Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Being a Gay Man with a Korean Girlfriend

To those that know me, you know not my true name, shape, or form. To those that love me, you love not my heart, or my face. To those that despise me, you despise neither my deeds, nor my dilemma.

Come what may, do not judge that which you fail to comprehend. If you don't like my style, just say as much, and you'll be privy to the greatest of hissy fits before this twilight -princess- bleeds away from thy weary eyelids.

Sooner or later, you'll understand how I feel, alone and misunderstood by all but that special someone.* I've only done what I have because I crave affection. Is that so wrong? Perhaps it is a set of incorrect behaviors, but rectal fortitude has never been my strong point (alongside my inability to avoid wearing silly couples' clothing).

Don't stray too far from Hongdae, lest you be bitten by the manly bug of manliness.

And I still haven't seen Willow.


[Your guess is as good as mine -- Ed.]

* Our Lord and Savior, Dr. Manhattan.

Willow -- Review

During the last PKast (which you really should check out; it's better than a sackful of malt vinnegar-soaked crumblies), Kmart was quite astounded to learn that I've never seen the Ron Howard (Cocoon, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington) 1988 masterpiece of cinema, Willow. It's true, I haven't. And like Bill Cosby refusing to promote Leonard Part 6, or Kobe Bryant refusing to blame his teammates, I make no excuses for such a heinous transgression.

Today, however, I am redeemed. Not only did I watch Willow, I dug the everloving fuck out of it. I've been known to toss around hyperbolic accolades like fowl innards at an anti-Japanese protest in downtown Seoul, but hear me out: Willow is to cinema what Raquel Welch is to jerking off*. I'm just glad I watched it before I die of rectal cancer in August.

I know you have all seen the film**, but please indulge an old man and read my following review of cinematic fellatio. Receiving, not giving.


One sunny summer morning, little person Willow Ufgood (played to perfection -- and with the help of some special effects wizardry -- by the underrated Muggsy Bogues) steps outside his ramshackle hut to find a baby at his doorstep. But this is no ordinary baby. Far from it. His kingdom under seige by the evil witch Nornica, King Prebonius hid his firstborn from the clutches of the witch, who seeks to extract a magical peacock feather embedded in the infant's skull -- a peacock feather that will give its bearer the power to rule over the mythical land and get 25% discounts at Eddie Bauer stores.

Willow Ufgood, unaware of the baby's plight, takes the little bugger to a market. Willow, you see, has to get some clothes and food for the child, and some lambskin condoms and Tahiti Treat for himself. That's when danger strikes. Nornica's minions descend upon the market like batteries thrown by heathen Philadelphia sports fans, and Willow Ufgood has to think quickly.

What the diminutive Willow (Ufgood) lacks in size, he more than makes up for in cleverness. Just as it appears that all hope is lost, Willow*** hides the baby under a peach basket and heads for home. After a night of steamy sex with the missus (surprising for a kids' film, but greatly welcomed), Boston Legal, and cherry tomatoes, Willow heads back to the market to reclaim the child.

Ignorant as to the whereabouts of the baby's home, a singing butterfly wearing aerial goggles makes an appearance and informs "Sir Ufgood" that the swaddling child is none other than King Prebonius's son. Then he sings cryptic, anachronistic songs. Nonplussed like a motherfuck, Willow (Ufgood, not that redhead from Buffy) heads to Prebonius's castle to figure out what in pluperfect hell is going on.

Upon meeting the king, this classic scene takes place (I'm sure you all know it well and quote it daily):

King: Why the hell did you bring him back here? Don't you know that if my kingdom falls and Nornica extracts the peacock feather from my son's head that all hell will break loose and stocks in Eddie Bauer will drastically plummet?

Willow: Hey, boss, don't shoot the messenger. I found this baby on my doorstep, some fucked-up butterfly told me he's yours, and I'm just doing my job as a tax-paying citizen, so lay off.

King: But you were to return the baby after Nornica is defeated.

Willow: I missed that memo, Comanche. Do I look like I have ESP?

King [fidgeting]: Well, thanks anyway. I'm sure it isn't easy for a midget to get a glass of water from the sink, much less carry a baby 800 kilometers.

Willow: Midget? That's "little person," asshole!

Just then, Nornica and her army of fell beasts -- including orcs, goblins, Korean policemen, and Tom Selleck without a mustache -- envelope Castle Prebonius like a goalie on a hockey puck. It appears all is lost, but at a crucial point in the epic battle that ensues, just as the bitchqueen Nornica is about to fistfuck Prebonius's kid's head, a funny thing happens. Willow Ufgood is, Rudy style, called in for the final play; and to again use a football analogy, he sacks that cow hard and causes a fumble. King Prebonius catches the kid in midair, Nornica falls into a conveniently placed pit of lava, and Willow smokes a square.

The end.


