Friday, February 29, 2008

The Heady Rush of Spring


Saw this on ESPN.com today:


It is foolish and childish, on the face of it, to affiliate ourselves with anything so insignificant and patently contrived and commercially exploitive as a professional sports team, and the amused superiority and icy scorn that the non-fan directs at the sports nut (I know this look -- I know it by heart) is understandable and almost unanswerable. Almost. What is left out of this calculation, it seems to me, is the business of caring -- caring deeply and passionately, really caring -- which is a capacity or an emotion that has almost gone out of our lives. And so it seems possible that we have come to a time when it no longer matters so much what the caring is about, how frail or foolish is the object of that concern, as long as the feeling itself can be saved. Naivete -- the infantile and ignoble joy that sends a grown man or woman to dancing and shouting with joy in the middle of the night over the haphazardous flight of a distant ball -- seems a small price to pay for such a gift.

-Roger Angell, "Agincourt and After,"


It was apropos of something stupid (NBA Basketball), but it reminded me of how I feel about something.

Because yesterday was the first Spring Training game, and your Seattle Mariners won 10 to 3 over the San Diego Padres with new knuckleballer John Dickey picking up the "W".

Hope springs eternal. Even without Adam Jones.

See you in October.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

The Intern


In case you haven't heard, I finished Contra 4 a few weeks ago. Yesterday one of my co-workers received his PhD, and I'm pretty sure even he's jealous of my accomplishment.

Soon after, I found myself in want of a new Nintendo DS game to satisfy my primal urge to press buttons and look at flashing lights. What scares me is that, since last August, I've played and completed some of the best games the DS has to offer, and after kicking some aliens in their testicles -- aliens must have testicles, right? I'm too assed to look it up on Wikipedia -- I feared that there were no games left in which I'd be interested.

Enter: Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow (sorry if I broke your capacity to read more than one colon in a single sentence*).

Castlevania: Portrait of Ruin, Dawn of Sorrow's successor, was the first game I immersed myself in when I bought the DS, and I love it like...well, you know. But let's be Frank Abagnale: shit can get tedious at times. I'm all for killing manifold (old men) base creatures, but, you know what, I could do without spending an entire week trying to master the cream pie as a weapon. Because I like to pretend that I'm too busy for such pointlessness.

Conversely, what made Contra 4 such an ass-kicking experience was that at no point did the game ever feel like a chore. Sure, some strategy is involved, but never did I find myself spending an hour killing enemies just so I could level up. Contra 4 was the first game in a long time that made my palms sweat because it was so intense.

I knew what I was getting into by following up such a game with the lesson in patience that is Dawn of Sorrow, but it wasn't easy. Gone were my rapid-fire machine guns, in their stead replaced by weapons slower than frozen molasses.

Still, I endured. I made my bones. I dredged through slow, feeble weapons and built up my experience, knowing, like a caveman with foresight, that my hard work would eventually benefit all of mankind.

It was when I found the tomahawk -- okay, I'll be honest; I spent a half hour farming coins and bought it -- that the game finally started paying dividenz. When I parlayed that sucker into the throwing sickle, that's when I knew it was on. That's when the game stopped feeling like work.

At last I was free to unleash my passive-aggressive, misanthropic fury upon the underworld! Look, as much as I love video games, I'm on Roger Ebert's side vis a vis his opinion that they're not art. Video games have never provided me any insight deeper than a feeling of accomplishment, soon followed by a feeling of shame. So if video games are art, so is masturbation.

Justified, I began playing more often than before in my attempt to finish the game. But I should have known. Dawn of Sorrow is not a game to be played casually. You do that, you get the "bad ending."

Want to know how to get the good ending? Read online strategy guides and walkthroughs. They're the Cliffs Notes of gaming. And Dawn of Sorrow is fucking Ulysses. Look, I enjoy puzzles, but knowing which armor or weapon (or soul) to equip to make sure the game doesn't end prematurly is a folly. There's no logic involved, and the only people who get through the game immaculately are those who have way to much fucking time on their hands to spend on configuring random items, or those who get lucky and stumble upon the right combination of said items.

I don't know about you, but cheating -- unless it relates to relationships -- holds a negative connotation in my mind. It's ethically reprehensible to me. But like a john with a scratch to be itched, I'll find out via some game FAQ written by a sociopath who's probably collecting disability checks how to proceed, then hate myself for the pleasure of doing so.

I've never understood the allure of role-playing or turn-based games. Pokemon Diamond is one of the highest-rated games the DS has to offer, but to me it's an exercise in masochism. Who in pluperfect hell would choose to spend a minute of free time fighting a creature that looks like a vegetable when he could go outside and in a second kick a Chihuahua?

(The irony here isn't lost on me. An hour ago I promised to call my girlfriend, but I've been so caught up in the transcendent relevancy of this post that I've neglected to do so. Also, my dog might be hungry. I can't tell yet whether she's sleeping or dead.)

Collecting stuff can be fun. I used to collect comic books, and I still have a lot of the ones that my brother didn't steal and sell to fuel his numerous addictions (mostly bingo, sometimes cocaine). At least I can hold a comic book or a Golden State Warriors cap signed by the members of House of Pain and Cypress Hill. That shit's tangible. And while I'm aware that nowadays you can trade items online with friends, or sell them for actual money that you can use to buy shit such as Mars bars or shaving cream in the real world, virtual objects possess only abstract properties. (Maybe that's why I hate Monopoly and was never good at buying stocks.)

I prefer the truth. Like Russel Hammond, I want something real, something I can hold.

But when I grew up I realized that you can just buy trophies. Now I'm good at everything.


* fragment

Pump Up the Volume


As longtime readers of this site* and anyone who's ever met me can probably tell, I love to hear myself talk. Now, in the not-too-distant future** my sonorous manvoice*** will be heard by millions. Okay, maybe millions is a bit of a stretch. Thousands? Hundreds? I have no idea.

In addition to my daily work activities (I'm like Winston the Wolf in Pulp Fiction***), starting in April I will also be doing voice acting for internationally-broadcast Korean programming.

(I'd like to think my voice will give women orgasms, but It'll probably induce seizures like Mary Hart's.)

Needless to say, I'm very excited. Still, part of me is left wanting more. If you love something you have to set it free, and it's only a matter of time before the face behind this voice is unleashed upon the world******. Or Korea. Same thing.




* Oh who am I kidding?

** Hold on, that makes no sense.

*** If the PKast had happened on the weekend, you'd understand my sarcasm.

**** 'Cept when people fuck with me and act like they know English better than me.

****** Word to Ghostface Killah.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

Good Intentions


The stage was set. The stars were in alignment. The air was fresh. But.
We couldn't deliver the PKast, so we'll give you the next-best thing, which was what we discussed while awaiting the grand entrance of the inscrutable TMH.

