Dead People Party Interlude -- AKA Crisis on Infinite Earths

Eoin Forbes: Warning: this might become incoherent and poorly written two sentences from this one (save the jokes, Mr. Funnyman). I slept less than an hour last night, my eyes are burning, and my neighbors dog is entreating me to KILL. Psychedelic Insomnia, aka lying in bed for seven hours straight, too ascairt to get out of bed and play DS/read Thomas Pynchon/send the Duff sisters fanmail because I think I feel it. I could fall asleep...any...second.... Seconds become minutes, minutes become hours, and, ultimately, the result is the hollow chrysalis of a man. This room is spinning.

It was a previous bout of insomnia (see, I'm going somewhere with this) which inspired the Dead People Party series of posts. I began the

(I don't want to say bold, because the word connotes foreshadowed achievement; so let's settle on industrious)

series after spending a night in that immensely frustrating limbo between superlative drowsiness and perfect awareness. Some time before dawn -- and that's the rub, let me tell you: stay up all night sleepless, denied entry to the Land of Nod, only to gain access less than an hour before your alarm clock rings. I feel the same way vis a vis adulthood and wet dreams, by the way -- I dreamt that I was at the release party for the Wu-Tang Clan's new album, their latest in nearly six years, 8 Diagrams

Naturally, as dreams of mine are wont, reality was a tad skewed. Raekwon was three-feet tall, wearing rainbow-colored suspenders, a jaunty bowler atop his watermelon-shaped head; Inspectah Deck was a cyborg, Method Man a witty raconteur who amused all in attendance with anecdotes of a year and a half spent aboard a whale ship with Julia Child (or maybe it was Chris Childs; I don't remember); Ghostface, perhaps ironically, was the phantom bartender from Kubrick's The Shining; U-God was a woman -- a fairly attractive one at that -- teaching children how to whistle with their fingers. Rounding out the Clan (mostly, for in both dreams and wakefulness, Masta Killa has proven elusive; and ODB is dead and Cappadonna is Olivia from The Cosby Show), GZA, dressed as a skeleton, threw water balloons at late stragglers, while RZA, holding a lorgnette, viewed (NYC)everything from a bulletproof opera box.

This dream, it would turn out, would be prophetic. I'm used to, for lack of a better term, fucked-up shit happening while I am asleep; but something about this particular dream left a profound impression upon me. I awoke (wose fwom my gwave is more like it) utterly convinced that 8 Diagrams would be a terrible album. I shall reiterate: not a mediocre album, but an album that would quite possibly kill hip-hop, or at least the zeitgeist of those of us who are still clutching with hope upon hopes that a seismic shift, no matter how minor, could yet occur. And who better to to bring about its resurgence than the fellas who rebuilt the matrix the first time, the Wu?

I should have known.

The Wu-Tang Clan hasn't been relevant for over ten years, good for half that. On lyrical skills alone you will find none better, and the stars truly were aligned when, 15 years ago (damn I feel old), nine men orbited the Sun, aka RZA. And that is an apt metaphor, because without him all nine planets could not survive within the same solar system: not GZA (Jupiter), Raekwon or Ghost (Saturn and Uranus), Method Man (Mercury), Inspectah Deck (Pluto), U-God (Neptune), ODB (Mars, natch), Masta Killa (Venus; clouds, see) or Earth...(us, the fans).

And here's where it gets tricky. And here's where the Sun becomes a quasar.

When your home planet is threatened by an extinction-level event, what do you do? (Or, when your groundbreaking producer becomes impotent as both a beatsmith and a life coach, from whom do you seek sustenance to maintain your growth?)

The immediate answer is complex: a) you pull a Kal-El and seek exile in a galaxy where your strength can be honed and further marvelled upon (Ghostface), b) you break out of orbit and hope that you may someday reunite with the denizens of your fallen brothers (Raekwon, U-God), c) you pull the planetary equivalent of the Jonestown Massacre by slowly cannibalizing yourself (Inspectah Deck), d) you fall asleep during the apocalypse (Method Man), e) you -- word to Mike Tyson -- fade into Bolivian (GZA), or f) pretend you never were planets to begin with (Masta Killa and that taxi driver), and thus become fat kids in a pickup game who are just happy to be chosen, regardless the team. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. G) you implode (ODB).

Envy ODB for dying, because whatever brought the Wu-Tang Clan back together -- read: cash, money -- certainly didn't reunite them. In fact, it has divided them more than ever. You can save yourself the time reading about the recent back-and-forth between RZA and Raekwon -- who pulled a Bill Cosby Leonard Part VI and might probably never see Cuban Linx II released as penance -- over the new album's merits or lack thereof. The Chef is right: 8 Diagrams sucks eternal balls.

How bad does it suck, though? So much so that I find myself bereft of adequate metaphors to compare to its phenomenally amazing suckage, that's how much.

(Still, I shall try.)

8 Diagrams is that time you thought you just had pimples on your shoulders and they turned out to be shingles. 8 Diagrams is 6 degrees of stupid plus 2. 8 diagrams is every retarded chain mail letter you've received in your inbox times infinity. 8 Diagrams made my turtle Dexter die to return as a giant turtle of feces that swallowed the Earth and shat out itself. 8 Diagrams is the reason you were born with Down's syndrome. 8 Diagrams is the reason I'm listening to Idlewild right now, wondering whatever happened to magic. 8 Diagrams is responsible for every remade film that sullied your fondness for horror cinema AND the Star Wars prequels. Furthermore, 8 Diagrams is to blame for every derivative pop reference joke I make on this hallowed site AND every one I miss. 8 Diagrams causes bowel discomfort in babies, toddlers, children, adolescents, teens, adults, senior citizens, and slow mutants. 8 Diagrams built Ilsan on rock & roll. 8 Diagrams is an effective means of birth control on the African continent. 8 Diagrams wants my mind, soul, and my body (or maybe that's the Illuminati; same difference). 8 Diagrams killed Biggie, Tupac, and Dave from Wendy's. 8 Diagrams caused the HAL9000's meltdown, and, likewise, several inept film majors'. 8 Diagrams, 8 Diagrams, Dalton Ames.

Goodnight.

