Oh, Steve's seen some shit. But he makes some great albums now. Plus, he's on "The Wire". So there you go.
Somewhere between the 1930s and today we forgot that you didn't have to be a total pansy to write well. It may, in fact, inform and improve writing to have actually had some experiences in your life. Otherwise you get sucked into meta-navel gazing, and there's a place for that.
But there's also a place for hardcore troubadours.
(Only available on the Special Edition 8-track "PK 27: Funky 4 Plus 4 More," to be released in the fall of the year 49311. Order now from Amazon and receive a fossilized replica of my tortured soul, replete with kung-fu grip.)
I dedicate this to sports analogies, doppelgangers, and redundancy (write that on my epitaph!).
As though explanations were necessary,
(where were you last night when my refrigerator, disguised as a refrigerator, bit me and stole three of my golf shirts?)
I don't even like Buck 65. If there's a sub-genre of rappers whose fanbase considers themselves neo-intellectuals because their favorite poster boy for watered-down angst delivery doesn't shave, is white, and employs a rhyme scheme reminiscent of the Beastie Boys' MCA with autism, Buck 65 might be their rhyming hero. To me he's just a so-so MC with a funny Nova Scotian accent who looks extremely constipated when he spits (an incurable disease for white Canadian MCs, it appears).
That said, don't dismiss '463' or Buck 65. The kid's got talent. He keeps working on his swing, he's finna do some damage in years to come. With some polish, a call up to the majors might not be far away.
American Grafitti End Credits: Since the '463' video, Buck has continued to play in the minors, though he did compose and perform a rap song on Sesame Street, and for that I am -- honestly -- extremely jealous.
Sparkles often informs me that people generally get what they deserve, and the frequency of this philosophical gem comes second only to his notion that evolution is overrated. That second, more prevalent proclamation is regularly precipitated by my sinking of pool balls with mad accuracy, at the expense of his victory.
I should get one of those Cap'n Crunch decoder rings, because I'm just not clever enough to decipher such Eoinisms all on my own. I am also unable to fully appreciate the humor in him spinning around, arms outstretched, while yelling 'ULTRA COMBO!'.* The fact that he prefers to do it to random passersby doesn't help the situation, either.
This is my classy, roundabout way of bringing up one my PK 27 selections, just in case you're too hammered to see through my intricate ruse of buffoonery:
All the Kids Are Right, by Local H
I'll spare you any excessive reproduction of lyrics, save the following.
First the band looked wired
Then the band looked tired
Sluggish and a little slow
He's walking through the set
As drunk as he could get
And what the hell was wrong with Joe**?
Sometimes we're not as good as we'd like to be, and at others we're just lazy (or inebriated), and I'm not quite sure why that is, just as I can scarcely comprehend the mysteries of one Tiberious aka Sparkles. But it's okay, even if you won't wear our T-shirts anymore.
_________
Hati
* Okay, I get it. It still doesn't change the fact that it's dumb, even if it has gotten him laid at least four times. By women. (And) Don't even get me started on Sparkles' propensity to chant 'Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, select, start' to ladies at bars.
** Who is that guy? You decide.
This should be played at a high volume, preferably with headphones, in a dark, secluded area.
My apologies* for the easy layup. If it's any consolation, Mom, I wasn't going to post anything, except "decapitation" was 18 across in today's paper, and it reminded me of the scene above. (Tomorrow's post: Don't End Sentences with a Preposition.)
* You know what, fuck that. What's up with bloggers (read: me) apologizing all the time? "Sorry I was too busy jerking off/taking my schnauzer to the vet/cutting individual letters out of various magazines and pasting them on ransom notes; I promise**, regular blogging will resume when I break up with my girlfriend and get fired."
** Fuck promises, too.
Fuckin' in the Bushes - Oasis
I'm assuming track one will be some goddamned skit involving members of the Wu-Tang clan. If I had it my way, we'd go back in time and jack the Midnight Marauders intro. Either that or Nas' Genesis. But we're all out of plutonium, and water crackers, Einstein, so there'll be no time travel tonight.