2:14 PM

K
give me a sec

I have to set some shit up

denz
10-4

K
Your assertiveness frightens me

denz
Randomness

I pressed icons at random

Spark
Where's TMH?

denz
Possibly bathing

Spark
Hah.

denz
That's what bald guys do

constantly

Spark
He's the steering wheel of this broke down duster.

denz
and IDJ is the rudder

K
what about idealblowhard?

Spark
IDJ is the glove compartment.

denz
NYC is apparently not a hotbed of technology

K
true that. I like to think of IDJ as the heater core

denz
The Yontan

Spark
I think he's busy doing the times crossword puzzle...on Mars.

denz
The Mars Version? It's all "what's a four letter word for red?"

Spark
Hard.

denz
True

Martians, man

K
four letter word for red? cunt?

Spark
Blue.

denz
What cunts are you guys in? Tell her to take some anti-inflammatories

Spark
My dog's having her period.

K
I'm in the hagwon cunt

Spark
This is important to know.

K
and your dog's a beeotch

denz
Dogs have periods?

Spark
Like twice a year, I think.

denz
Convenient. I suppose they just eat that shit right up

Spark
Yeah, but it lasts for like 5 weeks.

denz
No need for dogpons or anything. Jesus, a 5 week bleeder

K
sounds like
....

Spark
At least she can't talk.

K
I don't know, sounds like something

Spark
WHERE'S TOM?

K
easy, killer, no need for ALL CAPS

Spark
I turned off Hell's Kitchen for this.

denz
Sporadic caps is fine

K
Give TMH a few minutes

denz
He's workshopping some concepts

Spark
I'd give him the rest of my life. BTW, Jumper's not a bad flick.

denz
It's getting panned here

Spark
It's got like 30% on the Tomatometer, but it's pretty good, actually.

denz
That said, Australians struggle with concepts

Spark
In a comic booky way.

K
saw American Gangster last night

Spark
Gut?

K
and Australians need to stop struggling with concepts

denz
You say this like it hasn't been said

K
like K and customs officials, like that

denz
You need to stop suggling things in your arse.

suggling? That'll work

Spark
New word!

K
American Gangster was good, but it starts out slow

Spark
Sounds sexual.

denz
And slightly brown

K
I was suggling with the film for a bit

Spark
That's your review. Post it on PK.

denz
Jameson, here.

Spark
Like the scotch?

denz
Like Peter Parker

K
Paaaarrker!

denz
You should pull the whole editor thing

K
Get some better pictures

denz
was he an editor?

Spark
I was debating whether to do the PKast while drunk.

denz
What do you call the guy that runs the newspaper?

Spark
JJJ is the EIC

denz
Right

K
I'm post-drunk, does that count?

denz
That works

Spark
Me, too; but I could do without the headache.

denz
It's 4:30pm here. I had some bad curry last night after having ramen for lunch
I think I qualify

Spark
I got cheese ramen at the Hyundai dept. sto.

denz
Brave

Spark
That ish better satisfy.
K
cooking ramen right now and the mention of curry just makes me hungry

don't be twisted like that...I can't handle the pain

Spark
Dude, I had the worst lunch: chamchi jigae with no fucking tuna. And that shit was bland.

K
so it wasn't chamchi jigae

it was just jigae

Spark
No, it was like kimchi chigae with little flecks of tuna.

Fuck little flecks of tuna.

K
okay then

denz
Tuna flecks

K
you misled me with the name. shame on you

Spark
Ever had Chang beer?

denz
Of course

Spark
Is it any good?

denz
It's not Singha but it's okay

Spark
But it's got an elephant on the label. It better show and prove.

K
*Why* do you have all this Thai beer in your fridge? and why am I not drinking it?

denz
K where are you in Korea?

Spark
Girlfriend's friend works at a Thai restaurant, so she stole a bunch of beer and food for me.

K
around Anyang

is this friend of hers available?

Spark
Nope. She's not that sexy anyways.

K
I mean, I'd be willing to put up with some shit for Thai food

denz
But she steals booze

Spark
Hah.

denz
That's sexy

K
I know!

Spark
Definitely. Where's Frank? I mean TMH.

denz
Abagnale?

Spark
Is that the guy from Catch Me if You Can?

denz
He is

Spark
I win a prize!

denz
I read that book in Thailand, pre-movie. They really underplayed what an egotistical fuck he is

K
heh

Spark
Hey, I know egotistical fucks.

denz
Me, too

K
But I know egotistical fucks that have Thai beer

top that

denz
That is difficult to top

Spark
Here's my question: drink beers all in one go, or have one a night for 4 days?

denz
You forgot two-a-night for two days

K
You don't need to ask my opinion

Spark
Or 3 one night then 1 the next.

K
you know what I'd say

denz
or, alternating zero beers and one beer for 8 days

Spark
The possibilities are endless.

denz
Actually, I think that's it

Spark
Heh.
denz
Should we ask K's opinion?

K
Well

Again, I feel misled

Spark
'Drink them all now, fucker!'

denz
Not until TMH is recording

K
E was all like 'I have a fridge full of Thai beer' and it turns out that he only has four

denz
It's a small friedge, right?

Spark
Maybe I should have it with Cass, sort of like torturing then rewarding myself.

It's really small.

denz
Or you could mix it

Call it Changass

K
proper

denz
Which is what you get from Thai chicks, anyway

K
Last night I had the displeasure of Cass Red

Spark
Learn your lesson!

K
yeah

Fuck, man, I was just so depressed...

Spark
It's not worth it!

K
Agreed

denz
What's Cass Red?

K
but it's got bang for the buck

Spark
6.9%

K
It's this newish beer, that is 6.9%

denz
High-rev count

Spark
Anyone had this Italian beer called Bonno Moretti or something like that?

K
if by high-rev count you mean high-shits count, then yes

denz
(C)ass Red

Spark
IDJ is drinking it on Mars.

K
four letter word for red!

denz
Cass!

Spark
Nice!

denz
Beautiful

Have you spoken to IDJ lately?

K
but my toilet isn't nice

Spark
Not in a long-ass time.

denz
He's spending too much clock on Expatkorea

K
he's very elusive nowadays, except for Expatkorea

denz
Getting into it with the Angrymen

Spark
He told me he was making a trip back to Korea this spring, but we all know that IDJ says stuff.

denz
He needs to channel that rage into obscure PK submissions

Preferably involving pictures of attractive NYC women

But I dream

Spark
I think TMH fell asleep.

K
But IDJ an enigma, you can't handle that

denz
Who can?

Lakes are killing the Clips

K
He's like John Shaft

Spark
I miss basketball.

