Growing up (don't shoot, hear me out), I wasn't exactly around sports. My father had some curling brooms in the garage and a trophy on the mantle that he never talked about -- that was the extent of my childhood athletic exposure. When my brother got into hockey cards in the 2nd grade, I followed suit; I'd like to say because I looked up to him, but the more likely truth is I did it because I thought I could beat him. At card collecting. Jesus.
He beat me in that regard, but since I collected more comics I figure we're about even.
That's how I developed competetiveness. That, the Nintendo Entertainment System, girls (I always lost), and, to a far lesser degree, academics. Poor, wayward, second son.
When the call of the wild -- AKA favorite sports teams selections for children -- began, I showed up late. Big brother had a monopoly on two of the four major sports' franchises: the Bears and the Celtics. He also had the Leafs, but since they were stuck in the Harold Ballard era -- and I was adopted from a South American family (the only way I can conceivably explain why I didn't like hockey the moment I espied a black and orange puck) -- I'm calling it a draw. Ditto for the Blue Jays, because I firmly believe that no one under twelve can appreciate baseball (although the first time I learned about sex was when I was eight, in a Burger King, and Ernie Witt was prominently involved -- so at least I can appreciate that).
Some years later, I would fall asleep every night listening to Samantha Fox and Chicago on Buffalo's KISS 93.5, and wake up in the morning greeted with the maxim SQUISH THE FISH blaring like a siren. Who were these Miami Dolphins? Easy, they were the enemy. I was convinced that Dan Marino was the antichrist, and, in retrospect, I wasn't exactly wrong. The year was 1990, and the Buffalo Bills were on their way to the first of four consecutive Super Bowl appearances.
[fuck]Of course they lost each one.[/fuck]
Like many in my generation, I got into basketball because of Michael Jordan, and late spring of the same year that the Bills/Scott Norwood lost Superbowl XXV I followed the Chicago Bulls during their championship run. But there was no joy in Mudville on that occasion, because part of the experience of being a sports fan is struggling with a team through its highs and lows, and although Game 1 of the Finals was a heartbreaker, I was riding the Bulls' bandwagon without baggage. Of course I was -- I was 13 years old. Perhaps if Norwood's kick hadn't
(gone WIDE RIGHT!)
missed, I'd feel the same way about the Bills. Who's to say? Anyway, MJ and Co. beat the Lakers, sparked a dynasty, and got me hooked on professional basketball.
But -- and here's where maybe, just maybe, Hockey Heritage plays a part -- I couldn't vibe with Chicago's blend of savvy marksmanship and killer instinct, preferring instead to admire the gritty bullying of the New York Knicks. Those motherfuckers had ice grills! Ewing, Charles Oakley, Anthony Mason (later), and Pat Riley stalking the sidelines like an amalgamation of Don Corleone and Gordon Gecko...put a hurt on 'em, son!
Mostly, though, I fell in thug love with the Knicks because of one man: John Starks.
No disrespect to Ghostface, but if anyone who ever resided in NY deserves the title of Ironman, it's Starks -- not only because dude's surname almost matches the Marvel Comics hero's PKA, but because of Starks's heart. Early on in the comics, Tony had to wear the Ironman suit to protect his ticker. I am convinced that John Starks had to protect his own with Madison Square Garden. Two of the saddest days in my life were when Starks dropped a brick bomb on me in Game 7 of the '94 Finals and watching him play for Golden State in the first game of the Warriors' 98/99 season.
Heart and soul. Fuck Babe Ruth and Boston, I'm convinced the biggest curse in sports occurred when John Starks left NY.
When John Starks left New York, a little piece of me died, too. Fuck that, a big piece.
The Toronto Blue Jays won the World Series in 1991 and 1992, and although it was exciting at the time, looking back I can't feel proud about it. I didn't earn it.
The Miami Heat won the NBA Championship in 2006, and, yeah, I earned that one, despite sports bigamy (peep the archives, Bruce). But it's 2007, and what have I done for the Heat lately? [Cedric Daniels's Voice]Not a goddamn thing.[/Cedric Daniels's Voice]
(I'ma make good, I promise, lieutenant.)
I once told a good -- nay, a great -- man that people generally get what they deserve. I still believe that. If the Buffalo Bills never hoist the Vince Lombardi Trophy in my lifetime, I can handle it. Perhaps I don't deserve it. If the Knicks DO hoist the Larry O'Brien in same lifetime, I'll handle it, too, well aware that I'm a traitor, yet proud nonetheless.
Word to Professor X (RIP), there are 9 innings in a baseball game; and there can be no victory sweeter than winning the game of life. Sweeter still when you do so away from home.
Word to Victory.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Not many people know this about me, but three of my favorite albums ever are "Madman Across the Water," "Tumbleweed Connection," and "Honky Chateau," all by Reginald Kenneth Dwight, or Sir Elton John, if you please. Them shits was alt. country before there was even mainstream country; them shits was alt. country when Uncle Tupelo was in grammar school.