Dead People Party VII

Ghostface Killah*: 대머리 거예요. 나는 클라이드 780과 같은 모양에 내 맡았 던지하면 어떻게하지 마십시오 같았습니다. 나는 팬텀은 최근 진동 증후군을 개발하고있는가 정의하여 나를 기분으로 phenomenom 때 발생하는 것처럼 하나 하나의 휴대 전화가 진동하면 정말없는 것이있습니다. 비트 팬텀 결손 증후군, 그건를 확실히합니다. 귀하의 스니커즈주세요. 나는 생각하지 않는다 체리 토마토 피자에있습니다. 나는 모두 사랑합니다. 그러나 일부 과학자의 경우 아이슬란드는 치즈를 발명하는 방법을 보장하는 그리스를하지 않는다 체리 토마토와 우유로 만들 젖은 양말, 좋은 민속 언제 파파 요한의 메모를받지 못했다. 나는 놀라움과로 찌른 수있는 gza의 발상으로 icicle을받을 사람이 살인 무기의 제거에 사용되지 않았 에피소드의 소비자 기대 : 뉴욕입니다. quiznos이없습니다 참치 금속, 이것은 travesty의 대서사 비율입니다. 진지하게, 왜 미워합니까 참치, quiznos가? 잠수함 참치 샌드위치 숍이없는 악의에 메뉴가 본질적입니다. 이것은 자기 증거입니다. 마지막으로 크리스마스 나를 제공한 심장합니다. 바로 다음 날, 나는 나에게 주어진 실현될 수있습니다 대신 거짓말을하고 있었다 baboon의 심장입니다. 교묘, 교활합니다. 내 아기가 사라짐가있을 경우의 기회입니다. 모든 생명이있는 선반, 일부 다른 사람보다 더 오래입니다. 덕분에 내 천부의 능력을 호소 대안 음악을 누르십시오 (나를 cam'ron과 clipse; 큰까지 자폐증 아이 언제 독 미디어), 나는 우주인 배급 동결 - 건조합니다. 일족의 나머지 부분은, 너무 많이하지 않습니다. 저는 예쁜 레아는 확신가도 그는 qiwu 않을 수있습니다 파인애플은 그 유효 기간 후에 먹는다. 당신의 피부 복용을 해제하면 친구가 나에게 이야기합니다. 나는 한 사람을위한 것이 앙등의 영어 머핀. 이와 같이, 저는 a 주스를 마시는 것이 유리 전체의 화이트 식초를 한 번 더 키스에 전체, 입술을 감각적입니다. 나는 건강한 수면 각 밤, 위안은 사실이 화성 번은 결코 무관한 될입니다. 10 년 내에, 아무도 예화 황소이나 감기 맥락이 기억됩니다. 슬픈, 남자가있습니다. 케빈 베이컨의 6 개의 학위 : 테리 michos. 확인, michos 이전에 전사, 하나의 월터 힐 감독. 힐 차관보의 지시 deadwood 파일럿 에피소드입니다. 나중에 deadwood 특집 키스 바꿔친의 역할 와일드 빌 hickock. 바꿔친의 아버지는 하나 데이비드 바꿔친, 등장한 사람 quentin tarantino 의외의 죽이는 법안입니다. 내과 2. tarantino erstwhile 또한 위대한 배우 로버트 드니로 자신의 지시를 따르 - 최대 펄프 픽션, 재키 브라운. 드니로했다가 1 년 앞서, 배리에 나타났습 levinson의 소년범, 영화도 기능이 케빈 베이컨 학대 교도소 경비로합니다. 저는 매우 확실합니까 탈락 수 있고 2 개 또는 3 개의 학위를, 그러나 나는 것들처럼 어려운 결정되는 등입니다. 나는 요즘 연주 picross는 매우 높은 수준입니다. 코리아 - 또는 어떤 나라에 대한이 문제 -이 매우 지루한없이는 문화의 노력은 또 다른 문화입니다. 및 차관 - 지입니다. 아니오 수하물, 많은 보상합니다. 나는 상황을 찾을 수 없다는 적절한 상황이 없으며 귀하에게 확신을 반영할 수 있도록 머리를 손질합니다. 귀하의 생일을 누락 대신, 저는 구매하실 수있는 빙산입니다. 상상보다 큰 경우 제 아내입니다.



* translation in the comments section

The Killers, Sawdust (Thoughts)

I must preface this by stating that I am, unapologetically, a total Killers homer, despite lead singer Brandon Flowers's often cliche-ridden lyrics (Sam's Town appears to be written by a sentimental eighth grader), said lead singer's lack of vocal range (but, boy, does his voice feel right; seriously, as a -- contrary to popular belief -- heterosexual male, I have to admit my raging man crush; and, yes, I'm holding my arms above my head in the shape of a heart right now), and the fact that -- the truth is rarely spoken and barely heard -- my affection for the band stems from a (perhaps) unhealthy tendency to see grandiose in pretension*. So if all those commas, parentheses, and dashes haven't already killed you, I would like to invite you, Constant Retard, to read my impression of the band's recently-released collection of b-sides, covers, rareties, and I got a free designer jacket. Ah, indulgence.

Tranquilize

Brandon Flowers, Lou Reed, singing children, and the war in Iraq is fucked up. Ah, indulgence. This is the rock equivalent of a Carl's Jr. meal. I. Am. Not. Complaining. By the way, as someone who has no gift for singing (and that's being conservative; I sing like Von Dutch caps are cool), Reed's "Perfect Day" is my ace in the hole during late-night noraebang sessions.

Shadowplay

I like Joy Division. I also like it when you tighten your vagina during intercourse. Clearly, I like a lot of things.

All the Pretty Faces

Why this wasn't included on Hot Fuss is a question for the ages. Seriously, are you telling me that replacing the universally awful "Everything Will Be Alright" with this outstanding track wouldn't have made an awesome album 100 times more awesomer? I certainly hope you're not telling me that. Fun fact: substitute Flower's "I spent 2 long years in a strange, strange land" with the number seven and you pretty much have my biography, at least as it relates to the last year and a half. Eerie. Brandon Flowers is the new Miami Heat.

Leave the Bourbon on the Shelf

There are so few song trilogies in music these days, which fills me with an almost unbearable sorrow. However, it's pretty easy to understand why this -- part the first -- song about the elusive Jennifer was left to marinate while "Jenny was a Friend of Mine" and "Midnight Show" were served to the masses (word to Soylent Green). It's a fantastic song (in fact, I believe it recently stopped genocide in Darfur and resuscitated Emilio Estevez's career), but it lacks foreshadowing. It's like Certz without the retsyn, or Kraft Dinner without the I got a free designer jacket.

Sweet Talk

Contra 4 is harder than a motherfucker. To the heads at Konami: there's a big difference between making a game challenging and making it so frustratingly difficult that one contemplates randomly firebombing various heavily populated locales. To put a finer point on it, Konami, I'm blaming the next large-scale terrorist attack (my magic 8-ball says a week from next Tuesday) on you. History will prove me right.

Under the Gun

Remember when, in Superman III (the third greatest Christopher Reeve film), Supes goes bad and starts drinking and shit? That -- coupled with Flintstones Vitamins-sprinkled Rice Crispies -- sorta fucked me up as a kid. Is "Under the Gun" a good song? Indeed. Is it derivative of The Strokes? Unquestionably. Did I empty my cache of porn and clear my site viewing history before you came over? Oh shit.

Where the White Boys Dance

I am supremely nonplussed. This isn't a cover? Wow. I mean, really, wow. I will make it my duty to make love while this song plays. Soon.

Show You How

The Killers are so hip-hop and they don't even know it. By the way, I'm starting a podcast sometime (soon). I'm pretty sure it will rock your world and stop genocide in Darfur. Look out for the innaugural broadcast in which KMart and I discuss the pros and cons of (among other relevant topics) moving to Tahiti, wearing an apron while eating samgyeopsal (pro: no grease on your shirt and pants, con: you look like a fairy), and the quantifiable hotness of watching Japanese lesbians tongue kiss on YouTube.

Move Away

The Killers are so U2 and they don't even know it.

Glamourous Indie Rock & Roll

A rerecorded version of the Hot Fuss UK-release bonus track. Flowers pulls a Kobe, mailing in the vocals. It's as though he's singing a karaoke rendition of his own song and purposefully trying to murder it. The original had a certain amount of satire, but here he swings for the bleachers. Genius is rarely appreciated.

Who Let You Go?

I am officially making this the new "Walking to the Subway on Your Way to Work" song. Considering past honorees ("Planet Telex" by Radiohead and The Verve's hall-of-fame "Bitter Sweet Symphony"**), it is evident that we are indeed in esteemed company.

The Ballad of Michael Valentine

Again, this isn't a cover? Ah, ambition. By the way, why do songs these days that are blatantly aimed at homosexuals have to contain the name Michael? Since when did Michael become the new Bruce? Get creative! Throw some Ians and Garys in the mix.

Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town

Like Rocky V, steroids in baseball, and the Holocaust, let's pretend this didn't happen, okay?

Daddy's Eyes

I had the most remarkable tonkatsu today. In a word, it was really very tasty. What can I say, I like crushing up sesame seeds with a pestle. Only winning the NBA Finals MVP and co-starring in a movie with Owen Wilson can, I am confident, compare.