K
he's a complicated man, and no one understands him but his woman

denz
True that

Spark
He's like Dr. Manhattan in Watchmen, except for the omnipotence and blue skin.

K
indeed

denz
His skin is very pale blue

K
and that woman is probably sixteen years old, but still, only she understands him

Spark
It's a white-blue.

denz
It is

Chris Paul

Spark
I've sadly never watched him play.

denz
What? Really?

Spark
Seriously.

denz
Ah man

Spark
I haven't watched a game all year.

Not a full one.

denz
Yeah, I mainly rely on bootleg torrents and the like

K
I'm already confused

denz
Me too

Spark
Fuck it; let's talk about girls.

K
mostly by how shitty my ramen was

denz
Sure. Mine's 7 months pregnant

Spark
Put some cheese in it!

denz
But has only gained 6 kilos

K
and by the fact that I don't have any other food in the apartment

denz
I am liking my odds

Spark
Holy shit.

K
6 kilos?

denz
It's a unit of measurement

K
E's nutsac weighs more than that

Spark
(It's like 14 ounds.)

K
or...so I've been told

Spark
pounds.

I feel fat.

denz
What are you - 67?

K
So the baby is definitely a boy, then?

Spark
69

K
6.9%

denz
Getting up there

Spark
Eerie.

denz
Baby had a mean set of cock and balls onthe ultrasound

K
I'm already jealous!

denz
So unless it sheds that pre-birth, I am calling it a boy

haha

Spark
TMH hates us.

denz
I am going to have to run. I am running some training tomorrow

If TMH gets one, let him know he was late

Spark
Aight.

K
Ten bucks says that TMH is having sex with his wife as we speak, and he's all like 'I gotta get the PKast going'

Spark
Might post this on PK. Anything I should censor?

denz
My spelling

K
and she's like 'Don't stop, but take off the fake beard'

Spark
lol

K
"I am running some training tomorrow" - honestly, I'm not even sure what that means

Spark
He's a drug mule.

denz
Now you know how I feel

Mule out.

Spark
You know how I can paste this into blogger?

Thursday, February 21, 2008

The PKast



Let's quit fucking around a be a mans. Gimme y'allses Skype info or add me to your contacts (I'll bug you day and night, I promise). My handle is XXXXX; my grip, deadly.

Working out a time might be tricky, but 12-1 a.m. EST (2 p.m. in the ROK, 9 p.m. PST...Australia? 3 or 4 p.m. I think) on Saturday or Sunday works for me*.

Let's do this like the guy who stabbed Julius Caesar.

PS: that's how part of the alphabet would look like if you removed Q and R.

PPS: Someone besides me post something already, or I'm going to rename the blog A Stir of Echoes. (This is tonight's post, by the way, because I want to shame you all**. Some -- ahem -- more than others. How fucking meta of me. I'm like Charlie Kaufman.)

PPPS: I desperately need a gift idea for the ladyfriend, because her birthday is this Monday. I was going to buy her Maroon Five tickets (we all have our faults), but I think the concert's sold out. What else? Should I pull a Homer Simpson and get her a Nintendo Wii?

E-Man, Master of the Universe


* I'm going to talk like the HAL 9000: THE WEATHER IS GETTING WARMER THESE DAYS. HOW IS THE WEATHER WHERE YOU GENTLEMEN ARE?

* TMH because he's shamefully handsome

Monday, February 18, 2008

You Read It in the Post and the Daily News



Item: I work in editing, a job I take very seriously (please refrain from laughing). Last week I received business cards that would make Patrick Bateman envious, except for one tiny error. Apparently, I'm part of the 2nd Uint. I am aware of irony, cruel gods, but that's too much. Am I really supposed to hand out my card and expect its receiver to have faith in the quality of my company?

Item: Because I'm a bigger lout than Stanley from A Streetcar Named Desire, on Valentine's Day I went out for a company dinner to the Fish & Grill, and let me tell you, their cheese roll of egg -- I'd write "egg roll," but the Chinese, those sneaky Hans, already have the market covered with that noun -- is the bomb like Daniel Henny's My Father*. By the way, know what happens when you drink 11 pitchers of draft beer in four hours? You can't sleep because you stay up all night peeing, that's what.

Item: Also on Valentine's Day, one of my co-workers gave me an assortment of bite-size chocolate bars**, one of which is called jayu shigan. Translated into English, that means "free time," or "leisure time" if you're pretentious. Its motto? "Strength for Korean children!" That doesn't beat the crackers -- saltines, not white people -- which used to advertise that they make children taller, but it's pretty close.

Item: I caught Gone Baby Gone, Into the Wild, and the clap over the weekend. Check out the directorial chops on Ben Affleck! Marvel at the leading-man talent of his brother Casey! Terrific film, mostly because, despite turning into a plot-driven whodunit in the final act, the direction, acting (try not to laugh the first time you see Morgan Freeman in the film, though, nor at Ed Harris's hairpiece), and the best dialogue I've heard in a film this year not called No Country for Old Men*** are near-perfect. Watch it back-to-back with The Departed and try to talk to your friends afterwards without using a Boston accent or shooting them. Either are pretty hard.

Into the Wild? Listen, the picture isn't particularly bad. In fact, it's quite good; and, mother of all creation, Vince Vaughn actually pulls off a role in which he doesn't do Vince Vaughn stuff. Sorta. But, man, Sean Penn made a busy motherfucking film. I mean, he threw everything into that badboy. Gimmicky graphics depicting the protagonist's letters? Check. Location subtitles? Check. Fucking chapter headings? Check, check, check it (A to the G is gonna wreck it). There's more text in that movie than Orwell's Animal Farm, I'm convinced. But wait; we're not done.

God no.

Voice-over narration by not one but TWO characters? Check it like strikeouts by Josh Beckett. Breaking the fourth wall? Ayup (was Penn trying to break every cinematic don't?). Shot of protagonist with head back and arms lifted (AKA "The Shawshank Pose"), combined with the circle-strafe shot en vogue with every goddamned young director or student filmmaker? Jesus was a carpenter, check. Eddie Vedder singing loudly and scaring my dog? You betcha.

Like I said, a busy movie. The Academy has made a lot of errors in its time (Citizen Kane, never forget), but thank God and Olivia Hussey's cleavage they didn't nominate Penn for Best Director. That would have been like me getting a raise even though I continually misspell cat****.

Still, I cried like a little bitch at the end, so at least it has overused Bill Murray quote.

Item: If Kimbo Slice isn't the singlemost triumphant name since Dirk Diggler or Richard Fuchs, I don't know what is.

