God by nature, mind raised in Asia

There's one R in the alphabet:

The Equinox

I don't get much correspondence, but if I did I'd pretend that a lot of you sexy beasts are wondering whatever became of

(Johnny Fever)

my Svengali, Idealjetsam.

Answer: he's in our hearts and minds. Mostly in our minds. Or at least mine. I think he hypnotized me one night when we were out drinking. That would explain a lot, specifically why I do the chicken dance whenever I cross an intersection.

Idealjetsam, who doesn't look a day over twelve, is to Psychedelic Kimchi what Ray Kroc is to McDonald's: he doesn't have an active role, but he's the driving force of an empire. No hyperbole.

Recently, I spoke with Idealjetsam. And the literary world fell to its knees.

A transcript (edited for length):

Sparkles:

Bang! You dead!

모든 대화 상대에게 메시지를 보내지는 못했습니다.

Bang! You dead!

Sparkles:

Shit. Missed.

Idealjetsam:

eh?

Sparkles:

Nothing, I saw your name come up and I wanted to send you a message right away. My folks sometimes do that, and it annoys the hell out of me.

Idealjetsam:

you got me

Idealjetsam:

my comp is still booting

Idealjetsam:

and it was annoying

Idealjetsam:

congrats

Idealjetsam:

dick

Idealjetsam:

you broke my computer

Idealjetsam:

now go write on your blog or something

Sparkles:

I was gonna, but I posted 25 articles this month, so I'm taking a long-deserved break.

Sparkles:

Sorry, 24.

Idealjetsam:

so drinking it is

Sparkles:

And The Mars Volta.

Sparkles:

So, what are we studying? Maybe I can help. I'm sort of a big deal when it comes to academics, you know.

Idealjetsam:

Freire's dialogic of oppression and hope as applied to a world civic

Sparkles:

Oh come on; give me something at least a little bit challenging.

Idealjetsam:

haha

Idealjetsam:

wikipedia couldn't help, eh?

Sparkles:

I was in bathroom! Bathroom!

Idealjetsam:

yeah, yeah

Sparkles:

I peed!

Idealjetsam:

fear will do that

Sparkles:

Seriously, though, I have an idea I want to run by you. It's about a short story I've imagined.

Idealjetsam:

uh-oh

Sparkles:

And I'm dead serious here.

Sparkles:

It was inspired by Murakami's "A Poor-Aunt Story" and my own life.

Sparkles:

Here it is:

Idealjetsam:

ok

Sparkles:

Told from 2 (possibly 3, though maybe 1 is the soundest idea) perspectives

Sparkles:

it's the tale of a family dog, loved by his owners

Idealjetsam:

like Lassie?

Sparkles:

Let me finish!

Idealjetsam:

ok

Sparkles:

This dog, right, he's a great dog. Very loyal, and everybody loves him. Even mailmen love this fucker

Idealjetsam:

ok

Sparkles:

But around his 14th (78th) year, the dog gets sick.

Sparkles:

Cancer

Idealjetsam:

are you sure you don't want to run to the deli for two eggs on a hard roll with provolone and tomato

Idealjetsam:

?

Idealjetsam:

ok

Idealjetsam:

cancer

Sparkles:

Beer is my dinner.

Idealjetsam:

carry on

Sparkles:

Anyway, the dog gets terminally ill.

Sparkles:

He's hurting.

Sparkles:

And the family loves him so dearly that they do everything possible to keep him alive.

Sparkles:

But the dog, he doesn't understand.

Idealjetsam:

wait

Idealjetsam:

wasn't this already done?

Idealjetsam:

are you taking the piss?

Sparkles:

After a while, he starts to wonder why the family is keeping him alive. Maybe they're torturing him.

Sparkles:

I assure you, I'm being genuine. Why, has this idea already been done?

Idealjetsam:

it sounds familiar

Sparkles:

Anyway, the dog, once a loyal and loving family dog, starts to hate, despise his owners...even the little boy.

Idealjetsam:

especially the part about the dog not knowing

Idealjetsam:

while the family does everything

Idealjetsam:

but go on

Sparkles:

I was reminded a little of Dalton Trumbo's 'Johnny Got His Gun,' but that was afterwards.