Sam's Town (Abbey Road Version)

Remember that time we made a really fantastic song? I do. So, here's my idea: we do it again, only this time I play the piano and sing waveringly, sort of as a way to underline just how fucking incredible the song is. It doesn't matter that I have a cold. Makes me sound weathered. And, yeah, immediately after you're going to want to listen to the original version. That's the whole point. I truly lament the loss of my jacket to you. It cost like two hundred dollars.

Romeo and Juliet

I am Bob Dylan, Lou Reed, and that guy from Blues Traveler who had a gastric bypass. I am Legion, for we are many. Stay tuned: I plan to massacre Sultans of Swing sometime in the near future.

Change Your Mind

Out again. A siren screams at half past ten, and you won't let go. While I ignore that we both felt like this before, it starts to show. So if I have a chance, would you let me know? (Honestly, I have shivers listening to this; word to the Miami Heat -- 3 and 10, as of this writing -- and angels sent from Heaven.)

Mr. Brightside (Jacques Lu Cont's Thin White Duke Remix)/Questions with the Captain

Is it redundantly hyperbolic to call something both goosebump-inducing and a shattering orgasm of sound? I hope not.

Final thought: In the cupboard underneath my sink I have plastic bags, some black, others white. I really can't say why I keep them. Perhaps someday I will need them, I dunno. I don't have a toilet plunger or a screwdriver, but I do have roughly eighty plastic bags of various persuasions sleeping gently beneath my sink. I have considered naming them individually, but so far that is a border between eccentricity and madness that I am unwilling to traverse.

I got a free designer jacket. By the way.


* Sam's Town is a phenomenal album, and anyone who says different is obviously a replicant from Mars sent to first infiltrate then later collapse the structure of intellectual society.

** That song will outlast humankind, I am certain.

Dead People Party VI

U-God: I did it yesterday, when you weren't looking. It wasn't intentional, but I achieved my desired effect.

Perhaps you saw me pacing around the room, looking nervous. I didn't want to go through with it, but when you ignored my attempt to start a conversation, I knew I had to. I'll show you, I thought.

There's something poetic about it. To me. I never really wanted to die; I did so to prove a point. To you.

When I walked out and wrapped that nylon rope around my neck, I expected someone to come out looking for me a lot sooner. Standing in the stairwell above, I listened carefully. I took sixty deep breaths while silence and my racing pulse shook my head and down below my bowels screamed. I heard nothing else, as though I were under water. I imagined you sipping a warm beer, looking bored, and then I jumped.

Dead People Party V

Raekwon the Chef: Yo, this blunt smells like bleach, cousin. You rolled this?

Ghostface Killah: Yeah.

I dunno, man. Shit has a chemical taste to it. Here, take it.

Damn, that shit is nasty! Smells like burnt hair.

Anyway, as I was saying. I knew that bitch would try to play me the way she did. She's like the Eye of Sauron, you know? Nothing gets past her when I'm wearing that ring. She came back from Chicago after visiting her aunt, and BAMN! not a week later she finds out about this "side project" I'm working on. Bitch went to Verizon and got a printout of all the calls and text messages sent to and from my cell piece. She claimed the bill was too high and wanted to check if there was a mistake, but now I know she was suspicious the whole time she got back from JFK. I shoulda clued in, cousin. But I was high as a cirrus cloud, you know? It's those small mistakes that get you, believe.

What she do then?

She freaked the fuck out! Clawing at my face like a crazy bitch on angel dust. I wanted to drop her, but you know how shit like that goes -- word to Warren Moon. So I broke north. I was out the house two seconds though when I hear all this crashing and banging, like there was a tornado back in that fucker. I thought the bitch was gonna smash my Linx plaque, so I rushed back in.

What she did was destroy most of my DVD collection. That's over 300 titles, son. And, yeah, most of the discs were alright, but all the boxes were FUBAR, and I'm somewhat of a collector. The only disc that didn't make it was Hustle & Flow.

I managed to calm her down (I thought she was gonna break my fucking plasma screen), but not before she called shorty, saying she was gonna kill her.

So you made things straight then?

Fuck that, son. That bitch and I been dead long before that nonsense. It was just the next necessary step in the evolutionary process of our relationship. Like that black monolith in A Space Odyssey. I only pretended to play nice so's to ensure she didn't stab me one night while I was sleeping before she got served her papers.

Sounds like one fucked-up ho, for real.

You don't know the half! I could fill a book with all the crazy shit that bitch did.

So these days how you livin'?

I feel good man, for real. Better than I have in my whole life, in fact. But it's weird; without that sort of conflict my writing suffers. It isn't at the level it once was. Paradoxes and shit, when I'm under stress I can pen an amazing verse, but when I feel like I'm exactly where I want to be, forever, I can't do shit. Maybe that's how John Steinbeck felt, I dunno. All I know is that comfort zones are dangerous in and outside of the creative process.

And that's all I'll say right now, for fear that if I continue I'll break the fourth wall.

Dead People Party IV

Inspectah Deck: You know how people sometimes pick Ringo as their favorite Beatle or The Possessed as their favorite Dostoevsky novel* just to be contrary? Well, I am not that guy. That guy is Masta Killa, and I'm pretty sure he'd be delivering pizzas right now if it weren't for the rest of us.

No, I am not the weak link. Not by far. Ask any fan of lyricism and he'll tell you that a debate has long raged over who of the Clan's esteemed membership is the best pure rhymer, me or GZA. And, yeah, GZA usually comes out on top, at least on most of the message boards I frequent**, but that likely has more to do with his moniker than anything. I know this, as I have recently been taking classes in marketing and economics at a local community college***. Word to Stringer Bell. Let's have a "better MC" debate pitting Jason Hunter against Gary (*snicker*) Grice, and then we'll see who the real champion is.

(And for the record, my verse on "Guillotines" crushes dude's.)

I may sound bitter. Trust me, I am not. Have you heard Words from a Genius or Beneath the Surface? More like Words from a Glib Asshole and Beneath the Rectum! Pwned. Liquid Swords, while a classic, is more a credit to RZA than to Mr. Grice. Sure, Gary throws heat on the album, but I would argue that, of the record's thirteen tracks, the weakest are the ones in which Mr. Grice is the sole MC, "Labels" an obvious exception. Looks to me as though someone can't shoulder the soloist burden.

Know what I did? I dropped Uncontrolled Substance, and while it definitely has its flaws, I did that shit with little assistance from either RZA or my fellow Clansmen. Just to prove a point. And there was a reason you didn't guest appear on that joint, Gary. Reason: you suck!

Oh, I've heard all the jokes about my second album (The Movement) being an aural dookie already, so don't try to appear witty by making another one. I know that's too low brow for you, seeing as how you're The Genius and everything, but I just thought I'd give you a heads up. You don't want to embarrass yourself further. You certainly don't want to do that.

I have a funny anecdote, and I swear this is true. A couple of years ago, maybe five -- I don't remember the exact date -- we were riding the tour bus en route to some fucked-up venue in Tennessee or one of those other southern states where all the people are slow mutants or glue sniffers, and I couldn't sleep. I got out of bed and started playing Silent Hill (or maybe it was Resident Evil: fucked if I remember or care), and after what must have been forty minutes took a piss and decided to retire for the night. Well, I must have been pretty drowsy at the time, because I mistakenly entered Gary's room****. And you know what I saw? That perv was jerking off to scrambled pay-per-view porn! Or trying to, I should say. The truth is that while the GZA is the head, in terms of genetics he, rather unfortunately, drew the short straw when it came to drafting team members, if you catch my drift.

I'm looking forward to finishing the new Wu-Tang album. It's fire. Hit me up on MySpace for more details. (That's http://www.myspace.com/inspectahdeck; copy and paste, bitches.) I'll add you as a friend.