Skit aside, PK needs some opening theme music. And this, in my mind, is what it's all about:
We put this festival on, you bastards
With a lotta love
We worked for one year for you pigs
And you wanna break our walls down
And you wanna destroy us
Well you go to hell...
And afterall, we're the Oasis of the blog world.
Tell me I'm wrong, Jesus.
"Though odds were against us, I still took a chance."
My biographer recently asked me what song I consider the most romantic. Normally, this would be a question which would include a lot of introspection on my part, were it not for the fact that -- my twelfth-grade Creative Writing teacher, Ms. Brewer, is probably smoldering after that last part; in Constable Brewer's class, writing the phrase "were it not for the fact that" was considered akin to eating the charred flesh of burnt babies -- I've contemplated the question myself for the better part of a year.
In the Sparkles's Library of Romantic Songs, a lot of books have been checked out and returned late, but none moreso than Man Oh Man (I Wanna Go Back), by Curtis Mayfield and The Impressions.
Mayfield sings "I found you at last, with love at first sight," and, like a glove, I can find no better analogy or tired cliche to explain how heavenly this song fits.
I've fallen in and out of love not a few times in my laugh now-cry later life, and throughout it all has been the cooingly soothing voice of Curtis Mayfield, reminding me of the sweetness of time. And I'll never forget, no I'll never forget.
A chance in a lifetime was with us that night.
I post this for no reason other than to document that Battles is biting the Wonder Twins.
In case you're not a canine and didn't quite catch those lyrics, they go:
Beefaroni, Beefaroni
Eoin's sandwich
Why open eyes is an eyelid island?
I feel like Nas after peeping the album cover for Ready to Die.
Chuck Bronson time.
I one the sandbox: This week, the 18th Letter will begin kindergarten at the elementary school I attented as a kid. Circle of life. Unlike the old man, here's hoping she graduates. (6th grade was hard!)
Make like a tree and get out of here: Language is a powerful thing, and this point was recently driven home when, last night, I watched The Exorcist on Korean cable, where such shocking proclamations as "your mother sucks cocks in Hell" and "stick your cock up his ass, you cocksucking faggot" were replaced with "your mother is in Hell" and "don't make me laugh." Which partially explains why, tonally, William Friedkin's masterpiece of horror isn't considered as terrifying as it is in the west. It also explains why the film is rated 15+ on the penninsula. TVNgels is 19+ and The Exorcist is 15+. Go figure.
Who's gonna take the weight?: Further proof that I am a man with a child's mind, this morning I woke up and weighed myself on the bathroom scale I keep in my kitchen. 69.6 kilograms. Then I drank a liter of water and weighed myself again. 69.6 kilograms. I cry bullshit. I want my money back for the scale, and if the warranty has expired, I figure I can easily sell it to an underachieving, optimistic dieter.
Taurus: David Fincher's Zodiac is a great film. I was inrigued for every 256 minutes of it's duration, even the part in the middle where Jake Gyllenhaal had to take his dog for a walk, clean his bathroom, and cook tomato soup. Zodiac, like sniffing glue and eating semi-live octopus, is a terrific experience, one which I loved yet don't wish to repeat. Because if 300 taught me anything, it's that you need to skew history a bit to make it rewatchable (why the fuck wasn't Ione Skye riding a rhinoceros?). Otherwise, I might as well go back to school like Rodney Dangerfield or Johnny Depp and Peter Deluise, Mr. Fincher. No thanks (unless I get to have a gun and take down drug dealers). And Mark Ruffalo stating that he's been a police detective for 25 years is perhaps the most incredibly unbelievable line delivered in cinematic history. Ruffalo -- who has a funny surname and talks as though his jaw were wired shut -- is 39, although he looks much, much younger. Word to Tim Olyphant. I am supposed to belive this baby-faced marble-mouth has been on the force 25 years? You'd be more successful convincing me Vince Carter has male gonads.
