Psychedelic Kimchi

Because the only allusions I know are related to -- in order -- hip-hop music, basketball, rock, movies, and Terry Michos, this may sound amateurish, or, possibly, Amish, but when I haven't been fantasizing about the PK collective as the starting five of a basketball team

(PG - Sparkles; SG - K-Hot; SF - denz; PF - TMH; Bison Dele - Idealjetsam)

I've dreamed that we're in a rock band.

Like to hear it here it go:

Sparkles: lead vocals (the apocalypse is nigh!)

KMart: main guitar (ride the lightning)

denz: rhythm guitar (talk like sex)

TMH: drums (a dangerous man who can speak with his hands)

Idealjetsam: Richey Edwards

The Psychedelic Kimchi -- I'm doing a reverse Pink Floyd thing here -- are manifold, minus the old men. We're like the white NWA, only poorer. We're like The Beatles, only poor. Talent doesn't grow on trees; so when four and a half of the most creative and lazy/busy minds in show business convene on one stage/in one blog, people take notice. Important people. People I know. Vaguely, or sometimes imagined.

(Usually imagined.)

Nevertheless, this midnight train passed Georgia long ago and wound up on a planet you can't pronounce unless you speak Mongolian.

And that's fine by me.

Because I'm comfortable in my skin, but I'm more comfortable bound for Mars with a satchel full of fuck that, a pocketful of mustard and torn rayon shirts and plywood hexagons.

But I miss my home planet. Mars to Earth: send a kite every now and then, okay? It's cold as fuck up here.

And someone stole my last Playboy magazine to light a fire.

Damnation.