Notes on Sex

Well now, isn't this awkward!



...But then again, is it such an embarrassing topic after all? I should hope not, for any astute reader of Psychedelic Kimchi is well aware of what lies within (be it barbarous, beauteous, or lackadaisically baroque) and thus checks his or her reservations at the proverbial door; though for the newer or occasional reader this may be an unreasonable expectation and for that, as in the potential uneasiness elicited by mere mention of a privately profane (or is it profanely private?) act (or series of acts), I sincerely offer you, Delightful Reader, the sincerest of sincere apologies for any and all of my forthcoming divulgences.*

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1. What, did you envision me offering up a disturbing, wretchedly decadent tale of rim-jobbing a billy goat in honor of some obscure Greek deity? First off, it's Pan we're discussing and secondly, rim jobs aren't my thing...even if it's a goat I'm standing behind.

2. If my love life (and that's what we'll call it, for shits and giggles of course) were a movie, this would be its trailer:




3. Let's talk about capability for a moment or two, disregarding matters of inclination for the time being. A bumbling fool is what I'd expect from a teenager, and one's lack of prowess at that age could be written off as inexperience. Even into their early twenties, most people could be forgiven for focusing upon their own body, so to speak. But when you're in your thirties and still incapable of satisfying your partner, you need to go back to school, sir or madam. Sex school!** If, for example, you're a heterosexual guy who, at best, makes your partner wonder if she'll have an orgasm (with you, that is) sometime before she dies, you have a problem. If you're a heterosexual woman who gets in excess of five orgasms per encounter yet your companion has to jerk himself off due to your sexual ineptitude, you have a problem. The good news is that problems can be solved. Hooray! The bad news is that you're pathetic. Hooray!

4. Speaking of pathetic: having sex with someone because you're 'lonely' is exactly that. Granted, a majority of the reasons given for copulation are pretty stupid when you think about it, but 'loneliness' is dumber than most. Anyone using 'loneliness' as a means of justification/explanation/rationalization more than likely hasn't the foggiest notion of what constitutes either sex or loneliness.

5. Pursuant to my definition of intercourse, the last time I had sex was on February fifteenth and May twelfth, or 2/15 and 5/12 respectively. Strange but true, and if you're wondering about the meaning of intercourse as it's written in my shifty lexicon, then keep wondering, Dear Reader, for I don't twist and tell.


The Faint - Worked Up So Sexual

 * A completely superfluous preface of course, as I'm nothing if not the consummate host. 
** That's right, I just linked to a Cosmo article. The end is nigh!

I'm Not Okay, You're Not Okay

I'm Not Okay, You're Okay

I'm Okay, You're Not Okay

I'm Okay, You're Okay

Retribution, My Ass!

As you can well imagine, Decubitus Reader, I am a collection of bad habits. The pattern shifts a bit depending upon the season, locale, occupation, social standing, wanted level, etc. but in the end, it's all about standard deviations from the norm - with the norm being standard deviance. One of these bad habits is the Resident Evil film franchise. Fuck me, I'll sit down to watch one of these like your white-bread teenaged son watches gay porn: first, he wonders how this event came to pass; second, he eats, drinks, or does both heavily in order to alleviate awkward feelings; third, he masturbates while pretending not to fantasize about the material; and finally, he destroys all evidence of its existence. For me, the third stage is metaphorical or altogether nonexistent whereas for your son, not so much, but the point here is that at the end of the day, I can sympathize with the li'l bastard because the Resident Evil films bring me to Christina Aguilera levels of dirrtyness and the most recent entry, Resident Evil: Retribution, is no exception.

My biggest complaint about this particular film is the utter lack of retribution. As defined by Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary, 1913 Edition,* retribution is that which is given in repayment or compensation; return suitable to the merits or deserts of, as an action; commonly, condign punishment for evil or wrong. The punishment itself, as well as to whom and by whom it is given is purely a matter of drunken conjecture since to writer/director Paul W. S. Anderson, the term means zombies driving off-road vehicles and firing rocket-propelled grenades.

Aside from that (and the overall stupidity of the franchise) I can't fault Anderson for much. Sure, I complain about the quality of his films but I won't begrudge Anderson his good fortune because, basically, people throw money at him to make a movie about zombies, explosions, and some lady portrayed by his wife (whose name is radical, by the way). What's more, other people then pay to see that shit.** Essentially, his job consists of getting paid to play with his significant other inside a sandbox laden with special effects technology; and that, folks, is a lifestyle worth endorsing.



* It's the only dictionary I use!
** To be fair, someone else paid the rental fee, but the point still stands and if it's any consolation to you, my psyche paid a price all its own.

Kimchi's Thirteen

New year, new dreams, of which there are thirteen:

- a Thor film without Dutch angles
- a Killers album unlike Battle Born
- a Murder, She Wrote reboot/remake starring Phoebe Cates or JoBeth Williams
- buffalo wing and bleu cheese flavored Cheetos (that's one flavor, not two)
- either an end to or an explanation of the recent Dewar's Scotch commercials with Claire Forlani



- 'Gangnam Style' used as the theme song to PSY's televised execution by way of safari ants
- the inclusion of a personal flame distribution device into my daily attire for the purpose of better dealing with people who think Life of Pi is a spiritually renewing cinematic experience
- a 1972 Buick Skylark coupe that I'd drive around like I were in a chase scene from Bullitt or something
- awakened from my slumber by a telepathic message sent by a captive member of the royal family, I will, against the wishes of my uncle, embark upon a journey to free the realm from the clutches of the evil sorcerer Agahnim, himself a mere pawn of a much darker power who seeks to gain mastery over the all-powerful Trifor... Shit!