If a train leaving Topeka...: It took me 25 years, but I finally discovered how foolscap paper got its name. Which makes me feel smart. 20-years-old-Brain Age-level smart. Hopefully by the time I'm 70 I'll have learned how a bowling ball and wedding band can fall to the ground at the same speed, and why lions and flamingoes can't make babies.
Dogs are forever in the push-up position:
Remember that night I told you I wanted a picture of the way your face looked an inch or two from my own as you lay next to me because I had seen your face a million times but never in that way? Maybe my eyes were crossed or weren't focused well enough to see your flaws is what you said demurely, and I said you had none. You touched your forehead and sighed, then smiled preciously a moment later when you looked into my eyes and saw how hurt I was that you mistook my genuine honesty as some sort of practised line.
Remember that?
Do you recall the time we went to the amusement park and I marveled over the photograph displayed after we rode the Amazon Adventure coaster because your face was buried in fear while mine was unbridled glee personified, and I wanted to purchase the photo as testement of our stark differences yet mutual pleasure -- I believe you brought up the sexual symbolism, not me -- but you didn't want me to, and I conceded because the glossy photograph would only tell part of the story, while the entire novel was nestled comfortably in my head (still is; always will be)?
Sound familiar?
Think hard. I mean REALLY think. Do you remember the night -- when we first met, this was -- we stayed up watching TV, paying absolutely no attention to whatever was on the tube at the time, staring at it instead as a beacon, a lighthouse guiding you and me to each other? I kissed the back of your neck and held you in my arms for a thousand years.
Nothing?
How's this, then? Do you remember when I promised to love you forever, till the day I die, that I would never stop loving you?
Ring a bell?
Of course not.
Because this is not about you.
Yesterday morning, a day like any other, I awoke, tamed my piss boner* so that I could urinate the way God intended (not in the shower), smoked a square or five, and killed Dracula.
And I'd like to say that that last morsel was the highlight of my day. (Word to Lester Burnham.) I'd like to, but I can't.
Certainly, I felt a sense of triumphant accomplishment. Dracula, like The Sound and the Fury and Bo Jackson in Tecmo Bowl, is hard to tackle. Took me a few days, but finally I made that pasty-faced dandy kneel before Emperor Spark. And I believed I had finished a game which -- my sincerest apologies, Constant Retards -- had consumed and obsessed me so for almost a month.
But I was fooled.
Castlevania: Portrait of Ruin is the drug, the Nintendo DS Lite its vessel. Tiberious aka Sparkles: Psychedelic Victim and potential casualty.
My soul needs saving.
See, PoR, or any similar game for that matter, is fun: it's superbly well-designed and intricate, and provides hours -- or am I just slow? After all, it took me a few days to read Deathly Hallows -- of non-sexual, non-corporeal enjoyment; but do I really want to spend most of my time with it when I could put both my brain and body to better use?
Of course not. Right?
Right?
The notion (fear?) that video games are addictive and dangerous was pretty much deaded by most in the late 90's and early aughts when everyone and their meth-addled goldfish succumbed, Invasion of the Body Snatchers-style, to the Internet age. For that I was thankful. For that I felt redeemed.
You know what, ALL CAPS JACK KIRBY THOR BLURB STYLE: REDEMPTION NO LONGER!
Here's why:
I am a completist, albeit a poor one. I never mailed in for limited edition Star Wars or G.I. Joe action figures, nor did I read the shitty Internet comics which supposedly make The Matrix trilogy 0.01% less confusing and conversely 100 000 000% more convoluted; but when it comes to video games, I want it all like Warren G.
Castlevania: Portrait of Ruin, if I am to master every weapon (a Herculean feat perfect for prison inmates serving life), complete every quest, conquer The Nest of Evil, and finish the game on Richter, Sisters, and Old Ax Armor modes, will consume my very soul, I'm positive.