And that's why this picture:
Always makes me kinda sad. That's a guy who's interested in the music, not the trappings of success and fame. Knowing this guy once existed makes "The Lion King Original Motion Picture Soundtrack" and "The One" much harder to deal with.
Good news though, true believers. With recent albums like "Songs From the West Coast" and "The Captain and the Kid" Elton John has gone all Reggie Dwight on us, and none too soon.
Without further ado, then, this week's addition to the PK 27: Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters, a fave of mine off "Honky Chateau." The fact that it plays during an overdose scene in "Almost Famous" only makes it cooler.
Posted by TMH at 9:10 AM
Friday, September 28, 2007
Can I be vague? If I may, I promise you can conjecture.
There are worthier scribes than me when it comes to detailing expat life in South Korea...I think. Probably. See, the thing is, I wouldn't know; I've lived on the rock for over seven years, and after Year One (word to Frank Miller) my interest in the foreign perspective stopped. Every day spent treating my existence in Korea as "an experience" or, worse, "a journey" seemed like a waste of time, partially because I understood that Korea is neither a stepping stone nor a way station; Korea is where I wake up every morning and where I lay my head to rest every night. And that's it. I'm a foreigner living in Korea, but I'll be damned if I'm a Korea-living foreigner.
You can't typecast or pigeonhole me, motherfucker. I'm a man of the world.
Seriously, though, you get to livin' on the peninsula long enough, you start to feel like Dilsey Gibson. You've seen it all, the rise and fall, or at least most of it. And let me tell you, it loses its lustre. It loses its "Golly!"
When I started Psychedelic Kimchi I had that in mind. This is not, and has never been, a "Korean blog". It's me, Eoin Forbes, and a few of my cohorts. We like good music, movies, food, humor, and, yeah, occasionally, post modern art and self-mutilation (they're the same, non?). We also like writing, and, if I may, we are the best we are at what we do. Furthermore, we -- or at least ME -- are raging egoists, in case you're obtuse, and in which case your shoes are untied.
I'm sorry, I promised to be vague, so here it is: you can plan your entire life; you can make every day a blueprint; you can work hard, eat your vitamins, say your prayers and give up your bus seat to old ladies; but you can't read minds. If you could, you'd be better at Halo. Maybe. Heroes and villains, paint the White House black, and don't smoke near my toddler.
You got a crew? I got one, too. They're called the Brooklyn Zoo.
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 9:13 PM
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
It's Chuseok. Everyone's entitled to one good traffic jam.
-- Sheriff Lee Brackett
Pop quiz, hotshot: You have 5 days vacation and nothing planned. What do you do?
What. Do. You. Do?
Solution: call up a certain organ grinder's simian, suggest a hide-away (avec a pack of franks and a big bag of Frito-Lays, natch), and make like we always do 'bout this time.
Here's what transpired:
11:30AM, Saturday: Ivan calls.
"Ayo, Spark, I'm as afraid of holiday traffic as dogs are of their own farts. Could we change the meeting time from 3PM to 1:30?
1:30PM: Schopping for schnacks. Cheese balls, dig it!
2:22PM: Get your liquid propane gas-powered motor running, head out on the highway. Looking for the closest liquid propane gas-selling service station, or whatever comes our way. BORN to be economically safe and sound.
Me: So this place is close to Incheon? That won't take long.
Ivan: Who said it was close to Incheon? It's 3 hours away on a good day. You think today is gonna be a good day? Look at a calendar, straight back.
Ivan: You touch my iPod one more time, I will bite the fleshiest part of your back!
Me: Yes, I shoulda gone before we left, but I prefer to always make things difficult whenever we take a trip. Just wait, in 4 hours we'll be on Mars with Dr. Manhattan and Sally Jupiter, and I'll complain about the atmosphere. I'm a wet blanket like that. Get used to it.
Ivan: I am literally going to scratch out my corneas. This tedious drive is killing me.
Me: Baby, it ain't all bad. I could think of a lot of people I'd rather not be stuck in traffic with.
Ivan: I can't. Have another cheese ball, asshole.
Ivan: OK, we're off the highway. Smooth sailing and all that.
Me: OK if I put on some Queen to commemorate this momentous occasion?
Ivan: OK if I crash this car into a ditch to commemorate your superlative bastardity?
Me: Time for some grub.
Ivan: Seafood stew suit you, Quint?
Me: I'll be the one making Jaws references from here on out, OK, Tiger?
Ivan: That was tight. If I'm lying, I'm dying.
Me: Word to Burt Bacharach, you got the look of love in your eyes.
Ivan: I certainly do.