Item: At work, I'm not allowed to mention the Falun Gong in anything which will be seen/read in China. Proof that Korea is secretly China's bitch? Dollar, dollar bill, y'all. Conversely, I'm encouraged to call sushi "fish on rice" and tempura "various fried shit." Then again, save for kimchi (which I maddeningly have to spell gimchi), Korea has its own inferiority complex issues vis a vis its cuisine. The next time I'm forced to type "rice with mixed vegetables" instead of bibimbap*****, or "soy-bean-paste stew" instead of doenjang jjigae, I'm liable to go on a killing spree. Get some fucking swagger, okay? Stop being that shy emo kid who believes the world doesn't understand him, Korea.

Item: I missed another All Star Game/Weekend. Apparently Kobe played three minutes because he's nursing an injury which he doesn't want to have surgery on because he wants to help his team win a championship and play for the cursed US Olympic squad. (Deep breath.) My question is: you can't play in the All Star Game but you don't want to miss playing the Atlanta Hawks in two days for a regular-season game. Okay, that's not a question, but this is, tough guy: where the fuck are your priorities? How hard are the drugs you're doing? Kob, if I may call you so, I find you repulsive, yet interesting at the same time. Like a serial killer. Prediction: someone's going to die. A woman's intuition is never wrong. (Except when it always is.)

Item: Lemonade was a popular drink, and it still is, despite Super Junior's effort to sabotage the whole operation.



* AKA There Will Be Mean-Spirited Laughter

** and a blowjob

*** I still haven't seen I Drink From Your Milkshake, also known as There Will Be Blood.

**** I'm not saying that's true, but neither am I denying it.

***** Give yourself more credit, Korea. It's Gwyneth Paltrow's favorite food!

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Arbitrary



What there is to say:

First

I had a strange dream last night. In this nocturnal emission, I was sitting on a chair in the house that covered my head for a good portion of my youth. I was sitting in this chair, watching some distorted version of Harry and the Hendersons that played on a thirteen inch, black and white television, except that, in this version, Harry had been trying to break into the Henderson's tool shed for some reason, and Mr. Henderson shot the sasquatch in the back of the neck. The shot hadn't killed Harry; in fact, the beast continued his barrage for tools with a renewed sense of urgency.

As I watched this monstrosity, I had been eating saltines from a Tupperware box. At my side was a tub of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!, and I utilized it as dipping sauce for my crackers. Later on, I put the saltines down, and began to dip Kellogg's Frosted Flakes* into the butter substitute.

From the basement steps, arose my mother. (What you have to understand is that my mother, in addition to being an elementary school teacher, taught piano lessons after work. She was odd like that.) She emerged from the evening's final lesson, and trailing behind her was the last student, who happened to be an individual I currently work with.

I have no idea where I intended to go with this, but it was a weird dream.

Second

Personally, I don't see the allure of suicide. Honorable, dishonorable; whatever, I just don't feel the urge to die. Having said that, if I wanted to go, I'd like to go via gratuitous consumption of hard alcohol, the poison of choice being dependent upon whichever brand of firewater fit my suicidal thoughts, probably Rumple Minze. The method? Shots, and lots of them, all in tune with the G.I. Joe animated film from 1987. That's right, you heard me.

Every time the phrase 'Yo Joe!' is shouted, uttered, gasped, or farted, I'd take a shot** (for the record, I'd have to buy at least three bottles beforehand). Presuming that I were still conscious near the end, Duke's farewell 'Yo.....Joe' would require a double shot, because I'm a credit to my country like that.

Third

Devil's Crush is, as I've noted several times in the past, the greatest pinball video game ever made, and I'd like to take this moment to cordially invite the King of Video Games, Mr. Todd Rogers, to go fuck himself. Look, I understand that he's the best of the best (even if it would kill Billy Mitchell to hear me say that, let alone write it), and that's he's got a grudge against Mother Nature and whatnot, but by achieving the highest possible score available, 999999900, he has pretty much destroyed the need for anyone to strive to new heights. Sure, beating the crap out of some dyslexic kid's score while the two of you hang out in your parents' basement is cool, but shouldn't we have bigger dreams?


Fourth

Whilst on the topic of games, I want to alert you, dear reader, to a game that single-handedly destroyed my lofty notions of having a fulfilling life.



You know, that picture doesn't really do the Godzilla Game justice. Let's go for another angle; off to the side, douche. If the inherent awesomeness of this game still eludes you, please allow me the honor of intervening on your behalf. You had four players, each of whom would select a color (hot pink, jizz yellow, lime green, or fag hag orange) to represent his or her team of... rocket ships. After that exciting prefatory exercise, each player would place the appropriate number of pieces upon the circular board, and take turns spinning the marker around, to see how many times that person would activate the rotating board. Then, the tension would build as players waited for Godzilla to randomly pop out and snatch one of the rockets from its cheap, plastic mooring.

Was it your rocket that got munched, or another player's piece? That was up to Godzilla, and how did Godzilla decide his course of action? Who the fuck knows! The game was utterly pointless, to the extent that I'd be hard-pressed to determine whether just thinking about this game or, say, Terry Gilliam's Jabberwocky, gives me the greater headache.

Fifth

Props to you, Brian Grimm. I've never had the courage to don a bike helmet decorated with a floppy, bulbous dildo***, but you sure do, and I applaud that kind of machismo. Golly, what are those dark spots on your shit? Perhaps I shouldn't ask, but you understand where I'm coming from, right? Of course you do; you have a fuckin' dildo atop your head.

I dig the unsolicited advertisement for Cap'n Crunch in the background, too.




Sixth

I love it when people make cute assumptions about life. The venerable John Edgar WIdeman once moaned:

Is war a preferable alternative. If a child's afraid of the dark, do we solve the problem by buying her a gun.

You buy the child a switchblade, so that she may slice herself wide open; either to remove the fear, or to allow the darkness greater access.

See? I can write cute things, too.


_________________________________________________


Real Solution #9


* Also known as Frosties, for the Commonwealth Kids.

** This also makes a fantastic drinking game for a cadre of giggly twelve year old girls.

*** Or is it a dong?

Start, Pause, Stop, Rewind


To paraphrase a conversation I had with KMart last week over drinks (some time before I started espousing the unheralded merits of mustard), I am Charlton Heston, Korea my cold, dead hands.

Reality, however, speaks differently; and sometime -- maybe soon, maybe in a year, maybe later -- I will leave this place. Not for good, but for good and long.

I once unfairly, stupidly called Korea a way station. It's not; for me or any of Psychedelic Kimchi's contributors. It is for some, but for us Korea is/was the most meaningful experience of our lives. I'm twenty-nine years old. I'll be thirty in May. I've lived here for nearly a third of my life.

During that period, I've felt the greatest exaltation and the greatest misery. And the good (however humble) has always outweighed the bad (however relentless). Korea is many things, but an environment of neutrality it is not. It is a manic-depressive place, where the highs are high and the lows are lower. Its undertow is as fearful as the symmetry of William Blake's Tyger, its exhilaration stronger than 300km/h wind gusts.