Apparently, there are people who have done just that, which amazes me profoundly. It also scares me, for anyone with enough time on his hands to perFECT PoR is probably jobless and will continue to be so, or is a student wasting his time mastering a fucking video game instead of memorizing irregular German verbs or how to suture a displaced sexual organ.
Me, I'm in a precarious position: I killed Dracula, so why does it feel as though stepping aside and getting on with my life makes me a quitter? Why do I hear a voice saying "you never finish anything" when I try to walk away?
Moreover, why do I feel a video game will somehow validate my cred as an AANG?
Beats you, beats me.
(But I'm still going to master that sucker. Just to prove a point. To no one.)
* aka the breakfast of champions, for some. (Not Allison Stokke.)
When I'm not busy saving the world from hunger and stupidity, I devise plans to further cement my place as a cultural deity. Oftentimes these plans include recycling ideas from folks more retarded and less wise than myself, so I don't feel too bad. Such is the case with the PK 27, aka the soundtrack to your life.
Has a blog ever had a soundtrack? Probably. Beats me. Does Psychedelic Kimchi deserve one? More than you know.
27 tracks, five-and-a-half writers, vision like that fucked-up android who long dicked the Scarlet Witch: The PK 27 is everything you've ever dreamed and then some. Meteors fall from the sky, transform into snow, and bless you.
Feel.
"Welcome to my world."
That's what I said this morning to [name withheld upon request] when I woke up with my left lower eyelid swollen the size of a golf ball. Then I made an obscure Weekend at Bernie's reference which flew right over [name withheld upon request]'s head. Nobody's perfect.
Until then, it had been a fantastic weekend -- one much deserved, believe me. On Saturday night I was the Jon Bender fist pump at the end of The Breakfast Club personified, and Special K even bought a DS Lite to celebrate the occasion (still hasn't peeped The Departed yet, though, the fucker). After a long, arduous year of turmoil, I could breathe easy. I was at the end of one long ass chapter in The Life and Times of Captain Dumbass, and, while I tend to for one reason or another believe that the world revolves around me solely, in this case it felt warranted, like that time you didn't blame me for peeing in the shower.
The feel good story of the summer continued into Sunday -- the sweetest hangover I didn't want to get over -- with lunch at Bennigan's, a nap the likes of which I'm positive will never be topped, and [sexual act withheld upon request]. I was invigorated. I was reborn.
So it came as no great surprise, Constant Retread, when I discovered at 4:51 this morning by your mom's watch that I looked like the Elephant Man, because, let's face it, that harsh mistress Karma plays a mean pinball, and sooner or later my Psychedelic Hubris was bound to flash TILT*.
Welcome to my world. If you expect the worst, it will never come as a surprise.
How exactly I achieved balloon eye state, I'm unsure, though I have a few theories. Let me get all CSI on your asses:
1) Probably the most obvious explanation is that a mosquito bit me. This isn't an isolated occurence. As documented -- check the archives, Bruce -- on this site, I have an hellacious allergy to mosquito bites (and manual labor). The only problem with this theory is that my eye became itchy as I was watching Nickelodeon shortly before going to bed. I would have noticed a mosquito biting me under the eye while I was watching TV, I think. My brain age, after all, is 20.
(The insect bite on my left jaw and lower right shoulder, however, lead me to belive this is the likeliest cause.)
2) Nickelodeon. Boy Meets World, specifically.
3) An allergic reaction to something I ate. Unless I've reached some sort of plataeu where the 3000th box of Kraft Dinner or can of Spam I consume suddenly becomes a tipping point for my metabolism, I doubt it. And, to paraphrase Tony Montana, how'm I gonna get a swollen eye like this eating pussy, meng?
4) Chagas disease. I don't even have a joke here; I'm too much of a hypochondriac.
5) An ingrown eyelash. For the better part of a year my testicles have found a new home inside my stomach, so this theory isn't entirely unreasonable.
6) Satan's retribution for tricking him into drinking toilet water.
