More like a lobotomy. Day of atonement. Where's Nitti? He's in the car. Impatient.

When I was in the tenth grade, one movie my friends and I were dying to see -- god only knows why -- was Brainscan. Trouble was, the film was rated R, and we were either 15 or 16 years old (I fell into the former category; in fact, sometimes people tell me I still look that age). But with a film such as Brainscan, one can't allow age restrictions to discourage one from seeing possibly the finest work cinema has to offer, so we set about making fake student ID cards. It was easier than Eric Wright; all we needed were a typwriter and laminating machine. One of my friends handled the typwriting (fucker typed my name crooked, though), and we lamenated the cards at a nearby Mail Boxes Etc.

The night Brainscan opened (look out, Star Wars' box office record), our anticipation was palpable. This was to be a generation-defining experience, we felt.

I don't think I need to tell you that kids are, for the most part, stupid.

Anyway, once we got to the head of the queue and tried to procure our tickets, the ticketing girl asked to see our IDs and called the manager over. That worthy took one look at our cards and said "give me a fuckin' break."

I won't lie to you, some of us despaired then, myself included. A few others tried to remain undaunted, saying this turn of events was only a minor setback. Two of them so adamantly wanted to see the movie that they tried to sneak into the theater without paying. And that was the last I ever heard of them.

A few others suggested we buy tickets to another movie and then try to sneak into Brainscan, but by then every single Cineplex Odeon employee, from the ushers to the greasy-looking kids at the concession stand, were alerted to our plight, and they united to ensure we would not under any circumstances enter that theater.

We had to admit our defeat. Nevertheless, we vowed, only the battle was lost, not the war.

That Sunday afternoon, I and two friends made our second attempt, our second run, if you will. Our strategy was that we would have a better chance of getting into the theater if we broke up into smaller groups and went at different times. Plus, we thought, if a different girl was working the ticket window we might be able to get in using the fake IDs. After all the time spent making them, those fucking things had to be good for something

But, fuck a duck, guess who the first person we saw upon entering the place was. The goddam manager. "Don't sell these kids tickets to Brainscan" were the first words out of his mouth.

We then had to buy tickets to the Madeleine Stowe/Drew Barrymore masterpiece Bad Girls, still intending to sneak into Brainscan. But the manager, who I swear appointed himself our nemisis, posted sentry outside of the theater to Brainscan the duration of the show. Seriously, in intervals one of us would cut out of Bad Girls, only to see that prick vigilantly standing there, as smug as a cat.

Game. Set. Match.

Later that afternoon I vowed to watch Brainscan as soon as it was released on laser disc.

I've yet to see it, though my best friend E did half a year later, and at the time he said to me "what the fuck were we thinking? That movie sucks."

And with that, the 2nd of my planned Movies I Once Looked Forward To With Great Enthusiasm But Never Watched trilogy, I give you Psychedelic Kimchi: The Director's Cut:

1) Something about bugs today, man. First, during commercial breaks of the Miami Heat/New Jersey Fuck Off And Dies, Game 2, I intermittingly caught parts of Paul Verhoeven's underrated gem Starship Troopers. Later, when my wife came home, I noticed an inch worm crawling on the front of her T-shirt (lucky worm). Upon my wife's request -- nay, demand -- I was about to squash it like the proverbial species of which it belongs, but the thing started wriggling endearingly, not unlike Slimy, Oscar the Grouch's pet worm. Well, I can be a cold-blooded murderer at times, but even I have my limits. Instead, what I tried to do was pry the thing from my wife's shirt and place it outside our windowsill. And how was my philanthropy* rewarded? The thing pissed on me and I dropped it behind our computer desk.

I think it's still there.

That wasn't the end of today's bug theme, either. A few hours later, while walking through the park, what felt like a raindrop hit the top of my head. Because it was a clear, sunny day, I was naturally suspicious, and dabbed at the spot with my fingers. What I saw afterwards was a glob of fluorescent green goo that was unmistakably bug shit.

Karma is very real, my friends. Think about that the next time you get drunk and eat beondegi, baby killer.

2) Speaking of the Miami Heat's crushing defeat of those sissy boys from New York Lite, what's up with Dwyane Wade hitting 3-for-3 from beyond the arc? Wow. Keep showing me good stuff like that, Flash. It took you a while, but I believe you've finally clued in that chicks dig the long ball.

PS - If Vince offers to buy you a drink, keep it in your hand the entire time. Never leave it unattended, you hear me?

3) Last month, I discovered that my wife, unbeknownst to me, has been taking driving lessons. I know it sounds like a formulaic sitcom plot, but it's true. I was initially peeved that she didn't tell me, but I've since warmed to the idea (this however does not mean we will buy a car anytime soon, and you know it, Wifey).

So last Saturday I was feeling gregarious and quizzed her on what to do when one wants to make a lane change.

"Um, first you turn on your blinker," she said.

"Uh huh."

"Then you look in your rearview mirror," she continued.

"Yes, yes."

"And then you change lanes!"

"Honey," I said "what about checking your blind spot?"

"What's a blind spot?" she asked.

I explained, but she obviously wasn't taught what a blind spot is. In fact, she looked at me as though I had two heads.

As you can see, this explains a lot.

4) It has been nearly 6 years since Survivor debuted, and still, to my knowledge, there hasn't been a reality TV-related death. This is incredible. Only the Pistons' run of good health trumps the fact in its unlikeliness.

* That's the wrong word, but fuck me if I know the right one.