Psychedelic Kimchi

Same Title, Different Song V

2012-02-02T19:54:00.001+09:00

Before Kenny Ortega tanked his career with Rock Me Tonite, Billy Squier was a favored gladiator in the arena rock circuit, and I'll be the first to admit that the volume got cranked up whenever Squier came on the radio, and by 'up' I mean 'way the fuck up' but people don't listen to the radio much anymore, nor is arena rock all that popular these days, so it should come as no surprise to see an alternative band come along with a song bearing the same title. Now, the times, they may be a-changin' but Billy's going to break out the pastel shirt and silk sheets for one last round and woe be to those he finds in the dark.

Billy Squier - In the Dark
Dead Confederate - In the Dark

"Yes, Sir!"

2012-01-26T15:13:00.000+09:00

Had a dream the other night in which I was back in high school and the principal, dressed as Sgt. Slaughter, gave out cases of Miller Genuine Draft to students while yelling at them. There's more to the story, of course, but then again, after that, what else need be said?

Six Shots till Summation (L'Edition Étrange)

2012-01-23T16:29:00.003+09:00

I'm not sure what to say about La Bête other than it's a strange, strange film. Long story short, a well-to-do young Englishwoman by the name of Lucy Broadhurst (yeah, I said Broadhurst) travels to a quaint estate nestled within the hinterlands of France to meet and subsequently marry a man who has the property to match her wealth. Unfortunately, the situation is not as it initially appears; and by that, I mean things are fucking weird.

To answer the inevitable question: Yes, I kept the pictures relatively tame, for I'd rather not spoil all the magic contained within the film's celluloid folds. In answer to your second question: Yes, the second picture depicts a woman pleasuring herself with a bed frame.

What does it all mean? Damned if I know.

Yo, It's About That Time

2012-01-19T11:25:00.000+09:00

"If I was on that plane with my kids, it wouldn’t have went down like it did.There would have been a lot of blood in that first-class cabin and then me saying, 'OK, we’re going to land somewhere safely, don’t worry.'" - (Marky) Mark Wahlberg, regarding the events of September 11, 2001*

‎"I don't get down with jerking off, dude. Look. I don't believe in everything that the church says. I try to do the right thing. I lead a clean and pure life. I'm a married guy. I have a beautiful wife. Sex is not the most important thing to me, being horny all the time, spanking the -- I mean, it's not against the law. You can do whatever you want. And it's not like, 'I shouldn't do it because of my faith. I'm just not really that into it that much anyway." - Wahlberg weighing in on yet another pivotal topic**

(source***)

* I can only wonder, is that with or without Donnie D on the backup?
** But you said feeling the rhythm is your occupation, Mark!
*** Yeah, I just linked to Men's Journal. Next up, a swarm of locusts.

Alternative Lifestyle

2012-01-13T16:57:00.000+09:00

I've been told that I'm insensitive by some, hypersensitive by others, extra-terrestrial by a few, and psychotic by one or two. I've also be accused of lacking a strong opinion about anything, or that any feelings exhibited are merely simulated emotions. In protest of such vicious allegations, I offer up the following snippet of dialogue lifted from a conversation between myself and a friend.

Avis: Not long after Mab and I moved into this house, I approached a guy one night at a bar where I was playing, which is strange because I never approach guys at bars. He seemed really cool and we got involved pretty quickly. He moved in within a month. I felt like it was going to be something potentially very good for me. Something for the long haul. He ended up needing a lot of financial support, and he stole prescription meds from my mom! I confronted him about it, and it was pretty clear that he was lying to me. He also may have cheated on me, but I'm not sure. Nevertheless, I broke up with him and then gathered up all of his things into trash bags.It was terrible.. (bitter laugh)

Me: Hefty, or Glad?

Case closed.

Wolf Parade - Podbody's Nerfect

Same Title, Different Song IV

2012-01-04T13:20:00.000+09:00

The word hurricane may evoke thoughts of something powerful, sweeping, dramatic, destructive, compelling, uncontrollable, pitiless, and beautiful; as it should, given its status as a meteorological force of nature. If a song takes the moniker unto itself, one would hope that it bears similarities of some kind to its namesake. In this case, we have two such melodies but the real question is, do they stack up? You, Defrosted Reader, must judge for yourself.*

Athlete - Hurricane

30 Seconds to Mars - Hurricane

* And judge for me, too while you're at it since I don't know shit about music.

Gleiche Titel, (Ein Wenig) Anderes Lied

2011-12-27T16:48:00.003+09:00

Things are a bit different today since, technically, one is a cover of the original song but hey, rules were meant to be bent (if not broken) in favor of German bands singing about Japan.

Alphaville - Big in Japan

Guano Apes - Big in Japan

Now it's history, you see? Just promise not to sleep by my side.

Listen to Me

2011-12-25T21:00:00.000+09:00

Do not go into the light. Stop where you are. Turn away from it. Don't even look at it.

Same Title, Different Song III

2011-12-24T19:26:00.001+09:00

Once again, it's time for two songs to play Russian Roulette and the stakes couldn't be higher because it's Empire vs. Empire and to the winner goes the known universe!

Kasabian - Empire

Queensryche - Empire

...

I don't know about you, but a universe run by either Kasabian or Queensryche seems like it would be a pretty fucked-up place - unless I get to be a biker scout, bounty hunter, or bounty-hunting biker scout* that is; in which case, okay.

* Here's an image that exemplifies the greatness of such a concept.

Aboard the Billennium Falcon

2011-12-21T16:27:00.001+09:00

I presume that the majority of Psychedelic Kimchi's readership is familiar -if only in passing- with Billy Ocean's Loverboy because if you're reading this blog, you're probably into shit like Billy Ocean -if only by definition- but while the song may ring a few bells, you may have forgotten the utterly absurd, arguably nonsensical video that accompanied it some twenty-five years ago.

Ignoring the obvious fact of the video being a total rip-off of Star Wars and the Mos Eisley Cantina, let's discuss the messages conveyed within its celluloid folds. To be candid, I don't put much stock in the everything has a message! ideology favored by some but nevertheless, let's pretend that Loverboy contains lessons to be learned, shall we?

1) Billy Ocean not-so-secretly yearns to be Han Solo. Fair enough, Billy. I mean, who hasn't wanted to be, or be like Han Solo at some point in his or her life?

2) Smitten by a girl/woman/lady/female/alien of potentially compatible sex? Fill her companion with a hot bolt of plasma (not a metaphor) and drag the lady off. And just remember guys: if she resists, slap her around a little because...

3) Deep down, females wish to be dominated. Seriously, watch the portion near the end again and tell me she doesn't jump up on that horse willingly.*

* Is this a metaphor?

Same Title, Different Song II

2011-12-20T22:11:00.001+09:00

Unlike people, songs with the same name never seem to get along very well. You won't find songs playing pool, shooting hoops, vandalizing public property, attending potlucks, volunteering at soup kitchens, etc. anytime soon because that's not how songs roll. If anything, songs with the same name are inclined to settle disputes in classic Bartertown fashion and I, for one, applaud the finality of such approaches because notions of due process, justice, and compassion are grand in theory yet there comes a time when you have to make a deal with Tina Turner or get your hulking, mentally-challenged underling killed, leaving you a slave in the methane refinery.*

El-P - Blood

Pearl Jam - Blood

* And don't you dare pretend this story is anything but universal.

Season's Beatings (Poll)

2011-12-14T04:30:00.000+09:00

Joan Jett & The Blackhearts - The French Song

You're a 100-meter tall monster coming in from outer space to wreak havoc on Earth for Christmas but you're on a tight schedule and only have enough time to raze a single city. The question, then, is which one?

(in no particular order)

Los Angeles - And really, why not? People are afraid to merge on the freeway -or so it has been written- and now they'll be merging with your foot. Ten years from now, they'll make a movie about your exploits starring Matt Damon as the voice of the monster, Demi Moore as its love interest, and Samuel L. Jackson as its lawyer.

Ilsan - Consider it a mercy killing of the Slow Mutants, as that infectious menace has to be stopped before it's too late.*

Des Moines - /dɨˈmɔɪn/? /dɨzˈmɔɪn/? /dɨsˈmɔɪnz/? /diːˈmɔɪn/? Enough with this shit already!

Dubai - World's tallest building? More like world's biggest target - the explosive combination of ~~slave~~ industrious East Asian labor, ~~desiccated, overrated and ethically asphyxiated white people~~ prestigious Western expatriates, and rotting skyline is simply irresistible.

Tokyo - Label it a matter of tradition, custom, heritage or hell, steak and potatoes but the reality is this: if you're gonna do Earth, Tokyo is the standard by which all else is measured.

New York - Amongst other things, the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man needs to be avenged, as do King Kong, Jason Voorhees, the Beast (from 20,000 fathoms), Frank Zito, various Gremlins (genius, spider, cheese burrito, etc.) and Quetzalcoatl.

Seoul - Hey, this is Psychedelic Kimchi after all, and besides, if all those atrocious advertising campaigns have taught us anything over the years, it's that Korea deserves a slice of the intergalactic-monster pie.

London - You've been itching for a rematch against Christopher Lee and the Queen Mum for quite some time now** and the opportunity to shove Big Ben up Rowan Atkinson's ass is merely icing on the cake.

Shanghai - The world needs to fully recognize China's role as superpower-in-training and what better way to celebrate its emergence than with a good old fashioned curb stomp? There's bound to be a few fireworks factories around, too, so it's not as if the affair will be anything less than festive.

Toronto - Oddly enough, this is the only city actively petitioning its own destruction, as the inevitable, catastrophic level of devastation is seen as reasonable sacrifice for the chance of one-upping the United States. Considering that you've always wanted to 'go GTA' on the GTA, it's a win-win situation.

Melbourne - Take that, and that! you bastion of athleticism, above-average-looking people, surfing, moderate oceanic climate and, worst of all, koalas. Yes, koalas, looking all cute as they eat their goddamned eucalyptus leaves.

Other - It's a wide, wide world out there of course and there's always room for spur-of-the-moment shenanigans. Feel free to bash Baltimore, mangle Marrakesh, pimp slap Paris, deface Dresden, annihilate Albuquerque, cremate Cape Town, etc. because here at PK it's all about choices.***

*For those seeking more information on Ilsan, see also: Morlocks and then: C.H.U.D.s
** And this time, it's personal!
*** Which is what I tell toddlers as I creep toward them wearing a bear suit with broken glass instead of teeth and claws replaced by ceramic knives.

Take it Easy, Blaine!

2011-12-09T16:35:00.001+09:00

Give me a chance to enjoy the scenery, would you?

Midlake - Rulers, Ruling All Things

The Blood of Christmas Party

2011-12-02T09:04:00.000+09:00

Ishow up at Allison’s Blood of Christmas Party sometime aftereight with Eoin and Jessie, the former having done a hit of acid and the latteronly slightly buzzed from a six-dollar bottle of wine, the name of which Ican’t recall because I’ve taken two Xanax alongside three bottles of SmirnoffIce and driving Eoin’s Kia Sportage is serious business so I need to take iteasy. Allison’s house is a Victorian-style joint located on the corner of somestreet in Marion, the name of which I can’t remember either and I had to park ablock away since there’s nowhere else convenient, though when we neared thehouse I couldn’t help but notice several viable, unoccupied spots nearby. Atthe door we’re each handed two packs of Marlboros, one full-flavored and theother menthol by a guy named Jeremy who always seems cool enough to me, not somuch to Jessie because he greets me by saying “Hey, it’s Jessie’s girl!” as hehands me the cigarettes. I think it’s quite funny and tell him I don’t smokeanymore, but am told that it’s a theme of the party and somebody may ask me forone later.

“Heused that joke the last time we saw him” Jessie says once we’re past him,speaking to me, I guess, even though I’m looking away from her and don’t botherresponding. The Killers’ When You Were Young blares out fromthe speakers which is also cool, although I do recallAllison having once informed me that the Killers suck. I disagree but it’s notas if I’m going to call her out on it. Most of the living room has been clearedout, with only a sofa, two wooden chairs and a Christmas tree placed beside thedormant fireplace. The tree has been spray-painted entirely red, deep red andcompletely lacking in ornamentation. I wonder why there’s a Christmas party theday after Thanksgiving, but whatever, I can dig it.

Thereare people everywhere but I don’t know most of them. Beside the Christmas treestands Denzel and two Japanese women, a pair of twins, one passing the biggestjoint I’ve ever seen in my life to the other. They’re university students, orso Eoin says, which is odd considering that there isn’t a university in townand before I can inquire further he’s over there with them, chatting it up andtaking hits. With an Australian accent that could melt butter, Denzel asksabout the whereabouts of Eoin’s psychotic soon-to-be ex-wife. Eoin informs thetrio that she’s been left at home with a bottle of Captain Morgan. The twinsgiggle in unison and say, again in unison, that Eoin is funny, their accentsdecidedly less enticing. I’ve nothing against the Japanese, but those girls’matching outfits -pink miniskirts, lavender halter tops and maroon platformshoes- are idiotic.

“Macie!”Allison shouts, strolling over to me wearing this amazing snow-white leatherjacket adorned with numerous buttons and zippers. I’m instantly, insanelyjealous of her attire but smile anyways, if only because she’s the best host intown. She holds a bottle of Coors Light in one hand, half empty. “Got acigarette, you bitch?” she asks, also smiling, so I remove the plastic from thepack of menthols and open the box. Allison waves it away, noting that she onlysmokes Turkish Silvers, which confuses me because it’sher party and the rules dictate that people carryChristmas-colored Marlboros. I put the pack back into my purse. “Did you knowmy brother is graduating in December?” she quizzes me.

“Dopeople actually graduate in December?” I respond, playing dumb for the sake ofconversation. She scrunches her face.

“Ninesemesters is the norm these days.” She says this with something like disdain,though not for me. I’m pretty sure her brother is in his late thirties.“Anyway, there’s plenty of beer in the kitchen, so help yourself,” she says,already drifting away from me. “Just a so you know, don’t come to me about theIce 101. I can’t deal with that right now” is the last thing I hear before hervoice carries over into a greeting for someone else. I like her style. I’velost track of Jessie and gazing behind me, I spot her arguing about something,arms folded, with Jeremy, who seems pleased with the situation. An unrecognizedguy wearing a fedora and brown sport jacket checks Jeremy out as the two resolve their supposed dispute. I work my way through the crowd to chat with Kelli andher husband, Will, who leans against the wall looking as though he’s blitzedout of his mind. They’re wearing matching holiday-themed sweaters adorned withreindeer patterns. My watch says it’s twenty-two minutes till nine.

“Hey,Macie,” Kelli greets me with a desperate sense of inclusion in her words. “Canyou hold Will’s beer for a minute?”

“Sure,”I say, which of course means that I should drink it before Will realizes I’vedone so. “What’s up?” Nothing too serious is ever up withthese two, but still.

“Willsaid I have wonderful breasts, but I’m not sure if he’s being serious,” shelaments. Will, eyes bleary, appears flabbergasted by her statement.

“Idon’t doubt his sincerity, Kelli. They’re incredible. I’d kill for a chest likethat.” Not entirely true. I’m perfectly content with my own but readilyacknowledge that Kelli’s breasts are the size of watermelons and if I wereattracted to other women, most assuredly just as sweet.

“That’swhat I’ve been telling you, sweetie!” Will practically shouts above the music.Kelli scowls.

“Thenwhy did do that body shot off of Leann?” she responds, almost whispering.Awkward moment. I take a swig from Will’s bottle of Budweiser, then another.

Willthrows his free arm up in frustration, waving it around at no one inparticular. “It was a body shot, honey, not anal sex.” Second awkward moment. Itake a third swig. From the look in her eyes, I gather that Kelli isn’tterribly upset by her husband’s drunken act. Same old, same old. Out of theblue, Nick emerges from the adjoining kitchen and strides up to us.

“Thatstupid bitch wouldn’t give me a shot,” he spits out angrily. Sometimes Nick’sintensity is enthralling but I get the impression this isn’t one of thosetimes. I excuse myself and make my way over to Denzel’s posse, which nowincludes Amber, an infectiously-friendly blonde social worker currently holdinga bottle of Jack Daniel’s to her lips. She swallows, hisses, and passes thebottle to Eoin, who is usually part of my posse but in truthruns in most everyone’s posse. Eoin takes more than one gulp.

“Yes,Eoin. Yes!” Denzel proclaims, accompanied by the echo of Japanese giggling.Eoin coughs, wipes his mouth and hands the bottle to me. I pause, ponder aloudthat I’m the designated driver, and then proceed to school the lot of them.Cheers ensue, including my own. Hanging above the mantel is an acrylic paintingthat depicts a naked woman with auburn hair grasping a stick of dynamite in herleft hand. In her right, the woman clasps the tail of a dachshund bearing anoutrageously oversized, erect penis. I have to, just have to ask. Denzel claimsit was a gift to Allison by someone wishing to encapsulate her personality. I’mspellbound by that revelation, momentarily, until I convince myself it’sprobably true and accept the fact that if I think about it too much, my brainwill explode. The two Japanese girls are smoking cigarettes all of a sudden, asis Eoin.

“Where’smy sister?” Eoin asks.

“Sarah?She’s upstairs, pretending to get along with the coke-heads ‘cause they’rewatching the Willow: Special Edition DVD,” Amber informshim.

“Youknow, I’ve never seen Willow,” Eoin comments, and immediately thereafter youspot a glazed look of whatever passes for disdain in crowds such as these formwithin the Japanese girls’ eyes. “Ever since I saw it in the theater, I mean,”Eoin continues, eager to obscure the veracity of his previous statement. “Ican’t watch a movie that good on a small screen, after all.” The girls seempleased. “But hold on. Cocaine?”

“LikeI said, pretending,” Amber counters, as if someone canpretend to do cocaine.

“Gotcha,”says Eoin, as if someone can pretend to enjoy Willow. He takes another hit fromthe still-bulbous joint.

Havingdowned the remainder of Will’s bottle of beer, I pop another Xanax and elbow myway through to the kitchen, eager to get another drink.Shit, I think, reprimanding myself for entering the MosEisley cantina so carelessly. A necessary evil, I suppose, but even so.

WhatI behold in the sizable kitchen is as follows: Leann kicking the shit out of anot-so-empty case of Coors for -from what I gather via her obscenity-ladentirade- having the audacity to get in her way; Brian simultaneously checkinghis smartphone for messages as he halfheartedly attempts to calm Leann down;Nathan making a pastrami and Gouda sandwich even though there are numeroussandwiches already made while his wife, Hayley, cheers Leann on; Andrew -not tobe mistaken for Andy, who has been missing for some time now- acting as if he’sremoving the cap from a bottle of Budweiser with his left eye socket, much tothe amazement of Miles, who you haven’t seen since shortly after high school;and the woman with the tricolored hair, Megan -not to be confused with Meaghan,Nick’s girlfriend who, when last seen, was busy admiring Allison’s coat- sitscross-legged atop the mahogany dining table, surrounded by open bags of Doritosand a plate of sandwiches, mouthing selected lyrics from Dawn of theDead by Does It Offend You, Yeah? which pours out from the speakersin the other room.

Likethe dead that walked before me, therein Megan silently imitates,almost gleefully, clutching the translucent bottle of Ice 101 with scraggyfingers, more like claws than anything else.

“Chillthe fuck out, Leann,” Brian says, an utter lack of conviction in his voice,still sending a text to someone, probably Melanie, his girlfriend, who is inthe other room.

“...Motherfucking...fuck...fucker...”Leann mumbles, ignoring him. I find it best to let Leann work out herfrustrations on her own time and thus say nothing, inching my way toward Nathanand Hayley instead.

“Youshould try one of those sandwiches, Macie,” Nathan offers, and I’m tempted toaccept his invitation.

“Showthat box who’s boss, Leann. Beer, Macie?” Hayley inquires, and I’m alwaysenamored with someone so conscientious.

“Youknow it.” She opens the fridge without hesitation and hands me a can ofSapporo, just how I like it. I remind myself to send her a Christmas card.