Yeah, the Lord of the Rings films were good and everything, but what they lacked was a story to jibe with all the computer-animated hocus-pocus. I know that I won't live forever (Do you really want to live forever? Forever young?), but time will surely tell that -- fuck what you heard -- the bar was raised in 1988.

PS - I'm a horse.

* Does that date me?

** and I don't use that word lightly

*** Ufgood

Monday, July 28, 2008


You need to know this RIGHT NOW: I'm wearing a pair of Nautica boxer-briefs, a green T-shirt, a Coke, and a smile.

Other news:

I...hold on; lemme turn off Portishead so I can stop frowning and imagining sticking a fork in my toaster...Okay, there!...I love you all: atheist, Christian, Hindu, kobe bryant supporter, and Browncoat*. And, yeah, mebbe I've bin readin too much internet, but this madness has to end. It has to. Is it just that Dawkins's The God Delusion has finally reached the geek population? Is that why I have to wade through such assholic opening paragraphs as: "Thank the rational and non-supernatural forces which created the universe that Comic Con 2008 is over?" Agenda alert in Hall H! To be fair, CHUD writer Devin Faraci is, most of the time, on point**, but his crusade against people he perceives as fanboys, and his sporadic diatribes against organized religion are making him the Bill O'Reilly of Internet film journalists. And ironic. Save your atheist Jihad for message boards populated by 13-year-old girls and not for a pretty nifty site, please? Pretty?...The Darjeeling Limited was pretty nifty. I could have sworn that train stewardess was Rosario Dawson. I think I need eyeglasses...Can we, the p(k)eople, name the new NBA OKLA City team The Oklahoma City Names TBA? Please? (I say please a lot.) Or The Oklahoma City Fuck Clay Bennetts?...Somewhere -- possibly on Mars -- TMH is grinning (and drinking a cold can of Miller Genuine Draft...

* Although my religion forbids me from capitalizing "atheism." And "kobe bryant." Them's the breaks.

** when it's time to rock a funky joint

Sunday, July 27, 2008


"All right, so we're clear on the play, yes?" Big Boy asked. "No one's having any second thoughts, I trust. Good. That motherfucker has it coming. He's had it coming for a long time. And tonight we execute."

"Um, Sarge," Dizzy interjected, "maybe tonight's not the best time to do this. Billy and Herc were killed yesterday. That asshole is going to be vigilant. Whatever happened to the element of suprise?"

The others -- Floyd and Rusty -- hung about beneath the streetlight, afraid to speak up; but it was clear that they shared Dizzy's apprehension. This mission was suicide.

Big Boy knew how they felt. Hell, he felt the same way. But, as Dizzy had correctly stated, Billy and Herc were brutally massacred the day prior, and, not two days before that, Pip, Ruggero, and Francis had met similar fates. Someone had to pick up the pieces of this dwindled unit. It was survival or extinction, and time was running out.

One way or the other, there would be blood.

"You fucking pussies, all of you," Big Boy nearly spat. "I look up at the sky tonight and I see clouds. What I don't see are rain, lightning bolts, gusts of wind, or the promise of another few weeks of similar conditions. This is a golden opportunity: the only one we have. We sit pat, we die. We make our move tonight, we may die, surely; but there's also the chance of victory. And it's not small. I've been on reconnaissance here more times than I've screwed your sisters, which is to say I've been here a lot. It's Sunday night: that asshole will be so full of alcohol that you'll practically get drunk from the scent the moment you enter. He's going to be sleeping like a baby. So, if you're ascairt of some passed-out rummy, tell me right now. A shithead like that doesn't even deserve this honor."

Floyd, Rusty, and Dizzy had no choice but to concede. Big Boy sensed their resignment and laid out the play one final time, lest they again consider mutiny.

"Like I said, Floyd, you go for the side window. Dizzy, you have the front one. It's the second floor, but it's not too tough. Rusty has the door, which is a piece of cake. Rusty, if you get in first, hang about the vestibule. Do not trigger the light sensor. That's some moth shit. I'll come in from the bathroom drain. Don't worry about me: the bathroom door'll be open. Guy's got a dog who pisses in there, so he leaves it open.

Once I'm in, I'll check for you and give a signal. Don't descend until you hear it, got it?"


Big Boy knew the others didn't stand a fighting chance. They were a diversion, fodder. The windows he'd tried already. Sealed shut. The Door? Rusty would -- if he even flew into the right apartment, which was unlikely given that bastard's age -- enter and take a stab at the first piece of flesh he could see: usually the foot sole or the knuckle, i.e. not prime real estate.

But what Big Boy didn't expect when he flew out of the bathroom drain to freedom through five hundred yards of shit smelling foulness I can't even imagine -- or maybe I just don't want to -- was that his mark, one Oliver Ugrath, had a technology foreign to his primitive knowledge.

Big Boy didn't care, either, for he was in a state of ecstasy. Forgetting his hunger, his bloodlust, he clung to the wall and started tweaking.