You learn to live with it. You learn to adapt. And in the process you learn about yourself, what kind of person you really are, what beliefs you're willing to hold onto, what morals you're willing to sacrifice.

Expatriates who stay in Korea for years are often labelled as masochists. I've been called such, and I've dubbed others likewise. But that's not it. It's an easy way to classify those whom we cannot understand. It's easier to believe that a person would choose to live in an environment which others deem unseemly because he has no other choice, rather than accept the fact that, ohnoitcantbetrue, he is actually happy there.

I came here in 2000. A lot -- and I mean a lot-- has changed since. Then again, shit's pretty much the same: the weather, the Dow Jones average, the decline of the New York Knicks and Nas's career...my youthful acne. I want for nothing save perhaps a Nintento Wii and, in a perfect world, donut milkshakes.

Will I ever be as happy when I leave Korea as I was when I lived here?

Magic 8-Ball says yes.

Probablyfuckingmaybe.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

I Gave You Power


When my Paleolithic ancestors -- if what Richard Dawkins says is true; though, really, who do you trust more, him or Jesus? -- roamed the earth, I can't be sure, but I'm fairly confident they didn't mock one another as liberally as we do nowadays.

Hey Bruno, get a load of Moon-Watcher. He gathers berries like old cro-magnons fornicate*.

<*translated from the Mongolian>

In fact, I'm convinced they didn't mock each other at all. I'm no anthropologist, but I do know that prehistoric man would, if shit got real, attempt to kill any perceived threat. Before things got that heavy, though, he'd try to intimidate his foe by beating his chest, snarling, and maybe even grabbing his simian nutsack.

Those were barbaric times. And while traces of our inherently bellicose nature are still easily recognizable in the animal kingdom and in human beings repressed by the tide of societal progress, where fight is possible but flight isn't, those of a more comfortable existence have learned to conquer their foes with intelligence instead of brute force.

Where once man's ability to rend flesh was considered the benchmark of superiority, it's been replaced by our talent to dominate fellow human beings with our minds. Strategy became a greater trait than strength for survival.

You can't teach a dog to be a cat, however. Man's goal is still the same, only tangible images of blood and sorrow are replaced with intangible words that most people don't understand (because they use the Internet). Physical pain is easier to relate to than mental torment, because it's more defined. As a species, we haven't yet evolved enough to recognize what hurts us on the same level but with no immediate agony, but just as the slightest physical pain is almost instant and quickly forgotten, emotional suffering of the same variety can last forever, unnoticed, unacknowledged. And we, as so-called enlightened beings in denial of our instictive evil, prefer it that way. Because we're stupid for the most part, and actions -- irony of ironies -- speak louder than words.

A word, phrase, or sentence can have as many meanings as a pile of shit has eyes, but it's pretty hard to convince a person that a beating, flogging, or, to make an extreme case, rape, is justifiable. Unless you're Korean, I mean.

Read that last sentence again. On the surface it appears confrontational. A casual reader of this blog might come across it, and depending on his or her personality, would file Psychedelic Kimchi in his or her brain pocket as either blatantly racist or satirical.

The point -- as long-winded as it may be -- is that you can't tell. Motives, agendas, grudges, gripes: all are veiled by what is our singular curse and our blessed gift, trickery, deception.

The power of the spoken and written word.

Evolution, dig it.

Monday, February 11, 2008

We See the Beauty in Chaos and Misdirection



Let's get this out of the way right now. You want a name for David Tyree's catch in Super Bowl XLII? You got it: Awesome, I Fuckin' Caught That!...Say what you will about the Oscars (I'll start: remote onion foreskin umbrella blaxploitation), but at least the Academy still has some credibility. The Grammys? None, as in zero. The more I think about it, Outkast winning best album for Speakerboxxx/The Love Below seems like when Rolling Stone tried to appeal to Maxim/FHM readers and filled their pages with T&A, gossip, and lists. Then, in both cases, things returned to normal; Rolling Stone and the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences tried to adapt to current culture, failed awfully, and now they remain on their respective trajectories towards irrelevance. No disrespect to Herbie Hancock or Steely Dan, but let's be reasonable; the Grammys are a joke. An unfunny one. Conversely, Pitchfork Media can get the bozack (have I mentioned that before?)...The Shaq trade: at first I was hype; then I felt a little guilty, because Shaq is Shaq, and even though he's played like a mangy dog with a bulbous four-pound neck tumor all season, he's still a nice guy by all accounts, still a card, and he helped Miami win the 2006 title; then I felt a little elated when I realized the Suns had just traded Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World for Sputnik Sweetheart; then I remembered the Heat have nine wins on the season and won't make the playoffs; then I envisioned Marion getting the fuck out of South Beach as soon as he becomes a free agent; then someone whispered the name Michael Beasley; then I ate a Krispy Kreme donut. I don't know what god's plan is, but I wish he'd stop fucking with me. For the love of Dwyane Wade, please make this stop...The 18th Letter just told me she has a beanstalk growing in her head. Then she said, for the second time, that she wants a mustache for breakfast. Word to Art Linkletter...Castlevania: Dawn of Sorrow is growing on me like the beanstalk in my daughter's head, but no way is it better than Portrait of Ruin. No way..."Goliath" is the best song of 2008. You have the rest of the year, 2008, to prove me wrong. Words to -- perhaps -- live by: This is the closest to any kingdom that you will ever come...Don't tell me the rules. I'm the ruler, and I'm motherfucking crazy...Are you squinting? Welcome to my world...Roy Scheider died. God bless the day that my sons survive, I'm full of sorrow. I'm going to watch Jaws for the umpteenth time right now, even though I watched it a few weeks ago. You should do the same. You're going to need a bigger boat, Roy...Namdaemun burned down. To quote Snoop (nee Doggy) Dogg, if it ain't one thing, it's a motherfucking 'nother.

Hold on like Simply Red. And ooh, child, things are gonna get easier.

Don't stop believing.

Sunday, February 10, 2008

No is Before


I promised myself I wouldn't write another post until the Lunar New Year holiday was officially over, but I feel as though I left my dog in the car in summer with the windows rolled up (which I sorta did, only in my apartment in winter without food; contact PETA), so here's a quick update -- in case you want to become my biographer or something -- on what I've been up to since my holiday began at 3 p.m., Tuesday afternoon:

Constant Retards will recall that last summer I resolved a workout schedule which, despite mindfuckingly painful headaches, I stuck to...for a few months. These days, I'm back to my former weight and musculature. My belief: as long as my arteries stay unclogged, my penis stays the same size, and I don't have to wrestle The Undertaker in front of twenty thousand spectators, exercise is a waste of time.