Pete Rock and CL Smooth
Common (the watered-down Common who lacks the lyricism he possessed on Ressurection, and, to a lesser extent, One Day It'll All Make Sense)
Who poisoned me? I've got diarrhea like my mind has changed my body's frame. But God I like it. As if I need a reason to stay at home and play DS all day.
Ivan's maternal instinct kicks into fifth gear. Bibimbap and fried fish are not, to my knowledge, holistic remedies for curing enteritis. Neither is [censored] and the best [censored] I've ever received, but, God, I like them both, and I'm feeling pretty goddam OK right about now.
In fact, I'm feeling so OK that I'm going to go shopping and buy about 3000 golf shirts.
(In the end, I buy 4. It's 3:03AM on Mars and I am thinking about buying a fifth.)
I'm writing paragraphs shorter than your attention span, and looking at the stars.
And that's what I have to say[Sky Blue Font], nearly one year after I became acquainted with lips more sublime than Rosario Dawson's or Angelina Jolie's, and found...
Wait for it...
I mean destiny.
[/Sky Blue Font]
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 8:31 PM
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
"Blue. No, yel..."
My sincere apologies to The Gap Band, once upon a time (read: August) I had a list for this ish. Somewhere along the way, I threw it out. The following song wasn't on the list, but believe me: it deserves to be.
[Scene: Bennigans, 12:30PM, Sunday]
Me: This is some really keen mango juice. What's that song playing?
Companion: I dunno.
Me [looking constipated]: I know that voice.
Companion: It sounds familiar.
Me: It certainly sounds familiar.
Companion: have some more bread.
Me: Van Morrison!
Companion [sighing]: I think you're right.
Me: Isn't it remarkable how great songs find people? I've gone my whole life without hearing that song, and, now, I'm never going to forget it. How fortuitous.
Companion: You have the mind of a poet. Eat your Mexican sampler before I stab you in the eye with a nacho shard.
Upon returning home that afternoon, I ardently searched for the song. Silly me, it wasn't Van Morrison; it was David Gray. (My sincere apologies to the Irish.)
At the time, I considered the song...wait for it...sublime; after watching the video, the lyrics certainly take on a whole new meaning. Now I honestly don't know how to feel*. Call me carazy, but I prefer my favorite songs to be about human beings rather than bottles of booze or euthanized dogs (word to Brick).
Regardless, the song is a masterpiece; and even though I dislike the alcohol metaphor (IRONY ALERT!), it IS a very creative video.
Whoever posted it on Youtube disabled the embed function, so copy and paste the link below, hamster penis.
* Really, my hand is numb.
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 1:02 AM
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Some time right about the second time it was tried, spoken word went all to hell. There are about four people in the world who can do it well, and 40 million (split between 6 American urban centers) who can do it very, very poorly.
Saul Williams is one of the four. Release is the kind of classic that literally speaks for itself. So let the lyrics replace the typical PK intro.*
Release, Part 2.
Inner breathlessness, outer restlessness
By the time I caught up to freedom I was out of breath
Grandma asked me what I'm running for
I guess I'm out for the same thing the sun is sunning for
What mothers birth their young'ns for
And some say Jesus coming for
For all I know the earth is spinning slow
Suns at half mast 'cause masses ain't aglow
On bended knee, prostrate before an altered tree
I've made the forest suit me
Tables and chairs
Papers and prayers
Matter versus spirit
A metal ladder
A wooden cross
A plastic bottle of water
A mandala encased in glass
A spirit encased in flesh
Sound from shaped hollows
The thickest of mucus released from heightened passion
A man that cries in his sleep
A truth that has gone out of fashion
A mode of expression
A paint splattered wall
A carton of cigarettes
A bouquet of corpses
A dying forest
A nurtured garden
A privatized prison
A candle with a broken wick
A puddle that reflects the sun
A piece of paper with my name on it
All that I am I have been
All I have been has been a long time coming
I am becoming all that I am
The spittle that surrounds the mouth-piece of the flute
Unheard, yet felt
A gathered wetness
A quiet moisture
Sound trapped in a bubble
Released into wind
Wind fellows and land merchants
We are history's detergent
Water soluble, light particles, articles of cleansing breath
Articles amending death
These words are not tools of communication
They are shards of metal
Dropped from eight story windows
They are waterfalls and gas leaks
Aged thoughts rolled in tobacco leaf
The tools of a trade
Barbers barred, barred of barters
Catch phrases and misunderstandings
But they are not what I feel when I am alone
Surrounded by everything and nothing
And there isn't a word or phrase to be caught
A verse to be recited
A man to de-fill my being in those moments
I am blankness, the contained center of an "O"
The pyramidic containment of an "A"
I stand in the middle of all that I have learned
All that I have memorized
All that I've known by heart
Unable to reach any of it
There is no sadness
There is no bliss
It is a forgotten memory
A memorable escape route that only is found by not looking
There, in the spine of the dictionary the words are worthless
They are a mere weight pressing against my thoughtlessness
But then, who else can speak of thoughtlessness with such confidence
Who else has learned to sling these ancient ideas
like dead rats held by their tails
so as not to infect this newly oiled skin
I can think of nothing heavier than an airplane
I can think of no greater conglomerate of steel and metal
I can think of nothing less likely to fly
There are no wings more weighted
I too have felt a heaviness
The stare of man guessing at my being
Yes I am homeless
A homeless man making offerings to the after-future
Sculpting rubber tree forests out of worn tires and shoe soles
A nation unified in exhale
A cloud of smoke
A native pipe ceremony
All the gathered cigarette butts piled in heaps
Snow covered mountains
Lipsticks smeared and shriveled
Offerings to an afterworld
Tattoo guns and plastic wrappers
Broken zippers and dead eyed dolls
It's all overwhelming me, oak and elming me
I have seeded a forest of myself
Little books from tall trees
It matters not what this paper be made of
Give me notebooks made of human flesh
Dried on steel hooks and nooses
Make uses of use, uses of us
It's all overwhelming me, oak and elming me
I have seeded a forest of myself
Little books from tall trees
On bended knee
Prostrate before an altered tree
I've made the forest suit me
Tables and chairs
Papers and prayers
Matter vs. spirit, through meditation
I program my heart to beat breakbeats and hum basslines on exhalation.