"Better luck next time, cocksuckers," Oliver laughed as he washed mosquito splat from his hands.


Rusty. Tried and true. Lived.

Not for long, but he lived.

He made it past the front door. He hung around the vestibule ceiling. And when Big Boy met his demise and Oliver went to bed with a complacent smile on his face, that's when the dive bombing attack took place.

Rusty, the old man, was never very swift nor nimble, but he knew which spots to hit. So when Oliver woke up with small bites on his kneecaps, ankles, and, yes, eyelid, he knew he had been bitten.


Oliver. Young, dumb, and full of come.

Japanese enchephalitis would claim him at the age of 31.

With love, Rusty.

Note: Yes, I'm aware that only female mosquitoes bite. But -- word to Dostoevsky and David Simon -- I can't write women, so whaddya gonna do?

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Lost Boys: The Tribe -- Musings

Last night

(a DJ saved my life)

I got home from work, popped the new Lost Boys flick in the VCR, heated up some Jiffy Pop, and existed. These were my spoiler-free thoughts:

- So, anyway, I'm watching Lost Boys: The Tribe Called Quest, and it's going pretty smoothly; it's not great by any means, but it's decent. Then Corey Feldman shows up and starts talking like he has throat cancer.


- But the sister is hot: she's like an amalgamation of Mandy Moore and my high school girlfriend.

And the main character is Speed Racer's brother...I think.

- All right, now Feldman is talking in a somewhat-normal tone. Method acting and Corey Feldman are like fire and something completely unlike fire.

- I am a sucker -- no pun intended -- for that "thou shalt not" song. They could remake it in any genre. What I am not a sucker for, however, is Keifer Sutherland's stepbrother -- or whoever the hell the head vampire is.

Prediction: Keifer's foster son is really just a nice guy who wants to get laid really badly.

I can relate.

- Unrelated: is it okay for me to have a faux diamond-encrusted E cell phone accessory?

- I can't picture any scenario in which I would ever wear a leather jacket -- but if I were to, it would be the Cobra Kai Halloween number at 56:27.

- I'm not gonna lie: I like that this movie is referencing/ripping off Point Break.

I'm easy that way. Like Sunday morning and shoplifting.

- The two best lines in filmdom:

1) Who's scruffy lookin'?

2) Once you join the tribe there's no turning back.


- All right, this flick is straight-to-DVD, and it's obviously R-rated; so why no titties?

I. Am. Forlorn.

- "Who ordered the stake? LOL

- Even if Speed Racer's brother save's his sister, that girl is still pretty slutty, right?

Vampire = no

Easy lay = yep

- If becoming a vampire is so desirable, why do they look so fugly?

Stay attractive human beings, brothers and sisters!

Bow-legged girls drive me wild, I must add.

Them, and snaggle-toothed women.

Word to Jewel Kilcher. (Kirsten Dunst gets the gas face, though.)


Turns out, the main character is not, in fact, Speed Racer's brother. Damn, that's like the first time I've been wrong in five years*.

I will now hang my head in Shyheim (aka the Rugged Child).

* Phantom Menace + 4 stars = Roger Ebert

Monday, July 21, 2008

The Wilderness Years (Part III)

I'm not good at multitasking (or fantasy RPG), so, as I warned you before, these posts are going to be few and far between*. My plate is kinda full, what with me having to work, finish Twilight Princess sometime this decade, read Duma Key, Lisey's Story, The Road, Watchmen, and -- my biannual ritual -- The Brothers Karamazov. Then there's Generation Kill and a bunch of other stuff**. It's a miracle that I even have time to look after the upkeep of this hallowed blog, when you think about it.

Now I know how Idealjetsam and Axl Rose must feel.


Word to Naomi Campbell, it's never a good idea to marry someone strictly because she's sexy. And my ex-wife used to be sexy, I am willing to testify. I am also willing to take a chance on a crazy broad if she gives good head and is stacked like Jenga, but there's a thin line. When my ex got pregnant during our honeymoon (full disclosure: I nutted in her in a hot tub, then we ate sushi and returned to our hotel so I could watch the Angels win the World Series), it was both a blessing and a curse. Word to the yin and the yang, she got a lot less crazy and a lot fatter. I hear that's what happens when women get pregnant. (The latter, not the former.)

Yeah, she was starting to resemble Jabba the Hut, but gone were the days of monster freak-outs, so I was content. I can clearly recall one day in April 2003 when we went to Yeouido to see the cherry blossoms. Her belly was swollen like the running time of the last two Pirates of the Caribbean flicks, but she was calm. And -- besides the blowjobs -- that's the only good memory I have of our marriage; and I wish I could Eternal Sunshine it, because, nowadays, when I think back on that memory, I feel like a Nazi sympathizer.

You would, too.

