Psychedelic Kimochi (aka "Mom, there's nothing interesting on the Internet!")

Okay, okay...since I've been under a lot of pressure from work,

(I've been getting drunk a lot and starting fights with random passersby)

I haven't had time to a) compose a log* of today's exciting Game 4 between the Suns and the San Antoniobanderas Suckerpunches (Ill Mare, baby! By the way, why isn't Steve Nash's name mentioned more often these days when it comes to the game's premier clutch players? MF is dependable like sanitary undergarments), b) write up a review of Babel (an amazing flick that falls apart in its final act; I want nihlism, dammit! That bad boy was set up to be a crushing nutpunch of tragedy, yet winds up having a happy-ending-that-isn't-really-that-happy-nor-too-bittersweet. I like my films like I like my tea: hot and steamy, or cold and icy. Fuck that lukewarm shit. If I invest nearly two and a half hours of my valuable time** preparing for an emotional high or low, I tend to feel a little ripped off when all I get is the cinematic equivalent of a silent fart. I'm sorry, I know the story's conclusion is more or less realistic and doesn't rely on cheap sentimentality or pathos, but if I wanted to prepare myself for a would-be tragedy which turns out to be somewhat the opposite and contains a subdued sense of hope, I'd watch Oprah interview burn victims who've become concert pianists. The film's biggest problem: there is no real antagonist, and indeed the theme seems to be that the events which transpire are nobody's fault but Fate's. Maybe that's innovative, but for me it was far from interesting. Have Cate Blanchett die; Have the cops shoot to death the two brothers and their father; have the two Caucasian kids die in the desert and their housekeeper expire from dehydration; have the housekeeper's nephew get hit head on by an eighteen-wheeler while on the run from po-po; have the deaf/mute Japanese girl take a dive, ELO-style, from her highrise; end the film with a close-up of her anguished father realizing all the destruction his innocent gift hath wrought. THAT would have been one motherfucking heartwrenching film experience, boy. I must say, I did appreciate the nudity, though.), and c) call back the Matron Saint of PK regarding a follow-up interview; but if you're anything like Idealjetsam (nee Mr. T; the theme for May -- both prayed for and, in some cases, granted -- has been one of returns, and it's nice to see homeboy's handle back in ack; it's like when The Artist Formerly Known As dropped that effed-up symbol and came back as Prince. Matter of fact, it's EXACTLY like that. And if you don't think I'm going to start referring to dude as The Purple Playboy, you don't know me very well.), points A and B matter about as much as a Uwe Boll movie, so, Great White Spark, stop stalling and show me the goods.

(If you read all that without pause, Constant Retard, I'm buying you a double-scoop chocolate chip mint ice cream. With guitars!)

Truthfully, though (alright! be patient a little longer, okay!?), I HAVE been concocting something in the few days between posts: a short story that I may or may not toss up here. Depends upon whether I can strike the right balance between touching somberness, bizarre humor, and a lingering aftertaste of eternal hope. Right now we're in the fetal stage, and I'm not that hype about it, but I'm confident that if I spend more time on it -- rather than fruitlessly composing brick paragraphs with the sole intention of confusing what little readership I have left, say -- I can pull it off. After all, I'm Tiberious aka Sparkles. And you're not.

Hey, isn't it weird that a post which was supposed to excuse myself for mailing it in has taken up the better part of an hour? Shit, I gotta get back to "work."

If there's a metaphor here (and with me there always is; you're just too slow to figure it out), it's that waiting is the hardest part. Enjoy the loveliness of Harumi Nemoto. If, however, you failed to read the above, and simply scrolled down to look at her chest rock-wells***, well sir, may you get shot on a bus in Morocco and eventually survive. I'm wrathful/beneficent like that.

But I can't make any promises that your illegal-immigrant housekeeper won't get deported.





* Of the intangible variety

** (snicker)

*** That's awful, I know. But throw the noodle at the wall and see if it sticks, right?