If only all our thoughts were so spoken.
And that's what I needed to say(or have Saul say) in New York City, six years, 12 days after the Twin Towers burned.
*Now, while watching the "video", you should be focusing on minutes 3-6 (all due respect to Gift of Gab and Lyrics Born), and not so much on the "Zack de la Rocha" moored in the upper left hand corner. (Dude screeches "release" a dozen times and gets the only billing? Who the hell posted that video?)
Posted by idealjetsam at 11:45 PM
Excepting David Foster Wallace's "Infinite Jest," the lyrics "Frail/ the skin is dry and pale/the pain will never fail/and so we go back to the remedy. /Clip/ the wings that get you high/ just leave 'em where they lie/ and tell yourself 'you'll be the death of me,'" is the single best piece of writing I've ever heard regarding addiction.
But, then again, I've been drinking tonight.
Posted by TMH at 1:19 PM
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Back in the day (word to Ahmad), NBA Live 96 was my ish. It was the Toronto Raptors' 2nd season, we drafted Marcus Camby, and I was positive that in fewer than three years the Raps would celebrate their first championship. Certainly, based upon Mighty Mouse and Camby's dominance on the SNES, nothing led me to doubt that prognostication. Damon averaged like 28 assists a game, Camby a triple double in points, rebounds, and blocks. I figured EA Sports had their shit right, and, by early November, eagerly awaited a 50-plus-win squad.
My bad. See, I have this thing for centers. I grew up with (H)Akeem, Ewing, David Robinson, Shaq, and, yeah, maybe, Rik Smits.
Little did I know that the C was a dying breed. When the Raps snatched Marcus Camby from UMass, I wholeheartedly believed dude was the cornerstone, the living monolith around which all great teams were built.
Now that I've become older, though not necessarily wiser, I realize how foolish I was. Marcus Camby is as sturdy as the Sampoong Department Store was, and I'm pretty sure I could beat him in an arm wrestle.
Take a gander at the picture above though, Constant Retard, and hopefully you can gleam that this post isn't about letdowns, it's about disappointments. There's a marked difference.
Greg Oden will not play this season. And for that I am truly disappointed.
Let's say you had a wild night out planned with your significant other and he or she came down with the flu; you have to take the L, right? You have to accept fate's hand, no matter how hard it is to do so.
Greg Oden, I was going to take you to a bar, then an after-hours bar, then a karaoke joint, then a motel. It would have been special, believe me. But you got stuff you got to handle, stuff which pains me but I know pains you more. Handle your BI, big man. And holler at me when you're ready to get back on the grind.
(Disappointment, not letdown.)
K-Hot hasn't seen The Departed. Disapp...
...ointment. Not letdown.
PS - Marvel Ultimate Alliance is nothing without Fin Fang Foom
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 12:49 AM
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Warning: bad shades of green in the video below include lime, puke lime, neon lime, and "I'm not putting this in your Corona because it will kill you" lime*.
Say what you want about 50 Cent,
(c'mon, this is the Internet; call my mother a skeezoid and threaten to kill me; I have no legal recourse. Have at it, young angst-ridden haterz)
but dude still possesses a tiger-like ferocity on the mic when properly motivated. In this case, motivation is amply supplied by a choice Milk D sample. Not to beat a dead mixed metaphor sprinkled with a vague T.S. Eliot reference, but you can hear fire in an earful of lust from Curtis's delivery; give him a good (more drums, less synth) beat, and he's finna ride that mother to glory, eye of the tiger style.