“Itwasn’t the best Thanksgiving for Leann, you know,” Megan says, a faint smirk onher face. She lights a cigarette. Megan’s wearing a faded red zip-up hoodiewith an emerald-green tee shirt underneath. Very Christmasy. The hoodie hasseveral small holes, punctures really, in the neckline and hood itself. I makea mental note to ask her about it sometime soon. “She had a fight with herboyfriend, the usual, hadn’t anyone to spend time with, wound up eating Chinesefood with me at Hy-Vee.”

“Don’tthey sell more traditional food at Hy-Vee?” I ask.

“Howwas it?” Miles inquires, seemingly oblivious to not having seen me in nearlyeight years. Megan shrugs, and I haven’t the foggiest idea as to which questionshe’s addressing.

“Itwas great,” Leann comments, having exhausted herself. The mangled box isleaking from one of its corners, so she kicks it off to the side. “Fuckingawesome, in fact.”

“LeannasaurusRex, letting off some steam!” Nathan says playfully. Leann looks at him,narrowing her eyes.

“LeannasaurusRex. That’s clever,” she responds coldly. “Nice sandwich.”

“Thanks.I think it’s the Gouda which-” but Nathan’s alcohol-fueled sandwich soliloquyis interrupted by Leann smashing the sandwich with her fist. One, two, threeslams, leaving the item crushed and deformed. She then storms out of the room,saying nothing. Nathan picks it up, sniffs it, takes a bite. “Still good!” heannounces triumphantly.

Awkwardsilence. Megan takes a gulp of the schnapps, swallows, exhales smoke whichbillows out like she’s on fire internally. Miles expresses astonishment atAndrew’s previous act, rather delayed because he’s ripped on Ecstasy. Someonelaughs, not sure who. Melanie appears and subsequently drags Brian out of thekitchen. Coincidentally, Arcade Fire’s Ready to Start beginsplaying and Megan taps the bottle of Ice 101 against the table incorrespondence with the opening drum beat. My watch informs me that it’s sixminutes after nine.

Upstairs, in a bedroom,people are watching a movie; Willow, I think, since ValKilmer’s interacting with a midget. Some guy snorts a line of coke off of whatI presume to be his boyfriend’s exposed stomach with a rolled-up five-dollarbill. Sarah’s explaining -rather eloquently as a trickle of blood seeps outfrom her left nostril- that this is Ron Howard’s best film to date. I’minclined to disagree, given that Kevin Bacon looked so hot in Apollo13 but remain silent on the issue, instead mentioning that Eoin is lookingfor her. She says he can come upstairs if he’s so concerned, to which I counterthat there’s a solid chance he would get lost on the way up. Sarah shrugs, asdo I. We sit together, watching Willow for a while, discussing the merits ofKevin Pollack’s performance as one of the gnomes or whatever he’s supposed tobe. At some point, Jessie appears, wearing a lampshade as a hat, and passes mea glass of something. Taking a drink, I deduce that it’s gin mixed with BuschLight, loathe it, then take another sip. The two guys are making out andSarah places a copy of The Dark Crystal upon the exposeddisc tray. Jessie tells me I need to come downstairs, so Ido.

Downstairs,Andrew -not magic-trick Andrew but the one who owns a Mercedes- and his wifeJasmine are robot-dancing to Bryan Adams’ I Need Somebodyand I join in the festivities. I’m pretty sure they’re sober. At the song’sconclusion, everyone cheers except for Eoin, as he’s busy getting fresh with the Christmas tree. The twins’ tops have disappeared, leaving onlysparkly bras between what Denzel has seen before and what he’ll see again soonenough. Nick’s arguing with Allison.

“No,Allison, I can’t ‘dig’ it. Why the hell can’t she share the Ice 101?” he asks,incredulous.

“Isthat a rhetorical question?” Allison responds, uncertain and, most likely,uncaring.

“Youpaid for it!”

“Hey,it’s a party, man. Don’t hassle the host.” Nick can’t deny the logic of heranswer so he heads over to Will and Kelli, who, I note, continue to struggle with the body shot off of Leann, which isweird because Leann’s standing beside Kelli, admonishing Will for hisinappropriate behavior. Brutal.

Somelady begins talking to me, telling me how she’s turned her life around and isnow an accountant. I keep asking what her name is and she keeps reminding methat she’s Heather, Heather Robbins and we went to high school together but Ihaven’t the slightest idea who that is and thus, at some point, keep nodding myhead till she wanders away in disgust. I feel bad, finish my drink, and checkmy watch. It’s ten thirty-three.

Istep outside for a moment, ostensibly to get some fresh air but the truth isthat I don’t want everyone to see me smoking, for on some level it hurts toadmit the resurgence of a publicly-denounced habit even though no one reallygives a damn. It’s unseasonably warmfor late November and the patio is a welcome sight. I light a mentholcigarette, inhale, and study the colors on the box whence it came.

“Ashotgun,” utters a female voice, startling me. Twirling around, I find Megansitting cross-legged upon the veranda, cloaked in near-darkness save the cherryof a cigarette burning brightly.

“What?”I say, perplexed.

“Knowingyou, the question of my attire is inevitable, and I wanted to save you thetrouble of having to ask. I got hit in the face with a shotgun blast, though atconsiderable distance, mind you, and structural deficiencies notwithstanding,I’m quite fond of this hoodie, so...” she trails off, which, knowing her, isn’tsurprising.

“That’s...That’s bullshit,” I stammer, slightly agitated. Megan takes a swig of Ice 101,swishes it around, swallows, and grins.

“Yeah,maybe,” she replies in that whimsically corrosive tone of hers which onlysucceeds in ruffling my feathers. I flick my unfinished cigarette into the lawn, thoroughly repulsed by it all.
BeforeI can open the door, she posits that I could always ask Eoinabout the incident but it wouldn’t matter anyway sinceeveryone’s a liar when I dislike the response, right? Isuggest she do something about that dye-job of hers as the blue, white, andred was charming at first -in its own clownish way- but as her hair grows out,it looks as if someone has smeared shit across the top of her head. I also tellher to go fuck herself, to which she begins laughing that cancerous hyena laughof hers, the one I’ve come to loathe irrevocably.

Inside,the lights have gone out, supplanted by shifting shades of greenand red produced by numerous strings of Christmaslights taped to the ceiling and I want to kick myself for not having noticedthem earlier. Some jazz rendition of Nirvana’s Smells like TeenSpirit plays a bit too loudly for comfort and the guy with the fedorahas lost his pants somehow, somewhere yet doesn’t seem to mind, nor does anyone else. Jill emergesfrom the crowd and hands me a vodka tonic. I thoughtshe was pregnant, I say, and she says something about being pregnant two yearsago and I can’t deal with this right now so I sashay over to Denzel but now thetwins’ skirts have disappeared, too, leaving them in nothing more than lingerieand platform shoes and I can’t deal with this either so I look for Nathan and Haleybut Kelli informs me they’ve gone home since they have kids and it’s not untilshe stops speaking that I notice Kelli isn’t sitting on the couch itself but,rather, upon Will’s knee with Leann perched atop the other and I’m all like what the fuck? so I head into the kitchen only to see Andrew-the blonde one, not the married one- attempting to teach Miles some kind ofjoint lock and I don’t want any part of it, opting instead to grab a can ofSapporo from the fridge even though I have yet to finish the vodka tonic butpolish it off once Miles starts talking about amateur blacksmithing because I can’t handle a discussion of such magnitude and thus grab a secondcan of Sapporo for the long walk away but Nicks stalls my retreat by askingabout the Ice 101; I tell him to let it go because I know the more intoxicatedhe gets, the more likely that bottle is to be smashed againsthis skull but he’s not the type to listen sowhatever, right? and he’s screaming at me as I hastilyexit the kitchen, whichis where I collide with Brian, who isn’t looking aheadof himself because he’s checkingthat goddamn phone; he apologizes, is immediately forgiven -even if being sorrydoesn’t remove the sting of going unnoticed- and gets out of my way so I canfind Eoin, who is grinding with Allison to Toni Basil's Mickey but upon interrogation, he silently examines me as if checking tomake sure all of my limbs and digits are still intact while Allison shouts atme for ruining the host’s fun till shetears up, gives me a hug, and thanks me for coming to the party but I’munable to respond because I can’t deal withany of this right now.

Upstairs, the guys have disappearedand Sarah’s watching The Wrestler alone. The blood stainbeneath her nose remains, looking as fresh as ever and she’s raving aboutMickey Rooney’s amazing performance like I haven’t seen the film already and Ishould correct her but don’t since another Xanax has just been popped and the thoughtof Mickey Rooney as the titular wrestler is pretty funny. Crawling into bed, myhand runs across a patch of something gooey and while its scent leaves littleto the imagination I feel just fine, for it’ll be dry by the time I wake up and besides, sleep comes easily when I stare at televisions without paying attention.

Remake Rubdown

2011-11-29T20:03:00.001+09:00

Today was remake madness here at Casa del Kimchi. For breakfast, it was Conan the Barbarian, The Thing* for lunch and finally, Fright Night for the nightcap.** While I'm naturally apprehensive about remakes (especially of great films) I was drawn to these three in particular because, honestly, like the majority of thirtysomething ~~sociopaths~~ nerds I think each of the aforementioned films is ridiculously cool and so, like moths to a flame and flies to feces, I took them in without hesitation. The hip thing to do, I suppose, would be to deride the films without having seen them (cough, cough, Harrison Forbes, cough, cough) but I'm not that hip. So.

Some quick thoughts:

Conan the Barbarian

The Good

What I respect about this movie is that the filmmakers attempted to create something different, which is a smart move (in theory) given that the original Conan is, arguably, so iconic within the sword and sorcery genre. Also, if you're going to cast someone besides Arnold, Jason Momoa is your man as he has the presence, intensity, and appearance to convince viewers that he's the titular barbarian. There's plenty of gratuitous violence to go around as well, to say nothing of a battle with a ravenous cephalopod that works in all the right ways.

The Bad

Difference doesn't always correlate with quality, of course. Without spoiling the plot, I'll go on record as saying that it reminds me a bit more of Kull the Conqueror than the original film, and for those who haven't seen that movie, I'll give you a hint: it sucks. Jason Momoa makes a fine Conan when the script isn't sabotaging his efforts by making the character positively loquacious, Khalar Zym is no Thulsa Doom, and priestesses are poor substitutes for badass thieves.

Have I mentioned the music yet? Basically, the original has an amazing soundtrack by Basil Poledouris. The remake has, um, oh yeah, no one cares who composed the music on account of it being instantly forgettable.

And say what you will of John Milius (most of which would be spot on) but he's the kind of guy required for a concept like Conan. I'm sure Marcus Nispel's a nice guy and all, but he brings modern sensibilities to a film about bloodthirsty barbarians, which just doesn't work.

The Forbes

Was a body double employed for the sex scene between Jason Momoa and Rachel Nichols? My money is on yes.

I like Ron Perlman, sure, but does he have to be in every mid-scale action film? Goddamn. He's in the running with Samuel L. Jackson for the Most Overused Actor award.

Rose McGowen's not in everything but no matter where she pops up, I think of the bitchy bitch from Jawbreaker. Sorry, Rose!

The Thing

The Good

The film looks gorgeous. Be it lighting, locale, set design, special effects, or cinematography, The Thing is no slouch and worth watching in high definition. The story itself, while not on par with Carpenter's 1982 remake, is fairly engaging though admittedly predictable. The antagonist is one vicious alien (one plus a half dozen, I mean) and appropriately grotesque in all its applicable forms.

Mary Elizabeth Winstead is quite likable and the rest of the cast performs admirably...

The Bad

... But lack memorable, or even readily identifiable roles. In the Carpenter version, you had MacCready, rough around the edges but pragmatically heroic; Blair, scientist gone berserk; Childs, hothead; Windows, eccentric radio dork, etc. whereas in the remake, it's basically Winstead as Dr. Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Joel Edgerton as one of the pilots, and a bunch of Norwegians. Don't get me wrong, everyone likes Norwegians but they, alongside their un-Scandivanian counterparts, end up seeming a lot (as in, too much) alike.

The films takes more of a survival horror approach to the material than relying upon elements of suspense and the results are evident. I would have preferred to see the opposite, especially when it's painfully obvious, at some points, as to who the alien is imitating, which detracts from the horror of the scenario.

The Verdict

All things considered, this version of The Thing is a pretty good flick and recommended. The only problem is that it's not as good as John Carpenter's film.

Fright Night

The Sidestep

I adore the original film but, admittedly, the remake isn't bad. If anything, it's tweaking the establish story, this time focusing more upon Charlie as the teenaged hero and certainly not as strongly influenced by classic horror; in other words, less Peter Vincent and much less suavity, which may or may not be a bad thing. Colin Farrell's Jerry Dandrige, for example, is much more the serial killer (or manic slasher) than debonair vampire and while I prefer the latter, there's nothing particularly wrong with the former. Similarly, I've always been more interested in the Peter Vincent character than Charlie Brewster, so to see David Tennant's skill and charisma hampered by limited character development is a shame but again, there's nothing inherently faulty about allocating more screen time to Charlie. I'm partial to the original but thoroughly enjoyed the remake.

The Cameo

That's right, actor Chris Sarandon makes a cameo in the film, which is sixteen shades of spectacular. My question is, what about Stephen Geoffrey's cameo (namely, the lack thereof)? If nothing else, there could have been one of his porno films playing on some television in the background. You were robbed, Stephen. Robbed, I say!

* Technically a prequel but let's not kid ourselves. It's a premake.
** The nightcap takes the place of dinner and lasts for approximately six hours here on Planet X, FYI.

P.S. Out of sheer boredom, I attempted to watch the third installment of Transformers but fell asleep midway through. Talk about your steaming bowls of poop soup.

Same Title, Different Song

2011-11-28T22:14:00.003+09:00

David Cronenberg directed a film called Crash about people who get off on vehicular accidents. Paul Haggis, eight years later, directed a film with the same title, about racism (or a racist film about racism, if you ask a cynical white person), in 2004.

Certainly, Haggis wasn't trying to fool viewers, in The Asylum tradition, into thinking that his film was related to Cronenberg's critically acclaimed-yet-little-seen movie, but he at least must have known that a film with the same title existed. And he didn't give a shit.

Neither did Jay-Z and Kanye West, I imagine, give a second thought when they pilfered the title "Welcome to the Jungle" from Guns N' Roses.

I care, though. Tonight, after typing "good vibrations" on YouTube's (shitty, advertising-driven) search, the first page of results were a pagan mix of the Beach Boys's classic song and Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch's early 90's hit.

So, a song fight. In one corner, Brian Wilson and company; in the other, Mark Wahlberg and his bunches funky.

The stake? Song title ownership. Forever.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-eSN8Cwit_s

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TCeD_6Y3GQc

The Stars, the Stars a Coyote Sees (Don't Call It a Comeback)

2011-11-26T17:45:00.000+09:00

Imogen Heap - 2-1

What bewilders you isn’t the sound, first heard upon streaming back into the flow of consciousness a scant seven seconds prior, of dislocated vertebrosternal ribs realigning themselves with fractured sternum, nor does the labored wheezing which accompanies every subsequent inhalation as your lungs, once punctured, find themselves nearly regenerated though not without an excruciatingly painful mishap (or two, maybe five, possibly eight) along the way. Peripheral noises, of people opening windows and doors and dialing 911 and telling spouses to hush and of others lighting fuses and fumbling with matches and of dogs barking and toddlers crying should annoy you and indeed they do but there’s more to it, of course, since everything’s related somehow.

That you’re dislodging a warm, mushroom-shaped chunk of lead and copper from just beneath your left breast with fingers alone isn’t quite as irksome as searching for a flip-top box of Marlboros which, hopefully, still resides (and however improbably, contains cigarettes yet intact) within the left front pocket of a ratty pair of Levi 525s using your other hand, which happens to be restricted by a broken thumb and forefinger.

Having accomplished these feats of manual dexterity, the former as tedious as the latter, there remains the issue of your faces, both the original and the rubbery one stretched, pressed, and draped atop it. Vision is hindered, everything darkness. With weathered pack of smokes and misshapen metal alike resting upon your tattered chest, the better hand claws its way to the mask and removes it with less than the utmost care and with its departure there’s the distinct sensation as well as the sound of peeling, vaguely reminiscent of removing packing tape from cardboard and even now, though things can be seen, the blur of distant, elevated lights and the stars even farther, much farther away is bisected by a carmine haze resulting from some hitherto unrealized damage suffered by your left eye or perhaps the flesh and bone previously encasing it. There’s something dripping down from above said socket and your sense of touch informs you that it contains more than blood itself, but this isn’t what addles you.

By the time an arched cigarette has touched yours lips, the two mangled fingers have been snapped, rather unpleasantly, back into place and before you manage to retrieve the lighter from its pocket sanctuary the cigarette has been set ablaze, the flame a brilliant shade of vermillion to your desecrated eye. Focusing upon the pleasure of that first inhalation almost makes you immune to the fivefold torment of an equal number of bullets being extracted from your tenderized physique. Almost, yet this is not what you find so terribly annoying, either.

For starters, there’s a voice telling you that things don’t have to be this way, that motivations are suspect, that the world needn’t be as you view it, that events remain unfixed. This insipid voice doesn’t speak yet it speaks nonetheless and its point of origination is the same nothingness currently reconstructing your flesh, lighting cigarettes and... missing the point. Though He would have you believe otherwise, He is neither here (not really, at least) nor are you as docile as his other projects. You reek not of putridity, streaked not with ghastly, florescent orange (not entirely, at least, and even then, not for long) and have not a brain the size of a walnut. Mostly, you realize that for all His asinine proclamations, He is scarcely insouciant, let alone benevolent. He’s a liar, a charlatan, a fraud; and you’ll prove it, one way or the other, just not tonight... because it’s the scent which agitates you so vehemently; of people, though not of people themselves, but of their numerous machinations, desires and ineptitudes - and not those of the general populace, for the delightful stench of cigarette smoke cloaks the vast majority of such irritation, but of those who reside within an apartment three stories above, the ones that stink of false victory, flawed regret, and frenzied apprehension. The stench of the very blood coursing through their veins, therein lies the problem; for once upon a time it was much akin to your own (or what remains of it).

A burst of agonizing pain accentuates the popping of your left femur back into its original position, and with the culmination of that procedure you mirthfully shake the leg a tad, if only to amuse yourself with the comical floppiness of Sketchers-covered foot adjoined, however loosely, to splintered ankle. To ruminate on the state of the world you inhabit alongside billions of others is merely a reminder of the coveted stillness which divides these hideously deformed processes of refurbishment that, in turn, shred through a seemingly endless recurrence of sentience. Some folks would label you nihilistic but that’s simply because they interact with you in the daytime; which brings you back to the here and now, some forty-three seconds after being brought back, not to life but from death.

When you finally stand erect, upon ankle once broken and leg once twisted, He has vanished, gone (and at once, already there) to swallow the moon in silent, contradictory disapproval, and with sight no longer reddened your neck cranes upward to watch that big clump of dust and rock depart from ocular reality, leaving only the stars shining brightly across the night sky, each celestial sphere so blatantly indifferent to what unfolds before them. His dismay is mere fabrication, of course, for as your gaze lowers to meet the light emanating from that third-story apartment, your fingers begin to twitch in nascent anticipation because you know as well as He that post-resurrection is when you’re at your finest.

Maaarrrrtin!

2011-11-23T20:22:00.001+09:00

After so, so many, many years I decided it was time to re-watch Martin - and no, I'm not referring to Martin Short (though a post about me watching him would be titillating in its own way) but George Romero's tale of a vampire in the modern era. Wait, did I say modern? Okay, modern as in 1976 yet for the most part the film still holds up and, furthermore, lacks that dated feel I like to call the Saturday Night Fever Effect. Well, mostly.

The fashion leaves a bad taste in my mouth, especially in the sweater department. There's probably a proper term for what the titular character is wearing in the above picture (i.e. other than sweater) but whatever; it's hideous, plain and simple. Speaking of fashion:

This guy's whole Steel-town Colonel Sanders get-up is... ridiculous.