Sparkles:

Anyhoo, the dog at the end despises the the family. He wants to kill them all, only he's too weakened to do anything but stay alive and hate them.

Sparkles:

There's an unintentional eusthanization [sic] message in there. Mostly I think it's a good story about perspectives.

Idealjetsam:

what's the point?

Sparkles:

There must be a point, now? I guess the point is that nobody, human or beast, can see the whole picture. To the family, they're doing what they think is right: keeping their animal friend alive. To the dog, he feels betrayed and wonders until (and after, maybe) his death why a family he was so loyal to treated him so cruelly when they used to be so kind.

Idealjetsam:

some Hemingway you are...

Idealjetsam:

ok

Idealjetsam:

I think Bill Murray should play the dog

Idealjetsam:

no

Idealjetsam:

Charles Grodin

Sparkles:

That's not funny. Well, maybe a little.

Idealjetsam:

anyway

Idealjetsam:

the idea is cool at this stage

Idealjetsam:

but you really need to wait til the next stage

Idealjetsam:

and see where you're at

Sparkles:

Short story or novel?

Idealjetsam:

tetralogy

Sparkles:

And don't worry; it won't be a kids' story. In an early chapter, the dog catches the son wacking off and tries to hump his leg.

Idealjetsam:

interesting

Idealjetsam:

the details you thresh out first

Sparkles:

Write what you know(?)

Idealjetsam:

what ever comes to you, naturally

Idealjetsam:

ok

Idealjetsam:

reading, must do

Idealjetsam:

piss off

Sparkles:

Ha. The real question now is: what kind of dog is it?

Sparkles:

Mind if I post this on PK? The latter part.

Idealjetsam:

our conversation?

Sparkles:

About the short story/book.

Idealjetsam:

sure

Idealjetsam:

post it all. Even the part where I blame the Jews for all the wars in the world.

(OK, I made that last part up.)

Idealjetsam:

I wanna be famous

*****

So there you go; that's how my Saturday night was spent. And if you don't see many posts by me for a while, it's because a) I've been kidnapped by North Korean spies, or b) I'm writing a novel about a dog.

The Mars Volta, Amputechture (Review)

"Very lonely people that I met... they all hallucinated ants at one time."

-- Mido, Oldboy

To paraphrase Posdnous, fuck being hard, The Mars Volta's complicated. This is not a positive trait on its own (see: Ulysses; Joyce, James), but with the right talent it can be a beautiful thing (see: Pollack, Jackson; Lynch, David; Killah, Ghostface).

Over the course of their young career, The Mars Volta have achieved such beauty. 2003's De-Loused in the Comatorium is an album of exceptional merit, despite Rick Rubin's Phil Spectoresque over-production; and Frances the Mute (2005), produced by lead guitarist and composer Omar Rodriguez Lopez, could have been an indulgent exercise in tediousness (certainly the formula was there; like Tolkien's ents, these cats never say anything unless it's worth taking a long time to say) were it not for its utter perfection, musically and vocally.

And that's what separates The Mars Volta from your average pretentious "art rock" band. Maybe they're abstract for abstraction's sake, their often morbid lyrics impossible to decipher. Maybe. For most groups such causes would, and do, effect near-universal scorn and ridicule -- and those sentiments would perhaps be justifiably aimed at The Mars Volta were it not for their transcendental musical gifts and Cedric Bixler-Zavala's amazing vocal skills.

Let's talk about Bixler-Zavala for a sec. At times reminiscent of Rush's Geddy Lee, at others Janis Joplin, though mostly of his own, uniquely talented self, Bixler-Zavala's gender bending vocals are Thomas Mann Death In Venice-level seductive. He sings (screams, wails...) like a seafarer-luring Siren, unrestrained, unrestricted, as though he's an actor in a 70's era psychedelic musical. And anyone who's heard him on Handsome Boy Modeling School's White People knows he's barely shown the extent of his vocal diversity. Simply put, he's the Lebron James* of rock vocalists: his potential is unlimited, and nobody's really aware of what Herculean heights he's capable.

