(What you wanna do is, you wanna skip ahead to the 3:55 mark.)
Maybe it's because I feel guilty for faking sick and skipping school so often as a youth that I feel the need to tell you, Constant Retard, when I'm going on hiatus. And maybe -- nay, definitely -- that's been my reason for proving myself a liar by returning to this hallowed blog ahead of schedule.
Whatever the case may be, next week I return to Canada. And then I don't know nuthin.
Besides the freezing cold temperatures of Southern Ontario, Quarter Pounders avec fromage, and myriad beers and fruit (and fruity beers, if that's your thing) at an affordable price, I don't know what the month of February holds for me as far as Psychedelic Kimchi is concerned. Quite frankly, I don't give a shit. (Yes I do.)
In my absence, Kmart will dazzle, denz will razzle, TMH will rassle, and Idealjetsam will inert.
You won't even know I'm gone.
Enjoy watching Werner Herzog eat a shoe and get Rainbow Sixed.
(Whatever. I once knew a girl who ate a bicycle.)
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
As a sage** once said,
No matter how hard you try, you can't stop us now
No matter how hard you try, you can't stop us now
We're the renegades of this atomic age
This atomic age of renegades
Renegades of this atomic age
This atomic age of renegades
Since the Prehistoric ages and the days of ancient Greece
Right down through the Middle Ages
Planet earth kept going through changes
And then no renaissance came, and times continued to change
Nothing stayed the same, but there were always renegades
Like Chief Sitting Bull, Eoin Forbes
Dr. Martin Luther King, Malcom X
They were renegades of their time and age
So many renegades
We're the renegades of funk
You were saying something about a limited period of sojourn, right? Wrong. (Again.)
* Joy Ride!
** Sages may write great things, but it takes a kid to make it cool.
Posted by Kmork at 8:08 PM
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
In case you haven't noticed, I am a sensualist. And, yes, I despise that word, because in Newspeak "sensualist" connotes "pervert." This is not a new thing, I will concede; and I'll save my essay about how the human species is slowly evolving into beings bereft of libidos for another era; but when a photograph so masterfully conjures feelings of lust and desire, you can bet that puritanical outrage and the cold bitch of blasphemous accusations are sure to follow.
Such, I fear, is the case with Lee Hyori.
(You stay sexy, Lee Hyori.)
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 9:04 PM
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
After spending nine consecutive years on The Peninsula*, nothing phases or surprises me anymore. Or so I thought. I'm heading back home in six days, and I'd like to think of this find from the catacombs of YouTube as a going-away present.
Are you ready to have your mind blown?
I can wait.
Really, you'd better sit down. And it's not, by the way, the revelation that I've been watching MTV's countdown of the top 50 K-pop songs of 2008, either; although that's proof that I'm certifiably insane.
- In case you're curious, Super Junior's "Pajama Party" is No. 5. Trust me, that song is going to be "YMCA" for Korean homosexual youths. It probably already is.
(I don't expect many readers to watch those four minutes of gayness, but if there's any doubt left that Super Junior are of the same sexual persuasion as Harvey Milk, watch the final animation around the 4:04 mark and notice the rainbow sash.)
- With nine members, Girls' Generation is like the female K-pop Wu-Tang Clan! They're No. 4 with "Kissing You." (I would, but at their age I'm pretty sure that'd make me a child molester.) Wikipedia, as always, provides high comedy:
During the Dream Concert held on June 7, 2008 in South Korea, a silent protest took place against them. This protest was conducted by three large fanclubs: E.L.F (Super Junior), Cassiopeia (TVXQ), and Triple S (SS501).
- Wondergirls at No. 3 with "Nobody." Why must Girls' Generation always play second fiddle to these bitches? I'm holding a silent protest!
- Big Bang at No. 2 (that's right!) with "One Day." I didn't know Spock was a member of Big Bang...
(Ostensible moral of the video: don't let a bald cancer patient get between a friendship.)
- And, at No. 1...TVXQ with "Mirotic!" What the hell does mirotic mean? Kmart offers some insight:
Whatever it is, it shall be like a gentle rain that reminds you of tears shed by bitter whores and flustered clowns.
Fun fact: Korean censors felt the lyrics "I've got you under my skin" were too racy (ban Frank Sinatra!), so they made TVXQ change them to "I've got you under my sky." TVXQ might be compromising pussies, but MTV ain't -- they're playing the original version. Call the cops!
That over with, here it is: 33 seconds of glory.
For you non-Korean speakers, here's a translation:
Robocop: Oh! Lotte Ham fried chicken**...Give me more wings.
[Robocop bogarts the refrigerator***]
There are no bones in these shits, right?
(Now I can die in peace.)
* That's right, I'm retconning my life and pretending the seven months I spent back home in 2002 never happened.