Along similar lines, the zeitgeist of the Seventies is, shall we say, questionable at moments.

Seat belts? Fuck seat belts!

Time to hassle some white women!

Yeah, I'm black, too and yeah, I'm a criminal.

The seat belt thing is a silly reminder that ~~the Man is always telling me how to live my life!~~ life was different in the Seventies, but what of the representation of racial minorities? A reminder, certainly, albeit one decidedly less whimsical, of a period in cinema when it was perfectly acceptable to make each and every person of color a gun-toting, lady-harassing rogue. For the record, I'm not suggesting anything of Mr. Romero but rather of the cinematic landscape corresponding to the decade in question. Now don't fill that noggin of yours with fears about me going all politically correct (PC PK!) on your ass. I'm just saying that if one were to believe everything they see in films from the Seventies, the world would be a strange place. Granted, if the world were like the ones depicted in, say, Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla or Romero's own Dawn of the Dead the world would be fucking awesome but I digress.

Speaking of digressions, have you ever noticed how people utilize, often successfully, the phrase But it was the Seventies! to somehow negate any awkward and/or weird situations? I have. For example:

A: Oh, man, do you remember that wild party at Kris Kristofferson's ranch in Montana where we dropped acid like it was going out of style? Margot Kidder did a swan dive off the balcony into the back of my El Camino, broke three ribs, and proceeded to chew on my spare tire. You walked in on Burt Reynolds getting fisted by Loni Anderson and if I recall correctly, you proceeded to give her a rim job.

B: Damn, that night was messed up.

A: Yeah, but it was the Seventies, man!

B: True.

Now contrast that with the following story.

A: You remember that time back in college, at that party where Elijah Wood and I did lines of coke off of Eliza Dushku's ass while you performed the dirty sanchez on Elisa Cuthbert - at her request no less? Then Ashton Kutcher showed up dressed as Santa Claus even though it was July and the shit got real.

B: Yeah, that was... that was pretty fucked up.

A: Yeah, but it was the Nineties, man!

B: No, it's still pretty fucked up, dude.

It doesn't quite have the same air of plausibility when you use another decade, does it? It almost seems as if the Seventies is a blank check (cheque!) or get out of jail free card for absurdity. (Color me envious!)

“But don’t worry, we won’t have any offspring. We won’t even wind up together. Arthur is just my way out.”

Damn, Christina, isn't that a bit harsh? I understand that 1) your situation is messed up 2) Arthur isn't the greatest man in the history of the universe and 3) you view men as commodities to be used up, but still. Does Arthur know about this? And don't give me any of that but it was the Seventies shit either. Ice cold, baby! And I know I said that Arthur isn't spectacular but since he's portrayed by Tom Savini, he kinda-sorta is.

Okay, now I know it may seems as if I'm knocking Martin but in reality, the film is worth viewing and showcases George Romero's talent for something other than zombie movies, and his approach to the vampire genre is still refreshing after all these years. I recommend it highly, and hopefully this post hasn't divulged so much information that you feel as if you've seen the film already.

....

....

There is one more thing. I don't want to give away any big events within the film, I really don't, but something needs to be said right here, right now. I'll try to set it up as best I can. Basically, Martin is on the run from a couple of police officers and stumbles into a den of criminals. The police subsequently arrive and the result is sheer pandemonium!

1) A shootout ensues. Note the stylish hat.

2) Cop shoots first bad guy. Second bad guy shoots cop in the back.

3) Another cop shoots second bad guy in the leg. Second bad guy gets plowed by a third criminal attempting to escape via automobile.

4) Second cop fires upon the vehicle careening toward him instead of getting out of the way.

5) Third bad guy gets shot in the head. Ironically, he loses control of the car.

6) Second cop is crushed by the now out-of-control automobile.

The purpose of this gratuitously ludicrous, abso-fucking-lutely superfluous scene is to provide Martin with a plausible means of eluding capture, except that it's the patented antithesis of plausible in every way imaginable. What the fuck were you thinking, George?*

Just asking.

* See also: Monkey Shines

Enigma

2011-11-07T16:41:00.004+09:00

As you may already know, I happily traverse the Web, forever on the lookout for interesting, kooky, and confounding imagery; much of which eventually makes it to this hallowed blog. If this is news to you, then you probably stumbled across this blog while searching for one of those peculiar images and frankly, you should be ashamed of yourself.*

Now that we have that out of the way, let's play a game. It's called Guess the Celebrity! and all you have to do is correctly identify the actor (or actress) displayed above. The prize? Something, something, something grand.

* Ashamed for not finding this place sooner, that is!

I Don't Take Sides...

2011-11-04T21:37:00.001+09:00

... But sometimes I laugh.

(Courtesy of 9gag.com)

Tradition

2011-10-30T20:09:00.003+09:00

Cold is how I greet the day because cold is how it greets me. My feet are numb and swollen. My teeth ache with a numb, dull pain. The bedroom window is open, and an icy gust, whistling like ancient ghosts in intervals, is a reminder of my nightmare. I wish a satellite falling to Earth would crash down on me. But it never does. But still I wish.

It is the first day of November.

Somewhere in southern Ontario lies a black boot. There are insects crawling within it, carrion of the last remaining toes. No living person has seen this boot, these toes, or its former occupant for months. But it's there. Waiting to be found.

I like to take my dogs for walks in the forest. Yesterday morning, Jurgen, our Beagle, dug up a human bone, then another human bone, and then a human skull. And then I called the police.

Turns out, my driver's license wasn't revoked after all. I'm going to call up Darla and see if she'd like to take a ride. Into the dark. Into the dark.

I put the kettle on, turn on the television. Somewhere in Africa a baby was born with four noses. One of my favorite actors died. Gas is more expensive.

"It looked like an arrowhead, but it was pink. Well, not bright pink, at least not for long, Dad. Then it started glowing. And then it disappeared."

You're all going to die and waste away. Waste away.

Wst awy.

What Time is It?

2011-10-25T18:03:00.000+09:00

Time to die!

Sorry. I've always wanted to say that to some unfortunate soul just after checking my watch and yanking on the dial, revealing a previously hidden garrote wrist wire. Basically, I want to be a villain from a James Bond movie (or, barring that, a 1980s martial arts film starring Steven Seagal).

Today's post has nothing to do with my aforementioned desires, of course, but if I switched it to Time to DyE! then we'd on the right track; yet which track would that be, exactly? Let's find out... together!

The one where we go for a midnight swim together, obviously. Bring your suit!

Old Yellow

2011-10-23T20:56:00.004+09:00

There's a banana in my fridge. It has been there for four days. I am not going to eat it, but neither can I throw it away. It might stay there awhile, until I work up the nerve to finally toss it out. Perhaps I might expire myself before then, and in which case, good luck, banana. You're on your own. Haha.

The banana isn't living, of course, it was DOA at whatever market it was purchased from. It was given to me last Wednesday at work. Wednesday is when everyone is given fruit. Wednesday is when no one really wants the fruit they're given. So the fruit gets tossed in the bin like so many other wasted seeds designed to renew life. [/masturbation metaphor]

On Wednesday it was ripe. Today, Sunday, not so much. It's bruised without a definable assailant, has deep scars on its peel.

If I liked bananas, maybe I could give this particular one a proper sendoff, eat him while he's still recognizable. But I fucking hate bananas, so I can't.

But I wish him well. Maybe he can be reincarnated as a fruit I enjoy.

Where's the Bourbon?

2011-10-20T17:18:00.003+09:00

Much like a young George Washington, I ~~have wooden teeth~~ ~~chop down cherry trees~~ cannot tell a lie; and it's no lie to say that, again like a young George Washington, I unabashedly adore A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors with all my heart and spleen. You had Patricia Arquette doing back flips, sexy nurses spitting out eel-like creatures, a hall of mirrors, music by Dokken, John Saxon being John Saxon, a kid trying to use wizardry on Freddy Krueger... the list goes on and on. If this reminds you, Delectable Reader, of me gushing over Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter it very well should as they're both fine examples of how to make decent sequels.

If nothing else, here's what I probably remember best after all these years.

Kimochi Strikes Back!

2011-10-19T17:09:00.001+09:00

A few months back I posted a picture of Skeletor which, for all intents and purposes, blew my mind. Yes, consider it blown (and sucked, but I digress). This month, being October, I'd been searching for some images from the Friday the 13th franchise to use in an upcoming post when I stumbled upon the following picture:

(click above to super-size him)

And again, in all honesty, I'm not sure what to make of this. I mean, disregarding the fact that coming back from the dead as a virtually-unstoppable killing machine is utterly fanciful (if not outright absurd) why would Jason's penis be in perfect (albeit albino) working order? Wouldn't it be all dilapidated and shit like the rest of his body? I suppose I'm over-analyzing this, and besides, the point of it all was to let you see what I've seen; and now your day is complete.

Over 2,000,000,000 Served

2011-10-05T16:29:00.000+09:00

Actor Sherman Hemsley, best known for his portrayal of George Jefferson from the iconic television series All in the Family and The Jeffersons was a man typecast by the very same role which made him famous. Audiences expected Hemsley to be Jefferson regardless of whatever name had been attached to any given role, with Amen being the prime example of such expectations as the series, at its core, consisted of a scheming, dishonest man looking to get ahead. Big shocker, right?

Over the years, Hemsley kept busy with voice work for Dinosaurs and guest appearances on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, etc. but the Jeffersonless role I remember most fondly is Hemsley's portrayal of a clever math teacher in a brief segment of the ill-fated 1985 revival of The Twilight Zone. Though not one of the series' more frightening tales, it served as a mirthful, easygoing break between stories of giant spiders and shadow men.

Here is that segment, I of Newton in its entirety for your viewing pleasure. The footage isn't of the greatest quality but if you were satisfied with televisions in 1985 you'll be just fine.

Notes on Music

2011-10-04T19:40:00.000+09:00

Someone once claimed I have good taste in music. They were lying, of course (perhaps delusional, even) but I nevertheless appreciate the occasional, well-intentioned prevarication as much as the next ghoul. An apt declaration, however, would be that I've listened to a great deal of music; and disregarding quality for a moment -if only for shits and giggles- then yes, by virtue of exposure, I know something about good music.

Autograph - Turn Up the Radio

That probably wasn't the best way to convince you of my discerning taste, but hey, it's the first song I felt like uploading and if it feels good, do it. The aforementioned philosophy has served psychopaths, demagogues, pornographers, New Yorkers, and ice-cream truck drivers well for decades and I, for one, relish in keeping such company. If you're a stickler for veracity, then you can rest easy in the knowledge that yes, the only time I turn the music down is when I'm sleeping a long night off.*

Sometimes I get the urge to post an un- or under- appreciated song from an established band; not necessarily a 'deep cut' but you get the idea.

Tool - Eulogy

And why not? Eulogy is an amazing song from a solid album, and if its inclusion here prompts anyone to delve further into Tool's extensive catalogue, excellent. If it repulses you, then I've wasted eight and a half minutes of your life. Win-win!

Speaking of songs from household names, what about the Cars' 2011 release, Move Like This?

The Cars - Sad Song

A new album from Ocasek and company? Get out! I know, I know.

In other instances, I merely wish to share something odd with readers and devotees alike, such as a popular song with a twist.

Martika - Toy Soldiers (Japanese Version)

If you're anything like me, Daiquiri Reader, then you're on the verge of quitting your job to become a kimono-clad ganguro right now thanks to Ms. Marta Marrero's hallowed melody; but supposing you're not, I'd hope you could at least appreciate the quirkiness of it all.

For those times when the Land of the Rising Sun just isn't bizarre enough, I can always gaze southward to the Land Down Under.**

Powderfinger - Pick You Up

Kidding aside, I'm a Blogger of the People. When someone has a request, I take it seriously. PK's very own Harrison Forbes, in a rare, not-so-public display, appeared to me in a bowl of Cheerios I'd been eating this morning and suggested I post a song dear to his heart. (I then proceeded to eat him... but nevertheless, his wish is my command!)

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Theme Song)

Hell, sometimes what I post doesn't even qualify as a song but, rather, an instrumental extracted from whichever video game I'm obsessed with at the moment.

Shoji Meguro - The Hunted (Surprise Battle Theme)

Along those lines, I wouldn't want my posting of music to mislead anyone into considering me a music blogger. That, dearest readers, is a title too lofty for the likes of a layman such as myself. You'll never see me seated in a coffeehouse, sipping on a double mango mocha latte, sucking back on a pomegranate-flavored e-cigarette as I congratulate a friend (you know, the smart one) for completing his dissertation upon the geopolitical importance of toothpaste brand recognition while he, in turn, reinforces my smug sense of having refined taste in music, the kind that's only cool if I heard it before anyone else I know and even then, only if the band in question is liked by fewer than a thousand people from around the globe.

That's fine and all, I suppose, but it's just not me. I'm the one you'll find puffing away on a Marlboro in the nonexistent smoking section of a Dunkin' Donuts, discussing the highs and lows of the Back to the Future soundtrack with PK alumnus denz. While there we'd also debate the merits of me posting a song about love, 'cause that would be akin to him uploading a song about an African-American woman living in antebellum South Carolina, but whatever. "I'm the boss, Aussiesauce!"

School of Seven Bells - I L U

Here's another one for you, yes you! just because I can.

Scott Lucas and the Married Men - Weatherman

I sometimes post music on this blog. So.

* And even then, only if the gremlins turn it down for me.
** I should probably take this opportunity to stress that bizarre is a subjective term and even if it weren't, Australia is by no means strange.***
*** Please, if anyone is reading this: Paul Hogan is in my house right now, threatening to turn my family into a human centipede and ride us around harder than he would a French mime. Please god don't let him discov-

Curiously Fishy

2011-09-30T16:06:00.000+09:00

Nice to see you, KFC. Hey, do you think there's any possibility of getting a bit more sauce on that fucking sandwich? Just wondering.

Now About That Hug...

2011-09-29T17:04:00.001+09:00

For those who voted against the bear suit, your wish is my command. Only one question remains: which of you gets the first hug?

To whoever voted I do! have yourself a burrito, my treat.

Notes on Love

2011-09-28T21:59:00.000+09:00

Fol Chen - The Believers

Once upon a time in a wasteland not so far away, I found myself traveling westward on Highway 30 toward an irrelevant destination. In the darkest of hours, when ruminations are brighter than headlights and cemeteries are encountered as often as oncoming traffic, one is apt to focus upon anything deemed out of the ordinary; and to confuse such sights with those of an extraordinary nature is understandable yet the distinction must be made. A steering wheel lying in the road, for example, is out of the ordinary, whereas a clown juggling three chainsaws along the roadside at midnight, in contrast, qualifies as extraordinary. I witnessed neither of those things on the evening in question, that much should be obvious (for if I had seen a deranged entertainer juggling harmful objects as I drove down a deserted highway in the middle of the night, rest assured I would have blogged about it years ago) but what I did see was something much trickier to readily appreciate, a sight which, perhaps, forever occupies that nebulous state between standard and sensational - not so much for what it is, but for the thoughts it may elicit and the behaviors potentially implied.

Before divulging those emotions stroked by the aforementioned, albeit undefined occurrence it would be wise of me to offer a preemptive apology since the likelihood of you being disappointed is substantial; which is terribly, terribly important to yours truly, and while on the topic of excusations, I sincerely apologize for using the terms thoughts and emotions interchangeably as I did above. I tend to do that (in more ways than one) so please bear with me.

So anyway, one night while driving, I saw a meteorite crash off in the distance. When I stopped to investigate, I found a rock, cracked in several places, with a gooey, purple substance oozing out from each of the fissures. I then poked the viscous mass with a stick, at which point the ooze came to life, crawling up the stick onto my arm. I screamed and...

(Okay, that never happened.)

What I beheld that evening is merely happenstance of the nocturnal variety, decidedly less than preternatural in both appearance and significance but a thing of the utmost beauty nonetheless. I'd been hurtling down the road with the high beams of my rusty Oldsmobile doing their best to illuminate the blackened Earth when movement at the ever-shifting edge of darkness drew my gaze to the side of the road, toward an object far enough to be free from danger yet near enough to arouse one's fearful curiosity. Amidst the brightened weeds and vacant plains which characterize numerous segments of Highway 30 (which is to say that for all intents and purposes, Highway 30 traverses, more often than not, a grassy void) I observed a coyote, and a particularly scrawny one at that, feasting upon the partially-dismembered corpse of a doe which had, in all probability, been the unfortunate victim of vehicular cervicide. For a moment, the ravenous canine paused to observe the automobile, its eyes flashbulbs returning the unwanted light. Momentarily illuminated, the gore smeared across the coyote's muzzle was almost cerise, glistening like a cherry atop a sundae and before the light had completely passed it by, the coyote returned to its quarry, burying its face in the belly of the broken beast; and I said to myself Now that's what I call love.

That's the tale. As stated earlier, it's a tad underwhelming. Then again, there's a magnificence to its simplicity - not in my storytelling, of course, but in the situation itself and to a much lesser degree, the response. Though imperfect, the declaration succeeds insomuch that you or the hypothetical reader/ listener are savvy to the notion that a coyote zealously devouring a deer carcass fits into my conceptualization of love quite readily. Matters of should notwithstanding, it most certainly could be love.*

That some would disagree with me is probable as well as reasonable. What concerns me, however, are those who upon reading (or hearing) said story would launch into an astoundingly annoying What kind of person would say that? /think that? / consider that love? tirade of epic proportions, most likely accompanied by gratuitous finger pointing and an especially grating tone of voice.** Most perplexing, I suppose, is that some people are so delusional as to believe love, in all its inscrutable glory, is something only they are capable of understanding and subsequently consider themselves worthy of passing judgment on those who would disagree.

Shit, I'd trust a coyote's opinion of love over someone like that and while I'm no gambler, I'd wager the coyote more capable of love, to say nothing about finding it.

* Please don't bore me with high-school lexicology. Thanks in advance.
** Don't get started on the What kind of person? criticisms.

Notes on Vampires

2011-09-26T21:59:00.000+09:00

I've never been enamored with vampires. Sucking blood is great for ticks, not me. As for the eroticism involved, I don't pretend to understand much about the mechanics of said -ism but what I do know is that being bitten by some douche with slicked-back hair is not high on my list of titillating experiences. It's just not that sexy. This is, of course, presuming that vampires are of the relatively modern, 'suave' variety exemplified by the likes of Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee.* If we're talking about the 21st Century Vampire, the kind that sparkles in direct sunlight, plays baseball, demonstrates a variety of super powers lifted from an issue of The Uncanny X-Men, goes snorkeling, spends an inordinate amount of time and effort upon styling his hair to look as if it hasn't been styled, files his tax returns promptly, etc. then we aren't really talking about vampires anyway, so let's drink root beer and watch Eat, Pray, Love instead.

Hot, hot, hot!

Thus far, we've established that I'm just not into vampires (and yes, feel free to crack wise about me having dated one), glittery vampires are a joke, and Eat, Pray, Love is dumber than shit. Check, check, and check.

By extension, vampire movies fail to enthrall me. Oddball exceptions (Blacula, Monster Squad and Zoltan, Hound of Dracula, obviously!) aside, such films lack a certain, albeit horrific, entertainment value commonly found in the zombie, werewolf, slasher, and killer clown genres.

But.

Tom Holland's Fright Night is one of my favorite movies. (No horseshit, Wang.) I won't bore either of us with a synopsis, Disemboweled Reader, but it should be painfully obvious that a horror film starring Chris Sarandon (better known to some as Prince Humperdinck from The Princess Bride), Roddy McDowall (better known to some as Cornelius from Planet of the Apes) and Stephen Geoffreys (better known to some as that guy from a bunch of movies in Harrison Forbes' porn collection) is bound for greatness.


Chris Sarandon, alongside Tom Baker, made giant scarves cool again.