After the 18th Letter's birth (which was more destiny than the fucked-up scheming of a pretty stupid woman***), it was Mad Max Part 3. So I was faced with not only a crazy woman, but a fat one at that. After she recovered from delivery, I wouldn't be the only one to feel her wrath. My daughter, not a year old, was, from my ex-wife's arms, dropped to the floor out of anger. (Thankfully, mercifully, only a bump and a bruise would briefly appear on the little girl's head and arm) Later, when my ex was pissed off because Rahne didn't pee when she was commanded to, she bit her arm.

Welcome. To. The. Club.


Scars heal -- but vindictiveness, like cancer, is the gift that keeps on giving.

My ex-wife -- the whore -- gave birth to a baby daughter last month. And while I was filled with the utmost joy to discover that the father is a bald, 40-something American who looks like a pedophile, and that my ex weighs roughly 1021 kilograms, I'm mostly worried about that newborn.

But that's not my problem, is it?

* and dumb

** The Holy Bible, The Koran, The Torah, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, The Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Monster Manual, and, finally, The Unpublished Works of JD Salinger

*** As I would explain to Legs, she's not smart, but she's cunning. Anyone who blows up a regular balloon then inhales the air inside, expecting to speak in a high-pitched voice like there was helium in it, has probaly graduated from Dumbass U with honors.

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Thursday, July 17, 2008


Word to Aaron Neville and Linda Rondstadt, I don't know much, but I know I love you. All of you. Anything other than that is pretty hit or miss, especially when it comes to predicting the lasting appeal of recently-released films, albums, or flavored condoms (I used to like banana, but now it always makes me feel like I'm at the dentist's).

Blame the Internet, where Early Word has become the Holy Bible of opinion. Everyone wants to be the first to proclaim the newest thing The Next Big Thing, and people like me not only lap it up, we, through some form of fucked-up osmosis [It's called influence -- Ed], start doing it ourselves. I've been guilty of calling shit Shinola -- we all have* -- myself, but time (word to El Debarge, Boyz II Men, Above the Law, and myself) will reveal. Like Anna Kournikova posing for Playboy.

My point is,

(salmon tastes too fishy)


(loves me; it's true. Not like you do.)

knows the lasting appeal of anything, save for maybe water. I predict water will still be popular in the 22nd century. Call me crazy.

That said, I don't think it's too far-fetched to say that Arcade Fire's Neon Bible is the the greatest album of the past 10 years.

That badboy has legs.

* The opposite also applies. For example, the backlash on Indy IV: a pretty fucking nifty flick.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Draft Night (Part I)

Gavin Michaels was 13 and good, 14 and promising, but it wasn't until he turned 15 that the national media started covering him. Here was a true phenom. The lad could write, and write he did. At the 1991 National Scholastics Summer Camp For Young Writers he took home every top honor, and when his gleeful visage graced the cover of Writing Today with the headline "Hemingway Who?" scholarship offers from the nation's top universities flooded in. Speculation ran rampant as to whether Gavin would write for Harvard, Oxford, or Cambridge; and when he surprised everyone by declaring out of high school to enter the National Writers Association Draft, there were a number of opinions, ranging from "Michael's intention to enter the draft before college will one day be remembered as a cornerstone in American fiction*" to "It's one thing to write admittedly impressive short stories about girls eating bicycles and bombs disguised as tomatoes at La Tomatina, but [Michaels] has never proven that he can write anything other than interesting ideas encapsulated by a stark warning sign that the raw youth needs more time to work on his form.**"

Those opinions wouldn't matter, because one month before the draft was scheduled to take place, NWA comissioner Daniel Stine declared that the association would, effective immediately, no longer accept writers fresh out of high school.

The media storm that would follow was considerable, but the only statement from Michaels was this:

"I'm going to Europe. The continent, not the band."

Twelve years later, Gavin Michaels's notebook would wind up in the hands of WSPN writer Jerrod Keyes.

What follows is both the harrowing tale of a man's obsession with the written word and his penchant for, well, astronomy.

And shaving cream.

* A.O. Schott, The Philadelphia Writer's Chronicle

** Sonny Hawkins, The Long Island Star Ledger

Sunday, July 13, 2008

Sensational Sunday

What's up?

I'm here, because they're not, and that's what I do best. Exist. But you already knew that.

Where's Twinkles?

Did you know that Sparkles (not Twinkles) is an accomplished flutist? He's been performing frequently these past few days throughout Seoul. That's why he hasn't been around.

What's his specialty: Skin, or Pan?

You're so funny. You know the guy is multitalented, so I needn't supply you with an obvious answer.

Weren't you going to make a new podcast? Did you lose your voice, or what?

Postponed until next weekend! Idealjetsam was too drunk to perform adequately.

Common occurrence?

You'd have to ask his 'Jew friends' about that, or his ex.

What about that other guy? The guy that talks funny.

Denz? Talks funny? You're both Australian, for fuck's sake!

Yes, but I have a collection of snazzy hats. Anyway, am I forgetting anyone?

No. Wait, I mean yes!

Too late!