** I am at a loss, however, to explain just what the fuck "ham fried chicken" is.
*** Wait, isn't Robocop supposed to uphold the law instead of break it? And while that little moment of awesome isn't as PK as The McNulty Car-Kick, it's close.
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 6:34 PM
Sunday, January 25, 2009
In case you haven't noticed, I am a sentimentalist. And, yes, I despise that word, because in Newspeak "sentimentalist" connotes "pussy." This is not a new thing, I will concede; and I'll save my essay about how the human species is slowly evolving into beings bereft of emotion for another era; but when a film so masterfully conjures emotions of happiness and hope, you can bet that cynicism and the cold bitch of negativity is sure to follow.
Such, I fear, is the case with Slumdog Millionaire, Danny Boyle's (other*) magnificent film. Although Slumdog is much, much more than a touching love story**, the ostensible theme*** is one of hope.
What a coincidence. What irony.
Much like Kekko Kamen Royale, Slumdog Millionaire is a film about hope*****.
(Those asterisks are ninja stars, by the way.)
* Shallow Grave. Trainspotting. 28 Days Later. Millions. (Millions!) Shit, even The Beach and Sunshine are virtuoso movies directed by this generation's Spielberg**** until their screenplays shit the futon.
** Like the bacon double cheeseburger and the chicken parmasan I ate this weekend, it touched me in all the right places. Put a hex on me if I don't write a comprehensive review here in...5 months? I have a lot to say about the film, some of which you might hear me scratching the surface of if Kmart ever posts our regrettably aborted PKast from a few weeks ago. Spoiler: I was drunk. And handsome.
*** "It is written" doesn't necessarily mean destiny, does it? Scratch beneath the surface.
**** Like The Beard, Boyle hops around genres like Phil Spector has crazy hair and shoots women in the face. Granted, Boyle hasn't directed Jaws.
***** And shaving cream
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 10:05 PM
First asterisk first.
* I'm still undecided as to whom the 'We' denotes. Citizens, legal (and illegal) residents, pets, robots, bacteria? All of the preceding?
The inauguration of Barack Obama has come (and not yet gone), and it's likely that at least one person from every single nation throughout the world watched the ceremony with considerable interest. Now, as the title (hopefully) suggests, should 'we' care? is a pertinent question, and not because I say so. I haven't resided in the United States for over five years, which isn't an ungodly amount of time, but it's enough time to (somewhat) distance oneself from the day-to-day experience of being American (whatever being American is supposed to mean, I'm disinclined to argue) and grow accustomed to being the other guy.**
That said, and do be lenient about interpreting the forthcoming analogy, the United States is like an exceedingly popular (and wealthy) high-school kid that rammed his dad's Volvo into an oak tree while driving drunk. He survived, and his hospital room is littered with Get Well! cards and balloons, but the lad's gonna require some serious physical therapy before he'll be on the track team again.
I'll cease this pathetic analogy before it goes too far; as to liken Obama to a gifted surgeon, therapist, and whatnot would be gratuitous, lame, and well beyond the original point.
What should be said is this: a multitude of people across the globe are excited, to say the very least, about Obama and the implications of his presidency, and to be candid, I believe that 'we' should care about what those various peoples think.
Sure, not everyone is pleased with America's decision, but many of those same people already have a hard-on against the United States (or people of the non-Caucasian persuasion) for a variety of reasons, and you won't change their minds quickly, if ever. I'm referring to the other folks, those that recognize that in today's global economy*** you can't have a major player falter, as it will inevitably affect the franchise. (I don't know too much about basketball, as you can probably ascertain with ease.) My mother buys Australian licorice by the boatload, and that puts Denz into his new Toyota Supra (manufactured in Mexico), which in turn pays some Japanese manager's salary, and he subsequently takes his family on a trip to Vancouver for the sole purpose of buying a bag of world-renowned Canadian carrots. Some Canadian dude jerks off into a toilet shaped like a maple leaf with the money gathered from the lucrative carrot industry, and so on. It's all cyclical, baby.
If anything, I'm saying that 'we' should care that the other inhabitants of our world take an interest in the current president of the United States. Like millions of other Americans, I stood in line, happily awaiting my chance to vote, and not everyone had the opportunity to do so (American or not), but there are many ways in which to express confidence, be they economic, political, or societal, and Americans can ill-afford to ignore that ringing voice in their collective ear, one that screams "Hey, quit screwing around."
I loathe to spell the name Obama as H-O-P-E (like the good folks at Pepsi would have liked us to do), and I'm no prognosticator, but hype can be a good thing, as the momentum may be what propels the new administration into a future unburdened by overwhelming cynicism.
** This is not to propose that I'm Mr. Cosmopolitan; far from it, but you won't see me complaining that Korean carrots lack the genuine, i.e. Canadian, flavor that carrots should have. So.