There's a Vince Carter analogy creeping up somewhere in the back of my spine, but I'm too vindictive to follow through.
What I'm trying to say is this**: 50 used to be THE underdog in the rap game. He made a record rhyming about how he was going to rob the top-selling hip-hop artists of that time (1983, this was), and was subsequently marked for death. Word to Steven Segal and Omar Little. He was hungry; he wanted to eat at the grown-ups' table, and eventually he did. Then, somewhere along the way, he got complacent. It happens. Happens to the best (see: Jones, Nasir).
Survive bullet wounds then star in a --albeit shitty -- Hollywood movie, and get back to me vis a vis complaints for 50 taking it easy for a while/forever.
To make a short story shorter, what makes "I Get Money" a rare gem is that we, for a fleeting moment, get to see 50 Cent back in his element -- vomit-colored shirts, cars, and skirts notwithstanding.
* Although, if you're a guy ordering a Corona with lime, you probably deserve to die. Word to vitriol.
** Indication no. 135 that I'm tired, drunk and lonely, and want to wrap this up as soonly*** as possible.
*** Made you look.
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 11:49 PM
Monday, September 17, 2007
Love like Semtex, by the Infadels
Once in a while, I come across a song that I enjoy for no definite reason, which is to say that I find music to be an organic experience of the six senses; the sixth sense being the mystical, ‘I can’t precisely express my affection for something, but I know that I adore it.’ The Infadels have accomplished the not-so-small feat of tickling my spider sense for endearing melodies, and a big portion of my frail psyche wants to toss out a ‘just because’ for rationale. Some learned critics would decry my laughable inadequacy, and in an effort to satiate their bloodlust (and, coincidentally, punish you, vaunted readers) I shall endeavor to properly elucidate my accolades.
First things first; this song, Love like Semtex, should have been the first track of our illustrious debut album, but Sparkles recently sent me a vituperative, if not wholly inappropriate, e-mail warning me against such action*. This nefarious remonstration included the phrase ‘death by boom-boom,’ succinctly emphasized by an affixed photo of idealjetsam looking particularly libidinous, which is enough to make a con man go straight, a gay guy go hetero, and a righteous man walk the path of the wicked.
While I am perfectly willing to grant you, dear reader, the wisdom to discern that I am neither (flaming) gay, nor particularly wicked, perhaps we should presume that I am a bit of a charlatan, but on this splendid eve I shall come clean (as it were), if only to avoid the decidedly penetrating wrath of Sparkles’ Premier Assassin. In the spirit of things, I’m going to share ten random truths with you, all of which encapsulate the notion of love which predominates the typhoon that is Psychedelic Kimchi and its relationship to Love like Semtex.
1. A few years back, beneath in the neon glaze of Itaewon, the Kimchi Krew witnessed TMH wrestle a pig, albeit a deceased one. Corpse or not**, the use of folkstyle wrestling takedowns was befitting of the passion that Big T has for the sport itself, and the chokehold performed was, ironically, one of love unbound.
2. I once spread some of the sauce from a Taco Bell Baja Gordita (one of the company’s palatable signature items) upon a woman’s breasts, and proceeded to feast upon her delectable figure. I’ll spare you the woman’s name, except that it began with an ‘M’, and that it rhymed with the word semtex. It wasn’t the healthiest of relationships, but there was an abundance of hot sauce, so the price of admission*** was justified.
3. In the late eighties, idealjetsam and I went to see a Boston concert, in Connecticut of all places. Brad, Tom, and the rest of the gang were in top form -especially during their perennial hit Amanda, which ushered forth an adrenaline rush the likes of which most skydivers can only dream about- and left us breathless. The performance of Feelin’ Satisfied remains one of the most dramatic moments of my life. At several points throughout the song, Mr. Delp commanded the audience to ‘put your hands together, yeah c’mon, put your hands together’ and we, the people, took his suggestion to heart, just in different ways. I thought the words meant to clap my hands profusely, while IDJ thought it implied that he should grab other people’s hands in an effort to feel satisfied. A bit traumatic, but that’s when I learned that IDJ is pure, explosive emotion, and it’s best not to rile him up (unless you’re into being manhandled).
4. Did you know that I am on vacation? What’s more, I shouldn’t give a shit about Sparkles’ censure, even though I’ve lost at least thirty hours of quality REM sleep trying to master my fear of it. So let Love like Semtex be track twelve hundred for all I care. “Love just doesn’t come first in life, unless you’re addicted to cocaine.”****
5. I once auditioned for the role of Mayday in Roger Moore’s final contribution to the James Bond franchise, A View to a Kill. In the final round of the selection process, I lost out to Grace Jones, because she agreed to participate in a love scene with Mr. Moore, while I remained firm in my objection on the grounds that it was morally reprehensible. They refused to allow full frontal nudity in the film, and they had expected me to merely simulate copulation. The director also dismissed my proposal to insert a scene in which Christopher Walken slaps the Russian girl around with a severed elephant trunk. Strike three, gentlemen, and the final product bore the price of my departure.