Hold up. Don't you want to ask me about the guy in the picture?

I only care about the feet.


Wednesday, July 09, 2008


I was eating a Rice Krispies square and furiously scratching a rash under my pull-up shorts when I saw Candace Dawes's arm plunge into a sewer grate after she missed 2 in hopscotch and fell over 6, 9, and 5. Arms splayed.

Her thumb was dislocated, and her favorite two front teeth were ground up like the bastard chalk Mrs. Maisy would let accumulate on the blackboard ledge until the nubs eventually crumbled like calcite, but other than that she was okay. In fact, the tragic loss of her front chompers -- which two years later were replaced by dental crowns -- would turn out to be a blessing: Coupled with her perky breasts, by the time she hit high school Candy was, if I may say so, one sweet piece.

Candace Dawes, as I discovered a few days ago on her Facebook page, recently passed. The circumstances leading up to her death are still unknown.

I didn't know Candy well, although sometimes I pretended I did. We used to draw Crayon pictures in class, and, later, in high school, we mixed chemicals in the science lab. Occasionally she talked to me.

I didn't attend her funeral, either. I wasn't invited. But I hope that someone -- God, please -- remembers the rumor that she once ate a bicycle. I hope I'm not the only one who remembers that.

If you attended Lester B. Pearson High School in the 90s and remember a girl named Candace Dawes who, as rumor had it, ate a Schwinn, please contact me at cockstorm81@yahoo.com. I'm trying to piece things together.

Tuesday, July 08, 2008

Fusty Psychosis

There isn't much to say about this post, and it's not a case of it is what it is but, rather, it is what it never was because it's now a Psychedelic Kimchi post, which renders it impervious to any (and all) criticism and expectations for explanation!.*

“This is a bad idea. Fuck this, okay?”

Non always says things like that at times like these but I’m not one to listen. College is a bore and I’ve got to do something to take my mind off that chore. He looks at me with puppy-dog eyes and waits for Steph to chime in with support, but Steph sits in the back of the Camaro, silence her rapport. Can’t help but smile, don’t want to grin, but degenerate sin is alluring, far from vile. “Stay here then,” I say, “and pretend there’s no evil to taint me.”

Cruising the avenue on Friday night isn’t so bad, you just need to know which adventures you wish to have. Stay in one place for too long, the police are bound to arrive and flash a badge. The crotch-rocket gangs have nothing to fear because they just like to revel in their shiny new gear. The cops never hassle them, no matter what the proposed offense; the police work solely for the pleasure of those kids’ priviliged-class parents. As for the rest of us, we grow accustomed to the avenue’s secret: get away with all that you can score, keep rolling to avoid tasting the concrete floor.

I stand beside Josh “Meathook” Schumacher, discussing the rising price of Hershey bars, smooth and sweet. You don’t call him “Meathook” to his rugged face, but when he leans over and his studded leather jacket slides open, even a stupid girl like me can easily spot the trademark motivational device of this sidewalk employee. I hear stories of this wacky guy, brandishing the sharpened hook, making polite inquiries such as “Where’s my money, bitch?” while some woman goes pale and begs for clemency. I’m sure that it could happen but not to me; I always pay the price up front, and thus enjoy being home free.

Crotch-rocket boys, youthful pillars of a future society? Yes, they’ve also got what I crave, but their price far outweighs the need, supposedly. Twisting the tassels of my pullover between their manicured fingers, they propose that money “means nothing to me, how about you take a ride on the rocket and you’ll get the dust for free”. Another fancy boy will shout “zoom zoom!” and they all burst into laughter, so full of guiltless glee. I’ve learned to decline with ease but always wonder, where are all the classy debutantes while these boys practice the art of sleaze? Oh yeah, they’re collecting at some swanky party, content to let their men pillage whomever they please.

So I deal with the Meathook and he deals with me. Sharing a similar plight, we just like to do whatever we need to ease our decrepit flight. Buying Hershey’s chocolate is scarcely a free-for-all. I still pay his price for what I want; bullshit aside, it’s an eightball.

You keep moving as I said before, so we race to the nearest convenience store. Clerks hate hooligans so they gawk and leer but sure as hell don’t complain when my trio clutters the counter with plenty of Cheetos and cheap beer. It’s never a night for fine wine, thus we settle for a case of Bud Light. “Cash or charge?” the old man screams, and I say “Cash, my good man” as I throw down a twenty, the raw anticipation causing my eyes to gleam. “Hop in and let’s go” Non suggests, and he’s on to something good; there’s a party afoot and we’re a sizable portion of that syndicated show.

We glide down the Ave. and from the back seat Steph shouts to greet all the guys she’d like to have. It would be easier if she occupied the passenger seat I suppose, and she’s my friend, we know, but the front seat is for me, not the ho. We get passed by a cherry Corvette. Non wants one, but as for me, I’m content to savor the taste of a dainty menthol cigarette. Down the interstate we fly. I’m glad that life is, similarly, passing me by. On Blairs Ferry I smile because I’m quite merry but not for the reason Non may think. I’m just wondering how cool it would be to snort a line while residing within a Jesuit monastery. I should be disappointed with this lyrical flow, but then again, I lost my sense of rhythm a lifetime ago.