Unless, that is, your name happens to be Gary Grice, or my layout gives you an epileptic seizure -- in which case I sincerely apologize for the latter.



* Or Idealjetsam as their favorite PK contributor.

** The handle's INSfan_70, if you need to know; and, yes, I've been banned a couple of times from various sites for blatant and oftentimes flagrant self-promotion, and one time for harassing a poster who had the gall to choose the handle "Rebel IBS". And let me just say that what the idiot moderators at allhiphop.com consider spam is, to me, the very epitome of good ole American business ingenuity. Don't make me out to be the bad guy.

*** I get mad pussy from the co-eds, by the way.

**** It was a pretty big tour bus, mind.

Fruit of the Loom

This past weekend, I was privy to a deluge of emotions, experiences, and extended metaphors, not the least of which was the chance rendezvous with a buddhist monk’s canine companion. I’ll let that specific situation remain elusive, as I wouldn’t want to be accused of recklessly endangering the otherwise hallowed perception of wanton bestiality, suffice it to say that Buddha’s beads were rocked harder than my sister breasts on prom night.

Okay, enough of that shit: not a post goes by in which I fail to drudge up some faintly tainted memory of revelry that is as nonsensical to you as it is intrinsical to me, and that’s really not what I’m about, at least not until some unknown, forthcoming paragraph. I’m here because I want to talk about fruit, and just how it can alter one’s perception of leisurely activities. If strawberries can enhance a sexual encounter, would it not stand to reason that, say, a mango could, inversely, ruin that same hypothetical affair? ( I suppose that would be a post for Kermo to tackle, so just consider this a prefatory exercise.)

Last Friday, we had a company outing or, as management prefers to phrase it, a Membership Training opportunity. For those precious few individuals that are unaware of what such training entails, I shall elucidate. Coworkers gather and commence to eat, drink, travel, sleep, sing, and visit a Buddhist temple together. Things weren’t as neatly delineated as proposed, but you get the idea, as long as you insert plenty of awkward silence, arguing, and ridiculous photography.

Not everyone joined in the festivities, however, and that is a sure-fire indication of disloyalty, one that is to be dealt with swiftly, and severely! Not in the mood? Too bad, you’re off the team! What’s that? You’d like to offer an excuse? It matters not, but lie to me anyway. Righteous! I love stories!

Work concluded for the evening, and we were led, albeit slowly, and without any particularly reassuring sense of accuracy, toward our first destination of the long (long) night, a stock Korean barbecue restaurant, replete with all the pork, tofu, kimchi, and vegetables a teacher could indulge in without a tinge of remorse. That we took a good twenty minutes to locate the eatery is of no consequence, as we had as much time as we wished to achieve optimum corpulence.
There were a good number of teachers -about ten in our group- in attendance, and after taking off our shoes in enforced unison, we commenced to nudge our way onto our respective, pillowy seating arrangement. What each person did, what they ate, and where they sat is a bit too intense for me to get into at the moment, so let’s narrow it down to three core characters that, henceforth, shall be known as Gavõn, Francesca (a Korean English teacher, if the name didn't tip you off), and yours truly, KMart, with a special appearance by Matt as random whitey.

And without further ado, I present you with the greatest story ever told.


Gavõn: (struggling) Can we move this table, or what? My legs aren’t supposed to bend this way.

KMart: (sitting at an adjacent table, next to Gavõn) I get a half-eaten bowl of rice all to myself?

R.W. Matt: (sitting kitty-cornered to Gavõn) I think we can move the table an inch or two, if that helps, just as long as we start cooking the meat immediately.

Francesca: (sitting across from Gavõn) I like mushrooms.

Nearby Voice: Mushrooms are very healthy for you. They give you stamina.

KMart: That’s great, as you know how much I need stamina. Pass the slab of tofu, please.

Gavõn: So Francesca, you’re not going to Daecheon Beach with us tonight?

Francesca: Yes, I’m not coming. I told you already. You don’t remember?

Gavõn: Well, I do remember, but I still wanted to ask.

R.W. Matt: I’m not going either.

Gavõn: (to R.W. Matt) I know that too, but that’s just because you don’t give a fuck about membership training. I don’t know why Fran isn’t going.

Francesca: I told you. I hate Daecheon.

Gavõn: You hate Daecheon Beach, the home of Mudfest? (Glancing toward the boss) Who wants to get some beers?

Nearby Voice: Yes, let’s get some beer, but drink quickly. We have to leave in twenty minutes.

KMart: Won’t that leave us with three minutes to eat all the cooked meat?

Gavõn: Hey, lady! Makju dugeyo, right here! Wait, make that seygeyo.

Francesca: Yes, I hate Daecheon. I will tell you why I hate it now.

Gavõn: Yeah, sure.

R.W. Matt: (drinking from a bottle of soju that he brought in his pocket) Do it, Francesca.

KMart: Just as long as I don’t have to eat another one of these goddamn mushrooms, I’m down with it.

Francesca: Many years ago, when I was in university, my friend Suji and I went to Daecheon Beach for our holiday. It was very pretty at that time of year, during the summer. It wasn’t very hot, and there was a cool breeze in the air. We spent a lot of time in our motel room, watching television and sharing stories about our other friends. We had many friends that were getting married, so we had to come to Daecheon Beach by ourselves, but that was not bad, because we liked to talk, and Daecheon Beach was so nice that summer, so we wanted to go.

KMart: (thinking about the Killers’ sophomore effort, Sam’s Town, while looking at another teacher) Don’t you wanna feel my bones on your bones? Hey, that tofu isn’t gonna get any browner, you know.

Francesca: We walked down to the beach in the afternoon, and we were eating grapes from a plastic bag. They were delicious, and Suji told me that the grapes reminded her of university life. I understood what she meant, because they were so sweet, but we both knew that the end of our schooling was very close, and that our lives would change drastically.

Gavõn: (finishing his first bottle of Hite) Right. How many grapes were in the bag?

R.W. Matt: (a piece of seafood in his mouth, with a tentacle drooping out from his lips) Thirty-six?

Francesca: There were many, but we had to be careful not to eat too much. They had to last the entire day. When we got to the beach, we sat down on the sand and talked to three nice men for a while. They were from Incheon, and they were going to the military soon, so we talked about our dreams for the future. I feel as if we shared a special moment.

Gavõn: That’s cool. What were their names?

Francesca: I didn’t ask. Suji held hands with one of them, so she may know. I have many pictures at home, if you would like to see them.

KMart: Please no... not you Francesca, as I’d love to see those pictures. Julie is trying to order more onions, but we only have five minutes to finish our feast. Listen, Julie, if you want something stinky to munch on...

Gavõn: (finishing his second bottle of Hite) Bring ‘em in, Fran. So what happened with those guys?

Francesca: They left. Another woman came to get them, and she was wearing a two-piece bathing suit, so they went with her. Suji and I were very angry, but the ocean was so wonderful that we had hope that another group of men to share a bond with would come. We ate some more grapes, and then we dug a hole in the sand so that our grapes would be safe. We put the grapes in the hole and covered it with sand, so nothing would contaminate them.

R.W. Matt: Except for the sand.

Francesca: Yes. We then went swimming. The waves were so delightful, and the water so fresh, that we forgot all about the end of our university days and the men with whom we shared our greatest hopes and deepest fears. Our married friends would have been so jealous of our ocean experience. After about an hour, we thought it best to return to our motel, so that we could prepare to watch our favorite drama shows. We came back to our towels, and we were so hungry, so Suji and I dug up our grapes. But the grapes were gone. Someone had taken our grapes.

-awkward silence ensues for roughly thirty seconds-

Gavõn: (verbalizing the thoughts of our collective, foreign mind) So what happened then?