Fright Night has everything: nightclubs, shapeshifting, creepy mansions, pop quizzes, catchphrases, nerdy sidekicks and ghoulish henchmen, oversized scarves, nudity, a soundtrack (featuring the J. Geils Band, Autograph, and Devo) alongside a synthesizer score, convincing special effects and... and... a whole lot more! It's a maelstrom of perfection, I say. If you have yet to see the film, you really should. Like, right now. Go.

Even so, I'm not a fan of vampires... unless there's a Belmont involved somehow.

* I lied. Christopher Lee makes everything sexy.

Notes on the Apocalypse

2011-09-25T10:24:00.000+09:00

Does It Offend You, Yeah? - Dawn of the Dead

The living dead I can deal with, but zombies in the morning? If I can hit the snooze button, flesh-eating corpses, you can, too; and don't give me any of that breakfast is the most important meal of the day jive, either. Now, can you dig it?

Supple Something

2011-09-21T23:54:00.000+09:00

You just did a post with pictures!

You're right, I did, but that was before I had the pleasure of staying in a Japanese hotel for a few days; and by stay in a Japanese hotel I mean quite a bit since there's a typhoon blowing across the country. Due to this, I've had ample opportunity to go over the hotel pamphlets in great detail, one of which is the list of movies available for viewing. The usual Hollywood fare is present, as always, but there also happens to be more, shall we say, Japanesish stuff on the menu, and when I say Japanesish stuff I mean pornography! There's nothing wrong with pornography per se, though it's the advertisements which amuse me far more than any film could.

Some of the offerings are pretty straightforward:

We all like orgasms, right? (Even if one doesn't, the topic is entirely predictable.)

Athletes, cheerleaders, it's all the same. Anyone who knows how to handle a tennis racket knows how to handle...

She's so fashionable, and fashion is half the battle.

At this point, tastes become a bit more particular:

Boys will be boys, and some boys like girls on girls.

Something for the adulterer demographic.

Roomies... with benefits!

There's a market for it, I guess, but she's a bit young, don't you think?

From here, things really go downhill:

Enough with the cosplay shit already, guys.

The highest what?

To be honest, I'm not even sure how an internal cum shot at immoral travel is possible (though I kinda-sorta wish I had a body like that, but anyway).

To be candid, I'm curious to see just what this one is about. Is it about sending a bitch to your home, or sending a bitch back home? Inquiring minds want to know.

Okay, this one's just wrong. Wrong.

Super Something

2011-09-19T19:14:00.000+09:00

It's tough to know what will make me laugh, chuckle or smirk but if there's one safe bet on the table, it's stupid pictures - in this case, superhero pictures.

I don't know about you, but I can't decide which of the two I'd rather be. Batman's got it going on, sure, but Bat Man's got it going onnnn!

Oddly enough, that suits looks about as good as the prototype depicted in the first Iron Man film.

Don't call me, Superman, I'll call you. Take a number and get in line, Wolverine. Arm-Fall-Off Boy? Get on my team, player!

Ridiculous Powers, meet Matter-Eater Lad. Matter-Eater Lad, meet Ridiculous Powers. Now when's the wedding going to be, you two?

Okay, back to Batman for a minute. Actually, on second thought, no. Please God, no.

Fuck with Wool Man, I dare you. Double dare, in fact.

Wednesdays with Flash

2011-09-14T20:23:00.005+09:00

I have a dog; or, should I say, he has had me. Every now and then we chat about love, life, and the pursuit of tennis balls. These are some excerpts from my latest interview with Flash Forbes:

Me: Hey, boy. Who's a good boy?

Flash: Put on some fucking AC/DC!

---

Me: Little man, all that jumping isn't good for your spine.

Flash: I may be short, but I'm pretty confident I can bite into your carotid if you would just put your face a little closer.

---

Me: What did I do to deserve this on my day off?

Flash: Does the name Gruber mean anything to you?

---

Me: You know what, doggie? I've grown very attached to you.

Flash: You know what, dickhead, you took me away from my mother as a baby and forced me into indentured servitude.

Me: No, it wasn't like that. I rescued you.

Flash: Bullshit. You chose me from a pet store window the same way a John selects a hooker in Cheongnyangni. And, similarly, you want me to perform tricks for you.

Me: That's hardly fair. I just want you to sit and play fetch.

Flash: And roll over and play dead.

Me: I'm not saying you don't have a point there.

---

Flash: We're out of fucking sugared donuts.

Me: I'll pick up some tomorrow on my way home from work, then.

Flash: If I wanted you to pick them up tomorrow, don't you think I would have mentioned it tomorrow?

---

Flash: You want to cross the River Styx, you gotta pay the boatman.

Me: You've been chewing on the wallpaper again, haven't you?

Flash: I'm not saying I haven't.

---

Me: Y'know, you look so peaceful when you sleep.

Flash: You'll look more peaceful when you're dead. Tastier, too.

Birthday Weeks and Slasher Flicks

2011-09-12T21:05:00.001+09:00

Before anything else, let's just get this out of the way: Who, I say who is in the mood for a Birthday Week hug? Who's on board?

No one?

Come ON! You mean to tell me I bought this teddy bear costume for nothing? Seriously, what's the deal? It's not like I can get my money back at this point, what with the modifications and all. Do you honestly believe the store would give me a refund now that the costume has razor blades embedded in the paws and shards of broken glass in lieu of teeth? Jerk.

I'm kidding of course,* so let's have a big hug to celebrate the joke.

Still reluctant? Okay, I get it, I really do, but I'd appreciate some empathy. I purchased this teddy bear suit, enhanced it, offered you a hug (with glassy kisses!) and this is your reaction? Well, you go to hell!

Kidding again.** Sorry. I can't help myself. One could even say I can't hold back, and speaking of which:

Survivor - I Can't Hold Back

Am I the only one who thinks this song could apply to the killer and a victim from a 1984 slasher flick? (Take a look at the lyrics and tell me I'm wrong.) Alongside I Can't Hold Back, 1984 saw the release of Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter and as much as I want to say Part II is my favorite of the sequels, the kid in me still adores the fourth installment of a now-tired franchise. Sure, the first sequel had bag-head Jason and everyone's favorite final girl, Amy Steel, but Part IV had Tom Savini on special effects, Crispin Glover attacked with a corkscrew, Corey fucking Feldman (before he became a parody of himself), a guy shot in the groin with a speargun, twins (not the Doublemint twins, unfortunately, but good enough) and a whole lot more - including actress Judie Aronson as Samantha.

Yeah, I had a big crush on Judie Aronson/ Samantha as a kid though the reasons behind such adoration shall remain unexplained, if only because they're as trivial, and perhaps inscrutable, as those of most other childhood fascinations. What needs be said is that, like you, she'd be a wonderful person to hug - with or without the bear suit.***

* For what you think and/or desire is important, though not in the way you'd expect.
** It's amusing to watch you struggle, after all.
*** But I'm still going to wear the bear suit, sucker.

Confection Rejection

2011-09-07T17:30:00.000+09:00

Natalie Portman's Shaved Head - Confections

All the notions in this noggin are gonna melt... All the notions in this noggin are gonna melt...

Saturday Slop

2011-09-03T19:53:00.000+09:00

Last night, I had a dream and like most nocturnal (re)visions, it was at once vivid yet maddeningly obscure. I scantly recall the particulars, though I do remember stepping into a man's elbow (causing it to bend the way Nature hadn't intended) and then, sometime later, decorating that same gentleman with orange spray paint just prior to dismembering him. There was a woman, too, but I can't remember what happened to her. What I do recall is that she was delightful in some ways, while terribly annoying in others.

Anyway, I awoke from this dream in a ravenous state, which is to say I simply had to eat something, though not anything readily available (for that would have been far too easy). Regarding foodstuffs, some would label me the survival type as the most you'll see in my fridge at any given moment is, for example, a loaf of bread, jar of mustard, half-eaten pizza slice,* bottles of alcohol,** and some milk. I suppose it's the part of me that never thinks too far into the future, or maybe I don't like to throw food away and thus only buy as much as (I think I'll) eat. Whatever the case may be, the food I purchase is never the food desired when I wake up in the dead of night.

This, folks, is how a person ends up at McDonald's at three-thirty in the morning on a Saturday, decimating a Big Mac when a Big Mac is, honestly, a shitty burger from a mediocre fast food joint. Then again, the place is open at three-fucking-whatever in the morning and when you're starving, even a Big Mac tastes like what you've been dreaming about. Keep the dream alive, I always say.***

* That's the way I found it!
** Kidding, of course. Booze doesn't last a day in my presence.
*** No, I don't.

Six Shots till Summation (2011)

2011-09-01T23:07:00.002+09:00

A few years ago, I began a series of horror-themed posts in which six stills from a film would be presented for the readers' viewing pleasure and, in a way, encapsulate the narrative of the movie itself. A year later, the concept resurfaced, however briefly, as tribute to the spectacularly craptacular Birdemic.

Here we are in 2011, after a failed film adaptation of a series of posts based upon horror films, an underwhelming Broadway musical entitled Six Shots till Summation: Tune Out the Fart (collaborating with Taco on the score proved a colossal mistake) and a disastrous video game tie-in developed by the ironically-named American Sammy.

With so much heartache accompanying such a beloved franchise, it stands to reason that the concept needs to be taken in a direction at once faithful to the original yet daringly divergent. Granted, in today's remake/ reboot/ regurgitation heavy market that kind of statement often precedes the release of a pathetic, uninspired retread -in 3D, no less- and perhaps this is no different, but I'd like to think there's a whole lot of soul in today's release. Soul, I say!

What makes today's Six Shots till Summation unique is that instead of posting screen captures from the film itself, I will instead a put series of pictures on display which, collectively, somewhat embodies my opinion of the movie in question, in this case Rubber, directed by Quentin Dupieux.

Without further ado (and in no particular order):

For the uninitiated: 1) Mr. Bean 2) Cherry Tomatoes 3) Bell Biv Devoe's Poison 4) Dubai 5) a Yuppie and 6) a PT Cruiser

For those in the know: Yes, Rubber ranks amongst the most infuriatingly atrocious things I've encountered in the past thirty-odd years. I mean, I can accept that Rowan Atkinson isn't Mr. Bean; offer cherry tomatoes to dinner companions; run out of the bar when the jukebox plays Bell Biv Devoe; abstain from traveling to Dubai for the good of whatever passing itself off, however poorly, as humanity currently residing there; allow yuppies to keep being fuckheads with poor taste in music; and pretend that PT Cruisers are really Decepticons infiltrating the homes of the elderly, lobotomized, and neutered alike; but Rubber is too much.

The Smashed Eye Says...

2011-08-31T21:52:00.000+09:00

(click to enlarge)

Insert eye pun here. Eye'll get you started.

"Eye can't believe it's not bloodier!"
"Damn, girl, you best put some eyece on that."

Mine suck for sure, but hey, puns aren't my bag.

And...

Klaxons - Echoes

...because for whatever reason, the lyrics Echoes from the other world turn horizons into endless ever present reminded me of the picture (or perhaps the picture reminded me of the lyrics). Go figure.

Of the Party

2011-08-30T22:47:00.001+09:00

The Weeknd - Life of the Party

You probably should have dialed 911 a few minutes ago, but we'll get to that later.

As per the standard, a traditional 'double-ought' buckshot shell contains eight lead pellets, although steel is a relatively common substitute. Regardless of the pellets' composition, said munitions are designed to spread out when fired from an appropriate device, thereby increasing the likelihood of a target being struck and, ideally, disabled if not killed outright. Buckshot pellets, unlike birdshot, cannot be poured into the shell due to their comparatively large size; that being of a magnitude sufficient for taking down bigger game, be it deer, moose, or man. Dimensions of ammunition and target notwithstanding, buckshot has an effective range of roughly thirty to fifty yards and one need not be an award-winning physicist to ascertain the reason for such limitations. Beyond fifty yards or so, the pellets are spread too thinly to cause much damage, though to say they lack any stopping power whatsoever would be an egregious error, albeit a less-than-catastrophic one.

Someone's been shot, yes, and you're right, precious time has been lost. Nine. One. One. It's that easy.

As stated earlier, distance plays a critical role in determining the amount of damaged sustained by those on the business end of a shotgun blast. At thirty yards, for instance, a round fired from a break-action, double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun manages to pelt its intended victim with five of the eight pellets available, namely in the throat, face, and upper chest, boring into flesh and bone alike. A second round from the very same gun discharged at point-blank range, however, effectively obliterates whatever lies in its path - a human foot, for example. Both injuries are, theoretical considerations aside, grievous indeed yet the former is, statistically speaking, far less likely to result in death whereas the latter, barring immediate treatment, will invariably prove fatal.

You're a mess! Just push the buttons. You know, if you hadn't jumped the gun, as it were, and shot me at such a distance, we wouldn't be having this conversation.

For the Slow Mutants

2011-08-26T22:10:00.007+09:00

The Killers - Everything Will Be Alright

I'd totally have your back if I weren't so preoccupied with shooting it.

Fruit Flies for Mr. Cookieside

2011-08-23T22:51:00.000+09:00

Contrary to what you've been told, I don't keep up with kids' stuff. Video games, comic books, Pixar films, pop-up books, Boba Fett, Sweet Valley High, Cheetos Puffs, New Edition, Harry Potter, Electric Six, Big Trouble in Little China, action figures, graphic tees, bathroom humor, etc. notwithstanding, I don't know much about the lives, times, tribulations, and television shows of children and their wild-as-a-wine-spritzer parental units; so yes, it came as a surprise to learn that everyone's favorite embodiment of free choice and unhealthy living, better known as the Cookie Monster, had been domesticated a few years back. (I wouldn't go so far as to suggest the poor beast has been neutered because, well, I'm uncertain as to the existence of his reproductive organs in the first place.)

I became aware of this distressing shred of absurdity not by surfing the Internet or watching television (like you'd ever find me engaged in something as pointless as that) but while having dinner with a friend, her husband, and their two-year-old daughter.* Said friend and I were discussing her daily routine (which is of some interest to me since I don't have any children of my own, much in the same way I enjoy talking to people with real jobs) and of course the topic of television was raised and of course I asked about her daughter's favorite TV show, which was (and perhaps, still is), in fact, something other than Sesame Street, but Sesame Street was the only one I recognized so we kept talking about the show, yet as it turns out, I guess I don't know much about Sesame Street since, apparently, it's okay to butcher the Cookie Monster's core identity and mold what remains into a grotesque, fruity** simulacrum.

To reiterate: I was told, in no uncertain terms, that Cookie Monster now, at least officially, considers cookies a sometimes food and what's worse, 'foods' such as asparagus, broccoli, and watermelon are on his dinner plate. I have nothing personal against the aforementioned items, yet even so, I was floored. I mean, what the hell is going on here? If we'd been talking about the Cigarette Monster, I'd be less aghast*** but as things stand, it seems a case of political correctness gone disgustingly awry.

You won't see me denying that media exerts considerable influence upon society but for producers, writers, executives, deranged parents and others to claim that Cookie Monster's obsession is somehow endorsing or actively contributing toward childhood obesity is ridiculous. Let it be said, here and now, that I'm willing to embrace the notion that my idea of child-rearing is askew. ~~Encouraging~~ Allowing a four-year-old to watch Terminator 3, for example, probably wasn't my finest hour (I say probably because shit, my original plan called for Commando and/ or Hellraiser II and by comparison, Terminator 3 is Fraggle Rock) and I get that, just as I understand my parental ineptitude; despite such flaws, I stand by my assertion that Cookie Monster's behavior scarcely deserved modification. Anyone so very worried that a Muppet's eating habits will send kids to the house that Rotundity built (with cookies and a whole lot of cream, no less) should have their head examined. (Seriously. They, alongside anyone who complained that Bert and Ernie's living arrangement promotes a gay lifestyle.)

Furthermore, what of Cookie Monster's feelings? Doesn't it matter that he's been reduced to a mere shadow of his former glory? I can imagine how that went down.

(Just after the big staff meeting.)

Cookie Monster: What... What just happened in there?
The Count: One! You've just been stripped of your identity.
Prairie Dawn: And then some. The suits just handed your ass to you!
Cookie Monster: I know, right? Telling me to refrain from cookies is like ordering Big Bird to stop being so big 'cause it inspires kids to do steroids.
Big Bird: Steroids? Nigga please! The only thing to worry 'bout with the Bird is me bangin' the broads. Wilt the Stilt ain't got nothin' on me.
Grover: Yeah boyyyyyyyyy! Happy hour at Applebee's from five till eight! From there, who knows?
The Count: Two! You've become the Sesame Street punching bag.
Cookie Monster: Exactly! We all have problems, but I'm the one everybody points fingers at. Big Bird is the poster child for STDs and Grover's been an alcoholic for twenty-six years but nobody complains since a bottle of Jim Beam a day keeps him skinny as a rail.
Grover: Come on, guys. Mark Wahlberg's gonna be there.
Prairie Dawn: No shit?
Grover: Indeed. I offered to give him some tips on acting and his people called my people the day after Planet of the Apes was released.
Cookie Monster: But what hurts the most is the lack of solidarity and respect. Kermit just sat there, his mouth shut the whole time. You'd think he'd have my back, what with him dating Ms. Piggy for so long.
Prairie Dawn: You know that bitch is behind all this crap. She's been the butt of jokes for so long that she's looking to take out anyone with a penchant for food. Kermit? He'll do whatever it takes to avoid the beatings at home.
Cookie Monster: Yeah, but did she have to be present at the meeting? She doesn't even work with us! Secondly, did she have to finish a box of Twinkies while there? That's just cruel.
Oscar the Grouch: Dude, I've been living in a garbage can, drinking malt liquor and eating dog food for the past forty years. Shut the fuck up about the fucking cookies already!
The Count: Three! That's the number of hate crimes I've committed today.

* For those curious, I enjoyed a hot ham and cheese on pretzel bun and it was pretty good, though the fries left something to be desired - I like my fries firm and battered, after all.

** And I mean that literally. Cookie Monster's sexual orientation is of no concern to me. He could be getting it on with a harem full of Jerry's Kids for all I care, just so long as he downs a bag of Chewy Chips Ahoy! while pounding some of that dystrophic ass.

*** Tangentially, I just spoke with Cookie Monster's surly, just-out-of-prison brother and rest assured he's still a two pack a day kind of Muppet.

Lite Brite

2011-08-05T13:57:00.000+09:00

A few suggestions about this evening's video:

1) Watch the performance in fullscreen 1080p (if possible) because it deserves to be seen that way.

2) Let the video load completely, as to have it get stuck midway would really kill the mood.

Spunk Tales! (The Ghoul)

2011-08-04T17:17:00.002+09:00

Silversun Pickups - Rusted Wheel

   In the backseat of a midnight blue Lincoln Town Car parked at the dimly-lit edge of The Red Lion lot, to the right of a sighing Rodger McCormack, the woman with the multicolored mane sits stroking his erect penis with detachment etched upon her face. She told him that her name was Megan; and it’s not so much a lie as it is a matter of trivial concern, for her name could be anything -Aunt Jemima comes to mind, if only because the situation elicits vague recollections of procuring syrup from a bottle- and it wouldn’t make the slightest difference.

   Rodger mentions something about being quite fond of her hair, to which she nods as she continues working diligently on the task at hand. It’s so terribly disinteresting, this situation, but it’s something she needs, something she craves, that which is contained within her libidinous friend. Megan’s right hand, her better hand, grasps his manhood firmly; twisting, shaking, and shifting, her fingers imbue pleasure upon the appendage and its fleshly mooring, though she herself feels only the faintest flutter of anticipation. She had felt alive, truly alive throughout the extended karaoke performance but here, atop a plush, spacious seat, she harbors nothing short of utter disdain and yet continues stroking, eager to behold the viscous results of her labor.

   Rodger moans as he runs his fingers through roots dyed blue. Hoping to take things a step further, he tenderly attempts to push Megan’s head toward his crotch. This time it is she who sighs, and she calmly grips his wrist with her left hand, dragging it down to the seat. Though he surrenders, her hands remain in their respective positions, each a testament to who dictates terms.