...I could go on. Instead, I'm going to take the pills the doctor prescribed...I mean "the Jack Daniel's my mother gave me**," smoke my weight in cigarettes, and fall asleep hoping that, tomorrow, I won't still look like Mad Eye Moody.
But even if I do, I'm still pretty.
*Karma, I ain't mad atcha; you coulda made my penis fall off, after all. I'll let you win at Tetris next time we play.
** Good lookin', Mom. (But where are Special K's CheezUms?)
"We've been friends for a long time and we're still going to be friends ... I'll be on the road behind you here in a bit," he said ruefully. -GWB on Rove's departure.
You gotta love it when a guy is so done that even he knows it. The next president won't be inaugurated for about 16 months, but Ws is already talking about when he'll be "moseying into the sunset" with his pal Rove.
Was immigration reform his last, great gasp to get something done? Doesn't he know that there are more advantages to being a lame duck than not caring how much the legislative branch kicks the shit out of your Attorney General because you don't have to run again?
Don't get me wrong, I'm glad these douches won't be doing any more damage. But if he just sticks his thumb up his ass and toes the line for the next year-plus the judgement on this administration between "evil" and "wholly incompetent" will, in my mind, finally be made. For my sake, at least he could suck it up, pick one issue, and try to get some totally misguided and self-serving legislation passed. One last time. For old time's sake. That's how I want to remember him. Not sniveling in the corner counting the days until he and Rove can go dove hunting in Texas (with Cheney notably omitted from the shotgun trip. Low-hanging fruit, I know).
George, you owe me one more masterstroke of evil. Your administration's legacy hangs in the balance. I expect legislation that abridges my rights and freedoms as an American post-haste. Make it happen.
This is how it always is with these things. Not with a bang.
Ayo, dun, I feel like Henry Bemis up in this piece! Where did everybody go?*
Anyway, between marathon bouts of sex and Nintendo DS (the latter is not a running gag; that shit be callin' me like the crack be callin' Pookie), I managed to peep the Yeah Yeah Yeahs new EP, Is Is. And because lead singer Karen O is a Psychedelic Homegirl, I thought I'd post a review...right after I finish the Forest of Doom stage in Castlevania.
(Still playing)
Back!
The Yeah Yeah Yeahs debut, Fever to Tell, is, like sex with your younger sister (yours, not mine), both naughty and intriguing. It's also a testament of frenetic guitargasm the likes of which I'm still awaiting Nick Zinner -- aka Psychedelic Doppelganger -- to top.
I am a patient man, after all. But waiting 3 years for the YYYs to follow up Fever was trying, dog. I found myself scouring Geocities and shit, hoping to glean more about a group, which, at the time, was being all JD Salinger as far as releasing records goes. Hell, The White Stripes make a new album every weekend compared to these cats. Karen O was getting Image Comics on my ass.
Then Show Your Bones was released, and for half a day I was content. A tight little package, that was; but it left me wanting more, and I knew more wasn't coming anytime soon. Word to Reese Peanut Butter Cups and Munchos.
When I was in the hospital with Japanese encephalitis, however, I prayed to any deity who would listen -- props, Ninhursag -- that the YYY would sate my need for new material before I was consumed with madness. Praise that Sumerian goddess, 'cause this month the Yeah Yeah (motherfucking) Yeahs dropped an EP on your stinkin' asses. I can now rest in Resse's Pieces.
Is it guten? Definitely. Guitars, Karen O shouting (missing: screeching), propulsive drums...the team's all here. But maybe it's the EP's brief running time that turns me into a nitpicker. Containing five tracks in total, 4 are album worthy (sorry, Kiss Kiss, you're riding pine), yet still I don't feel sated. Is Is is -- apologies for redundancy -- a great little treat; it's just too bad that this is the last we'll hear from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs until, by my estimation, 2010. (word to the Watchmen film and the Vancouver Winter Olympics) I hope I'm wrong.
But I never am. Rarely.
_____
* Roll Call:
IDJ: on strike. Check.
