Sex and Bears [sic]

As I told K-Hot the other weekend, a few hours before he drunkenly stumbled out of Cheers and wound up Ahia Njoku knows where (anma?), PK is hitting on all cylinders these days: the posts are on a higher level than years passed (directionless nostalgia, shitty poetry, and hotdogs, RIP), the team is cooler than Fisherman's Friend, and Denz's redesign of the site gives your girl the vapors.

I am a proud father.

It wouldn't have been this way were it not for the contributions, both materially and literary, of my blessed co-conspirators. Check the resume, the site was pretty much dead in the water for the earlier part of this year; but tenacity kept hope alive, hope gave birth to redemption, and the rest is history in the making*. A bold leap forward, in 2007 and beyond, Psychedelic Kimchi is finna knock off your collective socks. Envision and execute.

Please don't mistake those sentiments as a delusion of grandeur, however. I realize that I am a legend in my own mind, and I also understand that, for most, PK is not an easy read. (I believe "organized confusion" was the definition I gave K-Hot many moons ago.) But -- word to Milk D -- I don't care. I've never been a huge fan of David Lynch, but whenever I watch one of his films/Twin Peaks, I ignore all of the abstruse decorations -- and there are many for that worthy -- and let my mind soak in the effortless wonder of a man doin' his own dang. Word to Mike Gee.

Taking of these cape and tights for a second, I'm my own worst critic. Really. I will concede, I've never met a comma I didn't like; I've abused the semi-colon so much that several lawsuits are pending; if I ever have a son -- that I know about -- I'm going to name him Dash; I use more brackets** than the entire world's population does every March; similes are tossed about hapazardly, like leprechauns playing volleyball with a hand grenade; I am oftentimes repetitive; I am oftentimes repetitive; my humor, when it isn't crude, insulting, or esoteric, is usually unfunny; my seemingly-cheerful manner belies a tortured heart; and I tend to use the same fragmented style to end paragraphs. Word to myself.

Seasons change, but, like that time you and your brother asked your mom whom she would save if you were both drowning, Psychedelic Kimchi switching up its mode is ridiculous, preposterous, out of the question***.

How could you ask such a question, Philip?

Ride or die.





*I'm the Arthur Dove of this blog shit.

** and asterisks

*** Unless, that is, I get money and fame, in which case I'm going to sell out faster than Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows will tomorrow. Cocaine is expensive!