   She tries to remember the taste of semen. There is a word that comes to mind, but it can’t be right, or can it? She simply must know, and so she assails Rodger’s penis with increasing vigor, all the while paying the man attached to it no heed whatsoever. He grunts repeatedly, and amidst the shadowy interior of Rodger McCormack’s automobile Megan spots the first droplet of semen emerge from the tip. For the first time since they took their places, she smirks; since here and now, as one hurtles toward orgasm, the scent creeping into her nostrils is excessively familiar. She knows exactly where Rodger has been, but that’s not the only reason she’s in the back of a Lincoln Town Car.

   Accompanied by a series of harsh groans, milky lava erupts from Rodger’s throbbing penis, spurting onto his exposed stomach and then, in a series of less profuse discharges, upon Megan’s still-moving hand. The woman with the blue, white and red hair slows down, allowing him to finish peacefully, after which she runs her fingers across his flesh, gathering the excess ejaculate till said hand is dripping wet, and sticks a gooey index finger in her mouth only to remove it quickly.

   “Hmm” the woman muses aloud, not quite disappointed but terribly so. “It’s just not the same,” Megan laments, staring at her finger dejectedly. Rodger expresses confusion regarding the matter, and she’ll grant him that. “I mean, I remember it tasting, I don’t know, somewhat metallic, I suppose.” He laughs and questions her judgement, to which Megan responds “Yeah, maybe. Try it and tell me what you think?” alongside an appropriately devilish grin. His face scrunches up with revulsion. “Oh, come on. You have no idea how hot it would make me,” she coos seductively, “and it’s not like you have to put my whole hand in your mouth or anything. Just let it touch your lips, okay?” After a moment or two of head-tilting, eye-shifting and what she can only presume to be a tumultuous internal debate, Rodger acquiesces, albeit reluctantly, to her proposal.

   Gingerly, Megan’s soggy hand creeps across Rodger’s chest, neck and comes to rest with the palm beneath his chin as her fingers dance across his lips up to his nostrils. From her vantage point, she watches him squirm at the thought, taste, touch and smell of his own ejaculate with a an ever-increasing azure twinkle in her eyes, and Megan can scarcely resist the temptation to snicker at the atrociously sublime spectacle as she sticks two fingers into those very nostrils he most certainly holds dear. He recoils in disgust, yet her hand only follows him, pushing his head against the back of the seat while her other hand, still clasping his left wrist with a strength surely unforeseen by her salacious companion, pulls his arm in the opposite direction. The woman’s palm presses harder, forcing his head to tilt toward the ceiling and at this point, as people are apt to do, his disgust transforms into panic, for Rodger undoubtedly knows what he should have known from the very beginning: there is something horrifically wrong with this situation.

   “Come on, Rodger!” she whispers with artificial zeal, “Tell me what you think! Is it sweet, sour, or does everything simply taste like chicken to a guy like you?” even though an answer is impossible, for his jaw has been forced shut and his teeth are beginning to crack. As she pushes and pulls harder and further with preternatural force and manufactured glee, her slender fingers tear into the skin just beneath his nose. The flesh slips from the bone like steamed pork at a barbecue and thus Megan’s reddened fingers readily progress into the gum line of Rodger’s upper jaw, there encountering firmer resistance. “Questions abound! I know, I know,” Megan says, continuing her mock enthusiasm while Rodger’s free arm attempts, however ineffectually, to break her spidery grip upon his face. “It's like, is the arm or neck going to break first, or will you simply bleed to death? Such a conundrum. On top of all that, I can only assume that you're ever-so-curious as to how we arrived at this very moment.”

   Megan tilts her head in mirthful observance of the convulsions his body exhibits before offering an answer of sorts. “Well first of all, your” -snap- “neck will be the first to go ‘cause that’s how I roll and besides, it’s the most humane of available outcomes.” Guiding his flopping neck and head downward so that his fading eyes, once so deliciously vibrant, meet hers, now so maliciously ablaze, she continues. “Now I’m aware that on some level you can hear me, if only momentarily. The thing is, my good man, is that your dick has been all over the place; and all things considered, you simply wouldn’t believe who had requested my assistance even if I were to divulge such information. Seriously. In other words...” she begins, but his eyes have grown dark, lifeless as they are wide.

   Her fingers, now bathed in several fluids intertwined, return to her lips for the purpose of savoring the amalgamated flavor. It tastes better, more metallic yet flawed; which is to say, not quite divine. Typical. Gazing at the man’s flaccid penis, Megan’s teeth begin to grind, for although she has long since given up trying to galvanize the loathsome denizens of this decrepit town into recognizing just what -or perhaps, in a manner of speaking, who- slowly gnaws upon their collective sanity, the fact of the matter is that old habits die really, really hard.

My Life in 5:31

2011-08-02T14:47:00.000+09:00

Tokyo Drink!

2011-08-01T13:45:00.004+09:00

The part where the Volt flies though the air is my favorite.

In other news: Did you know that Orson Welles directed films?

Skeledelic Kimochi

2011-07-31T16:17:00.000+09:00

Back in June, I used a picture depicting Skeletor alongside the Care Bears for a post about a song I listen to when happy. During my search for an appropriate picture, I came across this... this thing you now see at the top of this post, and to say that the picture above is inappropriate would be accurate but really, there's just so much more wrong about it that I'm having trouble keeping my brain from exploding.

I mean, the Internet is rife with budding artists uploading all manner of crude imagery. I get that, I really do, but this is a case of someone having taken the time to envision a nude Skeletor lounging atop Cringer's skin and then bringing that morbid thought to life as a painting. Not a sketch, not Adobe photoshop, but a bona fide painting, as in someone went all Bob Ross to a canvas for the purpose of... just what exactly, I haven't the slightest clue and, furthermore, was this a commission, or a pet project? Again, I have no idea.

What I do know, however, is that my mind is officially blown. I guess you win this round, Internet.

30-Day Song Challenge, Day 3

2011-07-27T21:18:00.005+09:00

A Song That Makes You Happy

That's easy: triangle kimbap! What, that's not a song, you say? My stomach disagrees*! It has been dancing all of last night and into today.

Fine. A song-song. Since I'm an Objectivist (not really) and a hedonist (assuredly), I think I've documented enough the songs that make me happy on this -- hallowed -- document of online onanism, so I'll try to come up with another that I haven't mentioned.

(Thinking)

(Still thinking)

You know what? No song has ever made me happier right now than

It's on Youtube.

* with you! No, wait...with me. Shit. [runs to bathroom]**

** Is this meta-meta-text? I'm not sure. I'm dizzy and I've forgotten my own name.***

*** Shit, now I'm an old Japanese man in Limbo.

30-Day Song Challenge, Day 2

2011-07-26T21:48:00.002+09:00

A song I hate?

I hate "Mickey" by Toni Basil so much that I'm not going to spell check OR fact check this post. I hate "Micky" so much that I'm passing this hate on to you. "Mickey" is a song that has made me support capital punishment, to advocate date-rape drugs. Part of my hatred for "Mickey" stems from its ubiquitous presence on/at Korean informercials, store openings, spelling bees; but what makes me hate it the most is that it's a really fucking annoying song. It's like watching children pee their pants. It's like watching a deer eat a flower and then explode. It's like finding out your favorite author was a child molester.

"Micky" can go to Hell. That the song was ever considered new wave is a slap in the face to all of the early 80's pioneers who actually made good songs that don't make people want to throw up.

And if by chance you like "Mickey," I won't hold it against you, but I totally fucking will.

It's on YouTube.

Analyze This (or That)*

2011-07-25T16:11:00.002+09:00

Just for fun, I pulled up Google Analytics a few hours ago to gather information about this, the 43rd greatest blog in the multiverse, from the period of June 24, 2011 to July 24, 2011 and thought I'd share a bit with you, Dedicated Readers.

Visitors by Country

1. United States
2. Canada
3. United Kingdom
4. South Korea

Nothing terribly surprising here, though I am a tad disappointed in you, Canada. To think, I once delightfully referred to you as The Maple Menace and yet here you are, playing second fiddle to the U.S. For shame, Canada, for shame.

As for you, United Kingdom: This tears me in two entirely distinct directions, given that on the one hand, many of the coolest people I've met (to say nothing of the readers of our very blog) are from the U.K. and yet, at the very same time, some of the biggest, douche-baggiest fuckheads I've had the displeasure of coming across come from there as well. Regardless, you're still okay in my book, U.K. - but would you be offended if I renewed my License (Licence!) to Kill to help even things out?

5. France
6. Germany
7. Australia

Nice work, France and Germany. Welcome to the party!

..... But seriously, Australia, you're gonna let them talk shit about you like that? Oy!

8. India
9. Poland
10. Philippines

Somewhat unexpected, but hey, nice to see you guys. There's a keg on tap in the back. Enjoy.

And then...

19. Japan

Dude. You're slipping, man. Don't get me wrong, you're amazing -you made video games great again, amongst so much else- but nineteenth? Don't leave me hanging, Japan! Look, I even prepared some Asahi and strawberry-flavored Cheetos for you. Stay awhile.

30. United Arab Emirates

Yeah... I guess you can hang out here, though you'll have to bring your own tasteless non-alcoholic beer 'cause that's not how we roll and just so you know, no one gives a shit how much money (alongside a lack of genuine class) you bring to the table.

56. Iceland

Yes...Yes! I won't lie, Iceland. You're pretty sexy in so many ways. Let me show you to my bedroom...

69. Qatar

PK will lead to a democratic Qatar! (Insert Sixty-nine joke here, too.)

Keywords

First things first, the big guns:

Jane March - I don't know why so many people are obsessed with the actress but the fact is, so many people are (and they come to PK because of one unassuming picture Forbes once used as a header).

Chloe Sevigny sucks dick/ Chloe Sevigny swallow/ Chloe Sevigny Brown Bunny/ Sevigny cum in mouth/ (any possible variation of the topic) - Good lord! Once upon a time, Sparkles aka Harrison Forbes aka Whatever made a post about actress Chloe Sevigny's decision to perform fellatio upon co-star Vincent Gallo in The Brown Bunny and as one may guess, that post gets daily hits up the wazoo. Decades (cough, cough) from now, long after each and every contributor to this blog is dead and buried, Chloe Sevigny sucks dick and swallows will continue to be the keyword of choice for sexually frustrated males around the globe.

Cassie Steele - See Jane March above. Same story, different lady. Oddly enough, the Cassie Steele picture was posted by yours truly. So... Keep up the good searches, twentysomething males!

Nancy Lang - Notice a trend developing here? This time, Forbes interviewed Korean artist and "celebrity" Nancy Lang who is, well, doing something with her life now, though I can't be bothered to do a Google search of my own.

And now for some of the lesser searches:

Chicken Wire, the Harbinger of Heavenly Annotation/ Sling Khidorah - Wow. I have stalkers! Or fans. Or creepers. Whatever the case may be, keep up the good work, though I'm tempted to point out that you could bookmark this blog on your respective web browser or, dare I say it, become a follower; and you can still search for me if that's what you're into. (I love you, by the way.)

Richard Dreyfuss jerk - In answer to your query: yes, he is

Jack London racist - In answer to your query: yes, he probably was

are potatoes safe to eat raw - In answer to your query: maybe

are double happiness cigarettes good - In answer to your query: fuck no

athlete's foot in the mouth - You're probably looking for this post. It's a good song, even if it pains me to say so.

Castlevania Order of Essaca - Did you mean Castlevania: Order of Ecclesia? I can only hope you did.

mack 10 westside slaughterhouse sampled interpolated - I haven't the slightest clue what this search was about or how it led someone to Psychedelic Kimchi, but I'm enamored with the absurdity of it all!

spunk tales - I know exactly how this relates to Psychedelic Kimchi and yes, I'll get around to doing another post sometime soon.

Kurt Russell personality - Let me be frank: anything to do with Kurt Russell is inherently awesome (except for Captain Ron, perhaps) and we'll take what we can get.

Okay, my eyes are beginning to bleed. Keep searching, searchers!

* What a bunch of shit those movies were, yeah? I'm just saying.

Stadium Seating

2011-07-19T14:15:00.000+09:00

Tetsuoooooooooooo!*

* What had you to say, where had you to go?

X Marks the Spot

2011-07-19T07:17:00.000+09:00

In the parking lot of a Perkins Restaurant & Bakery at half-past midnight, Todd stands watching as Megan, with lit cigarette between her lips, rummages though a garbage sack in the back seat of a lifted Ford Taurus station wagon. Chad stands beside him but he's more concerned with a takeout box containing the smoked turkey reuben he'd ordered specifically to go. Megan removes a can of fluorescent orange spray paint from the sack and proceeds to inscribe an enormous 'X' upon the crotch of her ragged blue jeans, after which she tosses the can back into the car. For the first time in weeks, Chad bellows with laughter and observes that X marks the twa- when Megan interrupts him by slapping the open box along with its contents up into his face and down upon the cement below. She then pulls the hood of her sweatshirt over her head and flicks the cigarette at Todd alongside a command to start the car before stomping off toward the restaurant. Todd listlessly watches her pass though the windowed vestibule and into the Men's restroom while, much to his dismay, Chad stoops down to gather his sandwich, at which point Todd can't help but ponder just how, let alone why he got himself involved with such utterly incorrigible maniacs; and yet he goes to start the car anyway.

The Raconteurs - Consoler of the Lonely
Arcade Fire - Half Light II (No Celebration)
El-P - Run the Numbers
Radiohead - Let Down
Snow Patrol - Disaster Button
The Killers - My List
Playradioplay! - Forgiveness, the Enviable Trait
White Zombie - Blood, Milk and Sky

(It's a playlist, silly.)

Day Thirty: All but One of the Eskimos Perished That Day

2011-07-16T14:31:00.001+09:00

Day 30 - Your favorite song at this time last year

Because, because, because... He didn't have the heart to say that she wouldn't have the heart to stay. Truth be told, she never did (get it).

One EskimO - Chocolate

Given that this evening's post is the final day of the 30-Day Song Challenge, I figured I'd share a few of the almost-made-it songs.

Day 01 - Your favorite song: Our Lady Peace - Happiness & The Fish

Day 05 - A song that reminds you of someone: Foo Fighters - The Best of You

Day 13 - A song that is a guilty pleasure: Hadouken! - Turn the Lights Out

Day 18 - A song that you wish you heard on the radio: Dragonette - Pick Up the Phone

Day 25 - A song that makes you laugh: Robbie Williams - Millennium

Day 29 - A song from your childhood: Duran Duran - A View to a Kill

Finally, I'd like to add my own category, just because it's me.

Day Zero - A theme from a video game to serve as your personal BGM: Mystery Music*

* If you can identify the game from which this music was lifted, you're officially awesome.**

** You're not allowed to play, Avis, but don't fret: you're cool enough as is.

Day Twenty-Nine: Tomboy's Been Hanging Out with Some Petty Heartbreakers

2011-07-15T15:02:00.004+09:00

Day 29 - A song from your childhood

So many choices! As an MTV kid with two elder siblings, I was literally inundated with aural and visual stimulation of, at times, questionable standards (as any longtime reader of this blog could attest). Be that as it may, it stands to reason that today's challenge would be difficult insomuch that there are just so many songs from which to choose; an equally arduous task was to select a song that people wouldn't expect. I mean, if one were to ask my sister, for example, she'd probably suggest Sammy Hagar's 'I Can't Drive 55' on account of the fact that there was a period in which I was convinced that anything the Red Rocker touched turned to solid gold (red gold!) and while true -the part about my feelings, not Hagar's abilities- it's simply too obvious. Similarly, my brother would probably shrug and propose Weird Al Yankovic's parody of The Kinks' 'Lola' entitled 'Yoda' but it's pretty stupid (well that, and I don't have the song to upload).

As stated before, my preoccupation with MTV colored my musical preferences at the time and so, if anything, today's song had to be one that was a part of my childhood with regards to both sight and sound. Along those lines, I contemplated the Greg Kihn Band's 'Jeopardy' since, really, the video creeped me out as a child and had lasting effects on my view of marriage but the thing is that I'm pretty sure I've mentioned this on PK before, so that's old news, you know?

Yeah, that song was out, sure, but it did get me thinking about other videos that poked and prodded my impressionable mind, and while not frightening per se, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers' 1985 hit 'Don't Come Around Here No More' is one of those addling experiences. The video itself (and you can find it on YouTube) consisted of, amongst other things, Tom Petty as the Mad Hatter and Alice being eaten as cake. Tell me that's not surreal to a kid and I'll tell you that you're surreal as a person. Half-facietiously, of course.

Speaking of surreal, here is the song's origin, courtesy of Wikipedia:
The original inspiration was a romantic encounter that Stewart had with Stevie Nicks of Fleetwood Mac. On The Howard Stern Show, Dave Stewart explained that the title's phrase was actually uttered by Stevie. She had broken up with Joe Walsh the night before, and invited Dave Stewart to her place for a party after an early Eurythmics show in Los Angeles. Dave didn't know who she was at the time, but went anyway. When the party goers all disappeared to a bathroom for a couple of hours to snort cocaine, he decided to go upstairs to bed. He woke up at 5am to find Stevie Nicks in his room trying on Victorian clothing and described the entire scenario as very much reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland. Later that morning, she told Walsh, "Don't come around here no more". (link)

Tom Petty? David Stewart? Stevie Nicks? Joe Walsh? Victorian clothing? Cocaine? I mean come on! That's a recipe for pure strangeness.

Anyway, here's the song.

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers - Don't Come Around Here No More

M&M Karaoke (The Red Lion Roars for You)

2011-07-15T12:20:00.002+09:00

Michelle

   The Red Lion is not what Michelle would normally refer to as a happening place. Constructed in the early eighties, The Red Lion was, even then, what folks considered a throwback: wood and leather everything, dimly lit, and quaintly drab, like a pub for those without the slightest taste. Over the years, however (or so she had been informed by some of the establishment’s older clientele) some modern additions had been made, much to the chagrin of those same stubbornly fossilized patrons. Strands of red Christmas-style lights had been run along the edges of the ceiling and atop the bar proper, as if to enhance the mood, while tables and chairs alike had been removed to make way for a small area in which local jazz acts could set up camp to entertain the barflies. But this was Thursday night, which meant that musicians were nowhere to be seen, replaced by a karaoke machine, a microphone, and a slew of intoxicated dreamers singing their hearts out. Michelle isn’t one of them, though she enjoys the spectacle of it all from the comfort of a cushy stool at the bar, sipping her vodka tonic very, very slowly to extend the evening as necessary.

   She patiently, silently sits, studying her drink, her fingers, and the pack of Newports that sit beside an empty tin ashtray as an elderly gentleman croons the final lines of Don McLean’s American Pie accompanied by numerous intoxicated compatriots. Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye, singing... This’ll be the day that I die. The crowd, both young and old, applaud though Michelle abstains. She’s never much cared for the song herself, and the man she’s been watching off and on throughout the evening, the one sitting at a table with three others is shouting accolades, so she’s definitely not going to participate. His name is Rodger McCormack, and he’s a bastard of the highest order. At nearly forty years old, Rodger’s going bald, wearing a polo shirt, and though she can’t prove it, probably molesting Michelle’s fourteen year-old daughter, Sophia. More than probably, in fact, though her daughter says nothing and the bastard is effortlessly indignant. Aware of her presence at The Red Lion, Rodger nevertheless gleefully enjoys the evening’s karaoke debacle, thoroughly dismissive of Michelle’s glares.

   “Nice glasses,” a masculine voice comments from somewhere nearby to her right. Instinctively, Michelle shoots daggers toward this interloper because if there’s one thing that pisses her off, it’s people mocking her choice in eyewear; yet the look on the man’s face -attractively pudgy with an adorably bulbous nose- radiates a genuine interest and his eyes speak the language of kindness, so she relents and cautiously thanks him for the compliment. He asks if the seat beside her is taken, and it is, but by someone who’s about due for a karaoke performance all her own. Michelle tells him that it’s now his, and the man flashes her the biggest big-mouthed smile she’s been privy to in quite a while, to which she responds in kind, albeit in less gratuitous fashion. Brazenly, the man plops down on the stool, removes a cigarette from her pack, lights up, asks the bartender for two sloe gin fizzes, and then informs Michelle that her dress (a flimsy, sleeveless jet black number which barely covers her knees) is way too classy for a place like this. She chuckles. All things considered, this guy’s alright; and coupled with his black and white vertically-striped shirt, quite attractive. This is when the sound of synthesizers burst forth from the mammoth speakers of the karaoke machine and amidst the cheers and the clapping and the nods from the aging horde, Michelle spots Megan take the stage, microphone in hand. Decked out in an urban camouflage print tank top, charcoal cargo pants and, to state the painfully obvious, hair dyed blue, white and red, the woman is a sight to behold, and it’s one the crowd adores, for Megan’s nothing if not an animal of magnetism.