K-Hot: composing the 2nd half of the greatest piece of Samurai fiction never told (hurry up; I'm dying to see how it reads. Don't miss a single detail). Check.
T Meat Hammer: Where you at? (Besides bound for glory, I mean.)
Denz Justifies the Means: that nick alone is worthy of a post. C'mon, doctor, I got a fever, and the remedy is Vitamin D.
Invisible Girl: no pressure, but K-Hot and I have you a 5-to-one favorite for beating Idealjetsam's record of posting twice in a calendar year. Don't let us down, hot stuff.
This is what a guy gets for listening to Sparkles' suggestion to partake in the 'old school doggy-style' with a certain, delectable Korean songstress.
This is what a guy deserves for listening to Return to Cookie Mountain six times a day.
This is what happens when someone's exceptionally cruel mother decides to withhold a precious shipment of CheezUms.
This is what we all knew would happen if I actually developed a sex drive.
This is why I shouldn't have (momentarily) forsaken the harsh mistress that is Dragon Quest VIII.
Like I told the kids last week in Sunday School; love hurts.
Hati
P.S. What happens when Tiberious dabbles in herbal medicine? You're allowed two guesses, and one of them can't be that he's feeling better. Word to prune juice spliced with ginseng extract, and acupuncture.
Next: The Killing of a Kashyyyk Wookie. Chewbacca jokes are lame, tho.
I'm proud of many things: my blue, bombardier's eyes; my considerable length and girth; the 2-inch white hair growing on my right arm...what I'm proudest of, however, is that I never contradict myself.
I'm like the Bible in that respect.
So it is with a heavy heart that I kneel before you, Constant Retard, with the infernal knowledge that I may have misled you on one -- just one -- particular account, namely that Unbreakable is the best comic book film ever made. (Or maybe it was Batman Begins. Or Sin City. It's hard to keep track.)
Fine films, those, today I saw the error of my ways. Today I ate salmon. Today I watched Superman II again.
You can't teach a dog to be a cat, for the past ten years superhero movies have striven to be taken seriously, to achieve respectability. Some have, others haven't. For every great comics-to-film media transition, there has been an equal -- perhaps greater -- amount of terrible dreck. It's a hard task and a scary prospect, trying to make a funny book into a serious film that moviegoers can accept. And it can kick the asses of even the most talented filmmakers.
I'm looking at you, Ang Lee. Free hug.
My question: Why bother?
The easiest way to adapt a comic to film is to play up the hero's angst (also the best way to sell a million records; not the best way to write a blog). You know what, that shit's tired like Goodyear radials. Stan Lee and Co. created a cottage industry out of men*-who-are-more-than-men inflicted with everyday problems. What those worthies did not do, however, is bog down the fantastic storylines of their tales with unrelenting, masochistic self-reflection. Peter Parker was crushed when Gwen Stacy died. You were, too (she was hot). But he did the only thing he could do: he got over it and turned tragedy into positivity by fucking up the likes of The Scorpion, The Shocker, The Lizard, etc.** He didn't cup his forehead and frown like he was constipated for more than a few panels. And Mr. Fucking Brightside always had a choice bon mot to toss at his adversaries, despite his financial/familial/cloning woes.
That's a guy I can get behind***.
So what does this have to do with the greatest comic book movie ever made? In a word -- and to quote Russell Hammond -- everything.
Comic books are supposed to be fun. They're supposed to be fantastic. They're supposed to be silly.
No other movie encapsulates the spirit of comic books as does Superman II. It is singlehandedly the greatest comics story ever told on the silver screen, both in its plot and direction. It is edited -- perhaps unintentionally -- flawlessly: there are no pages to be turned, yet it feels as though every scene is being played out before your eyes, panel by panel, further piquing your interest.