We show up at Will’s place, and rambunctious Tom Waller is the first visage I face. Standing outside the house, his mouth spews “Indian coming through” because he craves the verbal joust. Such abrasive demeanor suits his customary red locks, going hand-in-hand with the abusive masquerade which is his method of small talk. Wild as the Hawaiian shirts he loves to wear, this intoxicated bastard makes haphazard statements without the slightest tact or care. I’m lucky though; I’m not often a welcome sight for the white eye but when I sit down my thighs don’t touch, which means that he doesn’t exhibit scorn toward me all too much. One thing is for sure, Steph has been hearing stories regarding the monumental size of his cock. Exaggerated tales or not I’m happily uncertain, but if Tom puts the moves on her I’ll refrain from attempting any sort of block.

A cohesive crew we‘re not and I’m quite leery regarding the precise composition of this leonine bunch. Pomp is the hymn of our collective roar but even a dainty hand, if raised, effortlessly disrupts our bliss; we readily cower before the might of a satin fist. Case in point? Doesn’t matter who is present or who gets pissed, I came to snort a couple lines, and then a few more. To any soul which dare voice dissent, I simply remind them of their own folly, neatly packaged as a bulging, smoking joint.

Chop it up...
Will harbors vice times three: Bear, Bitch, and Moan. As usual, he likes to direct it toward silly, little me. “Hey, I don’t want to be an ass” he begins, trying to save face, “but Sunday my parents are getting back, and,” pausing to guzzle beer, hoping it will quench the creeping fear of self-induced disgrace, “I don’t think they will be happy if they discover somebody’s been in their house, doing crack.” He and Non make a complimentary pair, the latter quite skinny, the former quite fat, both good-natured yet incredibly naive. I’m not vindictive, but Will speaks in error and, therefore, I enlighten him regarding that. I wink and I smile in response, content with my lackluster wit and putrescent guile. “Tis no crack, Will, so worry not. Better yet, I won’t smoke it, so your house won’t reek of pot.” Drunk as can be, he doesn’t argue with that and leaves me alone to rot. I’ll be something in a minute; I don’t know if I am wretchedly ensnared or gloriously free, but nonetheless I’m something within that encroaching moment, something inching ever closer to me
... and break me down.

Snap-crackle-pop! The world implodes and my nose decides to bleed. I’m not a slick jockey. I’m the galloping, dying steed. A tissue may stop the crimson flow, but why halt the taste which restores putrid flesh to life? Day, night -who gives a rat’s ass where and when I am - the fact is that wherever I’m going, I’m eager to go.

Voices surround my wayward mind and what I latch on to is this: “Shit, Will,” Tom snarls, beginning his ‘dis’, “your mom heard how big my dick is and she came up to me, straight-up begging for my phone number.” Everyone enters into acute silence, eager to hear just how this will pan out, and we wait not long. “But I said ‘Damn, chill baby. Forget my digits, just get down on your chubby knees and suck on this lumber.’” We smile and giggle as the firebrand points to his crotch, whereas Will prefers to cringe and wiggle. “Shit bitch!” Will constructs his retort via pure reflex, “My mom doesn’t want a piece of that genetic defect.” My decimated nose lessens its vermilion rain and I want to compliment Will’s reaction even though I am vaguely aware that it will provide no personal gain. “Funny guy, Tom, but the Slim Jim is going out of style, thank god.” He sips cold beer for a short while but that just means he’s rummaging through his devious mind for the best way to poke and prod. The twinkle in his eyes suggests that to such end his heart pleats and that my psyche is the victim he yearns to savagely beat. Fuck, do I need another line? Have to be careful though, my brain’s already entwined and barreling toward a steep incline. Need to stay cozy and plush, delay the rush because I’m the toilet that Tom’s looking to flush.

“Hey Megan. Megan. Lately I’ve been looking for something, but I don’t know where to begin.” I feel a rush now and I want to grimace at the forthcoming onslaught but all I can do is flash a flimsy grin. “What’s that, Tommy” I manage, disturbingly eager to give the sadist the signal for go, lounging between anticipation and mirrored snow. “Not sure how to say it, but it roams along the grassy plains and isn’t exactly tame.” He sets his beer down upon the coffee table, insidiously keen to explain. “You know, help me out here. I know it’s not a deer.” Oh yeah I see where this is going. The trick to Tom’s pathetic magic is that it often goes a faint step beyond annoying. “What do you call them?” He intentionally wavers, intent upon performance that packs a supposed punch. Deep inside I feel my emotions crunch. Index fingers extended beside his massive head and he gestures at horns. “You know? Ta-tonka! Ta-tonka!” The crowd erupts in laughter, bemused by his display.