That extends to the band's core as a whole. The Mars Volta's sound hasn't changed drastically over the course of three albums, and yet it has. Like Bowie, The Mars Volta are evolving slowly, and on Amputechture they stick to their signature sound while, like a virtuoso chef, also encorporating new spices. The Latin music influences which MSG'd up Frances the Mute return (albeit less blatantly), as does the rest of the band's formidable repertoire, plus some jazz, some industrial dustiness, and a pretty Spanish-language track which not only showcases the group's musical diversity, but also serves as a perfect bridge between the first and second halves of the album.

Recommending Amputechture, however, is sort of like recommending Auschwitz as a vacation destination. It's significant, essential, but it doesn't exactly cry out "fun for the whole family." Amputechture is a dark place to go, a scary ride; but for anyone who appreciates The Mars Volta's talents, it's a dark comfortable place.

To wit, anyone familiar with my well-documented torment by, and fear of, bugs probably won't be surprised to learn that Amputechture's theme is, ostensibly**, insects. Bixler-Zavala's lyrics read like an entomological dictionary eaten then regurgitated by some Lovecraftian monster. And while it's repulsive, Amputechture is, for all the reasons mentioned above, also wonderfully pretty and enticing.

Like a spider's web. Like a bank robbery. Like discount sushi.

Amputechture is possibly the year's best album. Certainly it's the year's most terrifying. If you're like me, that is.

Rating: 4/5 earwigs



* I mean Dwyane Wade.

** That kid is back on the escalator again!

I'm A Cyborg, But That's OK

Poster for the upcoming Park Chan-Wook (Oldboy, Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance) film I'm A Cyborg, But That's OK (싸이보그지만 괜찮아).

Trailer here.

You can't tell from the poster, but that guy behind the mask is none other than Jeong Ji-Hoon (정지훈). Who's Jeong Ji-Hoon you ask? You may be more familiar with his stage name, 비.

Park Chan-Wook hates me.

Psychedelic Kimochi

I don't post pics of South Korea's most popular, sexiest celebrities for the same reason I don't review Beatles albums. Rubber Soul is God's gift to pop music, and Lee Hyori, Jeon Ji-Hyun (seeing them together is the sexy equivalent of Martin and Malcolm shaking hands), Uhm Jung-Hwa and Kim Hye-Soo (The Godmother of Seoul) are hot like metal dining utensils in microwaves and neglected pets/children in minivans with the windows rolled up.

That's given. You need me to tell you they're attractive like Masuimi Max needs a fifth nipple; but after perusing the above pic I can't let shit slide like Bran Flakes. Lee Hyori has achieved a tier of sexiness hitherto accomplished by very few. In fact, she's gotten so sexy that, much like Pamela Anderson in her prime (before she effed up her face and chest), it's become passe to annoint her as such, en vogue to call her "nothing special."

But that's crazy talk. Let it ring from the hallowed halls of babedom: Lee Hyori is the sexiest woman alive

(whom I've never interviewed nor am married to)

.

I will show you fear in a handful of Pringles crumbs

Yesterday:

There's a new ajumma working the day shift at my local 7-Eleven, and I'm sure her brazenly disrespectful attitude is not reserved solely for The Man, rather everyone. I walk in, snatch a sandwich, a microwaveable pizza thingy, a bag of chips, a Twix, a bottle of soju, a 700mL beer, a bottle of water, plop them down on the counter and order a pack of This cigarettes; and this lady has the gall to toss a plastic bag on the counter and tell me to bag everything myself. Who the hell does she think she is, Queen Empress of Cashiers?

I'm so going to get her fired. I'm a respected man in this neighborhood, and nobody tells me to bag my own carp. If I wanted to do that, I'd shop at motherfucking E-Mart.

Today:

Now, my genuine reaction yesterday wasn't as described; in truth, I was slightly annoyed and then forgot about it.

But today I waltz into Ye Olde 7-Eleven, and this ajumma -- who's slowly becoming my nemesis -- is again working. I grab a bottle of Asahi Dry, a 600mL bottle of Powerade (because I like having green stools), a can of shaving cream, a triangle kimbap, and some frozen microwaveable sweet-and-sour chicken. My nemesis-cashier rings up the sale (picture her wearing a green visor and Old West-style armbands; it's funnier that way) then takes my money -- but not before she throws a black plastic bag on the counter, covering my purchases like a death shroud.