*** If you want to argue against the notion of a global economy, that's cool; but let's save that for another day, shall we?
Posted by Kmork at 2:39 AM
Saturday, January 24, 2009
A few weeks back I was waiting in the subway station (the loop, as we call it) for my train home, listening to some music, checking out university girls and lamenting the futility of my existence along with the rest of the hoi-polloi. Then, without warning (they don't announce these things), a god damned wholecar pulled out of the tunnel.
And it was beautiful.
I've been thinking about old age recently. I'm a father now, and a professional. I've also reached an age where sport stars retire because their bodies break down. Case in point, I did my ankle late last year playing indoor soccer (Philistine, I know) and it's still healing. I feel like Grant Hill. Well, before he sold his soul to the devil for some happy feet. More to the point, I should be well past graf, right?
But there it was, in all its glory. A choppy little piece of sedition rolling through the arteries of capital within my fair city. And all I could do was grin.
A few days later, I was out the back of my apartment working on my car. Out of the corner of my eye I eye this kid, couldn't have been more than 12, walking past in a blue hoodie. He didn't see me and I sure didn't think much anything of him. Until a second later, when he paused, pulled out a fatcap and sloppily tagged a nearby street sign.
Without missing a beat, I yelled out to the kid. He shit himself and bolted. At that moment, as my old man might say, 'I then proceeded on foot and chased the assailant'. I was not holding a Krispy Kreme.
I don't know why I chased him. I sure as hell didn't know what I was going to do if I corralled him, but in my mind it seemed like the right thing to do. I am, after all, an adult.
I only ran about 20-30 metres before I was painfully reminded of the limitations of my ankle. I pulled up lame as that kid pulled away like Usain Bolt. He looked back, hoodie still on, and then stepped it up a gear.
As he disappeared up the street, it occurred to me that I had no desire to see him get caught or busted by the police. Instead, I just wanted to school him.
"You're fucking toy" I yelled.
See, I might be getting older, but I still know what time it is.
Posted by denz at 5:08 PM
Friday, January 23, 2009
When my homeland security secretary Hon T-Sparkles vented that the winner of the Pepsi challenge was bound to disappoint, I couldn't help but shake my head.
I'd wager few are unmeasured in their expectations of what the Big O can deliver. See, only the young, the naive and Youtubers don't realise that Obama is inheriting the worst franchise since, well, the New York Knicks. And when that's the case, you aren't thinking championship. Not this year anyway.
Now I might not be an American, but as a Knicks fan, I know all too well what it is like to be ruled by Bush-like incompetence. Isiah Thomas almost singlehandedly destroyed basketball for me. He ran wild on that team like a whiteboy at Gas Panic.
You want to talk about Iraq and New Orleans? I'll give you the following: Marbury. Francis. Curry. Jerome James. Larry Brown. Draft picks gone. Cap inflexibility.
Truly there were weapons of mass destruction, and they were us.
But after years of incompetence, change came to the Garden. Donnie Walsh and Mike D arrived in town and turned that sinking superfreighter around. Traded Z, benched Curry and sent Cancerbury to the NBDL (or something). They cleared cap space (18 mil in 2010-11) and let the boys get back to playing basketball. Meanwhile, Thomas was demonstrating that his ability to mismanage even extended to overdosing on pills. Hell, I couldn't be happier.
And the Knicks are 17-24.
Because the way I see it, it isn't about today or tomorrow. If Obama is going to turn this thing around, it's going to take a great deal longer than 100 days. I think he knows it. I think we know it. So much was evident in his inauguration speech.
It isn't time for grandiose speeches. Instead, it's time for a couple of seasons where you make hard choices and you don't make the playoffs. It's about rallying supporters, cutting the dead wood, clearing cap space and positioning yourself for a distant summer.
In that context, hope is not misplaced. And that's what I feel is happening here, whether Pepsicola is involved or not.
Spark said that if you deify a man, you're eventually going to be let down.
Maybe Obama sells fewer T-shirts than Che, but it wont matter.
Come 2010, I'll be wearing a Lebron jersey.
Posted by denz at 6:22 PM
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Great fucking timing.
As you've no doubt heard/read/extra-sensorily perceived, a plane crashed into the Hudson. All passengers aboard survived, but that fact does little to calm my nerves (although it does warm my cold heart). For I am, you see, deathly afraid of flying; and in fewer than two weeks' time, Poppa Large* is set to board a flight for destiny.
Great fucking timing.
Consider this my last will and testament.
I like Brandon Roy better than Dwyane Wade. (In fact, I like the Portland Trailblazers more than the Miami Heat.) I've always followed my instinct, for good or bad. Smiles and cries.
Write that on my...epitaph.