Francesca: Our grapes were stolen, and I hate Daecheon Beach because of it. I’ll never go back.

-another bout of silence-

KMart:(setting his chopsticks down, and looking Gavõn in the eyes) I don’t think we should take any chances with our grapes.

R.W. Matt: (finishing his bottle of soju) I...need to go to the bathroom...or something...

Gavõn:(after chugging his third Hite) Wow. Francesca, that was the greatest story I’ve ever heard. Really, that was fantastic.

The End.

Well, perhaps it wasn't the end, per se, but after a story like that, everything else would just be a letdown.



Clubber Lang

Dead People Party III

Method Man: Mad different styles to the way I do my shit, none of them have particularly been working of late. Let's face it, if rap albums were Fleetwood Mac joints, Tical 0 is my Tusk, and 4:21 didn't exactly set the world on fire, either. With Belly and the short-lived and almost universally-forgotten (it's much, much better that way; I think we're all in agreement on that) Red and Method sitcom, my acting resume isn't nearly as impressive as I would like (but at least I got The Wire). Plus I got outed in Superhead's book. Nope, not a whole lot to feel good about these days.

I realized last Thursday morning as I was on my way to Starbucks that I'm the same age as Shaq, and I suppose this awareness is the cause of my current malaise. Seriously, I can't even be bothered to hit up the Electronics Boutique in my neighborhood to pick up a copy of Super Mario Galaxy. What's the point? I might try reading John Cheever, instead. That might be good.

Getting older, I find myself becoming more intrigued with musical genres outside of hip-hop. I listen to the works of Frank Zappa and Warren Zevon and sometimes consider parlaying my musical reawakening into how I approach my shit, but then I remember the time Raekwon called me a faggot for suggesting we play the Magnolia soundtrack in his ride and that I guested on a Limp Bizkit album, and I am humbled.

Returning to basketball references for a sec, I am often plagued with the fear that my career as an MC will by future generations be looked upon as those of Karl Malone's and Charles Barkley's: a perrennial all-star and future HOFer who never had the right amount of luck and/or help to win a coveted championship. Tical is a classic, sure, but as far as Wu-Tang solo releases go it'll always stand in the shadows of Return to the 36 Chambers: The Dirty Version, Only Built for Cuban Linx, and Liquid Swords. Fuck me for being such an eager beaver and clamoring that RZA make me the first out the gate, before he really got into that groove. (Double fuck me for being the first to drop a follow up -- the disappointing Tical 2000 -- after he lost his touch.) What can I say, I smoke a lot of weed. Case in point, today I went grocery shopping wearing a black belt and brown loafers. I'm falling apart.

Is there such a thing as passive-aggressive depression? Yesterday, Redman called my cell and asked if I wanted to play tennis. I just hung up on him. Later, I bought a six-pack of Coors and listened to Blackout! for the first time since a couple of days before the Twin Towers were felled, and I wanted to garrote the fucker. We never were as close as you might think (it was Def Jam that hyped up our friendship, almost to the point where it appeared we had a gay-level affection for each other), and these days we only exchange pleasantries via text messages, which has become increasingly annoying on my end because he keeps using "ur" as both an abbreviation of "you are" and "your." But what I realized a few hours later, while watching Ronald Jenkees videos on YouTube, is that Reggie, for all his adolescent behavior, is still having fun in the twilight of his career. That's mostly because he has been clinically diagnosed as borderline retarded, but I feel consumed by an unbearable weight of jealousy nevertheless. You know what made me happy today? I saw on TV a petite Japanese woman eat 100 fried dumplings in fewer than 10 minutes. However, not five minutes later I was thinking about the Vin Baker/Shawn Kemp/Terrell Brandon trade and calling my agent, telling him that if there's a new Leprechaun movie in development that I'll take a starring role pro bono. He said he was busy and promised to call me back, but I think he was lying. It's 10:05 and he hasn't called back. Nobody is that busy on a Sunday night.

Dead People Party II

The RZA: I don't feel myself. I'm not saying "I don't appreciate myself," rather, I don't feel as though this corporeal frame which contains my blood-filled veins is me anymore. I'm better off -- both spiritually and financially -- now than I was 2, 4, 6, and 8 years ago, but something's missing. And I'd do almost anything to get it back.

Truth be told, I've got more beats and rhymes than the bible's got His and Thines; everybody knows this. I ran the 90s hip-hop scene like the hoppers did Hamsterdam. But just as the Bmore brass prematurely put an end to Bunny's experiment, I feel that my innovations in the field of beats that make you wanna say damn! are these days criminally either forgotten or overlooked.

Part of that is my fault, I will concede. After Wu-Tang Forever I left the baby birds to fly on their own before they were ready, and I pretty much hung Deck (Deck!) out to dry like a cuttlefish.

I'm not making excuses, but juggling 8 artists -- I'm not including Cappadonna, who, notwithstanding his blazing verses on "Ice Cream" and "Winter Warz," is a complete cock biscuit -- is taxing. You try that shit. It was like Danny Tanner without uncles Jesse and Joey.

Still, when I wasn't concentrating my efforts toward half-baked Bobby Digital albums (and if you mention Birth of a Prince I will kick you somewhere dark and sweaty), I tried my best to save face as far as the Clan was concerned. I produced some tracks for Masta Killa, like Nino Brown giving Christmas turkeys to the poor; I donated a few cans of mediocrity to the food drive that was Meth's last album; and I even found time to pretend that Cuban Linx II is going to drop sometime this century. Yay me!

__________________

I feel sorta guilty right now. A Wu-Tang album used to be something special. (The first one was, at least.) Nowadays I'm just going through the motions, and I dread the day reviews for 8 Diagrams hit the web. They are going to murder me.

I've gotten older and a hell of a lot wiser (read: the 5% Nation is pretty fucked up), but still I dream of a day when I and my fellow clansmen can sit at a table -- like Sonny, Michael, Clamenza (aka U-God), and the rest of those guys (the names escape me for the moment*) -- and talk about how hard we're about to bring it. How badly we plan to blast off -- like Napoleon's army -- the Sphinx's nose.



* Deck!

The PK 27 -- Air Jordans

It's my birthday soon. And on my born day, the essence of adolescence will have been long gone from my veins, kid.

How'd I get here? Well, Rents, I chose life. Chose a job. Chose a family. Chose a fucking big television. Chose a washing machine and a car. Chose a fucking web browser.

Don't misunderstand me. I'm not that guy. I'm not lamenting being in a different age bracket when I fill in surveys. I like being older and I like filling in surveys. I like my life. Love my wife. Love my career. Like how the game has slowed down to the point where I can read it, rather than simply react to it. Like being Favre, baby. No timeouts.

Thing is, I think and act like I've worked it out. And most of it is making sense to me. Problem being, when I was 17 I thought I had it all sorted. At 23, I knew it all. 27? Lord of the manor. Truth told, what'd I know? Not enough.

And the thought has me a little spooked.



My teens and twenties, summarised in three and a half minutes. An indictment, really.

The weekend is the weekend
And it’s sunny in the park
I’ll stay here with my beer and fish and chips till it gets dark
I’ve got a lot of homework
But homework he can wait
I never start my homework till its already too late
My parents say think about your future and my teachers say the same
But it’s hard
When there’s a basketball game in the park
It’s 1998
And everybody’s saying:
'Harry, you’re going to be a lawyer some day…'

But just right now
Can’ think of anything better to do
Than just sit down at the piano and a write this tune
And maybe later
Maybe later in the afternoon
I’ll sit back and relax
And think of all the things I’m going to do…

I don't know what form the song for the next chapter of my life will take, I just hope it isn't sung by Tom Waits.