   “Now this place is bit too small for dancing,” Megan playfully hisses into the microphone, “but it sure is dark enough.” Some drunken old guy pushing sixty, sitting alone at a corner table roars in approval. This is when Michelle should pay less attention to the nice man beside her and more upon that fucking child molester at the table nearest to the karaoke machine but then again, Rodger is now Megan’s quarry, and thus the matter will take care of itself.

I get up in the evening, and I ain’t got nothing to say

   As Megan wows the enthralled battalion, the man seated beside Michelle introduces himself as Thomas with an accent which informs her that he’s not from the Midwest, let alone the United States proper, though due to the ruckus playing out it’s tough to ascertain just where he calls home. She’s enamored with exoticism, however, and the timbre of his voice is intriguing.

This gun’s for hire even if we’re just dancing in the dark

   Thomas continues the courtship by telling Michelle that he’s from Brighton. That he takes the time to clarify Brighton as a place in the United Kingdom somewhat perturbs her (as if she weren’t aware of the outside world!) but it’s understandable given the locale. She laughs, partially due to his superfluous comment, but also because Megan has her free arm wrapped around the neck of a inebriated retiree.

I wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face!

   From what he’s offered thus far, Michelle’s convinced that Thomas, web developer extraordinaire, is a pretty nice guy, and if there’s one thing she needs these days, these nights, this place is someone who is straightforward and most of all, kind. Between verses, Michelle observes her patriotically-haired friend steal a shot of whiskey from Rodger’s table, much to everyone’s delight.

You sit around getting older - there’s a joke here somewhere and it’s on me

   Everyone’s getting older including Michelle and she knows it; but she’s not old yet and there’s still hope to be had, even at The Red Lion. Michelle lights a cigarette and laughs at her suitor’s quip about Americans and their taste in tasteless music, mostly because it’s funny but also because it’s true.

I need a love reaction, come on now baby give me just one look

Megan

   Thunderous, unadulterated applause ensues, with some onlookers standing in ovation following Megan’s sparkling performance of Springsteen’s hallowed hymn. Someone hands her a frosty mug of beer, which she gladly accepts just after setting a Marlboro Red ablaze, only to place the mug atop the karaoke machine, at which point the bar’s manager promptly responds by placing a coaster beneath the soon-to-be-sweating glass. The rabble is hers to command and they love it, for the power bestowed by popularity is far more spiritous than any firewater. “Everybody, please! Thank you, thank you,” she coos into the microphone, to which the crowd responds by screaming for an encore. “I’ve been told there’s a one song, one singer rule in play, but...” she trails off, shrugging to no one in particular, though it’s crystal clear that a burden has been placed upon the shoulders of the next person in line for control of microphone, a beefy man in his late forties, to relinquish his nonexistent control of the situation. The displaced contestant sighs in defeat, though he recognizes the gust of popular opinion and thus bows out with considerable grace. “You’re awesome, guy, you know that? Really. Okay, so let’s get another song rolling, and I’d like to keep things in the same, I don’t know, era or something.” Megan then whispers something to the manager, who is the man in charge of implementing the plan, and he changes songs accordingly.

   The swarm of attentive onlookers hoots, hollers, and claps heartily as an all-too-familiar acoustic prelude is pierced by an equally unmistakable electric lead-in. Megan drops her cigarette into the mug, only to then take a sip from it without a second thought. “Let’s do this,” she growls playfully, all while eyeing an especially fair-weather friend make short work of a sloe gin fizz at the bar.

Ooh, something’s got a hold of me now

   As she sings ebulliently, Megan has a flash of memory, as she often does, of this time she attended a self-defense class in high school. The instructor was a grizzled man in his late forties, creased by years of obviously hard living, who had a no-nonsense approach to women's safety. In the event of attempted rape, for example, he’d directed his students to pretend to go along with their attacker’s wishes by beckoning to them for a kiss, only for the purpose of tearing his upper lip off with their teeth as this would result in an immeasurable amount of bleeding and, subsequently, death. In the case of being assailed by a large dog, the instructor had informed them that the only surefire way to incapacitate the offending animal was to thrust one’s fist down the canine’s throat, thereby choking the beast. On more than one occasion, a student voiced uncertainty as to whether they were capable of doing such things, and the instructor’s response had been, somewhat predictably, that they should then be prepared to endure rape, mutilation, or worse. As one could guess, it was tremendously inspirational.

I think I’m in love and my life’s looking up. I think I’m in love ‘cause I can’t get enough. (No, no, no.) I think I’m in love... It’s gotta be love

   Megan gently plants the sole of her shoe upon the shoulder of the one recently identified as Rodger, who appears as enraptured by her performance as she is with the song itself. She winks at him immoderately while her open eye posits that his visage, bathed in the reddened light of the aptly-named Red Lion, resembles a bloodied turnip of sorts, which is something she quite fancies. For his part, the man known as Rodger beams, blissfully unaware of the thoughts which traverse her mind.

It controls me, makes me do all these things that I do for you

   She gingerly pours a shot of whiskey down Rodger’s throat with her free hand, much to the boisterous delight of everyone at the table and beyond. Between the song, shouts and swallows Megan picks up the distinct sound of Michelle’s sardonic sigh; yet the inherent cynicism of said exhalation merely accentuates this gloriously inglorious moment, and Megan revels in the abject absurdity of it all.

[Instrumental Interlude]

   Seducing the elderly, the enfeebled and the inebriated alike, each of whom crave a moment with the Bomb-Popped woman whose appearance belies her age, Megan makes ample use of the limited space available to ply her trade; slinking to and fro, she ensnares the crowd with her trademarked affectation of decidedly unabashed yet jubilantly social insouciance. Her thoughts, however, are of a German shepherd named Rathbone that was neither an assailant nor offensive. If nothing else, the dog was the beloved pet of a pair of easygoing retirees, yet there was a little boy who not once, twice, but thrice stuck his nose in a place it hadn’t belonged and by extension, alas, poor, rambunctious Rathbone...

Baby, how you do it. There must be something to it. Babe, I know it’s gotta be love

   ... But memories shall not discount what the rabble sees now, which is a slender nymph singing her heart out atop a creaky wooden chair amidst carmine lights and otherwise dreary sights. Waving and swinging her free hand, she beckons the crowd to join in the chorus, to which the mob responds with the utmost pride. And everyone chants

It’s gotta be love (love!) and my life’s looking up (love!)

Day Twenty-Eight: One for the Killers, Villains, Lovers and Heroes

2011-07-13T14:34:00.002+09:00

Day 28 - A song that makes you feel guilty

Sometimes drastic measures are necessary; the kind which challenge conventions of integrity for the sake of efficacy, even if such maneuvers elicit notions of remorse. Said actions produce the desired result and yes, the outcome is for the best, but you still can't help but wonder if the end justified the means - and the End is all that remains, yet here you are.

Ozymandias: I did the right thing, didn't I? It all worked out in the end.
Dr. Manhattan: "In the end"? Nothing ends, Adrian. Nothing ever ends.

The Killers - Jenny Was a Friend of Mine

Day Twenty-Seven: Night of the Power Chord Rangers

2011-07-12T08:25:00.004+09:00

Day 27 - A song that you wish you could play

A song I wish I could play? There are quite a few of those (as you'd imagine) but one that stands out in my mind is:

Night Ranger - Don't Tell Me You Love Me

And I'm talking specifically about the ability to play an electric guitar at that level of skill. Don't get me wrong: there are plenty of better guitarists out there but nevertheless 'Don't Tell Me You Love Me' is a good example what I wish I could accomplish with a six-string in these hands of mine. Just think of what people would say!

Sling, would you play guitar at our twentieth wedding anniversary? After all these years, Sister Christian is still our song.

I've been asked to teach a course entitled 'Awesome 1982' and I'd like for you to be a guest speaker. Bring your guitar.

Hey Sling, would you wail on your ax for me right here, right now? Never mind that we're in the middle of my child's eighth birthday party.

Sling? This is Harrison Forbes. I'm forming a shitty Eighties revival band, nay, supergroup comprised entirely of people I deem 'super' and guess what? You're in.

Look, Sling, I said I loved you and that was a lie, I admit, but I needed a laptop, you know. Nevertheless, I've always thought of you as an amazingly talented guitarist, simply amazing, and while we're on the topic of awesome, it would totally radical if you could give me your credit card number.

[Feel free to add a few statements of your own in the comment box]

Ah, to be a talented musician...

Day Twenty-Six: It Would've Been So Great (for Us to Have Seen the Northern Lights Together)

2011-07-09T14:30:00.003+09:00

Day 26 - A song that you can play on an instrument

Have I ever told you that as a youngster I could play the piano?* Not well, mind you, but yeah, I could play a few tunes. Granted, today's song wasn't one of them but the piano portion is simple enough that even I could pull it off with a bit of practice; and it's a good thing, too since I'd hate to mess up such a fantastic song.

Great Northern - Our Bleeding Hearts

* I may have, but it's important to note that I've been posting on Psychedelic Kimchi five years come this November and I'll be damned if I can remember what I posted yesterday let alone fifty-six months ago.

Day Twenty-Five: They're Beasties, Yes, but Only because They're Boys

2011-07-08T16:23:00.003+09:00

Day 25 - A song that makes you laugh

Ah, the Beastie Boys. Not only are they proof that Generation X used to be cool, they're also living testament to the notion that white boys can do something hip - and there's nothing derisive about my statement whatsoever. I fondly recall evenings spent in the basement of one J.T. Yenter,* during which time there were discussions about -amongst much else- the best song on the band's debut album, License to Ill. My stance then, as well as now, is that No Sleep till Brooklyn wins hands down for no other reason than that the video features a motherfuckin' gorilla wailing on his motherfuckin' ax; and while that may not make me laugh, it does make me smirk.

Beastie Boys - No Sleep till Brooklyn

* "Don't you know who I am? I'm J. fucking T. of S.T. fucking C."

Day Twenty-Four: (Insert Title Here)

2011-07-05T14:13:00.002+09:00

Day 24 - A song that you want to play at your funeral

This one's a weird one for me, considering that I don't spend much time contemplating death, let alone a funeral. Granting that, I think that when I finally reach the end of it all, I'll pass on a funeral since, after all, who'd want to sit though that boring shit, anyway? Cremation, perhaps, or maybe a pyre would suffice lest I return from the grave, only to feast upon the brains of those I once loved.

'Kidding' aside, I don't think I'd want a funeral playlist or some crap like that, but I would like people to remember how I -often- felt about life (and my place within its folds).

Local H - Hand to Mouth

Hey! You already used a Local H song!

Yeah. Is that against the rules? If so, I'll be dead anyway.

Hm. Was the song meant to be poignant, profound, or pestilential?

None of the above. Now sit still and let me chomp on your brain.

Efficacy vs. Integrity

2011-07-05T04:30:00.001+09:00

Day Twenty-Three: Björk There, Done That?

2011-07-02T15:48:00.002+09:00

Day 23 - A song that you want to play at your wedding

I've never given any serious consideration to marriage. Okay, that's a lie: I once thought about it wholeheartedly and without reservation, but maybe I was too stupid to carry out my desire. Perhaps the two of us were thickheaded and unwilling to compromise or, perchance, unable to dissolve the differences that separated the two of us as seemingly intelligent individuals. Then again, perhaps it was my fault alone. I may never know for certain, but I do know that had we been married, we could have agreed upon the following song. Hopefully.

Björk - Unison

30-Day Song Challenge, Day 1

2011-06-30T22:00:00.004+09:00

My favorite song first? Trial by fire, I suppose. To be honest, I'm so worn out on lists, rankings, and so on that the idea of this intrigues me but ultimately makes me nauseous. I don't know what my favorite song is, and nobody cares what it is anyway. Paranoid in my old age (22), I suspect this is a case of -- word to Twitter -- free market research. In fact, I'm sure it is.

My favorite song is Harry Nilsson's "Everybody's Talkin'."

It's on YouTube.

Day Twenty-Two: Play It on the Radio - Just Don't Play It for Me

2011-06-30T14:05:00.002+09:00

Day 22 - A song that you listen to when you’re sad

The sound of the river is inaudible 'cause we don't flow.

Playradioplay! - Forgiveness, the Enviable Trait

Day Twenty-One: Take Out the Garbage, Dude (Shit's Startin' to Stink)

2011-06-29T14:25:00.002+09:00

Day 21 - A song that you listen to when you’re happy

Your good friend and mine, Tiberious aka Sparkles aka Harrison Forbes aka Eion Fobres* has observed that as of late, I've been a bit of a bitchy grouch (or a grouchy bitch!) and I suppose he has a point; though such admissions have a tendency to swell up his heads and so, in the interest of keeping the sun from being blocked out by our good friend's extremities let's just say he's not entirely mistaken. I've been in a funk these past few weeks, 'tis true but that doesn't mean I'm unable to crack a smile or, dare I say it, enjoy life! Of course I can, silly, and when I do, I crave music that accentuates the mood. One song that does so excruciatingly well is 'Cherry Lips (Go Baby Go!)' by Garbage because, well, the lyrics are somewhat goofy, somewhat trashy, somewhat catchy and honestly, that shit makes me smile!

Garbage - Cherry Lips (Go Baby Go!)

* That's how the Ex spells his name. No foolin'.

Day Twenty: For When a Local Hotshot Kicks You in the Face

2011-06-27T14:06:00.004+09:00

Day 20 - A song that you listen to when you’re angry

Don't you hate it when this sort of thing happens? You try to be nice (or merely cordial) to someone and bam! you get kicked in the face, or you do something nice for someone and bam! you get kicked in the face. Maybe someone's spreading lies about you -which is bad enough- and to make matters worse, bam! they kick you in the face just because they can. Perhaps a person just can't help themselves because their brain is broken (or, to be charitable, they're damaged goods) and while somewhat pitiable in their lunacy, it doesn't change the fact that bam! you get kicked in the face; and the worst part is that sometimes you just keep coming back for more.*

This is a song for one of those days:

Local H - Deep Cut

* Until you don't.

Ed. Note. This is not a post directed at any one person. It's about people and the way we act toward one another at our less than best moments. I include myself in that collection of people, too since I -like most everyone else in the world- have a broken brain in some way, shape or form.

Day Nineteen: You'd Think She Were Daft, Wouldn't You, Punk?

2011-06-24T15:19:00.002+09:00

Day 19 - A song from your favorite album

Favorite, favorite, fa-vor-ite!* You, of all people, should know by now that I'm deficient in that regard; which is not to say I don't relish some albums more than others but like you should have figured out by now, what is good is not necessarily what floats my boat and, conversely, what floats my boat needn't be all that good, yet (yet!) sometimes one simply has to go with the flow and what flows in this vacuum is what makes me feel good, and what makes me feel good is ~~mammalian mutilation~~ Daft Punk's Discovery. Say what you will about the album (and you'd say a lot if you knew me better), the band or, hell, its audience (and you'd be spot on, perhaps) but this much is true: I could listen to Discovery once a month for the next ten years and still be enthusiastic about the next encounter - and that's saying quite a bit when it comes to my relationship with ~~humanity~~ music.

Daft Punk - デジタル・ラブ**

I'll be the first to admit that the song -along with the album as a whole- is more than a tad cheesy, but what's wrong with a bit of Cheese Whiz in life? If anything, experience has taught me that the majority of people who claim to be enamored with chic, deeply-hip indie music (that truly expresses the nature of their tortured souls! blah, blah, blah) are anything but. And you wanna know what's even cheesier than the music? The videos! (Different song, but you get the gist.)

* Or favourite if you're a Commonwealth Kid, and that's cool.
** The version of Discovery I own happens to be the Japanese edition (don't ask) so I felt it best to keep the katakana intact.

Day Eighteen: In Exactly 30 Seconds We'll Be Exiled to Mars

2011-06-23T16:03:00.053+09:00

Day 18 - A song that you wish you heard on the radio

If we were still in 2002, there would be a decent chance of hearing 30 Seconds to Mars' 'Capricorn' on the radio but, for better or worse, we're stuck in the present otherwise known as 2011.* Since I don't have a time machine (one I'm willing to share with the general populace, at least) we'll have to make do with the next best thing: music. And unlike a DeLorean DMC-12 set to hit 88MPH, there aren't any disgruntled Libyans involved (unless you're into that stuff, in which case such things could be arranged, I'm sure).

30 Seconds to Mars - Capricorn (A Brand New Name)

(As a friendly reminder, I'd like to note that this song, alongside any of the others posted, can be downloaded free of charge as an MP3 file by right-clicking the artist/title and saving linked file as... or whatever.)

* Now I'm not saying 2011 has been a total wash thus far, but you get the idea.**

** If this were another blog -one that shall remain nameless- my post would have been removed for telling the truth.

Day Seventeen: Stone the Lovers at the Temple but Spare the Pilots

2011-06-21T15:16:00.002+09:00

Day 17 - A song that you hear [often] on the radio

I had to put the word 'often' in brackets because I don't listen to the radio all that much -while driving, if ever- and thus I've deemed 'often' to mean 'more than twice in a single week'. That being the case, I've heard STP's 'Trippin on a Hole in a Paper Heart' at least twice this week, which isn't such a bad thing though (along with many of the other tunes I've been exposed to via FM radio) it causes me to wonder if radio has changed all that much since the mid-nineties...

Stone Temple Pilots - Trippin' on a Hole in a Paper Heart

Spunk Tales! (The Godbeast)

2011-06-18T17:19:00.001+09:00

M83 - Skin of the Night

   Within an increasingly iridescent glade amidst a slowly decreasing woodland not too far from the reach of humanity’s gaze, there resides a creature best left unmolested; for just as mankind plays games, this beast entertains itself with activities best left unspoken. The godbeast once labeled Hati Hróðvitnisson resides in this morbidly sacrosanct tract of land, though to say that it basks in solitude would be a misnomer of sorts, as there is more, or perhaps less to this glade than Life, Earth, and Progress would have an observer believe. The godbeast is not, by any means suggested, alone, and yet the living need not be counted amongst its company.

   Beside the creature of a thousand stars, countless scars and its faded, bleached mange stands a stag with four legs broken in several places, bones jutting through the fur of a body partially decayed, both eyes long since devoured by maggots; and yet the putrefied deer watches intently as the godbeast runs a gaunt, clawed finger across the body of a felled raccoon. Wherever that finger traces, therein lies an orange akin to florescent paint, for this is the godbeast’s favorite shade of reanimation; this way and that, the wandering finger infuses just enough vivacity to disregard the roadkill’s predicament and the animal begins to stir, its shattered spine disobeying the laws Nature once decreed.

   From its one azure eye, an eye devoid of pupil, iris, and ephemeral grace the godbeast exudes placation while from that other place, a jagged crevice from which a second eye once gazed upon the world, lies a wound that forever bleeds; for beast, much as man, suffers the insufferable burden of incurable ailments, the difference being for a creature which is neither, that which does not heal scarcely kills, yet what the godbeast secretes is not blood but, rather, the stuff of dreams, the materials which lead men and women alike to insatiable cravings. This, the godbeast’s cervine companion feasts upon with lacerated tongue.

   Within this increasingly iridescent glade amidst a slowly decreasing woodland not too far from the reach of humanity’s fate, there resides a expanding coterie of servile parasites eager to embrace their oblivious executioners, those who steal vitality along the interstates, highways and byways that breach the land itself. The headless, limbless, and lifeless yearn for what has been taken from them so callously, yet the godbeast has other, albeit not entirely divergent plans from its septic legion, for the creature still referred to as Hati Hróðvitnisson effortlessly savors what fleshly constructs cannot fathom; and that is, if not the future then the enduring zest of inevitability.