* Big Shot of the East Coast
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 9:44 PM
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
I don't want a Pepsi president. Me being an expat Canuck (I think our prime minister is Wayne Gretzky, or possibly Lorne Michaels), he's not my president*, but I hope I can be forgiven for elucidating on matters concerning the leader of a nation not my own. Copacetic?
As you may or may not know,
(Pizza Hut changed its name to Pasta Hut, then it changed it back)
Pepsi started an ad campaign called "Refresh Everything" in which people could upload UCC videos of their hopes and dreams (and pyramid schemes) concerning now-officially U.S. president Barack Obama onto a website Pepsi set up, refresheverything.com(/John Carpenter's career). Thankfully, the campaign was far from a success; but the fact that a large, multi-national company would even consider co-opting Obama -- or any politician -- as a spokesperson irks me to no end.
Is there a precedent for this? Has a company ever used a president in an ad campaign? Would Pepsi have dared use Obama as their "spokesperson**" during the election race?
I'm living in one weird world. Pepsi deserves every bit of scorn and profit loss for the idea, but the bigger picture is much more confounding. Scary, even.
I like Barack Obama. I think he's a good man with good ideals. I hope he has a good term -- or terms -- as president. I like that he digs The Wire, that he loves basketball, and that he talks like a gentleman that you imagined when you were young. But if you deify a man, you're eventually going to be let down. Pepsi's not the only group of people to think Obama's cool (only the most manipulative, so far), and when you elevate someone so highly***, when he missteps your hopes don't falter, they plummet. I know; I've listened to Idlewild.
Obama has been in office for all of one day. Let's exercise some caution before we start proclaiming him the greatest president it the history of American politics. To do otherwise would be foolish. Pepsi president-level foolish.
(Ultimately, Barack Obama's legacy will be determined by how many T-shirts with his image on them are sold. My guess? Fewer than Che Guevera, a lot more than Pierre Trudeau.)
* Anyway, Ban Ki-moon is the world's president. Take that, Obama!
** Did Obama let them use his image in the ads? If so, was he paid for it (and, if so, isn't that pretty crass?) If not, isn't it pretty shady to piggyback on the zeitgeist of a politician?
*** Word to Kmart
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 8:12 PM
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Here at Psychedelic Kimchi, we've been throwing up YouTube videos like Antoine Walker throws* bricks (Warm fuzzy: Miami Heat, 2005-2006 NBA champs). The reason? We're really fucking lazy. I am, anyway; and since the rest of you goons are characters I've invented in my head a la St. Elsewhere, I know you like it. Wait till you see the dildo chair I built for you.
That admission acknowledged, without further adieu I give you the Citizen Kane of sex-ed films, a film I actually witnessed at the ripe old age of twelve. And even though I was by then already sticking my Tiberious Meat Hammer into any hole it would fit in (a word of caution: you might get your Chuck Berry into a shampoo bottle, but getting it out is another matter entirely), I knew I was witnessing greatness.
Behold, Am I Normal?
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 8:04 PM
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
A word of warning to anyone contemplating working in a Korean office: it's just as annoying as working in any other place in Korea, perhaps moreso. I say this as a man with a very high threshold for annoyance. As proof, I submit that I've lived here for nine years and have yet to commit mass murder. Not as a non-lycanthrope, anyway.
But then you have One of Those Days; the perfect storm of irritability; a day that causes even the most mild-mannered man to nearly lose his shit.
Today was one of those days.
- I get into the office at 8:47 a.m. I'm the first person in. I turn on the heater to a reasonable 22 degrees Celsius. Minutes later, the secretary arrives and turns it down to 21. Because she's a cunt or because she was programmed that way, I cannot tell which. And maybe 21 would be fine if it weren't for the constant traffic coming in and out of the office, meaning TWO doors are open for approximately a third of the day. It's really comfy sitting at my desk in a goose down coat, but my typing fingers get pretty fucking numb. Blame my typos on frostbite, Mr. Manager. Ironically -- mark my word -- Koreans will successfully clone a human being before they discover a medium between ASS-NUMBINGLY COLD and BALL-FRYINGLY HOT vis a vis indoor air conditioning/heating.
- Shortly after 9:30, someone goes out to the balcony for a square. No harm there, except that when he comes back in he fails to properly close the door. It's minus 10 outside, but this cretin saunters over to his desk like the cold arm of winter isn't stabbing icicles into the hearts of all present...and maybe a few workers who called in sick. But he's a manager; why should he have to close the door he left open? A few minutes later, so as to save face, another manager remarks, "I guess the wind blew that there door open. Better close it," but not before bumping into my chair on her way to do so.