Dead People Party

The GZA: Walk me through this. I was writing -- it was more like scribbling, at least initially -- about how shitty I feel hitting a dead end while composing stillborn songs. I thought about scrapping it in favor of another gimmick on wordplay in the "Labels," "Publicity," and those two joints on Legend of the Liquid Sword vein, the latter of which -- THE TRUTH IS RARELY SPOKEN AND BARELY HEARD -- fell, like trees in a forest with no one around, on deaf ears. But I persisted, swinging my machete of ingenuity at branches both little and large, forging a path toward what I foolishly perceived as greatness. And, my strenuous task complete, I felt vindicated by my perserverence, my will. I had something, I was confident. Something special.

But it was all for naught. The next morning, in the shower (there's something about showers that jumpstarts the creative process, the same way there's something about getting old that stifles it), I received from on high a message: Nas did that shit four years ago with "Book of Rhymes." Man, Nas -- like ten years my junior -- beat me to the punch; though I take solace and schadenfreude in the fact that "Book of Rhymes" is universally awful.

Anyway, I still thought I had the framework for a pretty good song if I could just rework it to focus on my insecurities as an artist rather than my inability to finish a verse (which was hard; every verse is my baby, and intentionally aborting them felt simultaneously like The Great Leap Forward and The Great Purge). And that's when, upon writing the self-depracating line "I can't even smoke a crack pipe right," I again realized that I had nibbled upon the shoulder of FatLip and his ode to ineffectual cred, "What's Up FatLip?"

Still, I tried. At least, goddam it, I did that.

Psychedelic Kimochi

Word to Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, I'm quitting my gay job. Then I'm gonna buy a Nintendo Wii, a(nother) plasma TV, a pack of franks and a big bag of Frito-Lays, a copy of Super Mario Galaxy, and maybe some water. What comes after will -- I am confident -- be better than a million orgasms at once (tantric sex is a hoax by the way, like the Easter Bunny and alternative fuel sources), the sequel to The Brothers Karamazov, and meeting Billy Mitchell.

Combined.

The PK 27 -- Track 21

One cold November evening (namely, tonight) I sat around, trying to think of an additional PK 27 track, but I wasn't really contemplating the nature of Psychedelic Kimchi, nor was I looking to encapsulate the experience, per se. What I had been searching for was the reason as to why I began reading Sparkles' blog in the first place, and a track to accompany it.

I'd like to think that, initially, Sparkles' affection for Pac-Man legend Billy Mitchell -who is PK like a stepmotherfuck- is what sucked me in faster than Blinky gobbled up that ravenous, dot-munching yellow bastard.

Speaking of yellow, I then considered the idea that it was kimochi that drew me into the fold, but to be candid, I'm generally nonplussed by the yellow fever that characterizes my fellow contributors. May BoA beat me to death with a sack of used condoms for such sacrilege, I think that craving escaped me somehow despite the many attractive delicacies a Pan-Asian Buffet has to offer. (Having said that, I'd love to see another Nancy Lang interview, if you know what I mean.)

Part of me yearns to identify with the positively ghoulish adolescence depicted in a good number of Sparkles' early posts. Given that I know exactly the kind of guy he was during high school, I'm tempted to give in to such enticing, derisive affiliations, and had I fallen completely for the ruse, my musical selection would have been 1979, by the Smashing Pumpkins. Unfortunately, things are never quite that clear for me. Once in a while, the Spark liked to mix things up with a post that would exhibit -and elicit- feelings of kindness, warmth, beneficence, and all that other shit that I don't entirely apprehend.

I'd like to think of his motif -and why I began reading this goddamn blog in the first place- as whistling past the graveyard whilst surrounded by friends, but that's about as convincing as the plot of Labyrinth. Nontheless, since I won't submit 1979, I nominate Oleander's Are You There?, the caveat being that the song need be ingested via the context of the PK27, and that you envision Sparkles singing it tongue-in-cheek at a karaoke bar (or noraebang) amongst a party of his friends and family. Furthermore, the lead singer, Thomas Flowers, bears an uncanny resemblance to PK's very own Korea Sparkling.

Given that framework, I think the song transforms into what I sought rather nicely.



Bruno Martelli

Members Only

Ironically, I promise to keep this short. Paragon of proclivity that I am*, I racked my brain for the better part of today, trying to come up with something both meaningful and beautiful to write about. Because Psychedelic Kimchi, if it can be contained, examined, and analyzed, and despite our oft irreverent views and digressions, is always thematically centered around beauty and all of its

(manifold)

forms.

Prove me wrong.

But what, exactly, was there to expound upon that I haven't already? I had an out-of-body experience last night when I feverishly cleared 200 lines in Tetris (take that, Adrian Peterson!), and again this afternoon when I ate eight chicken and beef quesadillas; plus I rewatched Kubricks 2001: A Space Odyssey and personally met the guy who invented ketchup shots (aka the best invention since the sun). But that's nothing new. Same old, same old, as far as you're concerned.

Then it hit me. Like a sauce pan to the eye.

There is one thing which I've admired but have never written about. One great, marvelous thing. Word to Ben Grimm.

Game don't talk about game, I realize, and in doing so I will probably alienate everyone who reads this hallowed site minus myself, but, really, how is that any different from the daily manifesto of one Tiberious aka Sparkles? If anything, what follows is a brief allegorical summation of not only PK, but the Internet in general.

Except this is all true.

***

I have a wonderful cock. I use it and, sometimes, abuse it. If God indeed exists, and if I was put on Earth with a defined purpose, it is to utilize my blessed appendage efficiently, and display my might only to the divinely chosen. (Which is why I've never taken communal showers or made a porn film.)

I'm not the longest nor the widest by any means. (I am not that fat guy, though I sometimes wish I were**.) Not by any means. Seven or eight inches -- depending on how long I've been sheathed -- and with the girth of a ballpark frank, what I am missing in pure dimensions I more than make up for in astonishing beauty. It truly is a sight to behold.

I often sarcastically mention my killer smile, my alluring bombardier's eyes, my slender torso; half-jokingly, because, if you've ever met me or seen my mugshot on The Smoking Gun, you know that I'm to handsomeness what Kenny Anderson was to basketball. Or, better, Derrick Coleman.

That I will admit. Like the Arctic Monkeys, I'm full of mediocrity from head to foot.

(Save for my pristine and remarkable penis.)

I'll admit, I'm my own worst critic. (I'll also admit that I opened and re-wrapped my presents on Christmas morning when I was twelve, and pretended to look surprised after discovering for the second time that I didn't receive your sensual lips, your kiss.) But every time I stand naked in front of a mirror, I marvel at the gift God bestowed me.

It's form is simply astounding. And when I die (Wednesday morning, by my calculations), it is written in my will that a mold be sent to The Smithsonian.

Because it is that good.

Until then, you're just going to have to trust me on the point.





* I'm like the Bizarro Idealjetsam in that regard. With guitars.

** mindset of a champion

The PK 27 -- Track Five

I've been drinking, but this is irrelevant. As the minutiae of my life begin to settle and my social and working myodesopsia subsides, I am finally finding time to find time.

It began with the completion of my tax return on Halloween. All souls and offsets. Then, my unprecedented - in the sense of it being without precedent - second consecutive win in the Melbourne Cup backing a horse known, et tu Brute, as Efficient. I also finally managed to watch Seabiscuit. Needless to say, it has been an impressively progressive two weeks.

It culminated last night, around 11pm, when I read TMH's sterling little Darkly number. After which it occurred to me that I need to get the 27 out of my life. William G is about to pen his own 13 and I know, deep within my amoral fibre, that the cunt will finish it before we do. It further occurred to me that the 27 thing doesn't even calculate. Did I miss the calculation memo? Do I divide it by 6 or 5? Either way, it doesn't come out to a whole number. Which makes sense, if I refuse to think about it.

But I regress.

