Notes on Anthroponymy (a Slight Misnomer)

The Cure - Burn

Anyone the slightest bit familiar with the author of this post knows that names, particularly given names, perplex me (because we are one in the same; of that, you can rest moderately assured). I am aware that names serve a purpose within society, as they allow individuals to quickly identify, classify, and supposedly, relate to others. However, the tasks associated with said functions are scarcely foolproof endeavors.

A: Are you in a study group with Linda?
B: Which Lynda? The one with the 'i' or the one with the 'y'?
A: No idea, but what about her last name?
B: Why would I know her last name? We've only been in a study group for three weeks!
A: Okay, okay. Does your Linda have blue eyes?
B: First of all, she isn't my Lynda, and second, I don't pay attention to that stuff. Am I supposed to gaze into everyone's eyes these days? Is that the latest interpersonal craze?
A: Obviously not, and the thought of you doing that creeps me out, but whatever. Is the Linda in that study group short, or tall?
B: Well, Lynda's shorter than me, if that's what you mean.
A: Never mind.

While fictitious, the preceding exchange is not altogether implausible, nor especially unique. The part about not knowing someone's last name after three weeks is a stretch, of course, as I am, perhaps ironically, pretty good with names. By the second week of my first summer graduate course, for example, I had already memorized the first and last names of all the students in class, and there were quite a few. To an extent, spelling goes along with that, but as for the other stuff, such as eye and/or hair color, height, digits (fingers and toes, not telephone numbers*), rings (wedding, engagement, commitment, pre-commitment, onion, cock, etc.), jewelry, clothing style, and breast augmentation? Beyond names and basketball jerseys, I would have been incapable of divulging much to an inquisitor at that point.

Thus, in terms of memorization, names fail to bewilder me, though it should be stressed that this is by no means an innate skill. Years spent teaching have facilitated the ease by which monikers are committed to memory, even if the pronunciation of said names has proven elusive at times, owing to the inevitable difficulty encountered when two or more languages come into play. Speaking of pronunciation, true story: for an entire semester, an English professor mispronounced** my name, and I never once sought to address the matter until the final day of class. Upon being informed of his mistake, he apologized profusely and asked why I hadn't corrected him earlier, as he erroneously believed that it was something worthy of an apology, which brings us to the here and now.

What perplexes me about names is the importance placed upon them. People have utilized various pronunciations, abbreviations, alterations, and outright mutations of my given name as far back as recollection allows, and such bastardizations are of no concern to yours truly. When done creatively, playfully, and with affection (for lack of a better term, really), such efforts are readily appreciated, if not acknowledged directly. On the flip side, those who engage in nominal manipulation due to motives related to malice, subversion, or the exertion of perceived power often find themselves flummoxed, owing to his or her inability to accurately perceive the reality that their existence is irrelevant ultimately, the recipient of said manipulations is wholly indifferent toward the process, let alone the outcome.

Then again, who am I to discourage futility? (I mean, really.) By all means, call me anything you want.

P.S. Readers unfamiliar with the content of this blog may be wondering if a particular event prompted this post. If only! Because that would imply a social life of sorts, and shame on you for entertaining such idealistic flights of fancy. Longtime readers, meanwhile, will attest to my longstanding, possibly unhealthy fascination with the unimportance of names and identity.

P.P.S. Has it ever been reported that I have a hard time using the name of any person with whom I converse or correspond during said bouts of communication? Long story, so let's save that for a spinoff.

* Now that I mention it, though, I am terrible with phone numbers. Hell, I have trouble remembering my own.
** And I use that term loosely, since the pronunciation employed by the professor during that semester simply differed from the one preferred by my parents, and who the fuck do they think they are, right?

Notes on Sex

Well now, isn't this awkward!



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

...

...


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

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




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

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

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


The Faint - Worked Up So Sexual

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

Notes on Music

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-

Notes on Love

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

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

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?