It's funny, often remarkably so, on many levels. Christopher Reeve as Clark Kent provides so many subdued chuckles in his portrayal of a bumbling reporter, and his awkward horniness towards Lois Lane is palpable. Margot Kidder, let's face it, isn't that hot; but, hey, if Supes digs her, she must have something going on. (Score one for Psychedlic Kimchi-championed Keanu Reeves: he, too, made a dull-looking love interest -- Carrie-Anne Moss -- seem alluring).
Zod. Well, what is there to say? Zod is a true comic book villian: he seeks vengeance. He seeks power. He seeks a Subway foot-long sub without olives. I joke, but, in the spirit of comic books, Zod is both menacing and idiotic. Word to Victor Von Doom and Lord Voldemort.
Never a fan of Action Comics, I find Zod, Ursa, and Non to be the perfect foils for Superman. Lex Luthor, no matter how many revisions the character goes through (the president? Try harder -- anyone could beat up the president), is still a human being. Handicap Supes against three mofos of his own planet and abilities, however, and now you got me interested.
Combine all of that with the greatest showdown in New York -- sorry, Metropolis -- since John Starks dunked on Scottie and MJ, and you have, Constant Retard, an ear-to-ear smile of a film.
And that's what every comic book movie should be: exciting. Fun. Incredible. Well-written. Silly.
But most of all, good.
Superman II, though, isn't good -- it's the best. Word to to Brock Landers.
* Women, too. Safe!
** Speaking of masochism, he probably didn't -- and won't -- fuck them up enough.
*** Save it.
A recent post by Sparkles got me thinking, mainly about purchasing a Nintendo DS Lite, but also about the potential relationship between video games and his notion of 21st Century Misanthropy of the passive-aggressive persuasion. I suppose that it's not an entirely novel approach to an analysis of antisocial behavior, and yet I remain nonplussed by such criticism; Idealjetsam alone craves the avant-garde lifestyle, and he's more than welcome to the zaniness of being triumphantly sui generis. Now that he's officially Tiberious Lyte, Sparkles has all the time in the world to avoid social interaction, and it's not as if I am one to fault his recent turnabout, considering that I am, more often than not, guilty of similar isolationist behavior. We are God's chosen lot, and it's our goddamn prerogative to embody dissonance as see fit. Right?
If you're inclined, perchance, to associate us with the denizens of Gomerville, so be it: you may be correct in your evaluation. Having admitted this egregious character flaw, I will also proclaim our collective inability to care greatly about your nefarious insinuation, let alone your opinion. Like some chump once said, chances are good -nay, great- that we're never going to know you, either with regard to taking the chance, or by virtue of the lack of our capacity to do so. The girl behind the counter at my local Family Mart (you know, the one that really wants to communicate with me in English, and won't listen to me if I speak Korean toward her) has as much a chance to know me as you do, and that's being generous. The feeling is, most likely, one of reciprocity, and that's cool.
Did that come out the right way? Last week, Sparkles mentioned that I don't even know myself, so I really can't be certain as to the veracity of my statements. (Granted, we were at a bar, and he was playing his DS Lite, so it's tough to really know anything.) That was just esoteric nonsense, I told him, and I also reminded him that even if it were true, we hadn't always been these decrepit people residing within us. He agreed with me, insomuch that once upon a time, he and I were Mario and Luigi, respectively.
I still think Sparkles is mistaken, and I'm so desperate to believe that we once had souls that could only connect... (as per Forster's idiotic entreaty) that I'm going to tell you a story. It's not one of monumental importance, nor does it champion a noteworthy cause like feminism, but that's all caretaker bullshit anyway, stuff best left to the posters that never post unless they're in the hospital, sucking food through a straw and deathly bored. Another thing I'd like to stress is that this slice of life occurred quite some time ago, and we were totally different people back then. Well, not completely different individuals, not in the way in which you've become a certified grown-up, but somewhat different; before we had to actually pretend to work for a living, and certainly prior to Tiberious giving birth to a kid who was smarter at age two than I was at age twenty-two. This was back in high school, back when we thought a sideways glance of breasts in Army of Darkness was awesome.