- I haven't counted the number of times various workers have bumped into my chair, but we're in double digits before noon. And, fuck me, I sort of get it. It's a cry for "skinship." Live here long enough and you actually start to get a warm, cozy feeling every time you bump into someone or something. In fact, the girl I mistakenly dry humped on the subway this afternoon actually looked thankful. Maybe her office is cold, too, and she appreciated the warmth.
- Listen; even if it's Gabriel's Oboe, cell phone ring tones are for assholes. Use vibrate, and keep your phone with you. Don't leave your phone at your desk and subject everyone else in the office to your shitty taste in music and shittier lack of manners. And certainly don't do it A MILLION FUCKING TIMES A DAY. That makes you Hitler. And who wants to be Hitler?
Assholes with ring tones who leave their phones on their desks, I guess.
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 8:26 PM
Thursday, January 08, 2009
When it came to music, 2008, you were pretty good to me.
Favorite Albums of 2008
(in no particular order, on account of my pusillanimity)*
Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!, Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds
Partie Traumatic, Black Kids
Twelve Angry Months, Local H
Used and Abused, Danger Radio
Dear Science, TV on the Radio
The Killers' Day & Age makes my list, but just barely.
Worst Album of 2008
Loyalty to Loyalty, Cold War Kids
One Day as a Lion, One Day as a Lion
Favorite Opening Tracks
Ooh Yeah, Moby
Hit the Heartbrakes, Black Kids
Me + Your Daughter, Natalie Portman's Shaved Head
Most Underwhelming Opening Track
Time for Some Action, N.E.R.D.
Songs, She Moaned
Electric Feel, MGMT
The World We Live In, The Killers
Heavy Heart, Ghostland Observatory
DLZ, TV on the Radio
Chick Lit, We Are Scientists
The Way a Disc Should End
Goodnight, Travel Well, The Killers
(December) Hand to Mouth, Local H
Where I Started, Danger Radio
*That, or your incontinence.
Posted by Kmork at 8:48 PM
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Belinda Carlisle awoke my sexuality. I was six years old.
Truly sorry for the lack of a video, but the only good-quality YouTube one I could find is embedding-disabled by, I'll assume, my parents, sent back to the future to destroy my libido. (And the fact that the highest-rated related video of the song is a tribute to JonBenét Ramsey creeps me out like a motherfuck.)
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 10:07 PM
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Personally, it's been a pretty rough start to 2009, what with me currently battling The Worst Fucking Flu in the History of Influenza. It's now Day Four, and shit won't abate. I tell you, IT WILL NOT ABATE; and even though I've been home from work these past two days, playing Chrono Trigger, drinking mad Welch's Grape (it's like chicken soup for madmen), and watching a shitload of bad movies on cable*, I find no pleasure in it. For I was made
(to love you)
to edit subtitles for poorly translated Korean television programs (that and petitioning McDonald's to introduce the Quarter Pounder to a Quarter Pounder-starved Peninsula), and work calls Daddy like the crack was calling Pookie. Sitting here, in my four-cornered room, staring at candles, I can't help but feel animosity for the virus that currently plagues me. Word to Tom Swift.
Still, there's a lot to loook forward to in the new year. First up is my return to Canada next month for the first time in six years (to avenge the death of my father!). And then there's...well, let's just say there's more. And that it involves time travel. And dinosaurs with guns.
But what I want to do right now is go back. How far am I going back? Way back to the year that was, 2008.
Best Album: TV on the Radio's Dear Science (Runner-up: The Mars Volta's The Bedlam in Goliath)
Best Song: TV on the Radio's "Family Tree" (Runner-up: The Mars Volta's "Goliath")
Best Film: Let the Right One In (Runner-up: The Dark Knight)
...and this, the best moment in television history, from the best show in television history...
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The McNulty Car-Kick:
The definition of transcendence.
* Universal Soldier! Universal Soldier 2!
Posted by Harrison Forbes at 7:44 PM
Monday, January 05, 2009
Reformationist: You are not alone.
Separatist: That’s good, especially since I have you.
R: What, then, is the dilemma?
S: I have you with me. In the car, in the bathroom, on the steps, in my bed, in my clothes, on the tip of my tongue. In my head.
R: It is that bad.
S: If you were absent, I’d at least have the option of isolation.
R: I could withdraw.
S: No, you couldn’t. You’d keep pushing your ugly face through the curtains, pretending to be a vacant bystander. The stench betrays you though.
R: So you are a bloodhound now.
S: And you’re always covered in blood, curiously enough.
R: I have been contemplating that conundrum at length. What if I were to concoct a manner in which to alleviate such inconvenience?
S: That’s preposterous, and yes, contrary to your condition, some things are utterly ludicrous. You’ll fuck around for a while, build and burn a few bridges, break apart and away -whichever occurs first it matters not- and then come stalking your way back here.
R: I was not aware that you had digested the art of divination.
S: I wouldn’t exactly label it as divination, nor clairvoyance, but rather an inside tip. Trust me.