OK, now I see; It's become a battle of wills. I take my change and look scornfully at my unbagged stuff, then at my nemesis. She looks back impassively.

Just as I'm about to launch a sarcastic retort ("While I appreciate the vote of confidence, rumors of my telekinetic powers are greatly exaggerated. Those things aren't going to bag themselves, lady"), a high school girl walks up behind me with a carton of banana milk. Thankful for the diversion, the ajumma looks over my shoulder and says with a smile -- where's my smile is what I wanna know -- "That's 800 won."

And in the interval it hits me how stupid my haranguing of this woman would be. This particular 7-Eleven has a part-time worker turnover rate roughly equal to that of customers at a random love hotel on a busy weekend. In the past week alone I've seen three women of varying ages start and then quit the same day, or the day after (I'm especially sorrowful that the 2nd girl, a twenty-something lass who looked like a younger, hotter version of Lee Young-Ae, is no longer part of the 7-Eleven team); and judging by her demeanor, it's pretty safe to say this affront to friendly service won't be around much longer, either. I doubt she would have cared if I had launched into her. In fact, she probably was hoping I had. Women are like that.

So I swallowed my pride and started to bag my own items. Again, if I wanted to do that, I'd shop at the Big Gay E-Mart.

But here's my question: was I expecting too much? Am I overreacting by expecting a 7-Eleven cashier to bag my shit? Did some cultural revolution of which I'm unaware recently occur? Have the 7-Eleven serfs been emancipated? If so, what's next?

Anarchy, friends. Anarchy.

(Word to Jon Bender)

I'll Sleep When You're Dead

Argument (The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly)

Sergio Leone's The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly may be my all-time favorite film; if it isn't, it's definitely in the Top 5. A year or so ago, I wrote on this blog that Eli Wallach's portrayal of Tuco is perhaps the best supporting role in the history of filmdom.

What was I thinking?

Not that Wallach isn't outstanding. Quite the opposite, in fact. And the more I watch The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, the more I appreciate his spectacular performance.

Supporting role? Bollocks; Tuco is The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly's primary character, and I hereby apologize for my semantic blunder.

Nobody digs Clint Eastwood as Blondie/The Man With No Name more than I. He epitomizes cool. But Wallach as Tuco does the same while possessing more substance. (That said, I don't want Blondie to be more fleshed out, because, like Marvel Comics' Wolverine, he works better as an enigmatic archetype. Word to Jesus Christ.) Tuco is the most realized, most easily likeable (and despicible; he's that, too), most memorable character in the film. Eastwood's lines drip cool from their water vapors, but so do Wallach's*; and whereas Blondie is hardened, the definition of stolidity, Tuco is a wild card -- Like Peter Verkovensky, one is never sure whether he's playing a buffoon or genuinely being one. In fact, if one watches closely, Tuco becomes more of an enigma than Blondie.

There's a scene in the film where Blondie and Tuco depart from a monastery not long after the latter meets his brother, a monk, whom he has not seen in nine years. In the earlier scene, Tuco's brother, Pablo, shames him for deserting the family. The siblings' parents are both deceased, which is news to Tuco. Possibly the film's most dramatic moment, after the upbraiding Tuco retorts that, for men of their environment (word to 3rd Bass), only the priesthood and banditry are promises of a possibly better life, and that Pablo chose the cloth because he's "too much of a coward to do what I do." Pablo slaps him. Tuco responds by punching him out.

Afterwards, he says to Blondie:

"Even a tramp like me, no matter what happens, I know there's always a brother who won't refuse me a bowl of soup."

That single line sums up so much of Tuco's character: cunning, regretful, defiant, ashamed. And when Blondie offers him his cigar, Tuco, with an extraordinaryly subtle facial gesture, shrugs it all off, laughs, and instantly puts the near past behind him, choosing to focus on the unknown, intangible future.