Infused with white chocolate I’m not inclined to mourn. Then again, I’m hardly one to emerge the raging storm. “Okay, dipshit. First of all, the movie was about the fucking Sioux, and-” but the front door swings open and enter Dave Long, visibly ecstatic and eager to address our quarrelsome crew. Fickle fervor flees the burning coop as I join my drunken comrades to await the breaking news.

“Dude!” he exclaims, arms swaying to and fro. “Get out to the driveway!” The crowd needs more than enthusiastic commands to defeat beloved inertia and Steph is the first to squeak “How come?” and to this ‘Nippy’ Dave Long is visibly perturbed. “Guys, goddamn. Stevie’s outside with his pants down, holding a bottle rocket with his butt cheeks!” By this insinuation I’m not terribly tantalized, shocked, or disturbed. “Whoa,” Will chimes in, fishing for the juicy information. “Are you saying that Stevie is gonna shoot the rocket out of his ass?” Dave pounds out a “Fuck yeah” and to this Tom casts a nod unto Will accompanied by the universal, obligatory "Sweet”. Jumping to their feet, everyone rushes forth, each heart brimming with obscene jubilation. Two things are certain: Whatever we do, we just reek of class, but this time, everyone shall exclude me.

I want to feel the burning blade of ignominy searing through the idolatry of deified Shame cast to immortalize the balding eagle which plucked a fertile cherry from the timid branch. Bird of Prey is the one to blame but I’m so beaten and weak that I cannot link vicious crime to infernal name. I’m breaking apart and yet complete. I’d say life is tidy but it sure ain’t neat.


Dobrynya Nikitich

* Okay, just a bit of explanation. A while ago, someone had asked me to write something different or, more to the point, differently than I normally would, not so much on subject matter, per se, but rather with regard to stylistic concerns. One of the many suggestions was to go for a decidedly singsong format, and I did just that, and this was the result. Were they satiated? Partially, insomuch that it was what they requested, even if they also thought the vignette was essentially plotless, but they didn't specify the necessity of a plot, so they need to keep quiet. Do I like it? Ostensibly, no, but in consideration of why it was produced, I think it has a quaint charm. Besides, one of the other suggestions had been poetry, and fuck that.

Monday, July 07, 2008

Assassination Day

On the road of life, I am a mustachioed plumber clad in red.

Let the record show that on July 6, 2008 a new king was crowned; that E-Mart's stock rose to Olympian heights while Kmart's plummeted to new depths, the likes of which James Cameron and his fucked-up underwater cameras have yet to film; that -- word to 50 Cent's titular album and The Love Guru's box office take -- a massacre Mehmet occurred, and I'm pretty sure highway cleanup crews are still scraping green dinosaur carcass off the asphalt.

That's right, the epic Mario Kart battle between Messrs Forbes and Highly saw a Victor von Doom emerge yesterday. That man: me. I'd like to thank my sponsors, Dorco, (makers of TG Shaving Foam), Raison Cigarettes, and Nozz-O-La Cola, for their support. I could have done it without them, but I would have done it broke.

Now, my *snicker* once-formidable opponent will likely provide you with any number of excuses to explain his downfall: my kart is too fast (even though my items are shit); I use the power slide (which is like a WNBA player calling an NBA star a cheater for dunking in a game of one-on-one); he was sick; my bitch -- aka your favorite Shih Tzu's favorite Shih Tzu -- distracted him.

Excuses, excuses...and none of them valid. Had I *shudder* lost, I wouldn't bemoan Heezy's noxious, mustard gas fart strategy, although I will pat mice elf on the back for winning in spite of it.

No; I will not kick a man when he's down. I sincerely hope he recovers from this latest defeat to drive another day. In fact, I'm holding a press conference, during which I'll pretend to step down from the sport of kart racing, only to have a Mowhawk-coifed Kmart/Travis Bickle show up and say "Hey, woman! Bring your pretty little self over to my apartment tonight, and I'll show you a real man" to my girlfriend, followed by me announcing my return to the pixelated circuit. For one final showdown.

But when that day arrives, I predict that the illustrious and praiseworthy Kmart will again be sick.

Of losing.

Sunday, July 06, 2008

Proof That I Do Still Write:

Sports Illustrated Article

Just the most recent step in my inevitable march to write the oral history of Mixed Martial Arts.

The Repatriated

My homeslice William George has joined the ranks of the repatriated. Survived, what, six tours? In honour of the man, some Dylan:

Ride, Willie, Ride.

Thursday, July 03, 2008

(The Fourth of) July!

It's that time of year again; the time in which the glorious citizens of the United States celebrate their country's independence.

Independence Day!

Patriotism, nationalism; it is like that, and there's nothing wrong with being so proud. Revel in the festivities of God's chosen people.

