hinrich or Ben Gordon. My money's on Gordon.

And they'll still have a hard time making the playoffs.


They're going to be impressive in the playoffs, but they just don't have what it takes to beat Detroit in a 7-game series. They haven't been together long enough. Then again, Detroit's bench is the Piston's Achilles heel, so maybe, just maybe...


They'll make it to the second round if they end up playing the Nets in the first.


I'd like to say that they have a strong foundation, that all the building blocks are there. But there's obviously a curse on the Magic, and Dwight Howard will probably end up blowing his knee out, Jameer Nelson will develop a drug habit, and Darko...gasp!...won't pan out. Just take a look at past Magic alumni and tell me I'm way off on this:

- Penny
- Nick Anderson's awesome free throws
- Dennis Scott
- Shaq, 3-time champ IN LA!
- Grant Hill
- T-Mac and his wonky back

I'm probably forgetting a bunch more. Point is that, if you're a professional basketball player, you have a better chance winning league MVP as Kobe's teammate than having a long, successful career with the Magic.


Call me crazy, but I see them making the playoffs next season.


Do they even have bobcats in North Carolina? I realize that there's no Jazz scene in Utah, and that there are no lakes in Los Angeles, but those teams kept their original names after moving, from New Orleans (hey, big trend!) and Minneapolis, respectively. If there are no bobcats in Charlotte, they picked a really stupid name.

(And for the record, yes, there are so dinosaurs in Toronto. Two, actually: Ed Mervish and Antonio Davis.)

San Antonio

Everyone, including myself, is questioning them right now, what with their injuries and such. But we've seen this before. If they can stay healthy, they should make the finals.

[Will Farrell voice]



Would play in the conference finals were it not for the badly-in-need-of-an-adjustment divisional playoffs structure. I still can't figure them out. They're the L's biggest enigma. Is Dirk really that good? Um, I guess he has to be, because I can't name one guy besides Josh Howard whom I'd like to have on my team, and he's far from being a superstar (good D, though).

I think they're all wearing Magneto-style helmets which prevent anyone from understanding them. My only hope is that they don't play the Suns, mercifully sparing us from hearing about how much Steve Nash and Dirk love each other.


They should change their team name to The Memphis Early First Round Exiters (I'm so witty).

New Orleans/OKC

Better luck next year, Hornets.

By the way, I was listening to Masta Ace's INC Ride a few days ago and gregariously altered the punks be all up on it like a Charlotte Hornet bit to punks be all up on it like a New Orleans/Oklahoma City Hornet. I guess you had to be there.


The future does not look bright for T-Mac. He's like one of the survivors in the Final Destination movies. The reaper finally got Stevie, Tracy: he's in Hell, aka New York. Your time is running out.

PS - I wonder what T-Back looks like when he's anesthetized. Does he ironically appear to be awake?


'Melo will win the Most Improved Player award. If I were 'Melo, I'd pull an Alex de Large and tell 'em where they can stick that award.

The Nugs will make the conference finals. *cough!*


I can see KG playing for them next season. Sure, nobody wants to live in Utah, but at least the weather is better than...


My magic 8-ball (not to be confused with my magic 8-ball, or my Magic 8-ball) says: outlook not so good.


With 'Shard set to bolt, and with Jesus not getting any younger, they're going to be even worse next season. Sad thought.


I'm going out on a limb here and predicting that they'll get the 1st pick in this summer's draft (they own their pick, don't they?). I think Rudy Gay is the only thing that can save them. Get Gay, Portland.


Amare Stoudamire will not, I repeat, will not be back this season. They're going to get upset in the first round, I can feel it.

LA Clippers

Chris Kaman would win the Most Improved Player award were he not so up-and-down. Jesus, did you see his line from yesterday? 24 pts, 23 rbs, 1 ast, 4 stls and 3 blks. Fntastc! Amzng!

It has been a great year for the Clips. Too bad they'll get bounced out of the 1st round.

LA Lakers

I watched them embarrass the Spurs at home last weekend. If they meet in the first round, and if Duncan is hurting, look for an upset. A Lakers/Spurs matchup, surprisingly, has the potential to be the first round's most exciting series.


They're going to make the playoffs, and will make the 2nd round*. Ron Artest will have an altercation -- possibly with Dirk Nowitzki -- and promptly get suspended, at least for 1 game. Just like old times.

Golden State

Everyone called me crazy when I predicted, before the season, that they wouldn't make the playoffs. They still call me crazy, but now for other reasons.

* if these playoffs predictions sound too out there (and, granted, I've predicted the Lakers, Kings and Nuggets to all make the conference semis), please keep in mind that I filled out my Final Four bracket last night and am still giddy with upset fever. Still, these are my predictions, and I'm sticking with (most of) them.

