Spiritual Fibrosis

With the -possible- exception of Denz, it would seem as if we here at Psychedelic Kimchi are a collection of lazy bastards. As of late, we haven't been posting much, and readers (all twelve and a half of us) may be wondering just what the future holds for Black Sabbath's illigetimate Korean offspring, and by extension, the human race as a whole.

Surely, there is reason for some concern. For starters, Elgin Perkins is looking to foreclose on our property, and by god, we've been doing our best to locate pirate gold. That shit takes time, and Kerri Green, so bear with us. Furthermore, while I can scarcely divulge too much information, suffice it to say that:
A) Yes, Doomsday has indeed fallen upon the fair metropolis of Bundang, but let fear not beat upon the breast of the faint: Superman never dies, he merely takes a breather. Call it a hunch.
B) Speaking of catastrophe, some folks have been whispering about the demise of Pyeongchon's resident champion, but again, do not abandon all hope just yet. During his absence, I promise to hunt down the venomous perpetrator at any cost, and chances are, it shall be a bitter, visceral confrontation upon Subway Line #4.
C) You may be weary of the comic book allusions, and that's cool, because the rest of the Psychedelic Kimchi crew have merely been enjoying the holidays -and/or numerous trysts- and are thus otherwise distracted, albeit momentarily.

In lieu of anything pertinent, I offer to you, dear readers, a few nonsensical ruminations.

First of all, whatever happened to Irene Cara? I mean, she was on Hit Me Baby 1 More Time, but who gives a fuck about that? For that matter, some may question my ability to give a fuck about Irene Cara whatsoever, and that's a valid question. My response is, invariably, to posit the sheer greatness of the masterwork that is Breakdance. Don't hold out on us, Irene, we know you have another hit in you.

Second on the agenda, Catharine Maria Sedgwick. This rant does not pertain to her body of work; as A New England Tale is "woman's fiction" (forgive the brief quotation of Nina Baym, as we're looking at round six of Jack Daniels here), and Redwood, while mildly interesting, does little to arouse modern sensibilities, to say the very least. Even Hope Leslie, Sedgwick's premier work, isn't that spectacular overall, but it does provide us with a few intriguing characters. I can't help but wonder about Everell Fletcher's role as the colonial, prototypical player extraordinaire. Here's a guy, seemingly a garden variety chump, with three women that pine over him like it's going out of style. The eponymous title character, Hope; the stout, perpendicular Puritan, Esther Downing; and the articulate, cool-as-fuck Magawisca.
Throughout the aforementioned novel, Sedgwick presents Fletcher as a strait-laced douchebag, and yet the three female protagonists fawn over him like he just won the goddamn Price Is Right Showcase Showdown. Esther, for example, is tempted to forego (or forgo, if you're like that) her religious convictions, while Hope is, well, just a cliche, and Magawisca, she gets her arm chopped off (by her own father) for being in love with the guy. Still, at numerous points throughout the text, the best Fletcher can manage are gems like "I might have loved [Magawisca]-might have forgotten that nature had put barriers between us." Good work, dick.
I understand that you were a lifelong spinster, Miss Sedgwick, but there's no need to portray every single male as a vacuous, obtuse piece of shit. On the other hand, Sedgwick, I should be thanking you for the creation of Magawisca, who was, arguably, the greatest female character of nineteenth century American literature. Note: This should be the topic of a secondary, 'meaningful' post, perhaps, but my brain has been akin to Swiss cheese as of late.

Thirdly, a ponderation: Hard to Kill or Die Hard, which can be overplayed more? I've enjoyed my sojourn here as much as any random foreigner, but still, what is with Korea's fascination? Don't even get me started on Castaway. During my initial stint in a Korean hagwon, a guy was hired based upon the fact that, in his photo, he (to paraphrase) 'looks like Tom Hanks, from Castaway' and no, the guy looked nothing like Mr. Hanks, whatsoever.

Last, and most decidedly least, the Sonic Boom. Where would 1993 be without it?

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Hati (asterisk-free and writhing through every minute of it)