The PK 27 -- Track 7

At times, it's not the best thing to hear, but the fact remains: you are who you are, and you do what you do (and you haven't done much).*

Years ago, you attended an Ozzfest in Minneapolis, which should have been held at a different venue but wasn't (due to gratuitous complications). Alongside thousands of agitated ticket holders, you protested the delay of admission, and the police felt that your actions were unwarranted. People were herded, crutches were used as weapons, and books were thrown at random folks, including you. The amusing part was that just two hours earlier, these books, entitled Knowing Karma, Knowing You had been distributed to the unruly populace by kindly European Buddhist monks. Situations like that make sense to guys like you: mobs, monks, and manuals should, ideally, go hand-in-hand, and it also seemed natural when you got hit in the face by one of those inspired textbooks, albeit one that had been set ablaze by some rabid Manson fan. Luckily, you weren't scorched, nor had your nose been broken, although it had bled considerably. Rock 'n' roll. Tantric perfection.

Years later, you'd hang out at an quasi-Irish themed, Korean owned pub, and this one dude that looks a bit like you would do the very same thing with a book about Zen, except that in this instance, the guy was someone known to you, and you're tempted to forgive him based upon the fact that such an action was precipitated by the assertion that Terry Michos is the penultimate actor of his generation, right behind Tony Danza.

A PK 27 track belongs here, nestled within the peaks and valleys that define gnarled, variegated reality. That track shall be:

L.S.F., by Kasabian

Why? Because sometimes you need a beat, an anthem to accompany the numerous, rarefactional, positively psychedelic experiences you've endured, voluntarily or otherwise. Take a picture of yourself in the subway and then flip it upside down. Use a water balloon launcher to lob a Molotov cocktail toward a Neo-Nazi protest at Rutgers back in '97 (before grenades came into fashion on the prestigious east coast university scene). Drive a maroon Ford Taurus station wagon down the interstate, using your knees to navigate because you hold a lit cigarette in each hand (as well as a lone, jumbo blue raspberry Icee). Show up to a court hearing with a bag of Ranch Fritos**, munch on them throughout the proceedings, and still be awarded a mammoth sum of money. Corner a rapist, and rip the licentious bastard's genitals off with your bare hands.*** Suffer through the latest Radiohead album.****

Stuff like that begs for a song, and an oft (and, perhaps, deservedly so) neglected British band should be the one to create it, although it's unfortunate that the video is on par with the quality of your post. Nonetheless, with nonsensical lyrics such as Come on it, electronic / A polyphonic prostitute, the motors, on fire / Messiah for the animals to accentuate the pulsating, infectious rhythm, you know you dig it.




Lindsey Buckingham

___________________



* You weren't a journalism major, after all, so you'll never be a real man with real experiences.

** That's right, you said Ranch Fritos, and the money was cool, but it's hardly the thing that you really care about.

*** You said that people weren't to discuss the incident in public, TMH, but that was fucking crazy, and just had to be mentioned.


**** Joking, of course. Best disc since the Bends, if you're on crack. Still a great collection, insanity notwithstanding.