Kreskin aka Criswell*_*

Monday, March 13, 2006

Third of the Trio

You may recall this post from early last month, in which I solicited for a new contributor for Psychedelic Kimchi . Well, the wait is finally over. Our new regular, TMH, is on board. We're like Bebe's Kids over here. We don't die, we multiply.

He's going to hit you off with an inaugural post any day now. In the meanwhile, here are some brief musings:

1) I really need a name for these random thoughts posts. Believe me, Sandra Bullock Used To Be a Man was definitely not my finest hour. If you have a suggestion, send me an e-mail. So far all I've got is Mental Diarrhea. It's smart, but not solid enough.

(Please be reassured that that last part made me cringe probably as much, or more, than you are right now.)

2) ...but if I were to start a rap group, consisting of expats living in Korea, hands down we'd be called The Foreign Objects. I don't think I'm being too overzealous in pulling a Jack Horner and stating that's a great name! Since I have no plans to start a rap group, though, I'm willing to sell the rights to the name for 1 million won. Or possibly a large bag of Munchos potato crisps.

3) I don't want to sound as though I'm bragging, because, after all, it is the Internet, and not a reputable publication such as The Source (*snicker*), but my Top Ten Hip-Hop Albums list was featured on here, and Bomani Jones was kind enough to drop a comment here. Props to both. Now it's just a matter of time until Roger Ebert recognizes my gangster and chooses me as his apprentice, to take over for him when he retires/dies.

4) Why is it that so many bad things that have happened to me over the past few years involve T-shirts?

- On vacation during the summer of 2002, I paid a ridiculous amount for an Adidas soccer shirt, which I wore once and then left behind at some shitty hotel in Fredericton, New Brunswick. Maybe that was for the best, though, because my wife kept pointing out (and laughing) that the shirt was practically sheer and that she could see my nipples. Still, I hate losing shit. And that was the last time that I've lost something.

- Last summer, someone put too much bleach in the wash and ended up putting a big white circle on my lucky b-ball shirt. I haven't hit a half-court shot since.

- I recently ordered, on-line, a "variation" Captain America T-shirt: a black shirt with a red communist star on the chest. I realize that ironic shirts are about as cool these days as listening to Creed, but I don't care; that shirt was dope. I was going to wear that badboy proudly. But it was lost during delivery, and after numerous e-mails to the company from which I ordered it, I got this:

The package was sent out and should have arrived there long ago. I am afraid that the package must have been lost or stolen in transit.. There is no tracking number because it is an international order which means that the package is handed off from the US Post Office to the S. Korean Post Office.

Unfortunately, there is nothing that we can do. We do our best to ship packages as soon as possible to our customers, but since items that travel internationally are not tracked they tend to get lost or stolen.

Fucking lovely. I wish that little disclaimer was visible to me before I threw 50 dollars away, you fucking fucks (to quote Timothy Treadwell).

5) Since Salma Hayek turned my penis into an icicle, I've decided to do Psychedelic Kimochi posts only if I'm completely blown away by something beautiful. But I couldn't let this and especially this go unnoticed*. I think the lovely Ms. Han's bosom is perceived as a national security threat, at least to horny Korean teenagers. That would explain why, in every television appearance she makes (be it dramas, commercials, or otherwise), she's wearing black to deceptively conceal her ample chest, or she's wearing so many layers of clothes that she looks like Ralphie's brother from A Christmas Story. The most flagrant example of this is the recent Rush-N-Cash commercial where she's holding placards in front of her for the commercial's duration. Come on!

SK needs to make a lot of progress in many areas, and while I generally eschew politics and leave them to old angry dudes with high blood pressure, this is one issue which I can get behind and support. I believe that concealing Ms. Han's lovely pair represents a bigger issue, namely that women with large, natural chests are seen as too sexy (like that's even possible) or slutty, even. And it is my duty, I am convinced, to educate the world of this grave misconception.

Chae-young, darling, I got your back.

* if you're having trouble with this one, blame it on the man. Here's an alternative, though I'm pretty sure it's been photoshopped to withhold the truth .

Saturday, March 11, 2006

Spring Cleaning -- Full Metal Jacket

Despite its second act paling in comparison to the film's first 45 minutes, Stanley Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket still remains a great movie to me. There's really not much more to be said. It's a Kubrick film. The shots are awesome. Blue and yellow make green.

Some quick thoughts:

1) Lee Ermey and Vincent D'Onofrio not being nominated for Best Supporting Actor Oscars was a heinous injustice.

2) The rock-and-roll soundtrack made me yawn this time around, but maybe that's because I've seen too many fucking flicks about Vietnam. Seriously, I think it's required by law that, if you're making a picture about the war in Vietnam, you have to use one of the following songs: Voodoo Chile, The End, or Paint It Black.

3) Did you know that Danny Elfman, for the film Dead Presidents (criminally underrated, by the way), ripped off Kubrick's daughter's score? It's true.

4) If I had to pick my favorite film starring Matthew Modine, this would be the one. But it'd be tough, because there are so many other great Modine films out there.