In that way, Tuco is starkly more similar to you or me than is Blondie. Blondie is the character we want to be, wish we could be.

Tuco is the character we are.


* The Top Ten Tuco lines, so says me:

10)

"God is on our side because he hates the Yanks."

(Only because I'm a Red Sox fan.)

9)

"Don't die, I'll get you water. Stay there. Don't move, I'll get you water. Don't die until later."

8)

"But if you miss you had better miss very well. Whoever double-crosses me and leaves me alive, he understands nothing about Tuco."

7)

"One bastard goes in, another one comes out."

6)

"I like big fat men like you. When they fall they make more noise."

5)

"See you soon, id..." "id..." "ids..."

Blondie: "'Idiots'. It's for you."

4)

"I'm very happy you are working with me! And we're together again. I get dressed, I kill him and be right back."

Blondie: "Listen, I forgot to mention... He's not alone. There's five of 'em."

"Five?"

Blondie: "Yeah, five of 'em."

"So, that's why you came to Tuco. It doesn't matter, I'll kill them all."

3)

"You want to know who you are? Huh? Huh? You don't, I do, everyone does... you're the son of a thousand fathers, all bastards like you."

2)

"Hey, Blond! You know what you are? Just the greatest son-of-a-b-!"

1)

"When you have to shoot, shoot, don't talk."

Pizza Ddeokbokki -- Taste Test

Is there something inherently wrong with complementing pizza ddeokbokki with a bottle of Krombacher? Not if I have anything to say about it. The singular pairing (word to Oscar Madison and Felix Ungar) clearly epitomizes the Psychedelic Kimchi ethos of the coarse and the refined. Word to Charles Bukowski.

Look, I like foie gras and filet mignon fine. I also like ketchup; and if you don't think I'd put it on either of the aforementioned dishes, you don't know me very well. Foodies might scoff, but even the most pretentious diner knows deep down in his heart of hearts that the Asian love of SPAM holds merit, or that a McDonald's cheeseburger may, like yours truly, feel wrong, but in fact is so often right.

Let's not kid ourselves; human beings will try to make art of anything, and never is this more apparent than in our beautification of the food we consume. Whether it's a soufflé or a Snickers, it all turns out the same way in the end, so why all the posturing? If it feels right -- like say a pot of Kraft Dinner and cut-up weiners topped with ketchup, or even mustard if it's your thing -- why deny it? Word to Brokeback Mountain.

I like the art of Paul Gauguin (Psychedelic Kimchi like a motherfuck, by the way), and I also like the art of Gary Larson; Kim Ah-Jung's perfect teeth mesmerize me, but so do Jewel Kilcher's.

All are beautiful in their own unique way, and so is pizza ddeokbokki. And if you're still too narrow-minded to accept the fact, somebody, namely me, needs to learn you culinary tolerance.

Word to Chef Boyardee.

Which is not to say that anything goes. Certainly an accord must be reached between the tasty and the downright vulgar; and while my gastronomic predilections may often resemble those of a pregnant woman, even I am willing to admit that ice cream and tuna should share separate quarters, that the egos of milk and OJ are a dangerous mix.

(In the latter scenario, OJ kills Milk and her boyfriend Processed Cheese, then goes on the lam when Sheriff Corn Flake suspects foul play.)

Pizza and ddeokbokki, however? A good-looking pair if you ask me.

Word to Gong Li.

And while it doesn't exactly reinvent the fusion food wheel (word to tuna-and-mayo triangle kimbap), it's a laudable effort. There's ample cheese, and the sauce achieves that near-impossible neutrality between tomatoey goodness and ddeokbokki sauce piquant.

The toppings, so to speak, are sparse but delectable: a chunky slice of pepperoni, green peppers, onions, and a smattering of corn. That last is likely to turn off many westerners prejudiced to the staple of any Korean pie, but not me. Because I'm objective like that.

Ironically, it's in the ddeok that Sampo's experiment stumbles. It's drier than an octogenarian's snatch, gummy like candy worms. Considering that it's the entrée's most abundant ingredient, that's pretty damning evidence.

But it tried, didn't it? Goddamn it, at least it did that.

Word to Randall McMurphy.