Like Darkly, I want to get back to random glimpses of beauty that make us no money. PK is at its absolute best when there is no plan A and no plan B. I'm saying we get the 27 done, storm the vault and walk out with Zoe. Because that, dear reader, is what Eric Stoltz would do.

So, I'm getting this done. Track 5? In the blog world, we will always be the Brian Jonestown Massacre.

Fuck the Dandy Warhols.

A Materials Darkly

The kid was getting ready for a fight this weekend, and they needed a fat guy to lay on him and rough him up.

I was that fat guy.

I got on top of him, straddling him, my legs on either side, and I thrust my hips into him driving the air from his lungs.

Sometimes, when I talk like this and it doesn't seem even vaguely sexual or homoerotic, I begin to realize that I've lost all perspective.

He had just been through five three-minute rounds of stand-up training hell with our trainer. He was working his cardio. Our trainer was trying to exhaust him. With just a week left to his fight, if it had been up to me, I would have liked to see the kid not work so hard. I would have liked to see the taper start a little earlier. But nobody asks me these questions here. Nobody knows who I am. Not that I'm anybody to know, just that ... There was a time, see?

I'm just the weekend warrior who comes in a couple of times a week to hit the bag and roll with whoever will roll with me. And sometimes, on Saturdays, the fight team guys are getting prepped and need somebody to roll with. And I'm there, and the trainer knows my story, so he asks me if, after he wears them out on the feet, I'll get in with them. Roll around with them. Lay on them.

"After he has you on top of him, any of these 185ers or 170ers will seem like nothing."

I am that fat guy.

I layed on him. He tried to escape but I took advantage of the one thing I had going for me; he was exhausted, while I was fresh. I kept the pace high. After the first round he went off to puke. I was tired too, but I wasn't going to admit it. I was supposed to be the fresh one. My conditioning has gone to shit.

At the start of the second round, he lunged for me and accidentally butted my head with the crown of his skull just above my right ear. It hurt like a bitch. My eyes swam. My lungs were burning. I wanted to quit.

I'm old and fat, I thought. I'm not this tough anymore.

But I used to be. So I remembered what that guy used to do and I did that. I kept going. I threw him on the floor again. I got on top of him again. I pushed the air out of his lungs with my hips again. After the round, he tried to go puke but he was just hoarking, just spasming. There was nothing left in there.

In the third round, he escaped and took my back. He got one hook in and was digging for the other. I was moving my head, fighting his hands, trying to keep his arm off my carotid arteries. Trying to keep him from choking off the blood supply to my brain. I managed to survive it. I managed to survive against a guy who's about 85% of my total body weight and exhausted.

I should be ashamed of myself.

"Jeez, man, what do you weigh," he asked.
"Dunno. 220?" I said. I am that fat guy.
"Oh, good. I thought you were 185. This is my first fight at 185 and I thought you were that strong at my new weight. Scary."
"No, man. You'll do fine." He will. I've seen him and rolled with him before. He's very good. He's one of those kids who would run through a wall if you told him it would make him better. I like to think that's how I used to be.

He and our trainer started talking about neanderthals.
That's right, I thought. I remember now. The kid's an anthropology student at the Uni.
"What do you do, man?" he asked, turning his attention to me.
I finished my long pull on a water bottle.
"Writer," I croak.
"Really? What do you write?"
"I write for some trade publications. Home improvement and home building industries."
He nodded for a moment.
"Do you ever write any of your own stuff," he asked.
That's weird, I thought. Most people are content to let it go with the trade pubs.
"Yeah, actually," I said. "I do."
"Like, what of your own do you write?"
What do you mean what of my own do I write, I thought.
"Well, I'm trying for a novel and I like to do personal, non-fiction, memoir-type essays."
He nodded again, then asked me, "What's your novel like? What's the genre?"
And that's when it hit me what he had been asking all along. The poor kid was one one of them. My opinion of him plummeted. My mood sank.
"Well, it's not fantasy. Or science fiction. I can tell you that much."
"Oh, that's too bad man. I love that shit. I don't know how they come up with that stuff. Have you ever read 'His Dark Materials?'"
"Er, no."
"Have you ever read George R.R. Martin?"
"Er, no."
"Oh man, you gotta. You're a writer; you'd love them."
Yes. Indeed.

I drove home from the gym. It's a long way; that's why I don't go that often. Do I have a book in me about orcs and battle axes? God knows I could use the money. Somehow, though, I kind of doubt it.
It's not that I disdain people who enjoy that sort of fiction; I guess I was just happier when NO books sold. To now have to inhabit a world where only ONE kind of book sells, and it is, of course, the genre I have the absolute least use for is a cruel trick played by an unmerciful god. A god who could, conceivably, play other tricks. Like creating dwarves. And giving them battle axes.

Maybe I'll take a run at this fantasy thing after all. Maybe I can be that fat guy, too.

The Week in Sports

Don't worry; I know I tend to get esoteric from time to time, but the title of this post is, for the most part, exactly what it advertises, despite the -- Warning: Disturbing(?)* -- image above. Because who doesn't like to talk sports? Granted, some are better at it than others, and this spectrum of analyses ranges from "That was a fucking sweet pass!" to as far as "Lynn Swann nestled the ball in his arms like the woodcutter did the baby at the end of Rashomon." But isn't that what makes sports (and film, and food, and the female figure) so fun to discuss? It's universal, baby; and, like the universe itself, although no man will ever come close to a definitive exposition on the inherent beauty of either subjects, we all try. Some better than others.

Things I Noticed When I Wasn't Looking**

-- Word to Idealjetsam, basketball does not, in fact, suck. Nor will it ever. That's like saying water tastes unpleasant, or that grilled kimchi causes birth defects in pregnant mothers. To quote Charles Strickland (Psychedelic Kimchi like a motherfuck, by the way), you funny little man.

-- It was nice to actually watch KG's first game as a Celtic, even though I woke up with A HANGOVER THE SIZE OF THE NATIONAL DEBT/A RADIOACTIVE MUTANT CATFISH, caught the game halfway through the third quarter, and genocide is still a major worldwide issue. It's hard not to root for Boston's big three. They're all such likeable, dedicated, handsome, selfless gentlemen (reminds me of some people I know). I bet Garnett doesn't even masturbate.

-- Some running back for the Vikings -- a rookie, no less -- broke the NFL's regular-season record for rushing yards. And I would have remembered his name were it not for the fact that A) the NFL and I amicably split seven years ago when I moved to Korea, because long-distance relationships of that persuasion never work out, B) I read about it today in the Korea Herald, and, as a principle, I automatically swipe everything I read in that waifer-thin piece of journalistic dog food from my mind the instant I put it down and log onto perezhilton.com, and C) I'm a little jealous, in all honesty. Dude rushed for 296 yards. My biggest accomplishment of the week is clearing 166 lines in Tetris and not spelling accomplishment incorrectly.

-- If Gilbert Arenas were a fad, would he be:

A) an 8-ball jacket

B) school shootings

C) Ren & Stimpy

D) The Da Vinci Code

I don't want to hex the man, but he's sorta becoming a joke. An unfunny one. (Reminds me of someone I know/am.)

-- Bring me the head of Francisco Garcia. (Case in point.)

-- This, from the Is Roger Ebert Really All Better? file:

You Don't Know How Good You Are

In my opinion, Rog gets Tommy points for taking shit out of the box. PK, as I've stated here (and haunted your dreams with the following maxim), is often inside baseball. You, Constant Retard, are probably used to it. The casual Chicago Sun Times reader, however, is probably not. Kudos to Roger Ebert (Psychedelic Kimchi like a motherfuck, by the way) for switching it up for a sec. I do it every other day; but when a living monolith of journalism takes a chance (this is the man who co-wrote Beyond the Valley of the Dolls and gave Speed 2: Cruise Control a thumb up, remember), it cannot be overlooked or unappreciated.