R: If you were to be proven incorrect?
S: What if I were? First I’d give my face a good scrubbing, the kind that removes prevalent, intrusive and debilitating stains. Then I’d treat my mother to a steak at the Outback, preceded by a Bloomin’ Onion just for the sake... of... decadence.
R: That would make for a splendid dinner date, I imagine. The fifth shaft went all the way through my rib cage, by the way.
S: Awesome, and yeah, I can envision the fanciful rendezvous too, lackadaisically I suppose, but something tells me that while you’re off playing ‘Reformation’ my stunted relief will be another’s sorrow, if not destruction.
R: Perhaps. Yet such displacement would be merely that. Would that not suffice?
S: Well, it would be a momentary breath of fresh air, that much is true. Current transgression notwithstanding, however, I’m less than enamored with sadism.
R: But you enjoy it, if only minutely; a transient, incidental indulgence.
S: I’ll admit that I partake in the spasmodic, random act of inverse kindness, but that has no correlation to the travesty brewing within your mind.
R: From what an awkward position you speak of cruelty. If I were a man I would have expired long ago, victim to this maniacal endeavor of your design.
S: If you were a man, you never would have participated. If you had never been a man, we might not have found ourselves in this most jubilant situation.
R: How despicably tangential of you, or to rephrase, how inadvertently empathetic of you.
S: Neither. How emphatically truculent of me. Besides, I don’t think that was much of a revision.
R: Perhaps muddled conversational ability was an unforeseen aspect of this ‘reformation’ which you mentioned previously. You know, you have smoked that cigarette down to its filter.
S: It’s not so bad, really; fiberglass leaves a delectable aftertaste in my mouth, but thanks for thinking about me.
R: I worry not about your health, but of your accelerating instability and, furthermore, I would appreciate it if you would refrain from-
R: Stamping the butt out on my backside, as it leaves a mark. One of several, so it would seem.
S: My mistake. From the boastful demeanor you often display, blemishes shouldn’t concern you in the slightest bit, or has all that bravado been yet another shred of deceit?
R: It is not a matter of hubris, nor treachery. Beyond that, you simply must understand, pretense of durability notwithstanding, that scarring is, at times, unavoidable.
S: Would it have the potential to kill you? Ruin you?
R: Absurdity is infectious, although I am probably to blame for that eventuality. I simply wished to imply that, if I were to reinvent myself, scarring would tarnish an otherwise impeccable motif.
S: But you’re incapable of reinventing yourself, no matter what you proclaim to the contrary.
R: Not with you tattooing my body, as it were. Sabotage is a dire means by which to effect prophecy, indeed.
S: Passive acquiescence is a pathetic means by which to garner sympathy. Besides, you could have put a halt to this charade five shovels ago.
R: Veracity, she spoke. Dog with restraint, call it man. Man with restraint, wants to be dog. Something like that.
S: I just know that you used to eat dog food by the handful, which was, once upon a time, attractive in its own impish fashion.
S: Hey! What the fuck are you doing? You promised that you wouldn’t pull any of them out until I finished!
R: I vowed no such thing, and even if I had, you’d note that nothing is being pulled out, per se. I am merely pulling the shaft through my chest. Were you less industrious, less prone to hysterical outbursts, you would have no need to lobby complaints.
S: You’re bending the truth on so many levels.
R: Bending the rules, my dear, and the difference is of the utmost clarity.
S: I presume this bending of the rules applies to the distinction between, say, liberator and killer, right?
R: Conundrum, she cried. I am, most decidedly, a murderer, if that satiates your moaning heart. My blood had been so rapaciously pyretic, and your mother’s so balmy, that I was unable to contain myself, but yes, I am a killer, although you’re also correct to assume that even such acts as these are a matter of bending rules. Thankfully, propriety is of no concern to-
S: Propriety, she broke.
R: Arwakkk. Grgh.
S: All this talk of bending the rules electrified me. I mean, fueled by inspiration, I just had to jab that last makeshift spear through your jaw. Not through all of it, though, as you have a pretty big mouth, and I was enjoying our extended conversation, but I just couldn’t resist.
S: And while I do appreciate your detached, diseased style of philosophizing, the fact remains that I hadn’t come here to entertain such grandiose nonsense. I can accept the reality of our situation, at least partially, I really can, and that, basically, you’re the Mr. Fuckface of my life and, potentially, of others’ as well. I’m not really sure just how this came to be. To be honest, I don’t really care, either, but you know what? Sure you do. I came here to kick the shit out of you even if it’s pointless, because it almost makes me feel better.
R: All that, said the thief.
R: Not to dissuade you from further diatribe, and not to inhibit any inclination toward a misguided, infantile sense of obstruction, but had you actually conceived that thrusting the splintered shaft of a shovel through my muzzle would actually impede my ability to speak?
