The Nerve

My name is Luca
I live on the second floor
I live upstairs from you

Not to get all meta on y'all, but I was at a loss for words, literally, after reading denz's poetic recognition of the blood, sweat, and beers I've put into this starting way back in 2005, when roundballs were tan like the back of a Cuban's hand. That was unequivocally the best post this

(movement*)

blog has seen in a few moons. Maybe I'm biased. D, I got mad love for you. No Omar Little.

So anyway, tonight I got home from

(Burger King)

work and took a shower (in the place from which all funky thoughts must come), all the while wondering what the fuck I was going to write about. The Wire? Start a petition to dead the new NBA "ball"? Psychedelic Kimochi (easy like Sunday morning and shoplifting)?

After getting dressed, I decided that anything I'd write would probably sound forced, and that it was best to take an L on the evening. It's not quantity, but quality, after all. Word to Slater.

What the hell, I told myself, Nancy only reads PK on her day off, anyway, so how's about we spend our Tuesday night leisure time** another way, for a change?

I was resigned to my fate. Still, to keep hope alive I threw on my black Charles Taylors and walked downstairs for a square. That's my failsafe measure.

And, behold! the Psychedelic Kimchi God truly is beneficent (and just), for, unlike Old Mother Hubbard's dog, I was thrown a bone from heaven, Deux ex machina style.

Before we continue, an explanation:

Not counting the owners -- who live upstairs -- of the building in which we live (because old people don't count), there are six families which inhabit this blessed dwelling, all of them (yours truly's naturally included) swell like 짱구's head after he backtalks his moms. A minister lives next door with his wife and two children. They're nice. Downstairs, two large, separate families reside (I feel cramped here with the three of us; how the folks downstairs don't wind up attempting to murder each other is beyond me). And in the two basement apartments live two more families of considerable size (word to John Holmes). We're always cordial to one another. We pass 반찬 like J-Kidd throws dimes. Everything is peace in the (y)east.

Or was, until one of the cellar-dwelling famlies moved out in October, and in moved She Hate Me.

Look, I'm not a bad guy. I work hard. I take care of my family. I say my prayers and eat my vitamins like a good Hulkamaniac. Shit, save a propensity for foul language***, I'm a regular choir boy. Put it this way: I do harm unto others like AC Green got laid in the latter half of the 20th century.

Someone tell that to the matron of apartment B101, though. She thinks I'm the motherfucking devil's son-in-law. Word to Eazy-E.

How it all started I haven't the foggiest, but, from early on, it was obvious that she was all If I see this guy Tiberious Sparkles, oh, it's gonna be a problem.

Whatever; she lives in the basement, I live on the 2nd floor. So I took the higher ground. I didn't flinch when she would scoff as we crossed paths; I always bowed and said 안녕하세요, despite her cold reception. Turn the other cheek and all that.

But tonight...boy. Outside smoking a square, trying feebly to turn water into wine****, I was extinguishing my filthy habit just as my non-microfibre enemy happened to walk by. I was on my way in, but yielded the right of way to her; and because I don't like shadowing people, I waited a few seconds before proceeding indoors, taking out my cell phone to check my text messages.

Then -- word to Joan of Arc -- I heard a voice. I turned the corner to find Enemy Mine standing at the top of the landing leading down to her (cave) apartment.

She shouted at me. Me!

Translated from the Korean: "Don't try to pretend you're not following me, you bastard!"

It took me a second to register her oath (What can I say, I'm slow), and by the time I did she was already slamming the door to her (coven's lair) apartment. Nonplussed like a motherfuck, I ambled upstairs and...well, I'm right here, relating this odd occurrence to you*****.

As always, there's no real point behind this, save perhaps the adage that smoking will kill you. But I realized three things this evening:

1) This post, for all its verbosity, could have been summed up in the following Korean exclamation 정말 열받았어!. I'll leave it up to you to determine which is better.

2) I currently have 1-and-a-half crazy females in my life, and I need another like I need wool underwear.

3) One bad apple don't spoil the whole bunch, girl.




* Word to Marky Mark.

** Did somebody say hot dogs?

*** And pr0n, natch.

**** Though unintentional, there's a Christload of biblical allusions in this here post. Proof-reading (I do so!), I was like "holy shit!" Thank you, I'll be here all week. Try the vegetable 호빵.

***** Hi, Mom.