Current "To Watch" List

Seven Samurai
Training Day
Once Upon a Time in America
Gangs of New York

Psychedelic Kimochi?

As LL once stated, Naw, I don't think so.,%20Salma

I no longer believe in anything. Salma has devolved from being hotter than the Globetrotters in the Bahamas to resembling former WWE wrestler Chyna (or Jaws from The Spy Who Loved Me).

A sad, sad day. Salma, how did that glass windshield you ate for breakfast taste?

Friday, March 10, 2006

Grizzly Man -- Review

(Note: I've been fucking around lately and haven't watched any of the DVDs on my Spring Cleaning list. My bad. Hopefully I'll be able to check out Full Metal Jacket tonight or tomorrow night. As always, this note is more for me than it is for you, Dear Reader. I did however get a chance to see Grizzly Man, and was compelled to write a review.)

Had Werner Herzog's Grizzly Man been released when I was in high school, I probably would have watched it a hundred times. As it is, after watching it today, I immediately rewatched it. It's that good.

Grizzly Man is a documentary about Timothy Treadwell, a man who spent 13 consecutive summers in Alaska, amongst grizzly bears and with no protection, almost exclusively alone, until 2003 when he and his girlfriend were finally attacked and eaten. I used the word "finally" because I think anyone with some sense in their head would guess that, sooner or later, the guy was going to end up as bear fodder. But who's to say, really? We find out late in the film that the day Timothy and his girlfriend, Amie Huguenard, were eaten, they were all set to fly home when Timothy had an argument with an airport clerk and summarily decided they would return to the wilderness. Had they left that day, perhaps Timothy would be preparing for his 16th summer with the grizzlies in Alaska.

Werner Herzog certainly doesn't think so. At the start of the film, Herzog, who narrates throughout, says that he decided to tell Treadwell's story because he felt there was art in it. But that's all bullshit. While Timothy Treadwell was certainly a very unique character, it's obvious by the film's conclusion that Herzog's real point is that Tim Treadwell was an idiot, his death inevitable. While I don't exactly share his bleak, misanthropic outlook on the nature of the universe, one quote Herzog makes rang very true for me:

"And what haunts me, is that in all the faces of all the bears that Treadwell ever filmed, I discover no kinship, no understanding, no mercy. I see only the overwhelming indifference of nature. To me, there is no such thing as a secret world of the bears. And this blank stare speaks only of a half-bored interest in food."

Look, no one in their right mind would choose to live with grizzly bears, which are probably the most ferocious, most dangerous animals on the planet. And certainly no one would choose to do so without any kind of protection. What's even more perplexing is that Treadwell's purpose in living with the grizzlies is never quite explained. He often says he is there to protect them (an Alaskan bear biologist explains that the grizzly population is very strong, by the way), but when some tourists are caught on film throwing rocks at a grizzly, all he can do is hide in the bushes and bemoan the atrocity in a whisper. Just what his purpose there was, and why he initially decided to live with the grizzlies each summer, is never fully explained. Perhaps only Tim Treadwell knew why.

Watching the documentary, we learn that Treadwell was once an alcoholic, that he nearly died of a drug-related overdose, and that, after moving to Hollywood, he tricked new acquaintances that he was Australian and spoke with a poor Australian accent (hey! just like Mel Gibson!). We also get the impression that he's a manic-depressive, and possibly a closeted homosexual. Watching him speak in front of the camera, it's very apparent that he's a few triangles short of a Triforce, and this is mostly what makes the film so engaging. My guess is that Treadwell never acknowledged even the tiniest possibility that a bear might eat him, because, if he did, he surely wouldn't have acted so weird on video. Almost everything he says is so out there, so ridiculous. Perhaps it's in poor taste to laugh at a dead man, but I think when that man was stupid enough to believe he was some kind of kindred spirit with the bears, that makes him fair game.

But Treadwell isn't the only one who is a riot. Herzog himself sounds like someone doing a bad German accent, even though he is actually German. How that is, I don't know, but watch the documentary and tell me I'm wrong. Also, the speeches by most of the interviewees, particularly the coroner, appear so scripted that I almost have a hard time buying that Herzog wasn't encouraging them to overact. A scene where Treadwell's ex, Jewel Palovak, is given the watch removed from Timothy's severed arm, or another where Treadwell's ashes are scattered in the Alaskan wild are so awkwardly funny that Herzog must have intended them to play that way, perhaps as a way for him to deride these people without openly calling them jackasses.

Maybe I'm immature, but I found the film, particularly Treadwell's bizarre elocutions and Herzog's narration, hilarious. But that's not all it is. At its core it's an interesting tale of one man's Quixotic quest to live with the grizzlies, and the tragic consequences that eventually followed. It's funny, but also quite haunting.

It's not a documentary, at least in the strictest sense, but it's nevertheless a film which I will revisit very, very often.