- the cancellation of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo
- a revision of the Pitchfork Media review system that negates the possibility of an album receiving a rating of 6.73462 and whatnot
- a holiday sweater worthy of Psychedelic Kimchi's very own Harrison Forbes
- a new twist on the popular Transformers franchise in which yuppies inhabiting a desert metropolis take the shape of real human beings, with the theme song consisting of lyrics along the line of Scum Yuppies! White trash in disguise! Scum Yuppies! Less than meets the eye!*




* I'd supply an image to go along with the lyrics, but that shit's too easy. (To humiliate, or not to humiliate, that is the question.)

King's Horses, Men Need Not Apply

Grace Potter & The Nocturnals - The Lion The Beast The Beat

     Everything throbs, vibrations resound. A light flickers, flesh burns, the floor shudders and walls bend, bleed, and moan. Hye-Joon's body seems at once afloat, amiss, and ajar. Her legs feel as if they're asleep and she's unable to manipulate her arms so as to get off the floor. Vision is blurred and reality slurs. A high-pitched whine fills the air as if she has become a dog unable to tune out a horrific preponderance of whistles. She feels soggy, though her throat is parched. Most of all, Hye-Joon wants to move because amidst the ocular haze there is motion; a shifting of almost vaporous proportions, black and brown with diaphanous strands of fluorescent orange carved into the diminutive frame of a human being rubbing its ears in response to what transpired just moments ago. What she ascertains of this shadowy adjustment, most definitely, is the fluctuating whiteness of uneven teeth as they articulate something lost, something hideous within this foaming morass of reverberation; something that makes Hye-Joon scream while the scraggy silhouette, superficially oblivious to the unfolding calamity, hops, skips, and glides along its chosen path.

     Desperately, Hye-Joon cries out for husband and child unseen, her voice drowning in a murky pool of distant pops, structural creaks, dismal screams, and orchestrated disarray. Of her husband, Jeff, she gleans nothing but the whimpers of Gavin, her son, pierce the veil of opacity, grinding through layer upon layer of cacophonous uncertainty and for a moment Hye-Joon dares, however feverishly, to believe that this is merely a horrific nightmare, one from which she has yet to awaken. Craning her neck as best she's able, Hye-Joon's delusion cracks and splatters as the splintered, feminine contour ventures back into sight, its colors reddened by annexed flesh and smoldering embers. Behind this ghastly, reassembled gloom tattooed with undulating streaks of cinnabar, being dragged by a leg, nearly upside down, is her three-year-old son, a wailing mess not unlike his mother.

     All you people, the revenant begins, her voice effortlessly navigating through the labyrinth of babel toward Hye-Joon in particular, can you feel it waiting? Innocence and love, wrapped in the arms of the burning neon. I feel it, she continues, teeth glistening with that which is presumed to be the blood of Hye-Joon's recently dismantled husband, I feel it, but you'll be so disappointed to learn that this moment of magic really isn't meant for you; and the magic before your very eyes lies not in the folly of you having killed for the purpose of sustaining life, nor does it relate to you having wronged in a futile effort to negate my indelible rights. In the end, it's not even about all this, the loquacious shade opines, waving her free hand to and fro as outlying shouts of increasing desperation creep further into Hye-Joon's throbbing ears, because this is merely the result of proper planning, really, though you were nothing if not the catalyst for the spectacle itself, and yet, to be candid, that explosion was both bigger and louder than anticipated. I mean, I hadn't expected the blast to shred dear old Dad so, so, the adumbration stammers, momentarily distracted as the building's sprinkler system sputters to life, so completely, you know?

     Even as the cascading water douses her lips, Hye-Joon continues, somewhere between howling and spitting, her protest; to which the waterlogged shadow shrugs, though not indifferently, and resumes dragging her quarry toward the balcony, its door agape and inviting. Debilitating pain hinders Hye-Joon's attempt to rise, yet still she tries, and when she fails, she crawls, she watches, and she assails her ghoulish opponent with profanity unfettered. In return, the sylphlike blight prances amid the mechanically induced rain, yanking the toddler along as she frolics despite his continued shrieks. Though her vision has stabilized, Hye-Joon is unable, showers notwithstanding, to determine where her stepdaughter's features end and the wounds begin, nor does she particularly care. What concerns Hye-Joon is something cold, black, and wet with four rounds left unspent. This is why she crawls.

     Anyways! the carrion crawler trumpets while lazily fingering one of the many holes in a T-shirt through which an equal number of bullets have recently passed, seemingly amused by Hye-Joon's aspirations. Anyway, she repeats, this time with a sigh, like I said before, magic, yeah. Disregarding the fact that your propensity for violence is what got you people into this mess in the first place, and don't get me wrong, maternal rage is a sight to behold! and shit but even so, the magic is this: what goes down may come up, the operative word being may because as stated previously, this magic really isn't meant for you, with the you being plural, of course. Stop me if you know where this is headed, she taunts, gripping both of Gavin's ankles tightly, and to that Hye-Joon simply wails, for words, no matter how stirring, sway not madness.

     But still she crawls.