   They, unbeknownst to all save the godbeast, approach this site of unnaturally vibrant hues and artificially infused wildlife with the unbridled curiosity befitting of easygoing children exposed to something categorically bewitching; before long, that ragtag group of unsuspecting children shall discover something best left unseen and soon thereafter, any flicker of life, love, friendship, and hope will be devoured by what awaits them.

Day Sixteen: To Boston and Back

2011-06-17T14:52:00.006+09:00

Day 16 - A song that you used to love but now hate

I have something to tell you, something incredible. I hope you're sitting down for this. Once upon a time, I thought Boston was a pretty groovy band, but that's not the shocker so stop wetting your pants already. The kicker is that I positively adored the band's third album, the cleverly-named Third Stage. (You may now return to darkening that skirt of yours, guy.) Worst of all, I even considered the final track, 'Hollyann' a great way to end such a fantastic assemblage of sonic beauty. That was 1986, mind you, and to be fair, weren't we all total chumps in 1986?*

Beyond that, I think the fact that I've listened to the album a total of infinity plus twenty times has something to do with my revulsion of its final track. Also, let us consider such riveting, gut-wrenching** lyrics as Hollyann, we made the dark into light / We saw the wrong and the right and I still hear guitars in the air / As we sat in the sand, oh, Hollyann.

Jesus. I can only wonder two things at this point, the first of which being 'What the fuck were you thinking, Boston?' followed by 'What the fuck were you thinking, Chicken Wire?'

Boston - Hollyann

* Some people still are, of course, but for them, it's not just Memory Lane that's lined with feces.
** More akin to food poisoning than anything else.

Day Fifteen: An Electric Six-Shooter Pointed Toward the Feet

2011-06-15T18:02:00.003+09:00

Day 15 - A song that describes you

Personally, I think today's challenge was designed to throw people a curveball or, if one ascribes deviant tendencies to the the challenge's designer, it's an attempt to highlight folks' flawed desire to be associated with something that was never intended for them; and not in the Carly Simon theme song to The Spy Who Loved Me You're So Vain way, but more of an I wish this song encapsulated my existence! sort of thing. Such longings are understandable of course, as I would love to submit the Allman Brothers Band's Midnight Rider as my song (on account of it being awesome) but I can't, given that I own the clothes I'm wearin' (to say nothing of the fact that I haven't a silver dollar in my possession).*

So in lieu of anything dramatic, personal, revealing or meaningful:
Electric Six - Down at McDonnelzzz

Now whether or not the song describes me in some way is a question best left to people who'd like to think they know shit about shit; and if you're reading this blog, chances are you're not one of those sanctimonious individuals.

* Take that to be metaphorical as well as literal.

Day Fourteen: Savage Errands amidst Lunar Gardens

2011-06-14T14:45:00.005+09:00

Day 14 - A song that no one would expect you to love

If anything, this task has been the most arduous yet and the reason is simple: for all intents and purposes, there's bound to be someone, anyone, or everyone out there who would be aware of songs I adore, for I tend discuss such matters with friends, enemies, and fictitious personalities alike. Thus, it's virtually impossible to present a song that catches all by surprise, though the forthcoming tune should baffle more than a few astute souls.

Before unveiling the song in question, I'd like to get a few things out of the way:

1) PK alum dnzmtc will cry himself to sleep tonight on behalf of the Australian continent, people, and culture
2) I lack a theory about the bitter one
3) I'm not waiting for the right kind of pilot to come*
4) I wouldn't fly to the moon and back, but
5) I may put you on trial for crimes that were never defined

Savage Garden - To the Moon & Back

* But you never know!

Spunk Tales! (The Garnish)

2011-06-13T16:07:00.002+09:00

The White Stripes - Blue Orchid

That silly, dilapidated mutt took the note my mother wrote and stapled the paper to its forehead.

   This is how she would have described the situation, as if branding were the newest fad indeed. It's not like the mutt felt physical pain whatsoever, so a staple here and there meant nothing, but the content -yes, the content- of the note itself was irksome enough for the two of them. Differences, differences, of course.

   The mutt pointed a rusted, twisted index finger toward its face, and repeated the words hastily printed upon yellow parchment with supposedly indelible ink.

    "Sophia, could you set the oven to 350 at 6:30. I'll be home at 7:15. Mom." The mongrel employed rising intonation, although the girl knew damn well that her mother would never have phrased -let alone written- the declaration as a request. The sham hadn't required a faux motherly voice either but it was, admittedly, an amusing caricature.

   Sophia tugged upon the refrigerator door casually, retrieved a half-full can of Pepsi and took a sip with the door left ajar. 'Bonus points if you can tell me what mom is going to make for dinner.' The mutt sampled the air while it flicked one of the edges of the affixed note with the aforementioned, absurdly elongated finger, and then mentioned something about chicken breasts marinated in a cocktail of vinegar, lemon juice, oregano; some manner of Mediterranean recipe in the works, but he was no connoisseur of fine cuisine, or so he attested.

    "Close, but not quite," Sophia replied, and set the can of Pepsi upon the counter. She retrieved the Tupperware container, set the plastic cube beside the aluminum can and popped the lid off. It was chicken, most certainly, but it lacked a crucial ingredient. Sophia thrust her arms behind; to scrape, collect, and condense the refuse that had been recently deposited, haphazardly, upon her exposed backside (by a trigger-happy fool twenty-six years her elder who waited, however impatiently, inside her bedroom, probably going through her drawers at this very moment). She smirked as the mongrel watched her bathe the chicken with gooey, relatively fresh ejaculate - she preferred to call the stuff milt but that was another story altogether. The mutt groused that she was so juvenile, to which Sophia countered that it was so astute, for the mongrel had, in all likelihood, observed her balding confederate jerk off onto Sophia’s naked body while she ate from a can of Sour Cream 'n' Onion Pringles during this afternoon’s episode of Guiding Light, her eyes glued to the television; though to be fair, she knew quite well that a bewildering, somewhat-detached curiosity -and not any manner of carnal yearning- was, above all else, the beast’s motivation.

   She took another sip from the can of Pepsi, and then licked her lips with childish mendacity. "Besides, it's not as if it really hurts anyone. Mom will take a bite of her chicken breast and note just how well the recipe turned out. Secretly, I think she savors the taste of my additions. Come on, it's not as if she doesn't know the flavor of semen, really. I'm tickled, and she's satiated about being an adequate mother. Win-win." Sophia grinned at the beast's subsequent retort. "Well," she replied whimsically, "I'm never very hungry, for real food anyway, so I'll just nibble on some chips and drink another Pepsi." Sophia proceeded to pull a strand of her long, blond hair across her face and gave the mongrel an aggrandized wink. "It could be worse, you know; I could take up smoking." She knew that the creature mulled over what to say next but its incapacity had grown tiresome over the past few years, so that was just the way things were.

   The topic of discussion ceased to concern Sophia almost instantaneously and she ran her fingers along the growing curves of her blooming physique. "Do you think I'm ugly?" She hadn't bothered to look the mutt in the eye as she made the inquiry, because the importance of her developing form was paramount. Sophia was vaguely aware that time and flesh were bedfellows, but it was so tough to think about vagrant prospects.

   The mongrel divulged that Sophia was fairly attractive - for a nude calamity on the cusp of fourteen. It then removed the staple from its flesh and muttered that things were going to get much worse if it waited much longer, as well as some obscure comment about the fate that awaits rock 'n' roll clowns.

    "Yeah," Sophia quipped, "but your mama won’t mind what your mama can’t see." The beast was mildly impressed by the girl’s knowledge of Def Leppard yet decidedly less so with her application.

Day Thirteen: (Marky) Marked for Death by a Funky Bunch of Misfits

2011-06-10T14:08:00.003+09:00

Day 13 - A song that is a guilty pleasure

Guilt. Pleasure. Guilty pleasure. A blogger craves not these things and neither do I; but here's a song for you anyway.*

Marky Mark & The Funky Bunch - Good Virbations

* But what about you? (Without the guilt, of course.)

Bonus Round (Marky) Mark III

This song was suggested by not one, but two readers as a guilty pleasure of sorts and just between the sixteen of us, they have a point. Third Eye Blind's 'Never Let You Go' is, much like STP's 'Interstate Love Song' a tune that strokes my soft spot for ~~tall, dark and venomous~~ pop/rock (or power pop, if you prefer) songs, and why shouldn't it? Short, sweet (or not), and full of catchy riffs is how I like you... I mean, it. Yeah, it.

Third Eye Blind - Never Let You Go

Day Twelve: The Black Box System of a Downed Airplane Stuck Up My Ass

2011-06-09T14:52:00.002+09:00

Day 12 - A song from a band you hate

To say that I hate stuff is a bit of an exaggeration. Sure, there are plenty of things I mock regularly (coffeehouse fuckheads, The Rebel Alliance, The Mars Volta, yuppies, Wolverine, organic markets, idealjetsam, John Carpenter's career after the Eighties, etc.) but that's just for fun, really, and it's a far cry from hatred. Even now, when prompted to highlight a song from a band I hate, it's easier to think of something I simply loathe, and that band is System of a Down. Fuck, does that group drive me up the wall; and if anything, System of a Down is the perfect storm of shitty instrumentals, shitty vocals, shitty Look at us! We're so outspoken! do-gooder ideology, and perhaps worst of all, shitty hairstyles. Congratulations, Serj Tankian & Co. You win the Inane Bullshit with Twisted Sister Hairdos Award.

I hesitate to even post a song by this mangled set of hippo testicles, so let's go with a cover of Berlin's 'Metro' instead of something atrociously original.

System of a Down - Metro

Day Eleven: When You Get to the Arcade, Toss Him into the Digitized Fire

2011-06-07T07:46:00.039+09:00

Day 11 - A song from your favorite band

Back again (weekends don't count, you know) with a song from my favorite band or, at the very least, a band that I consider really fucking good; and the standard by which I judge this band to be 110% awesome is that every album they've produced I enjoy immensely, be it a month, six months, or a year after the first listen. The band in question? Arcade Fire. Funeral was a work of genius, Neon Bible magically delicious, and The Suburbs was -metaphorically speaking- like a rock-hard boner or a shot of semen to the mouth regardless of your sexual preferences.*

One song doesn't really do the situation justice, but those are the rules.

Arcade Fire - Black Wave / Bad Vibrations

* Or, as would be the case for some people, quite literally. But we'll save the spunk for later.

Another Bonus Round!

This one's courtesy of none other than Psychedelic Kimchi's very own Maestro of Masturbation, Tiberious aka Sparkles aka Harrison Forbes, a man who was positively certain that I'd include a song by PK mainstay The Killers. Chances are that he'll be proven correct in his omniscience, if only for today.

The Killers - Sam's Town

I should also take the time to note that another PK mainstay, the most enduring of Constant Retards known as Avis knew this was coming as well, just as another, former (and thus, less than constant) Retard could have foreseen a Killers inclusion, too (had she a better memory).

Day Ten: Stay Bright, Droopy Eyes

2011-06-03T14:22:00.003+09:00

Day 10 - A song that makes you fall asleep

For the most part, it's a bad, sad song that puts people to sleep (that, or a lullaby) but what about the good songs, the ones you pop into the CD player to set your dreams alight? Tough call. Granted, if I were to take the easy way out, I'd opt for something from Massive Attack's catalog and don't get me wrong, I like Massive Attack but let's not beat around the not-so-proverbial bush here: that shit could put the undead to rest. Instead, I think I'll lay out a track from Bright Eyes' 2011 album The People's Key entitled 'Ladder'. It's a bit sad, yeah, though not so bad; and it helps return this particular zombie to its wormy grave.

Bright Eyes - Ladder

Day Nine: A Pair of Scissors with Sisters

2011-06-02T14:57:00.003+09:00

Day 09 - A song that you can dance to

This one's been a killer, Defenestrated Readers. See, the thing is that, to be candid, I'm not much of a dancer; even wasted, you'd be hard pressed to get me on a dance floor of any kind save a slab of cardboard, though that alone would be a Herculean endeavor and, furthermore, while one could envision dancing as a euphemism for sex, that too would be problematic, given that said activity is met with an equal amount of disdain on my part - some folks may bemoan their loss in either category, perhaps, but whatcha gonna do?*

So this is my song for dancing regardless of how one interprets the phrase.

Scissor Sisters - I Don't Feel Like Dancin'

Bonus Round!

Out of curiosity, I asked some friends (readers and philistines alike) to toss out their own predictions as to which songs would, or should appear on my list; of this hallowed bunch, the first arrives courtesy of Kelli, Constant Retard Extraordinaire.

Def Leppard - Photograph

To paraphrase her thoughts on the matter:

See, I would think that you'd put Photograph on the list, somewhere. For as many years as I've known you, it's a song you're guaranteed to rally behind in most any situation. It's such a Chicken Wire song!

Verily, Kelli. Verily.

* Oh, the humanity!

Day Eight: Everyone's a Foreigner to the Hero

2011-06-01T14:39:00.002+09:00

Day 08 - A song that you know all the words to

Foreigner - Jukebox Hero

... Put his ear to the wall, then like a distant scream...

Day Seven: The Action's Out Here, Brothers

2011-05-31T14:09:00.003+09:00

Day 07 - A song that reminds you of a certain event

Okay, okay; so it's been a few days since the last post but hey, weekends don't necessarily count as days, do they? (Of course they don't.) In addition, today's song isn't anything worth bemoaning due to tardiness. Truth be told, it's a dookie of a song if there was one, as in total garbage! yet the song itself is relevant due to the event at which I first encountered its majestic turdiness.

Roughly thirteen years ago, I attended a house party hosted by a friend whose identity shall remain unknown, though for the sake of storytelling, we'll refer to him as Shill Warpe. Anyway, by the time I had shown up -fashionably late, as always- the party was in full swing with about sixty people strewn about the house, garage, yard, and atop parked cars. Needless to say, I was both impressed and surprised, given that the host had expected twenty people, thirty max, to partake in the alcohol-fueled glee, and I was even more dumbstruck to discover a karaoke machine set up in the garage with none other than the host himself at the microphone, singing slowly, softly, and sweetly about a girl's ass being so big he had to give her a backpack. I'll be the first to admit that -as I stood there with a plastic cup full of beer- I was taken aback (yet oh-so reeled in!) by such seductively crass words, and then... came the chorus. Not being familiar with The Outhere Brothers, it was jarring to say the very least, though one thing's for sure: you haven't lived till you've heard a grown man wholeheartedly belt out the phrase I'll fuck you stupid! I'll fuck you so hard, you'll swear my name is Cupid!

And to answer the inevitable question, yes, several ladies (as well as a few guys) positively swooned, yours truly included.

Outhere Brothers - I Wanna

Day Six: It's a Live Show with Dead Deer, My Dear

2011-05-27T13:30:00.003+09:00

Day 06 - A song that reminds you of somewhere

Today's song reminds me of the place from which I came; a place of no particular importance and even less substance, yet it is a place that exists regardless of such superfluous qualities, as well as a place with many deer - and for that, my dear, I am eternally grateful.

Live - Rattlesnake

Day Five: Athlete's Foot in His Mouth

2011-05-25T23:09:00.004+09:00

Day 05 - A song that reminds you of someone

Another day, another song. At first, I thought it would be difficult to choose today's song - a song to remind me of someone is easy enough to locate, sure, but to select the best possible song could have proven another matter entirely... yet it didn't, actually. I chose the following song because it's from an album I once gave to someone special, and they especially enjoyed the album as well as the song itself. Furthermore, I happen to think the song encapsulates a good many things about that person and my relationship with them.*

Athlete - Tokyo

* Now if you don't mind, I have a few pagodas to smash and useless military guys to vaporize with atomic breath.

Penumbral Affinity

2011-05-25T14:20:00.004+09:00

   “This could prove to be,” begins one woman, a miscreant of all trades posing as a mercenary of sorts, to a second, more conservatively dressed woman, a besmirched individual posing as a do-gooder of some kind, “difficult.” The mercenary is looking down at an index card with a name written upon it. Surname and given name, nothing more, but the two women, seated across from one another in a cushy booth at a Denny’s on the southeast side of town one stormy night in May know the quarry listed especially well, albeit on mismatched terms - though not entirely, much to the chagrin of the prospective client.

   The do-gooder gasps in mock incredulity and posits that she’d been told to expect great things of her quirky dinner companion, that if there was anyone capable of accomplishing the task at hand, it would be the mercenary. She also studies the miscreant’s form; a beautifully monstrous amalgamation in the shape of a gaunt, yet curiously vibrant, attractive woman in her mid-twenties with long, flowing hair dyed to resemble, of all things, a beloved icon of iced Americana, the Bomb Pop. Azure at the roots, which then fade into a section bleached to the point of chalky oblivion and, finally, streaks and strands of the bloodiest ruby red imaginable that seem a bit too reminiscent of genuine ichor for comfort. With regard to fashion, the mercenary’s choices are both disconcerting and deplorable at the same time. A plain white tee shirt, of all things, is what covers all that lies beneath, and it’s shabby to boot; clean, perhaps, but torn in several locations. And beneath! Beneath the tattered shirt and beyond the edges of its sleeves is flesh enclosed by interlacing sheets of blue and red Saran Wrap, at times violet due to overlapping, which covers everything down to the miscreant’s wrists, like some manner of technicolor mummification has taken place. It’s a travesty, really.

   The mercenary shifts her gaze toward the do-gooder in response to the snide expression of disbelief, smirks, and pulls a loose cigarette out of a gently held soft pack with her teeth. She offers her potential client one as well, but the other woman declines, noting that she doesn’t smoke Marlboros. The do-gooder rummages through her purse, removes a Newport, and lights up. Cute. The mercenary lights her own cigarette, inhales, and regards the company she now keeps. A dress the color of dandelions, with a black purse. Newports. Female. Eyes full of angry expectancy, but pretty nonetheless. Whatever. Physical attributes aren’t of much concern to the miscreant, nor is apparel, though she considers the woman’s selection of clothing, specifically the color, to be amusingly inappropriate. The do-gooder’s scent, however, is of interest to her, for it reeks of something far removed from the moniker of good-natured whatsoever, and thus the miscreant’s almost beginning to like this woman, gaudy attire notwithstanding.

   “The issue isn’t one of me being capable or not,” the miscreant begins again as she pulls her multicolored mane into a loose ponytail, “but rather, the paucity of suitable candidates. I mean, who else is going to pull it off?”

   The do-gooder scowls. “I could,” she retorts defiantly.

   “Yeah, maybe,” the mercenary replies, rolling her eyes. She then waves her hand lackadaisically amidst the growing cloud of smoke. “You can do anything you put your mind to! and shit, and if I may be so bold, your resolve is evident. I can smell it, even through these delightfully noxious fumes. Believe me.” She shrugs. “Or not. Anyway. But here’s the thing; and yeah, it’s a laundry list of sorts. Truth be told, I’ve been... Shit.”

   “Yes?” the other woman enquires, raising an eyebrow before setting her second Newport ablaze.

   “Where’s the best place to start, you know? Well, I’ve been, in no particular order: shot in the face - twice in fact, to say nothing of my chest; had my ribcage and skull smashed by repeated blows from a sledgehammer; fallen down three stories onto, of all things, a goddamn children’s play set; shot through the windshield of an automobile, only to be crumpled against the fertile earth, and what a bitch that was; fucking blown into numerous, readily identifiable pieces, and if you’ve seen The Monster Squad, yeah it was kinda like that; had a middle school partially collapse upon me, keeping in mind that I was the projectile that caused said collapse; and some other shit not worth mentioning. The point being is that I’m, shall we say, resilient, and it’s not the pain of dying that sucks so much, but the agony of returning to life that blows, to say nothing of the maddening, blackened emptiness which lies between the two extremes. Even so, if you require something or someone dealt with, I’m the one to beg, but...” The miscreant taps her finger against the notecard. “This would be an irksome endeavor indeed, understand?”