Anyway, I got home on Tuesday at 3:15, dicked around on the Internet for a few hours (if you're reading this, you know how that is), felt a little hungry, and thought I should probably grab a bite to eat. Thing is, I was also pretty sleepy. Nap or food? Nap or food, genius? I don't know about you, but, for me, nap always wins.

I awoke a few hours later. Weirdly, my appetite was gone, as was my sense of logic. Somehow I thought it a good idea to wait until Hot Lips would arrive at 10, go out for a few drinks, then eat when I got home at the end of the night. I come up with stupid ideas like that all the time.

Like I said, I wasn't hungry; so when HL arrived later that evening, I lied and said I'd had bibimbap. I'm so nefarious.

It was cold, so instead of walking to Hongik University Station like we usually do, we popped into a bar/restaurant a block or so from my place. Maybe it was my latent hunger, or maybe it's because you're such a disappointment as a child; whatever the reason, I proceeded to drink five beers and three shots of whisky in under an hour. On an empty stomach. To make matters worse, when we arrived home I was so tired that I went to bed without supper like Max in Where the Wild Things Are. (Sadly, no hallucinations.)

I woke up the next morning with a headache to match the size of my ego and a stomach as ravenous as Robert Carlyle in the movie of the same name (Ravenous, not Robert Carlyle, I mean). HL, who monitors my weight like fantasy sports players do box scores, asked me to step on the scale.

68.7 kilograms.

Now, for the longest time girly girl has politely mentioned that she would love for me to put on some weight -- to her, 75 kilos is ideal, but she'll live with something above 70. So I knew by her reaction to the number that drastic measures had to be taken. She looked as shocked upon seeing the number 68.7 as Salé and Pelletier did upon seeing their score at the 2002 Olympics.

I would make it up to her, I told myself. Let the eating -- and drinking -- begin.

From Wednesday until now, I've been caught in an orgiastic whirlwind of gluttony. During that time, rarely has my mouth been empty of food, candy, alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages, pussy, or feminine fat.

So it was to my Olympian surprise that, upon stepping on the scale just an hour ago, I was met with a familiar figure.

68.7.

If you'll excuse me, I have some more eating -- and drinking -- to do.

(I have this weird feeling I'm forgetting something.)



That's right! I left my DS paused when I started this post.

I hope the batteries are OK.

Monday, February 04, 2008

Chicken Wire



This needs to be started the way it should be, but it won't; neither the audience be unworthy, nor the speaker be unfit (the speaker may be unkempt, the audience uncouth, and the picture unrelated, but alas, alas) and it shouldn't go unnoticed that a geriatric folk tale's untimely demise be unwrapped in such a fashion, but that's the way it started.

The story itself isn't so important, but what could be gathered from it may be, somewhat and somewhere. A folk tale is, foremost, a recollection of what was once held crucial to a broad spectrum of people, and in that sense, it's not much of a fable, but surely someone got something out of it, if only while being told, and only by the teller itself.

Grandparents do things like this; ramblings that make molasses seem expedient are the norm, and why shouldn't the elderly proceed in said manner? The power of Methuselah personified, beholden to none but Death itself, and even that hindrance is subject to the longevity of a memory, the impressions made upon a youthful generation yet unwilling to forgo their deceased kin.

The grandmother once known as my mother's mother was the daughter of Czechoslovakian immigrants that had relocated to rural Iowa. She was born in the year 1908, and she died in the summer of 1990. However old she had been at the time of her death, I cannot say; it has less to do with my lack of mathematical skill than with my inability to correctly discern the age of a human being. What is for certain, is that she died in the same year that Ys Book I & II debuted in North America. Dated the game may be, but antiquities breed antiquated, obfuscated memories, and that's good enough for me.

Recently, I acquired a copy of Ys, and renewed my love affair with Falcom's masterwork. At some point, whilst enjoying the merits of Red Book audio, slamming into monsters, hanging out with thieves, and rescuing maidens that bore teal-colored hair, I came across an odd, elderly female that tells you stories from the infamous Books of Ys. The stories themselves are veiled references to some indeterminate threat that cascaded upon the once great kingdom of Ys, and shall threaten the modern period in which the hero resides. This was my grandmother in a nutshell, or so I'd like to have myself believe, as best regurgitated memory may convince me.

I don't have much to say about my grandmother, insomuch that I never really knew the woman (and, hopefully, this will assist in your understanding of the notion that it takes an eighteen-year-old video game to remind me of her existence). She was of an advanced age by the time I was conceived, and already quite displaced by reality. What needs be known is all that I may impart upon you, random readers; to begin, my grandmother was married in 1928, and gave birth to my mother shortly thereafter. At some point, roughly ten years later, her husband (my grandfather, supposedly, as that was well before my recollection, and even my own mother would confess that she can scarcely recall much about him) died suddenly, of what cause I dare not speculate, but she was nonetheless able to overcome such adversity, as she had a daughter to concern herself with and a brother, Miloslav, that had promised to care for the family.

As any intrepid reader may extrapolate, Milo was a valorous sibling of legendary proportion. Strong, passionate, and devoted to his family, the man was committed to forsaking personal pleasure to provide for his loved ones. I've been told that he worked hours upon hours, toiling away on the farm to supply my female progenitors with everything a poor, Czech family needed to survive. It may be cliche, silly, and devoid of your empathy, but I'd be tempted to consider him quite the heroic figure. I've seen tawny, faded pictures of the guy, and he bore a scant resemblance to me (or I to him, but he's dead, so I win this round), which elicits some manner of whimsical idolatry insomuch that it would have been nice to meet him, to see him in the flesh (and to see if he would have lived up to all the hype). I'll never know for certain, though, as he was killed, rather gruesomely, in an accident that involved a combine harvester in 1946. That was that; my mother once mentioned that it was a closed-casket funeral, that my grandmother broke apart during the burial, and that her mother never was quite the same since that breezy, forlorn day.

After my mother was married, my grandmother lived alone in the family home, within the miniscule town of Walford, Iowa until the day she died. Much of my memory of her is hazy at best, linked mostly to humid, swarthy summer days spent mowing her sizable front lawn, during which times I loathed the very sight of grass, smell of gasoline, and whatever pallid, off-white color that adorned the exterior of a hideous, decrepit home designated as Grandma's House. Upon mildly successful completion of the hated task, I would always be treated to a glass of rusty water, of which I cannot accurately describe the flavor, but it's something that I'll never forget, and something that I'd recognize immediately if I were to encounter it again (not that I'd want to do so, as pounds of rusted pipe being digested is an experience that I'll henceforth pass upon, given the opportunity). It was during these lofty moments, gasping for air between gulps of old-school mineral water, that my grandmother would impart upon me snippets of crooked wisdom, the kind that you couldn't find in any Oprah Winfrey endorsed book of spiritual enlightenment. My strange grandmother liked to tell stories, let that much be known.