(Even though the article kinda/sorta/really did bite.)

-- I'm trying to decide which is the fourth-best North American sport: the NHL, or Hell's Kitchen with Gordon Ramsay.

-- The Boston Red Sox won the World Series. That was nice. Feel good story, and all that. I bet Jonathon Papelbon doesn't even manually arouse himself.

-- Tony Parker, despite many contrary claims, is not, in fact, a pussy. So stop making fun of his accent already.

-- Oh, the Miami Heat? I suppose it's my duty to write a little missive to The House That Spark Built. It's just that every time I try, I get this sharp pain in my knees, shoulders, and ribs. Blame Stan Van Gundy, denz, and the voodoo doll they share. And Ricky Davis.

(Although, Ricky, if I could love the unlovable -- see: Walker, Antoine -- I might find a place in my cold, cruel heart for you, too. If you don't intentionally grab a rebound from your own team's basket, that is.

...

This is going to end badly.)




* For the record, that's a photo of a [fucked up raccoon? A dog? A fucked-up raccoon dog?] on a taxidermist's table, and not some inhumane form of animal torture porn (it can't be inhumane if the beast is already dead, right? Unless you're cremated -- and, really, who's to say you're not? -- they'll stuff you, too. You know who's inhumane? God, that's who). It probably wouldn't matter either way to the good people of PETA, but I'd like to think that stuffing a dead animal is just a little less monstrous than tying down a poor, helpless creature and tormenting it until it gives up the goods as to whereabouts Scruffy Squirrel is stashing his acorns. Just a little.

** Write that on my epitaph! (Along with the subscript: "I Ghost Wrote the Titles of Modest Mouse's Last Two Albums").

Diver Down (Under) Kimochi Corrigendum

I'm no patriot, but I feel compelled to add this to homeboy K's last post.

Miss Australia, 2005


As you were.

Diver Down (Under)

Once upon an aeon, there was a luscious young lady that liked to pour chocolate syrup upon her own head. She'd then ask me to lick it off, but I resisted, if only because I enjoyed watching her try to do it herself. Imagine that.

For the record, that admission (and the attached picture) was not an analogy for my feelings toward Australia, nor our large base of Australian readers. I love you bastards as much as Lord Humungous craved some petroleum. I used to have a crush on Virginia Hey so, if anything, I should be granted immediate residency, if not diplomatic immunity*. Hell, I once (in a drunken haze) got down on one knee and proposed to an Australian woman, with an onion ring to signify my pure intention. That she took the ring and ate it, instead of slapping me to the cement, is enough to endear me to that segment of the world's population a thousand times over.

The point of that initial snippet was to segue, gently, into my ambivalence toward one Scott Herren aka Prefuse 73. I just never know where to stand on that issue. Okay, that's a partial truth; I do know what I think about his music, namely that I often despise it, and yet I also find myself listening to each of his releases (as Prefuse 73, that is) at least once. I understand that he's gifted, and that he knows how to make good music, but goddamn does he piss me off.**

Surrounded by Silence should have been the end of my affair with Mr. Herren. Seriously, not even an appearance by the little white boy that could, El-P, could save that album. As a disc, it was just too pseudo sui generis for my tastes. Believe what you may, but when someone labors too hard to be unique, they just reek of insecurity, and Herren did just that on the aforementioned album. Surrounded by Silence was the finale to a tumultuous affair, at least until another CD was released. Fuck, I'm so pusillanimous.

So here we go, with Herren's latest foray into musical obscurity, Preparations & Interregnums, released just a few weeks ago. Consisting of two discs, twenty-nine tracks in all, P&I is indeed a monumental undertaking, both for Herren and his listeners, and one almost gets the sense that Herren wants us to suffer as he has, to accept the ruinous life of a skilled artist. Peaks and valleys, highs and lows, pimps and hos.

Listening to the first disc, Preparations, I found myself vacillating between notions of 'this is some great stuff' and 'when is this shit gonna end' and, honestly, while that may be par for the Prefuse 73 course, that's not my idyllic musical experience. In the sense of equity, however, I can be utterly candid about my delight regarding the second disc, Interregnums. This disc is not the usual, I'll be iconoclastic Herren, which is part of why I adored listening to it. The disc is, unabashedly, a collection of low-key, synthetic beats and melodies that could -and probably will- soothe even the most savage of beastly critics.

Look, as far as criticism of music goes, I can't hack it. If Sparkles wants to give you an insightful track-by-track review, he'll get someone else to do it. Ultimately, Herren is hit and miss (mostly miss) with his music, and Preparations & Interregnums is no exception. Deal with the futility of the first disc, and revel in the magic of the second.

Nonetheless, I'm sure that I'll come crawling back to Herren the next time he releases some shit.

Kain Highwind

______________________________



* Despite the fact that Denz once informed me that it would be his personal mission in life to make certain I would never be allowed to step foot on Australian soil.

** Basically, he's the idealjetsam of music.

Sweater Vest (Deus Ex Machina II)

Word to paradoxes, in the summer and winter my skin is, alternatingly, as oily as a bowling ball and as dry as an octogenarian's snatch. If I didn't take part in drug testing as a means to pay my college tuition, I'd blame the weather.

And so it was that, last night,

(I dreamed that somebody loved me)

Name Withheld remarked about my arid visage, and today

(is the greatest day I've ever known; can't live for tomorrow -- tomorrow's much too long)

resolved to do something 'bout it, 'bout it.

No hard feelings; the best intentions of mice, men, and lobstrosities; PLEASE DON'T LOBOTOMIZE ME, but beauty shops and I aren't exactly on speaking terms these days, father. In fact, we never have been. So it was with great apprehension and distrust that I followed Psychedelic Kimchi's resident angel into the Make Men Gay Center* with a look in my eyes that I imagine was similar to those of pets corralled in an airplane's belly pre-flight, and, if I may, passengers aboard a Holocaust train.

As it turned out, like a booster shot to a toddler or sitting through a Hugh Grant movie, it was relatively painless, the fear of the unknown vastly outweighing the reality of facial masks, moisturizer, and hair wax. That said, there are great many dangers I will flirt with, but I do not wish to revisit that particular -- nay, any -- beauty shop again, lest I go mad.

After what seemed an eternity, we exited that den of sweet-scented evil; and like harried freedom on horseback I sought escape to places where flowers would not grow and scum would flourish. I took the subway home, hoping to wash away the aroma of flowery malice in soju-soaked obscurity.

But I was not one of them, and they knew it. Knives were out. The dandelion perfume, which Name Withheld had playfully sprayed me with not an hour prior, attracted them to my status as an interloper faster than a shark smells fresh blood. How I made it above ground is a tale for another time, perhaps another era. The fact that I did, I think, is due more to pure luck than genuine skill. Whatever the case, I'm just happy to be alive right now. Baseball has been berry, berry good to me.

This story is not, however, devoid of loss. And for that I am filled with an almost unbearable sorrow.

Because

(Naoko never loved me)

I left behind a bag containing skin moisturizer, facial masks, hair wax, and (quite possibly) the Holy Grail AND the Ark of the Covenant. To quote Kurtis Blow, these are the breaks.

Luckily, my mojo was spared, thank God. Can't say the same for the souls of the passengers of that crowded subway car who watched me stand up without my bag in tow and who collectively did fuck all to alert me to the fact. They're all going to hell, I am convinced. Or Moran Station (same difference).

However, in the end, I blame only myself.

Because that's what a grown man does.

A grown man with dry skin and a devilish smirk from ear to ear.

Because I'd rather eat dehydrated deer penis and fuck an electric socket than moisturize myself.

Word to paradoxes.


* possibly not its actual title