   The do-gooder nods in earnest appreciation of the miscreant’s account, her own confidence diminished. “Will you try?”

   The mercenary beams the brightest of smiles. “Obviously.” 

Day Four: Armed with a Ray Gun

2011-05-25T14:00:00.003+09:00

Day 04 - A song that makes you sad

All things considered, Ray LaMontagne's Till the Sun Turns Black isn't the saddest song ever produced; and it doesn't make me wail, punch my pillow in the deepest depths of night, or elicit fears of love lost. It's more, hmm, sad in the abstract, I suppose, or maybe just sad in a manner unrelated to romantic or otherwise personal woes though for whatever reason, it makes me think of my father, but shit, we all have issues with our fathers so there's nothing especially sad about that.

But it's a good, sad song nevertheless.

Ray LaMontagne - Till the Sun Turns Black

Day Three: Not..Dying?

2011-05-24T04:25:00.002+09:00

Day 03 - A song that makes you happy

You want to know what makes me happy? John Travolta eating two slices of thin-crust pizza at the same time, that's what, and what goes better with the 'Volt' than the Bee Gees?

Bee Gees - Stayin' Alive

You know what else makes me happy? Boxes with the word ATARI printed on them... twice!

And if you want to know what makes me really happy, then...

...

... ah, now that would inappropriate for a blog of this caliber to depict.

Day Two: Heart Attack

2011-05-22T13:50:00.002+09:00

Day 02 - Your Least Favorite Song

Let's be honest here: I don't hate Heart. All things considered, the band's got quite a few likable tunes, but Barracuda isn't one of them. The song doesn't cause me to froth at the mouth in rage, nor does it incite violence upon its mere appearance; it is a song, however, which leads me to change radio stations, click the 'next' button on iTunes (if, for whatever reason, it were to rear its ugly head in the first place), sigh on behalf of the human race when someone foolishly puts it into rotation at a social gathering or pub jukebox, and drink copious amounts of alcohol to fool myself into believing it doesn't exist. But I don't hate it.

Heart - Barracuda (Live)

You loathe the song, yet you provide the file for download? Weird.

Well, just because I dislike the song doesn't you should. That, or I wish to inflict misery upon humanity at large. You be the judge.

The 30-Day Song Challenge (of Boredom): Day One

2011-05-21T14:33:00.002+09:00

Have I mentioned that as of late, I've been suffering from a bout of boredom? Perhaps I referred to it as an ennui of sorts before tonight, as between the not-so-imminent Rapture, shovel filing, and malt liquor there's been, shall we say, a veritable dearth of stimulation, and what's a polyphonic wraith to do when there's no one left to haunt? Why, peruse the hive of scum and villainy known as ~~The Mos Eisley Cantina~~ Facebook, of course! Let it be known, here and now, that I'm well behind the times 'cause I, literally, just noticed the 30 Day Song Challenge existed, and there's like, a million fans of it already. While better late than never is such a bullshit phrase indeed, I'll grant it some merit in this particular case since I've nothing better to kill than time.

Day 01 - Your Favorite Song

Fuck, that's a tough one, as there are so many amazing songs in existence; yet, having said that, I simply must choose something, and I'm going with Radiohead's Let Down.

Radiohead - Let Down (If you'd like to download and keep the song you can 'right click' on the song title and save the link to your own computer.)

Frequent readers of Psychedelic Kimchi are already well aware of my fondness for the song (one example can be found here) but they would also understand that I don't readily identify with the lyrics, insomuch that the song evokes neither feelings of sadness nor depressing pessimism whatsoever; if anything (as the provided link demonstrates), the theme of Let Down elicits an almost-visceral glee of sorts in yours truly. Beyond that, Let Down is, put simply, six thousand shades of awesome.

Like That Scene from Top Gun

2011-05-17T13:50:00.003+09:00

Either/Or

2011-05-15T20:51:00.002+09:00

For years I was an insomniac, but now the poles have reversed and I'm narcoleptic. Good night. Wake me in the mourning.

Photo of a Day (or Two)

2011-05-12T15:05:00.000+09:00

And what a day (or two) it has been, folks, yet I've learned a lot about acceptance as well as personal responsibility; both for the mistakes I've made, and to the person I've hurt (yet love) so deeply, but one can't dwell upon the past nor the present forever, and thus tomorrow is born.

Homework

2011-05-10T19:06:00.003+09:00

ASSIGNMENT: Write 300 words about a hero of yours. It could be a family member, an historical figure, or a celebrity chef, but please, no rappers or religious icons/gays.

My Hero

by Jake Jameson (3rd grade)

If I had to pick a hero I would pick Pat Riley. First of all, he has really cool hair. Sometimes I put a lot of mousse in my hair and comb it back to look like him. The kids in my class call me names because of it, but they wear Crocs, so who's the real pansy? I feel that time will prove me more stylish.

Did you know that Pat Riley coached like a million championship teams? He did. His rings have rings. He also put together the best team in history. I'm pretty sure James, Wade and Bosh could take out the Justice League and the Avengers combined. People don't like that team for some reason, probably because they're the best and people hate good things (gay marriage, Internet piracy). My dad says it's because cities like New York and Boston and L.A. have a "scents of entitlement" and get mad when cities like Miami or Metropolis or Geo make them look small.

Pat Riley is very smart. For example, he can tell the difference between crab and lobster by taste alone. He can also beat Pole Position on just one quarter. These qualities are envious. He also is an advocate for being awesome.

Thank you for reading my essay.

Last Meal

2011-05-05T18:32:00.003+09:00

Roger Ray Riley, more familiarly known by his pseudonym, Rated-R, was a director and star of gonzo-style pornographic Web content. He was executed in Florida in 2007 for the double homicide of his girlfriend, Jean-Louise Bishop(28), and their live-in friend, Jessica Wampling(31).

From the time of his arrest until his execution by electric chair on April 29, 2007, Riley claimed that he was innocent. "I'm guilty of more things than most people," he was quoted as saying minutes before his conviction, "but I'm no murderer."

Twelve jury members believed differently, and so it was that, after swift deliberation, he was found guilty of first-degree murder and transferred to Florida State Prison to await execution. He never appealed.

He did, however, have quite a unique request for his last meal, and that's what has fascinated me. I'm uninterested in whether Riley was guilty or not. The machinations of men and justice are so myriad, so tangled, that without clairvoyance it's all just guesswork, and one can drive himself mad considering it for too long. I'm more interested in his last-meal request. Who knows, perhaps there's something in that, too, which might shed light on the guilt or innocence of a dead convict.

8500 grams of cherry tomatoes, bought locally as per state law. Total calories: 2000.

When initially denied his request because it was deemed extravagant, Riley wrote back, "Gentlemen, you think me a murderer, and the law has declared me as such. I will not try to convince you otherwise, for it would be folly. But if I may appeal my case in the matter of my final meal, I would beg of you to hear me out. I love steak, lobster, ice cream -- but their deliciousness is fleeting. I am to die soon, and quickly, so I would very much appreciate you granting me one humble wish. I want to eat as my "special" meal 500 cherry tomatoes on the day before I die. I realize that such an amount makes up the FDA's total daily caloric intake and doesn't constitute a meal, but I hope that in this case a blind eye can be turned. I might not get a chance to eat for a long time afterwards."

I was the guard on duty the evening two hulking grocery bags full of ripe cherry tomatoes were brought into Rated-R's Death Watch cell. "Five-hundred," he said enthusiastically as he popped a fat one into his mouth. "Four ninety-nine," he said, smiling. By the time he had consumed twenty, his face was ashen. He ate five or six more before lying down on his bunk and falling asleep. Yet throughout the night I could hear him counting down numbers in his sleep.

When the governor asked him if he had any last words, his response was, "Zero."

0 + 1 = 3 - 2 = Zero

2011-05-05T08:56:00.008+09:00

Oasis - Fuckin' in the Bushes

Now Earth, that's a happening place. It said what I meant and I mean what it says but it just doesn't say enough about the Blue Planet, the temperate one without all the dusty rust and rusty dust. I also expressed the desire to pizzazz, yes pizzazz* that shit to the ground with sizzling bolts of deadly energy but there's more appeal to Mother Earth than senseless destruction. Inhabitants, for one. Once upon a time, Planet X was the bustling cradle of an efficient, if not stoic race of ostensibly emotionless humanoids known as Xiliens (or Xians, to some); but they've long since been eradicated from the face, and possibly the innards of this now-forgotten, rotten lump of celestial flesh and bone. Sounds extreme, I know, yet once upon that very same time, I flaunted three gloriously-horned heads where now there is but one alongside a pair of scabby, shabby stumps and besides, monster see, monster do - until there’s nothing left to be done, of course.

The Xiliens, yeah. They weren’t as emotionally vacant as they had touted themselves to be, though in comparison to humankind most everything’s positively robotic, which must be somewhat distressing for most everything else. For Xiliens, passion was demeritorious. Xiliens exercised, whereas humans work out. Xiliens consumed food designed to meet nutritive requirements, while humans ravenously devour anything that suits their particular fancy. Xiliens copulated for the purpose of reproduction. Humans, on the other hand, fuck one another -in every possible location, be it the gutter, the glassy skyscraper or even the bushes- for reasons such as stress reduction, futile replacement strategy, revenge, career advancement, boredom, self-abasement, cruelty, projection, misplaced attachment or detachment, spending money, and whatever else the mind can concoct, including love. Love, yes, love! Those poor, poor Xiliens were incapable of love, unlike mankind, for whom love moves the proverbial mountain. Of all the comparisons available, love is what truly separated the extinct race from that which dominates the Blue Planet. That, and the Xiliens could only yell, whereas humans scream, moan, and wail; this, amongst so much else, made decimating the cities of this dead world so utterly disappointing, and makes for a depressing planetary carcass on which to traipse.

Perhaps, if fate smirks upon the inhabitants of Earth, some enterprising astronomer will cast his or her telescopic gaze in the direction of this planet designated X only to see an O of sorts peering right back, though my eyes apprehend far more of them than theirs will of me.

*Pizzazz is the sound of one's flesh when teeth, tongue and lips enter the fray.

Everybody Knows

2011-05-04T16:24:00.000+09:00

And everybody likes to think they know everything about the stuff that makes them sad, or everybody's only acting sad when they hear about:

Separation Reflection

2011-04-29T14:21:00.003+09:00

As a moviegoer, I'd like to think that I'm capable of discerning taste. Even as a (younger) lass, though, the visually appealing aspects of cinema held sway over me, far beyond such annoyances as plot, dialogue, and content; and for this reason, perhaps, the works of director Ridley Scott have always tickled my fancy, be it on an aesthetic or even, put simply, some primevally visceral level of appreciation. For all of the man's great films (Alien, Blade Runner and of course, Thelma & Louise), let it be known far and wide that Legend is not, for most intents and purposes, one of them. Unlike, say, Blade Runner, Scott's foray into the realm of fantasy bears a lamentably forgettable roster of pathetically archetypical characters, to say nothing of the storyline itself; and also, unlike Alien, there is no gloriously monstrous presence to hold everything together. What Legend shares with its predecessors, however, is exquisite ocular delights, the kind of stuff that can stay with you for a while, if not longer. I, for one, will never forget the inherent beauty of the following scene. Think of it, or me, what you will, but chances are, you (or the child within) will remember it.

The Mighty Thor

2011-04-28T20:33:00.005+09:00

I saw Thor today, internationally titled as Thor: God of Thunder, domestically titled in the U.S. as just "Thor," because there's only one god in America, and His name is glocalization. Can't use the word "god" so casually in a fundamentally religious nation like the U.S., right? It's like drawing Mohammed; people might get offended. But go ahead, let them worship their pagan deities abroad. They're animals anyway, so let them lose their souls.

(break)

I've been a fan of the Thunder God since grade school. Why? Beats me. Buff blond guy with wings on his helmet, wields a mighty hammer...it's amazing I'm not gay. Seriously, though, it's because the combination of myth and imagination stirred my senses as a youth. The possibilities seemed endless. Stan Lee, Jack Kirby, and Larry Lieber made the adventures of a mythological Norse god epic in comic form, staying somewhat true to the foundation of Norse mythology while at the same time bending its parameters to create their own mythos. Then came along Walt Simonson, who deserves his own article (seriously). Church: they were the original mash-up artists, because anything's game when you're playing with characters created before copyright laws were invented. Ask Walt Disney.

I love the hell out of Thor (2011**); how it's received by the rest of Midgard is another matter. If I were a betting man, I'd say that Chris Hemsworth's charisma alone will catapult its box-office through word of mouth. But he's unproven, and Fast Five is released one week later stateside. And I'm drunk on mead.

If you're into hammer and grammar, though, read on for some non-spoiler points:

- Chris Hemsworth is fantastic. Young Hollywood just got its next big star (Sam Worthington is so fucked). The man has Brad Pitt-level charisma. With Downey Jr., Hemsworth, Chris Evans and Jeremy Renner, The Avengers is packed with talent. That's a charisma overdose.

- Loki is the best and most realistic Marvel movie villain yet.

- The trailer and previews really shortchanged the actual look of the film. Asgard looks amazing. The Rainbow Bridge is breathtaking.

- Holy shit, the Destroyer.

- The Marvel Movieverse tie-in stuff is handled a lot more aptly than it was in Iron Man 2. It's virtually seamless, and in one case will sound like a throwaway comment to a lot of audiences. But the nerds will get it. Then circulate it online so everyone will know. They're great at that.

- Vincent D'Onofrio has a great cameo.

- Don't see the film in 3D. I saw a 2D digital projection, and even then it was murky in spots, perhaps due to poor projection, a bad trend at too many theaters. No way I'd want to see that with tinted glasses and post-conversion 3D and cataracts.

- Idris Elba is a stoic badass as Heimdall. Word to Stringer Bell. No typecast.

- Demerit points for all the Dutch angles Branagh uses. They serve no purpose whatsoever. They're visually displeasing to the point of annoyance. The crowd I saw it with was oddly -- for modern Korean audiences -- rude during the film, talking, using their cell phones, etc. Maybe the American-superhero-via-Norse-mythology plot had something to do with it, but when the film was clicking everyone was silent. Even for me the Dutch angles were unsettling. Seriously, there were like 30 people in the theater (a matinee), and folks started squirming like kids on a long car ride. Such an overuse of Dutch angles would make for an interesting social experiment, I suppose, but for Thor it realistically could hurt the film's gross, and it puts a significant bruise on a great addition to modern superhero films.

- Odin's speech that Mjolnir -- and, yes, I'm capitalizing that sucker, the greatest supporting inanimate object in film since Wilson the volleyball* -- is a powerful weapon and a powerful tool is terrifically subtle foreshadowing.

- A little more nitpicking: the sets on Earth are spartan, and that's being kind. The New Mexican town 50 miles away where later action takes place looks like a B-movie set. Overall, Branagh's sense of mise en scene on Earth is claustrophobic. It's a thematic idea gone wrong.

- Screw Pandora, I want to live in Asgard. But only if I can take my Shih Tzu with me. In the Marvel tradition, there's a nice message contained within the storyline. Hogun's Japanese, Heimdall's black, and frost giants are blue. The Rainbow Bridge is rainbow-colored. It's a simple analogy, but the simplest ones are the greatest. Ask Aesop.

* No one believes me, but when I saw Cast Away in Korea in 2000, Wilson was actually a Spalding. To this day, I haven't been able to find any evidence, but I know what I saw. At the time, I found it an ironic joke. Now, I think global corporate mergers are to blame, and maybe some mischief on Loki's behalf.

** The 2017 reboot not so much. Gary Oldman didn't work for me as Odin, nor did Armie Hammer as Balder the Brave.

What Steve Kerr Said

2011-04-22T22:47:00.005+09:00

This morning I was lucky enough to catch game 3 of the Heat-76ers first-round series, and it was a good game, especially for this Heat Stan. Miami trailed the entire first half, looked good coming out of the break only to falter from a 12-0 Sixers' run, and then managed to right the ship in the 4th quarter, claiming a 3-0 series lead.

That was pretty much expected. What wasn't was Steve Kerr's comment in the closing minutes that, "barring a bus crash," the Heat will undoubtedly win the series.

Tasteless? Inappropriate? Voodoo? Honestly, I don't know anymore.

Were Steve Kerr -- one of the best announcers in any sport, by the way -- sitting next to me when he said that I probably would have laughed at the statement's morbid truth. Then I would have marveled that Steve Kerr had been teleported into my apartment.

I suppose Steve's comment is considered NSFW. Death, even of the hypothetical variety, is a sensitive issue, as Kerr undoubtedly knows. I'm sure, also, that he's the kind of guy who realized what he said casually then immediately registered the weight of his words. If I were to make a comment like that, odds are in my favor that no one in present company has been affected by a horrible traffic accident (unless my wife is there, because her mother was killed in such a way). But on live television, with millions tuned in, those odds aren't as good, and they're compounded by the fact that, instead of genuine offense taken, a lot of people are conditioned to look for it, to sniff it out like a German Shepherd does drugs at an airport, and to get up in arms over it. It's evident in Western society that a large percentage of the population, subconsciously or not, seeks out ways to get offended.

Sorry, for a couple minutes there I forgot Steve is white (not his fault!).

Taking a guess here, but Kerr's comment won't be scrutinized by the league, nor will he be reprimanded. Whether he is or not, I'm also betting that Kerr himself will offer up an apology. That's the kind of guy Steve Kerr is. He knows a lot about insensitivity in sports. And there was no malice in what he said. It was a comment perhaps too casual for some viewers -- he made Marv Albert shout, "Whoa!" no mean feat, that -- but there was no hate in what he said.

But if Kerr were black, I imagine we'd have a different scenario. Yes, I went there.

Fifteen

2011-04-22T13:22:00.002+09:00

The Devil is a good many things and more:

“I smoke because the money I spend on cigarettes is money I’d otherwise spend on booze, and when I drink I beat my kids.” But he does that anyway.

“I think it’s better to stay away from her because she’s better off without me.” But that’s fearful conjecture at best.

“I cheat on tests because they’re designed to be too hard in the first place.” But she never studies for more than ten minutes a day.

“There’s no point in voting. Nothing we do makes a lick of difference.” But that’s asking for what one gets, if not a vote all its own.

“Drinking is what keeps me sane. It allows me to forget the things which trouble me.” But nothing has been forgotten and, if anything, matters have become exacerbated.

“Wanton unprotected sex with eight mutual acquaintances is the best way to teach my ex a lesson.” But it does so much more than that, and not to the ex.

“I’m not running. I’m changing gears, and far away at that.” But the cost to oneself far outweighs the benefits.

“Nothing will change. I know it’s true. Nothing you say to the contrary will alter the truth. We can’t change. Don’t ask me to think about it." This is for the best. But that’s untrue on all counts.

Pessimism and justifications have their rightful place and time, but The Devil goes one step further, beyond the realm of reason into one that lies on the edge of self-destruction and, much worse, that of stagnation. Stillness is not what The Devil craves, per se, but it’s the end result of rationalizing pathetically obtrusive thoughts, behaviors, and values; and yet, the path of The Devil is seductively, deceptively facile - which is not to say that it’s effortless. Far from it, in fact, as such an outlook requires constant attention to neglecting details, details which, lo and behold, would lift The Devil from the quagmire of his own design.

Of all the cards, The Devil is, ostensibly, the most alluring to those with more than a few copies shuffled into the deck. Seemingly luxuriate within its willful ignorance, The Devil nonetheless potentially undermines all the decisions that may lead to progress, offering instead the pleasure of shallow ease fueled by defeatist tendencies, a criminal’s incredulity, and subversive diversion. (In-of-itself, The Devil is not the most dangerous card, but on the rare occasion it's paired or conjoined with others, the results can be cataclysmic.)

Even so, there comes a time, however, when The Devil must loosen its hold and give way to something else. That, or languish forever. But the sway of other cards is powerful indeed and even The Devil can see change coming, foolish justifications be damned.