To preface, keep in mind that there are moments in which I can barely remember my own name, and thus you, dear reader, should grant me some poetic license with the forthcoming recount.

This was back in the olden days, back when I was a young girl. I lived on a small farm with my family. Times were simple then, and we were content to spend our days in study, or in work. I went to school, as did my brother, who was four years older than I was, and we also did several chores around the farm. We had several pigs, cows, and of course, chickens. Chickens were what we had most of, and I used to start every morning, before school, with a large breakfast of eggs and ham, always eggs and ham, with some sliced bread and butter. You like eggs, don't you? And chicken, I think you like to eat chicken, don't you?

Our chicken coop was always full of hens laying eggs, and a gloriously red rooster that watched over his roost with love and care. But this was a strange time, because the wolves were gone. Yes, we once had wolves in Iowa. They were of proud, hearty stock that didn't fear men and they didn't know when to run. They were strong, but they were wolves, so people feared them, and they distrusted them. When livestock were killed and eaten, the farmers blamed the wolves, and so the men collected their guns, and rewards were given for the pelt of a wolf. When I was a girl, the wolves were already gone, all dead and gone, but the livestock continued to die, and it wasn't until the wolves were dead that folks realized that the coyote had fooled us all. Wolves were the primary enemy of the coyotes, and the wolves had something that men did not, the power to hunt the coyotes and keep them in check. It was too late, and the coyote too crafty, so that we had to be vigilant, as much as we could be.

One morning, while people slept, Rooster awoke just before dawn to some noises that he was unaccustomed to hearing. He went outside, just as the sun began to show its scalding face, and he noticed that a portion of the fence had been torn away, the chicken wire bent and twisted, while a patch of ruddy earth beneath the fence had been disheveled. This troubled Rooster, and he looked around, eager to ascertain what caused such disturbance. Sure enough, he saw a coyote walking out from behind the henhouse, a dead fowl clasped in its jaws. Rooster could see that the coyote's forepaws were caked with dirt, and that blood dripped from the dead chicken's body. Frightened though he was, Rooster felt compelled to defend his coop, so he screeched with feigned ferocity, and beat his wings so that air and dust spat away from him. "Listen to me, Coyote, and you listen well! One is enough for you, and even that is too much! Leave now and never return, or you shall regret it!" he bellowed with the utmost conviction.

Coyote dropped the hen from his mouth, and at this point Rooster could see, looking at Coyote's sagging maw, that Coyote's gums had been hewn by repeated chewing upon the chicken wire. Something about the bruised, tattered flesh terrified Rooster, but duty-bound, he continued beating his wings profusely. Coyote looked as if he would speak, but simply picked up his quarry, and escaped through the gash in the fence.

No, the coyote didn't have a name, but would you like to give him one? Chicken Wire? That seems appropriate. Well, my father came out soon after that incident occurred, and he repaired the fence immediately. Chickens meant a great deal to us, and we were thankful to the rooster for making such loud noises. For three days and two nights, I studied and ate eggs and ham for breakfast, confident that I would hear the rooster's call.

On the fourth morning, Rooster awoke to earn his keep, and went out to greet the sun. As he emerged, Rooster caught glimpse of a newly torn fence, and unearthed soil. Rooster was concerned with the well-being of his flock, but he did not see Chicken Wire plodding along with a hen in his jaws. He saw Chicken Wire sitting motionless beside the henhouse, mouth agape, its gumline torn anew. "I told you not to return, and yet here you are!" Rooster shrieked emphatically.

"Yes, you did," Chicken Wire began, speaking calmly. "I do apologize for the confusion. I neglected to mention that on Tuesdays, I'm inclined toward digging through the compost pile, and on Wednesdays, I prefer to acquire some pork on the Hvezda's farm. Thursdays, however, I'm partial toward poultry, roosters especially."

That was the last we ever saw of our rooster. I still had eggs and ham for breakfast, with some buttered bread, but my father was rather upset. What happened to Chicken Wire? Two weeks later, my father shot him in the head, square and true. He didn't take the coyote's pelt. My father burned the body beyond recognition in a large fire near the compost pile. I remember the stench quite well, it smelled like rotten eggs and pickled cucumbers.


Even today, I'll admit that I have no idea just what the hell my loony grandmother had meant to imbue upon me with that awkward tale, but as the years have gone by, I'm convinced that its meaning was subservient to the fact that I would recall such a nonsensical yarn with an image of my grandmother in my mind, alongside rusty water.

And that's better than nothing, just as long as I wasn't supposed to be the coyote.

__________________________________


The Logical Song


P.S. Perhaps this post should have been entitled Czech Tales!, a bit like Duck Tales!, but that would require a different kind of Scrooge altogether.

Legendary


Doug's been in Korea a lot longer than I have, four years to be exact. I arrived in 2003, he in 1999. The five years I've been here have been great, and I've enjoyed myself immensely, but I don't think I'll ever adapt to the country the way Doug has. I certainly won't drink sweet potato lattes like he does; and -- I hope -- I'll never exhale orgasmically after a spoonful of hot soup, the broth and vegetables still in my mouth.

Don't get me wrong, I admire Doug. He's able to switch between eastern and western personas like Freddie Drummond in Jack London's short story, "South of the Slot." I've never met anyone else who can one day wear hanbok to a friend's wedding and the next a Tennessee Titans jersey to a company dinner. Plus he speaks near-fluent Korean, which has helped get me laid on one occasion and out of trouble more times than I should admit to.

I suppose I'm a little jealous of him. His job is a lot better than mine, and he makes a lot more money than I do; his girlfriend looks like a model, mine like antimatter (which is to say I don't have one); and he's always so aloof, preternaturally so. Nothing ever appears to affect him. Once we were at a club and he was dancing with his girlfriend. Some guy, obviously drunk and with a yule log-sized chip on his shoulder, pushed him so hard that his arms pinwheeled backwards and he knocked over a chest-high circular table, soaking the patrons sitting at it with beer suds and knocking a cell phone, an ashtray, and their empty mugs to the floor. Embarrassing, right? But it's like he put a spell -- "did a Jedi mind trick" was the phrase I initially used when we talked about what happened a few hours later -- over everyone. With Doug nothing's ever awkward, and as though to test his gift he was presented that particular incident. First he turned around and apologized to the customers whose table he'd knocked over, smiling just enough to appear sincere, yet more than to appear cocky and less than to look like an imbecile. It worked like a lullaby. The couple actually effused radiance from the encounter. Jesus, after what happened next I wouldn't be surprised if he immaculately conceived His child in Her Womb in some bizarre riff on the nativity story.