Like I just said, we were in high school and no, it wasn't like something from a book or a Heckerling film. We played some pen and paper role-playing games, sure, but it wasn't D&D, it was Rifts, and we got to hang out at Todd Welsh's place, whose father was a oft-displaced engineer that did contract work for the government, so we had an apartment that was routinely adult-free in which to work our social wizardry, so to speak. To say 'our' is misleading of course, as it was Tiberious that saw most of the action; I was too busy trying to save up some money for the upcoming Sony Playstation, while he was pumping money into his ultra-hip sky blue '92 Suzuki Samurai. The vehicle was, as one can gather, a beacon of light for the female population of our fair city, even if it looked to me as more of a baby blue than azure. In hindsight, I don't suppose that I was one to judge his selection of color, given that I drove a rusted, maroon Oldsmobile Omega that leaked a quart of oil every two weeks. Furthermore, that little bitch of an all-terrain vehicle helped Sparkles get a piece of Ashley Baumgardner, the freshman with the biggest set of adolescent knockers this side of the Cedar River.
Technically, that monumental event transpired during a not-so-unexpected sweltering, humid summer betwixt us boys' junior and senior years, while Ashley was fast becoming a superbly well-endowed sophomore (and a woman). I won't waste much time on a physical description of the girl (on account of the fact that I've consumed enough alcohol tonight, and every other night these past eight years to adequately dull my memory, and because I'm not much for ephebophila), suffice to say that she was a dainty, strawberry-blonde nymph with a preposterous amount of chesty magnificence. You get the gist of it, and you should also get the notion that I found Ashley attractive due to her aforementioned attributes, but also because of the fact that Tiberious had the hots for her; if you can accept that as a valid reason, then you've a good grasp of how high school boys are supposed to behave.
Despite my personal inclinations, I'd like to pause for the briefest of moments, and note that I had little, if any chance to woo the lass away from her fated beau. I drove a goddamn Omega with a malfunctioning FM radio, and I'd be lucky to pick up half of Skid Row's latest ballad. Conversely, Sparkles had a suave something-blue Samurai complete with newfangled compact disc player, one easily capable of blasting the latest in bad boyish hip-hop glory, which he did to devastating effect. That he played Knee Deep in the Hoopla when it was just the boys is beside the point, except that it makes me feel better about myself. It also warms my heart to recall the days of yore, spent chanting 'It's just another Sunday in a tired old street' as we reveled in our incandescent hebetude.
Having resigned myself to being unable to score with such a physically attractive young woman, I partook in another classic tradition amongst adolescent boys, one that may seem almost paradoxical to the previously vaunted notion of stealing another guy's woman: I would help the man achieve his desires. We had the Samurai, and we had the flashy demeanor, but we lacked a plan. As we sat around one summer eve, it came to Sparkles, the unappreciated genius. Flipping through a collection of advertisements in the daily newspaper, he merely uttered the phrase 'shopping cart,' followed almost instantaneously by the words 'drag it.' I had to pause my game of Devil's Crush, and literally pause my brain to contemplate this stroke of erudition. (I'd be tempted to note that Quiet Riot's rendition of Cum On Feel the Noize was playing on the radio, but you wouldn't believe me if I did.)
'You call Ashley, and take the topper off of Sam,' I said while pointing at his amazing brain, 'I'll get some gloves, and swipe a few of my dad's cigarettes.'
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At this juncture, I shall take a break for several reasons. The post is getting to be a bit lengthy, and I know that here at Psychedelic Kimchi, the pretense of brevity is king. Secondly, before I divulge any further exploits of Tiberious aka Sexxxles, permission should be granted by him to do so. Please don't mistake this as an act of kindness, as I stand by my confession of misanthropy; the thing is that Spark has the power to delete any posts he deems contrary to his sensibilities, as well as the ability to post lewd pictures of me. It's all a matter of self-preservation, really. (I'm also much too intoxicated to continue, so...)
Grig Orig