For those abroad, make certain to both emulate and revise the customs of your homeland. You don't need to verbally inform the little peoples of the world that it's an American holiday -as everyone is already aware- but make sure to wrap yourself in an American flag or, at the very least, wear a tee shirt that displays a bald eagle atop the stars and stripes, because that's what American pride is all about. Set off numerous fireworks, and make sure to blow something up real good, taking special aim toward any disgruntled minorities within the vicinity, unless they are wearing appropriately patriotic attire.

Blast Neil Diamond music from your stereo, as nothing says U.S.A. like Sweet Caroline (although Lynyrd Skynyrd makes due in a pinch). Demand this music at any bar you frequent, and belittle any establishment that can't offer such a staple of Americana. Lament the food offered to you at any restaurant because it's not as good as Grandma's potato salad, and shout things like "Whaddya mean you don't accept American currency?!?" at the ignorant staff, if only to enlighten them. Become outrageously drunk on Anheuser-Busch products, and proceed to fight anyone unwilling to pledge their allegiance to Old Glory.

To be fair, driving is not an option for many expatriates, and thus drunk driving is unlikely, but one can make up for such deficiencies. Buses, trains, and taxi cabs make great proxies for asinine behavior, and for those feeling especially patriotic, make sure to vandalize any car you come across. Bust that shit up, American style.

Make sure to remind the 46,003 Canadians amongst you that, while they may have Canada Day, every day of the year is really America Day, and Independence Day is merely the ultimate expression of your greatness. Then have sex with one of them (but no anal, because that's not how you roll).


Nina Metro

The Wilderness Years, Part II

Writing Psychedelic Kimchi, I often come off as a brash, conceited jackass at times, I'm willing to admit. But the truth is (and I realize you might believe the Holocaust didn't happen before you believe me), I'm a very calm, collected, and very often shy man. A lot of this has to do with my boyish looks: I really do look a lot younger than my age (more than 10 years younger, by more than a few accounts). So I have this complex that, even when I talk with people younger than me, I am their maturity-wise inferior. The rest has to do with the fact that, honest to Gordie Howe, I am a genuinely kind, caring human being. Like anyone, I have nasty thoughts; and I've been known to toss out a few F-bombs -- and cats -- at times, but I sincerely hope you take me at my word when I say that I don't have the power to intentionally be cruel, that I would rather [I can't think of an analogy] than make someone feel bad or think of me as an asshole. Selfish? Sure. Lazy? At times. But uncaring? Cruel? Overbearing? Violent? Never. I've lived with two people who taught me that that's no way to live one's life -- one whom I love dearly (my brother, Paul), the other whom I despise with all the hate that I can muster. If that's contradictory, so be it.

Nobody's perfect.


I remember as clearly as I remember my own phone number the first time my ex-wife -- God, that's such a refreshing word to say/type/shout at the top of Mt. Everest -- hit me. June, 2002. Burlington, Canada. She was upset because my father was at work (with one car) and my mother was at work (with the other), and there wasn't a third to drive her to the Korean supermarket 40km away so she could buy ramen. Obviously, this was a big deal, so I told her to take a nap while I went upstairs to watch Blade II (a man should know his priorities). My father, who finishes work at 5, oddly enough wasn't home by 3, so my ex started screaming and throwing stuff (at that time it was only blankets, but, word to addicts, it would quickly escalate to items that can actually cut skin, such as...let me save that for later*).

Me, the more-often-than-not idiot that I am, told her if she wanted to lash out and release her anger that she should leave my mother's duvet out of it -- it hadn't done anything wrong -- and take it to, word to David Mays, the source.

And that's just what she did. She hit me full force on the right side of my face.

I was shocked.

But I would get used to it.

* Hint: knives!

Wednesday, July 02, 2008

Who I'm Mad at Today: Baron Davis

I've never shared an egg salad sandwich with Baron Davis, and I'm sure he would make a fantastic nanny to my 11 (count 'em) children; but I'm pretty sure the guy likes the title "professional basketball player" more than THE TITLE, if you Yao Ming.

Scorned for years for being the Tracey Gold to Vince Carter's Dana Plato, Davis achieved a level of credibility on the Warriors' roster -- and his neck beard will only ever be rivaled by Jeff Bridges's Obidiah Stane in Iron Man, and, possibly, Henry David Thoreau's.

He, amazingly, stayed injury-free, which I'm sure indentured him in the hearts and souls of hipster fruitcakes and 5th-round fantasy basketball chance-takers; but this latest move, in which Baron Davis leaves Le Warriers and takes a dollar cab to the LA Clippers, blows your mind. And when I write "your" I really mean "my."

There are too many stories about sports figures

(and porn stars)

who don't live up to their fans' expectations, but for nearly 2 years I was prettyfairlyquite happy that the bee-bearded Daron Bavis had transcended such talk.

[cold stare]Not anymore.[/cold stare]

But, really, what did you expect from a guy who, on the eve of clinching a playoff berth, was so hungover that his coach benched him?