Trail Mix

Fruit: A happy belated St. Patrick's Day to one and all. Some people will bemoan the pointlessness of a day -- a working one at that -- during which people around the globe drink prodigiously in honor of a man they know little or nothing about, but I am not that kind of person. As a species, we have rituals. They may have no current significance, might even be a corruption of what they were originally intended to be, but they're traditions nonetheless, and that's what makes us who we are. We celebrate ignorantly, perhaps, but I find no fault in that. In fact, I embrace it. Any day when millions of people from all manner of nations and cultures can share in a good time, regardless of how knowledgeable they are of its origin, is, to paraphrase Ice Cube, a good day*.

Grains: I watched the pen(and teller)ultimate episode of High Kick through the Roof tonight. I cried inside. Tomorrow night's episode looks to be both bittersweet and a gloriously triumphant send-off of the weekday sitcom that (saved Pittsburgh) revolutionized Korean television sitcoms. If I can wax nostalgic for a moment, in February of 2007 I had to see the love of my life, Legs, off at Incheon Int'l. She was leaving for what was planned to be a one-year sojourn to Australia, the land of Denz and honey. Much to my (not double) happiness, she returned to these peninsular shores nine months early, but the day she left and the ones following would prove to be the hardest of my life in terms of longing, of yearning. I loved Legs -- and still do -- like Ron loved Nancy, like Cappadonna loves his dick size, and without her I was incomplete, a man without purpose or direction. That's sentimental, I know, but it's the truth. Do I feel the same way about High Kick through the Roof leaving television? Not exactly, but it's a similar sentiment. One-hundred twenty-six episodes, all addictingly watchable, and it's almost over. God will I miss 지봉깈 when it's gone**.

Nuts: Boys and girls, I'm going to link you to two pieces of horrible writing. The first is this, a confused plea for acceptance. The second is this, an article baffling in its stupidity. As a constant critic of Pitchfork's editorial acumen, the former wasn't much of a surprise, and I kind of enjoy how the writer unknowingly highlights everything wrong with their music criticism (it's like a GQ style guide for people with no taste in music), but the Harper's article surprised me. If there's a point to it beyond its easy, trite condemnnation of Hollywood's annual celebration when *sob* there's so much wrong going on in the world, it was lost on me. MacArthur is a good writer, which is why it's frustrating to read someone so talented appropriate his political beliefs so poorly. He possessed George Clooney like Pazuzu did Reagan***.

Chocolate: I'm inundated every day -- and twice on Sundays -- on television by the commercial for Samsung's Corby F cell phone commercial-music video. That the video has been yanked numerous times from YouTube confuses the hell out of me. Doesn't Samsung understand the nature of marketing via the Internet? Samsung: it's not wise to deprive your core demographic of a commercial when you're trying to sell a product. Unless you're trying to advance a business model in which people pay to view advertisements****, that's a bad move, Samsung. I eagerly await your call-back to hire me as a consultant.


* So was today. I was woken up at ten by Legs's insistence that we go to Burger King. Go we did, and two bacon double cheeseburgers I did eat. The weather on the peninsula might be unseasonably cold, but my heart is warm with artery-clogging fast food fetish.

** Salt in the wound: MBC's succeeding sitcom features the insanely alluring Choi Yeo Jin with *gasp* really short hair. Life isn't fair sometimes.

*** Two Reagans for the price of one.

**** Now there's a scary thought, one which isn't too far-fetched. If it worked for Nintendo Power and Cast Away, it can work for Samsung.