6. Just a few moments ago, I mentioned using Taco Bell as an aphrodisiac of sorts, but I’d like to set the record straight, inasmuch that the woman noted previously was not the same one that enjoyed eating CheezUms until she vomited (well, to be honest, it was probably more of a regurgitation if anything). Seriously, whence would I have developed such a penchant for Pringles? Her name began with an ‘S’ (-atan), and she had darker hair than the other lady. They were totally different people, and only the latter adored my act of ejaculating upon her backside whilst she coughed up orange-colored, gelatinous goo. If that doesn’t scream Psychedelic Kimchi, I don’t know what would.
7. The Head on the Door is a fantastic, nay, lovely album, and I don’t even like the Cure that much. Actually, Disintegration was pretty cool as well, but you get the idea. Thanks for making such a fine suggestion back in '86, mom.
8. Getting back to Kimochi for a minute, it seems as if there is a sizable portion of Psychedelic Kimchi’s readership which finds our adulation of the feminine form to be distasteful at best. To the mothers, daughters, sisters, wives, feminists, effeminate men, gorillas, hardcore troubadours, and Michelle Branch fans of the world: we understand, we deserve your ‘shame on you boys’ scorn, and we have only three prurient souls to share between the six of us, but that’s just the way we were made -especially Kermo- and we have no intention of making genuine apologies. Sure, Denz will throw out a plastic olive branch at times*****, and I’ll give some lip service to regretting my cavalier lifestyle (kissing babies, cutting ribbons at shopping mall openings, drinking lepers’ bath water, etc.) but you know that we’re just telling you what we’d like to tell ourselves when drunk (which is less than never). Proclivity like semtex.
9. Halloween, 2006. If you were there, you’d know, but as an abridgement: one guy got lucky, one man was set upon the path of freedoom, and several people were subject to a cannonade of delightful deception that spanned across the weekend in its entirety. Best of all, neither of the gentlemen had to dress up as anything other than their charming, insouciant selves.
10. Love like Semtex, or 100% Psychedelic Kimchi? I’ll let you be the judge.
* Love like Semtex wouldn’t really set up the second track (Fuckin’ in the Bushes) all that well, actually, so blame Denz.
** It may have been the bloated carcass of a prostitute, but you know how fuzzy memory can become over the years.
*** Three fiddy-nine, and a whole lotta blotto.
**** Corinthians, 2:13
*****By having his picture taken with cute dogs, for example.
Posted by Kmork at 4:23 PM
Saturday, September 15, 2007
We've had somewhat of an outbreak here in America A. They are calling it an Equine Flu epidemic. Horses getting the common cold is serious business, or so they would have me believe. I'm a good citizen though, so I don't question things too much.
Truth told, I lied about not questioning it. In fact, I've questioned it frequently in the past few weeks, quite loudly and often on trains. I mean, why should I give a fuck about snotty nosed horses? I'm not in the calvary.
And yet they persist that this is America A's key problem right now. The news is replete with infection updates and sad tales about the cancellation of the Spring Racing Carnival and images of punters who are unable to 'back a winner' and must, in the cruelest of twists, use that money to pay child support.
Ironically, or perhaps not, I live within walking distance of the heart of the horse racing industrial complex. In fact, I could see its shiny grandstand from my window if I were to stand on a box. However, I choose not to do so. Not for fear of its hypnotic pull or my lack of an actual box, but because as a person not of the ruling class, I feel no connection to this silver spooned beast.
See, unlike IDJ, I'm not from Connecticut and my parents do not own a mansion and a yacht. I never had a pony. Hell, I'm still waiting on my acres and a mule.
Pass the forty.
But I digress. The skinny is: I have not followed the party line about how serious this horse epidemic is. And that, dear reader, has been my undoing.
Sometime last week, most likely when I was drinking on Sunday afternoon, I fear some blue blood hack/horse lobbyist injected me with the Equine flu. I was drinking with an Irishman at the time and he, subsequently, happened upon a Brit. They did that 'jewel of the crown/county' bit I never quite get and that's when it happened. Or at least, that's about the time from when I don't recall much else happening at all.
Knowing what you and I know vis-a-vis equus/homo biology and physiology, I understand your initial conclusion would be that the successful transmission of such a contagion from a horse to my person would be improbable. I agree. However, that would be overlooking the distinct physical aspects of all who occupy this binary space: Incitatus.
I have clearly been the victim of foul play. In the days that followed I endured possibly the most virulent flu ever encountered ... by myself.