S: I’d hoped it would.
R: Hope, dreams, lechery, and all such nuances are comical delusions at best, especially on my part. Penchant for mortal affectation aside, the spoken word is scarcely bound by flesh. Observe, shall you, as I stand somewhat erect, as much I care to do so, and really look at what you despise. To converse with you while my teeth shatter this flimsy helve and my body expels the remainder requires no manner of effort whatsoever.
S: That’s... intriguing, actually. I’m being serious. You’re betraying this supposedly godlike insouciance of yours, but it is, admittedly, a fascinating spectacle to behold. Informative, even.
R: Shall you elaborate?
S: I don’t think you’d understand, and don’t bother trying to impress upon me some boundless expanse in which your keen intellect hunts down the doe of adolescent omniscience with a potato gun, or some shit like that.
R: Actually, I concur with your assertion regarding my inability to apprehend the mangled innards of your cognition, and that has been the principal vexation, has it not? Or is misunderstanding the nefarious sum of incalculable atrocities the problem? Were our good intentions led astray so easily?
S: You’re retarded.
R: I suffer from expressive aphasia, which is a serious disability. Thanks for being so insensitive.
S: You’re also predictable.
R: Correct. Unlike me, you truly understand the monstrous other.
S: That’s only because your mind is like a block of goddamned Swiss cheese!
R: I would have likened it to a sieve, but your condemnation is nonetheless justifiable. A curious dilemma, this vermicious calamity; one far more disconcerting than any maniacal aspiration readily attributed to that which you currently identify as me.
S: Identify as you? A penny can be shined a thousand times but- no, I take that back.
R: You? Take something back?
S: I’m not one to give anything back. Try harder.
R: Bending the truth, she once denounced.
S: Yeah, yeah. I meant that you’re like a Cheeto. They could make a thousand different flavors, in as many shapes and sizes, which I’m sure they do, but in the end, no matter how twisted and tangled it becomes, in whichever asinine flavor devised, it’s still a fucking Cheeto.
R: A snack reference is the best simile a literature major could weave? Paint me disappointed.
S: That was you. I majored in General Studies.
R: Is that so?
S: Don’t be coy. You wrote that paper on Winterson for me because I was too lazy to read Sexing the Cherry.
R: Lethargy, she proposed.
S: Okay, too drunk, but that’s not the point. Don’t try to bullshit me.
R: I was doing no such thing.
S: Yes, you were, and it was a sad attempt at that.
R: Sooner than later, this contention of yours shall become entirely academic, if not trivial.
S: How so?
R: Eventually, that is what everyone will remember, regardless of what you or I state to the contrary. As you proposed, I am like a brick of Swiss cheese, or was it a slice?
S: It was a block, and somehow, I’m guessing that this flagrant display will segue into a soliloquy regarding your unending, impending, magically pernicious rejuvenation.
R: Perhaps, perhaps, but alas, alas; all this fallacious indignation fails to engender a correct summation of our rendezvous. Transfiguration is, in all likelihood, inevitable, protestation notwithstanding, and you simply must ascertain that it would be injudicious to continue with such folly, without the least bit of introspection to intervene.
S: What is that even supposed to mean?
R: I am under no compulsion to entertain your query, shifting serpent, but I do suggest that you concern yourself less with the travails of godhood, and more about those of one increasingly erratic woman.
S: Oh, please. Don’t go turning this around on me.
R: Forgive me, twice, but what, pray tell, is that?
S: What? What are you talking about?
R: When did you start wearing colored contact lenses?
S: I never have.
(Yeah, I know.)
Posted by Kmork at 4:48 PM
Saturday, January 03, 2009
I'm one to expect a lot of things, which is to say that I try to avoid being too surprised by the ludicrous components of this world. Whatever. What I don't expect to see as I exit my apartment is a headless, armless mannequin lying upon the floor.
(I'm feeling a bit like Andrew McCarthy right about now, if you know what I mean.)
Posted by Kmork at 1:06 AM
Thursday, January 01, 2009
This is what it looks like. I don't think we're liars. We did our job, several times over. We agreed to kill the girl, and we did. I think so. I don't ask questions about that. That requires real thought, and I hate thinking too much. We haven't been paid, and I hate that, too. I hate having to try hard at anything. Guns, for example. Loading, reloading, aiming, cleaning. It bothers me. Give me a sledgehammer or baseball bat and I'll get results. Usually. But I've gotten past that piece of angst. I still wanna crush her skull with my bare hands, but that's not why I'm here. I'm here because doors need smashing, walls need burning, and jaws need removing. I want to lose some weight while I'm at it. But I'm not fat. She says we're not getting our money, and she's probably right. I've been in that situation before. People never want to pay, or they can't, but that's the way of the world. That's what my best friend says, and I believe him. Mostly. He also says that my face is getting uglier by the day. Maybe. The girl is starting to be a friend of mine. I like her because I've killed her. Twice. But I don't understand what she says. She talks like she's smart, even if she's not. She tells me that I killed her, but not well enough. I don't get it, and I don't really want to. Easy is what turns me on.