He walked over to his girlfriend (who, to her credit, was almost as fluid as he was in her calmness), put his arm around her waist, his hand just beneath her bra, whispered something as unintelligible as Bill Murray's last line in Lost in Translation, then walked forward a few paces to the guy who had pushed him, who was leaning elbows-up against the bar, smoking a Dunhill, eyes watery from inebriation and the prospect of further mischief. Doug wedged an open hand between the bar rail and guy's back, knocking his left arm off of the bar then grabbing it by the wrist with his own hand before it had a chance to fall limp, like a virtuoso maestro conducting the perfect score.

What I've just taken a paragraph to exposit in reality took less than two seconds. Afterwards, Doug put his right hand on the small of the guy's back and whispered something in his ear that looked eerily similar -- yet, to my imagination, ostensibly more bellicose -- to the inaudible message he'd spoken to his girlfriend less than twenty seconds prior.

The guy, a Korean for those slow on the uptake (not that it matters to me), looked at Doug first with defiance. Then with what looked like familiarity. Then, I thought, defiance again.

Doug led him up the club's basement stairs like a Stygian escort. I'd never known him to mete punishment, even to those deserving of it, but right then I was convinced he was going to murder the poor bastard. It was unreal. The guy's friends must have felt the same way, because despite the club's pounding bass, its strobe light, and their mutual drunkenness, they rushed upstairs hot on their tails. Doug's girlfriend did the same a split second after. Me, I stayed downstairs longer than I should have. I was frozen.

I was Uatu, however, and I knew my role. Document. Document. R.E.M.'s 1987 album, Document.

When I got outside and tasted the crisp winter air, all parties involved (as they say), were standing around, laughing and making merry like some sort of drunken high school reunion. Doug's girlfriend was distributing popsicles to all present. I was -- and here's a fucking understatement -- nonplussed.

But that's Doug. He unites people. He looks like David Bowie. He once told me he can tell how well a Korean girl speaks English just by looking at her smile when she walks past, and, damn, he proved it, too.

He's great. I won't use the past tense, but I should. Because he's still alive, somewhere.

Just not here.

Sunday, February 03, 2008

Sports Weekend


Item: Although I've never been a fan of the Boston Celtics, when they acquired Kevin Garnett and Ray Allen last summer, I was happy -- partly because the East needs some more like talent, and partly because Garnett and Allen are two great players and, by all accounts, good guys. When I found out yesterday that Pau Gasol was traded to the Lakers, I wasn't happy, but I was intrigued. The Lakers are now a potential championship squad, and any true sports fan appreciates great teams (more on that in a second). It didn't take long before sports writers and fans started to throw around the idea that maybe one of sports' greatest rivalries will resume this spring in the NBA Finals.

If the Celts win the East (and that's not a small assumption), the problem for the Lakers, however, is twofold. First, I'd pick them in a heartbeat in a series against San Antonio if it weren't for Kobe's lack of leadership. Kobe Bryant is many things (a jerk one of them), but he is not a great leader, nor, I believe, will he ever be. LA's second problem is Phoenix; I don't see them beating the Suns, although I hope that series happens with both teams' players healthy and not suspended.

So if you're looking forward to a Lakers/Celtics Finals, wait until next year. Maybe.

(By the way, I haven't been able to watch a full game all season, so take my NBA knowledge with a grain of salt. No, sugar.

No, cocaine.)

Item: As I mentioned, any true sports fan appreciates great teams. That said, if you're not a fan of the New York Giants, and you're rooting against the Patriots, you, sir, are a fucking asshole. Why wouldn't you want to see an NFL team complete a perfect season? Warning to any women reading this: that's some bitch shit. If you're a Colts fan, I might hear you out; but for anyone else who watches the game and hopes for an upset, I hope you get testicular cancer like Nene. Cheering for the underdog is cool (see: Rocky films, presidential elections), but in this case -- again, unless you're a Giants fan -- it's the same as begrudging others' success, and it says a lot about the person who does so. Such people are evil: the type who would smile at a car wreck, or wish testicular cancer on others (word to me and Vincent Gallo).

NB: What with the upcoming shortage of English teachers in Korea, here's a tip for anyone negotiating a new contract: demand days off on Superbowl Monday, the morning of the Academy Awards, any game seven (let's say between 3 and 6, like sick days), and the day after one of your favorite bands or singers comes to Korea for a weekday concert*. I firmly believe that this can, should, and will happen. Don't let me down, fellas.

Item: I finished Contra 4 on Saturday. Then, like that time I gave you a multiple orgasm and parlayed it into an exponential orgasm to prove it wasn't a fluke, I finished it again today. Now, I'm pretty confident I could finish that shit in my sleep.

Acceptance speech: I'd like to thank myself for being mice elf, again. To quote Egg Shen, it wasn't easy, but it was necessary. A lot of times, we see ourselves as unworthy of greatness, as though it's a fearful burden. We think, "I am but one man with a gun, without a shirt or a save function. How can I ever hope to defeat this teeming alien horde? I can jump acrobatically; maybe I should join Cirque du Soleil and leave this hero shit to someone else." But still that drive compels us. And by "us" I mean a very select few. I'll be honest, I don't like most of you; and, to be completely honest, a lot of you deserve to be slaves to alien overloards. But Momma Rizer didn't raise me that way. Growing up in my household, she instilled in me the belief that we are all special, all worthy of life, and that Red Falcon, Black Viper, and Purple War Helmet deserved beatdowns of the critical variety. She was like Atticus Finch that way.

It is to my mother that I dedicate this award.

Furthermore, I would like to thank my proficient and equally-skilled life partner, Lance Bean; although even at this moment I can't help but wonder where the fuck you were, bro, when I was knee deep in bug juice (that's an industry term), fighting for my life and the continued existence of our species. Reading Swank, right? You horndog.

Mad shoutouts to my sensei, the illustrious and eloquent K-Hot. These past 2 months I've tried to ignore remonstrations that I'm too old for this shit. Thank you, master, for helping me stay focused. You showed me that it can be done. You encouraged me to overcome my fear. You're the meaning in my life. You're the inspiration**. We will celebrate together soon.

I don't care; this moment is too big to me for your commercial break. Fuck it. Play your orchestration while I shout louder. You're only making this moment more memorable, Mr. conductor. Word to Cuba Gooding Jr. and Jim Valvano.

Fuck Probotector. I have skin as my armor, so I can understand why a single enemy shot might kill me. Dude, is your robot gear made of tin foil? You blow. You kick ass like old people fuck.

Mandy Moore, have your people call my people. You have a great smile, and I have a huge penis.

Who's that guy with the taser? Wait, what the fuck is going on?

Perfect. Just perfect.



* This happened to me back in 2002. Why'd you have to perform on a Tuesday, Roger Waters?

** No one needs you more than I.