As an aside, on the second day of my illness I visited the doctor to seek advice. The doctor was nice enough, but at this stage I looked like a marfan-addled Linux user and was clearly incoherent, answering most questions with 'what?'. I did manage to explain to the doctor that I had some back pain, at which point he perked up, took stock of me for a second, winked and wrote me a rather large prescription for codeine phosphate. Thinking nothing of it, I winked back and took the script from him. It wasn't until later when the pharmacist told me it was a controlled drug and that they locked it in a safe that it occurred to me that my doctor must have thought I was a junkie.
In any event, the rest of my illness was spent in a fever-ridden and, notwithstanding the codeine, pain-riddled delirium. Apparently codeine only works on meth heads.
There is a point to this:
One notable aspect of my illness was the fever dream stage. When I was a kid, my fever induced dreams were, invariably, of German Stuka's relentlessly divebombing my bed, Jericho horns wailing, but never bringing the sweet release of death. I was a strange kid.
This time, my dreams were different. The first night was occupied with me being convinced that the Harvard Negotiation Model could be improved by rendering it in a three-dimensional form.
The second night, a veritable novel of words and ideas spewed - figuratively and literally - from my mind and mouth. I had a novel. I even managed time to adapt a screen play, and was doing some mental sketchings that I hoped would be redone professionally by William G during pre-production. A life's work, in two fever riddled days. Had I managed to capture any of it on paper (or four track), I would have completed my life's goal of completing a life goal.
However, I did not. Now I sit here, spent. Trying valiantly to remember anything that went through my brain, but all I can think of is the Mr Ed theme.
I do know one thing though. Everything in my dream looked and sounded like this:
Crooked - Evil Nine (Ft. Aesop Rock)
Posted by denz at 5:38 PM
Friday, September 14, 2007
It takes a pretty literal-minded English major to like a song because his actual age is mentioned in the lyrics. However, with songwriting like "27 years of nothing but failure and promises I couldn't keep/ but I ain't ready to go," Ryan Adams has made just such a man of me...
... until December, anyway.
Posted by TMH at 7:42 AM
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Since skippy the TAKAlisciouS thought it acceptable to leave you all without a Youtube wonder, allow me to gratify you visually:
Now, in case you think there is any trick photography involved, or that Polysics's music is, er, computer generated by a team of monkeys at the boards and hamsters at the wheels (of steel?), here is a live version with spesshuul ges-teuh: Strong Machine 2!
All you really need to know about Polysics is that their greatest influence is Devo (can just make it out, cantcha?), a respect that is sardonically returned by the members of Devo themselves: Mark Mothersbaugh used a Polysics CD for his office phone system, forcing the people on hold to endure the tracks being played.
Love that recorder.
And that's what I needed to say in New York City, exactly six years after the Twin Towers burned.
Posted by idealjetsam at 9:04 AM
Monday, September 10, 2007
Note: this post is approved by Cancon.
Say what you want about Christianity,
(except that; that was out of line, pal)
but, like Greek and Roman myths, the English language is loaded with some pretty neat biblical metaphors, allusions, aphorisms and iconography*. 9 out of ten atheists** agree: Christianity often makes for some wicked art***. (Was that ironic adjective usage heresy? Did I blaspheme?)
Case in point: Jesse Winchester's "Step by Step," which cribs from the American spiritual "When the Saints Go Marching In," and freaks it from the perspective of a hesitant laggard who, instead of ascending Jacob's golden ladder, would prefer to remain behind in order to understand "the trouble down below." The song also serves -- in its lyrics "many a happy-go-lucky saint has made that long, long drop" -- as a reminder that the distance between Heaven and Hell is merely a fall from grace away. Word to Michael Vick.
If it appears I'm proselytizing, trust me that I'd rather convert you to this song than convince you to kick ass for the Lord. "Step by Step," with its ploddingly thick harmonica and bass, is dirty in the holiest sense of the word. (Ways in which the Christian Church has failed: 1) not commissioning a series of porno movies which titilate yet manage to shame, 2) snack foods, 3) Sunday morning service****).
Would that I could bless you with a Youtube video, you're gonna have to make an Internet exodus worthy of Moses to find this holy gem. (Or download the finale of The Wire's first season and wait for the ending montage, though that seems too easy a salvation.)
I have faith in you, cowboyboz_77. Seek the promised land.
* Unlike Greek and Roman mythology, however, Christianity has failed to produce any kickass cartoons, comic book superheroes, or planets (bring back Pluto). Jesus wept.
** No caps on the 'a,' you heathens. (I sincerely hope any atheists reading this can take a joke. Because they're so touchy and all.)
*** I realize I'm putting myself before a firing squad with that statement, so hear me out. Using familiar Bible verses before killing some motherfucker = good (see: Fiction, Pulp); trying to convert listeners through pansy-ass rock music = bad (see: P.O.D.; Stryper). I'm no prophet, but I'm fairly sure God hates lame art made in His name more than you do.