Easy is splashing gasoline along the corridors and on the doors. I have to keep going back to the car to get more. First from the trunk, and then the back seat. It's a pretty big building, bigger than I'm used to. That's okay. I'm big, too. This guy comes out from #201 and asks me what the hell I'm doing. I tell him. In his bathroom. As I'm kicking his teeth into his nose. Closer inspection reveals that there were at least a few gold bridges involved. Same difference. I drink a glass of skim milk from his fridge and catch a few minutes of a Herzog documentary on A&E. Air balloons are stupid. That's why I don't wash my hands before leaving the apartment.
Splish. Splash. This isn’t my style, but she says I have to be crafty about it. Sometimes gas spills on my jacket, pants, and shoes, but that’s okay. I’m not staying long. I guess I should walk backwards, but I don’t plan on catching fire. If I’m going backwards, I can’t see what’s in front of me. And I’m hungry. Skim milk doesn’t do what it’s supposed to do. It’s milk, but it’s not. Like me. She says I’m not to harm anyone unless it’s necessary. I don’t get it. Pass by #210 and hear music playing. Not too loud. Some laughter filters through the door. The music is vaguely familiar. I wanna say it’s a Glass Tiger song. Weird. Sounds like teenagers having a small party, probably drinking. I never had fun like that, but it doesn’t bother me too much. I believe in equity. I believe that the world is my oyster, and fuck, I’m starving, but I wanna shed some unwanted pounds. We’ll go to Happy Chef after we finish, except that I don’t know when that’s going to be. I’m not wearing a mask or anything, but I don’t plan on getting spotted. Ask the guy in #201 what he thinks, and he tells you nothing. He tells you zero. Kinda funny.
The girl’s not a girl, and she says I don’t need to start the fire right away. She says to wait for the signal, but doesn’t say when, or what, that will be. I can wait. I’m patient. I’m hungry. I’m on a diet. I’m going to drop a match. I’m going to punch that bitch in the face. Even though I’m beginng to like her.
The music seeping out from #210 isn’t bad, just odd. What is the name of the song? I wanna say Don’t Shed a Tear, which is strange. I shouldn’t know that, and these kids shouldn’t be listening to it, unless the year were 1986, which it is not. I’m in middle school, or at that age, anyway. I eat Jumpin’ Jack Doritos from inside a dumpster in South Bend. I borrow Steve Erusha’s old J.C. Penney lawn mower, pay him a buck for the gas inside, and head out for the afternoon. Do Mrs. Wenzel’s lawn, avoid most of the flowers. Get five dollars. Take my time bringing the mower back to Erusha. There’sa tabby cat hog-tied and wrapped up in a Hefty sack. It hisses and wiggles valiantly as I bury it up to its scrawny neck in the dirt of a vacant lot at the dead end of Woodside Drive. I can hear it screech over the roar of the mower’s engine, and then poof. Like when you step into a rotting log intentionally. Not fully rotten, but getting there. That’s the noise it makes. I collect any tangible remains of its skull, brain, and teeth and place them within a baggie. Erusha asks me if I need the the mower tomorrow. I nod. This is 1986.
I knock. Someone shouts “It’s about time you got here, Cathy!” and the door opens to reveal a girl of no more than seventeen years of age. Short black hair, not sure of the style. Petite, as I look down at her, and she up at me with eyes wide open in bewilderment. Navy blue pajama bottoms with white stripes running down the legs. Probably cotton. Oversized Kid Rock T-shirt, possibly charcoal, but faded, so hard to say. Probably cotton, as well. I smirk, while she elects to narrow her eyes. I’m not Cathy, but close enough.
Sitting on a plush leather couch, I gorge upon a half-empty can of mixed nuts. Blood on my fingers mixes with an assortment of cashews, peanuts, almonds, and something else I can’t identify. Salty. Don’t Stop Believin’ plays on the stereo. Alphabetical order? One of the three girls, a blonde stained magenta, whimpers from her darkening spot on trampled, beige carpeting. It sounds like I speak with food in my mouth. I want to say something to her. I mix some Sour Apple Pucker with the glob of mixed nuts inside my mouth. The greenish-brown nugget of nuts drops from my lips onto her broken face. Don’t You Want Me. Baby. Kids’ liquor is refreshing. I sorta hope Cathy arrives soon. Easy is what turns me on.
This is what it looks like.
Posted by Kmork at 3:44 AM