**** How can you compete with hangovers and the NFL, church? Don't be so stubborn; take the L on Sundays and move to a new time slot. It worked for The Simpsons [dodges lightning bolt].
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 11:19 PM
Friday, September 07, 2007
(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'm dumbin. I'm pulling an IDJ (if PK is basketball, I'm George Karl). I'm buying time for K-Hot to contribute when he gets back from the land of coconut milk and honeys (pace wins the race).
I'm purposefully being vague. It's better that way, Terry.
(Not you, the other Terry.)
Mostly, I'm being lazy. I could have written a post describing Kanye West's new album, Graduation, as the most ambitious mainstream hip-hop release since Jay-Z's The Blueprint*; I could have told you that Aesop Rock's None Shall Pass is mostly a yawn fest (I don't hate myself or have multiple body piercings, so I might be the only living human alive to consider Bazooka Tooth his magnum opus).
I could have given you the world.
(Failing that, a killer grilled cheese and bacon sandwich. With guitars.)
My sincere apology to Den Dog: Nas is Prince times, like, infinity. So much talent, so many lame albums. Still, there are some gems. As far as a career in the arts goes, I feel the same way about John Carpenter. There comes a point when a visionary can no longer coast on early success -- what have you done for me lately, you know? (Word to Janet.) And, yes, I'm looking in the mirror right now. I have a bit of parsley between my ego.
Track 29 isn't even a very good song (theme!): it's Nas recycling the Iron Butterfly sample he used on "Thief's Theme" (theme!). But it's PK like that because it arouses memories of the greatest road trip ever taken.
Just trust me. It was that good.
* Mos Def, however, is on drugs. I wasn't expecting much from a song titled "Drunk and Hot Girls," but what a debacle. Possibly worse than the entirety of Outkast's Idlewild, which is saying something.
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 12:40 AM
Monday, September 03, 2007
Shout to the Top--The Style Council
I realized by reading the posts of the other PK staff writers how heavily this whole PK 27 concept (which I still don't fully understand: Why 27? What's with the number order? Who the hell approved an Oasis track? JTC...) relies on the 5th Estate(TM): Youtube.
So, I have gone ahead and changed all of my initial choices (as told to the stylin' six) as I can't find good versions of them online. Instead, I'll start off with a little subtext and context and Paul Weller's post-Jam, post-Punk, post-partum party of four, The Style Council.
Ah, the modfather had become truly moddish. But to provide the promised context let us remember young Paul's roots:
I've always said that the performance of a truly dynamic duo could be made in the meeting of the blue-collar, local boy socialist sensibilities of The Modfather and The Boss. Envision our avuncular bards together on the same stage, acoustic guitars in hand. Can you hear Bruce's version of "That's Entertainment" or Paul's rendition of "Born to Run"?* See it?**
Goose bumps were cliché only until just then.
Alas, this congress of genius seems unlikely in the extreme. Therefore, let's satisfy ourselves with the British equivalent of "Born to Run" played by Paul, supported by a talentless hackey who barely deserves to be among the audience, much less sharing the stage.
Paul's nothing if not magnanimous.
Sidenote: Hopefully you will all forgive me, but I will no longer be able to maintain the blistering pace of posting you have come to expect. I am on a weekends-only schedule (unless I change my mind sometime) and appreciate your patience.
And that's what I needed to say in New York City,9 days shy of six years after the Twin Towers burned.
*I won't blaspheme in the general direction of our readers from across the pond by hypothesizing how Mr. Weller's take on "Born in th USA" would manifest. Oops. Did that just enter your mind...?
**Now imagine Young William and Tony providing backup in a true show of bi-lateralism. (Getting carried away, aren't I?)
Posted by idealjetsam at 2:33 AM
Sunday, September 02, 2007
I'm perfectly hungover and feel as though I've been poisoned; so I suppose it's been a good weekend. It's not a well-documented fact, but, truth be told, Constant Retard, I'm fond of pleasing the species feminina. (Almost as fond as I am of commas.) Occasionally, this hobby of mine includes agreeing to go ice skating. Enter: alcohol. Last night's friend, today's saboteur.
What a way to go out, out like a sucker: turns out drunken promises are hard to keep when you're standing on the corner of 5th and Vomit. Thankfully, the life of one Tiberious aka Sparkles was spared by an angel of mercy.
Sometimes I fuck up -- of that I am willing to admit. Sometimes was today, and the level of gratitude I hold in my heart towards [name withheld upon request] for giving me a mulligan is immeasurable.
With that, I dedicate track 11 to the homogametic sex. Psychedelic Kimchi extends its superlative thankfulness to a much-appreciated, increasingly rare breed of humans: the Sunday Morning Nurturers, women who put up with -- and forgive -- our indulgence, our idiotic behavior.
Word to Marge Simpson.
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 9:35 PM