Rating: 3 out of 5 *_*

Sin City (Special Edition) -- DVD Review

It was my uncle who first got me interested in comics. My family would spend 2 or 3 weeks at my paternal grandparents' in Nova Scotia every summer, and one summer when I was around 7 or 8 I found a decent-sized stack of my uncle's funnybooks -- Jonah Hex, Shogun Warriors, Marvel Team-Up and the like. I mostly remember two things: Hostess Fruit Pies ads and the smell of the paper. The next summer -- or maybe it was the summer after that -- my uncle bought me a giant-size comic, almost what could be called a trade paperback. It contained a bunch of stories, but the one I'll always remember focused on The Thing. In the story, a washed-up pro wrestler takes an experimental drug (sound familiar?) to obtain the strength of a crocodile. (Apparently crocodiles are really strong, though one wonders why he didn't take a drug which would give him the strength of, say, a grizzly bear. Or the agility of a mongoose.) It's up to Ben Grimm to take him down -- Galactus and the Cosmic Cube can wait. In the end, the wrestler turns into an actual crocodile. Pretty routine stuff, but at the time I was convinced it was the most amazing story ever written.

From then on, whenever we'd visit my grandparents' I made it a point to pester my mom into buying me comics, and I vividly remember those early ones -- Marvel comics such as The New Mutants and Daredevil mostly, although I tried to force myself to like Superman and other DC titles.

But comic reading was "a summer thing." It wasn't until my eleventh year that I consciously, almost gravely -- like a boy talking himself into jumping from the high diving board -- decided I would become a comic collector. This was a very serious undertaking, I was aware. These days, what with the Internet, it's easier to get info on a character's backstory and history, but in those days all one had was word of mouth, reprints, and reading the damn things. This was a lofty task, I felt.

I bought my first comic book (Uncanny X-Men no. 248, the first Jim Lee-pencilled issue) when I was in the fifth grade. Thus began my bold comic-collecting foray, one which lasted, on and off, until my early twenties. I still have an interest in the genre, but -- and my 12-year-old self would be shocked to hear it -- it doesn't exactly drive me insane not knowing every minute detail of what's happening these days in comicdom.

I started collecting comics just prior to the early 90's boom; and I must admit, I was a fan of some of the most hated artists (Rob Liefeld, Todd McFarlane...) and gimmicks (lenticular, holographic, glow-in-the-dark covers, polybagged issues...) of the period. I know a little better now (though I still wish McFarlane would draw comics, and good ones), but at the time I was loyal to Marvel superheroes, and mostly I still am.

It wasn't until my twentieth year that I read Alan Moore's zenith of the medium, Watchmen, but during my teens I tried to broaden my comics horizon. One of the books I picked up during that time was issue 1 of Frank Miller's Sin City, "That Yellow Bastard" (word to Kim Jong-Il). I loved the hard-boiled dialogue, the stark violence. Mostly I loved Miller's use of black and white, which was some of the greatest comics art I'd ever seen.

I was amazed.

I never bought another issue.

Shame on me, and shame on me for neglecting to see Robert Rodriguez and Frank Miller*'s (with an assist from one Quentin Tarantino) mind-blowing film adaptation until now. Sometimes I'm such a broomhead.

Sin City isn't only a comic book-based film, it is a comic book -- one fantastically brought to life for the visual medium. It is the Citizen Kane of comic book movies. I say that without any pretension, and I'm astounded that it didn't earn at least one Academy Award for technical achievement. Then again, Orson Welles's monument of filmmaking was overlooked in the Best Film category in favor of How Green Was My Valley. So there you go.

Coincidentally (not including the brief Josh Hartnett-starring prelude), Sin City opens with issue 1 of Miller's 'That Yellow Bastard.' Not only is the dialogue exact, the shots mimic the book so precisely that I got a queer sense of deja vu.

What follows are three separate storylines, slightly connected by characters and the titular location, Basin "Sin" City. First is the Mickey Rourke-starring tale, 'The Hard Goodbye,' about an ugly, bullet-proof thug who seeks vengeance after a woman who was kind enough to give him a throw is murdered. Given his already frightening, ostensibly-prosthetic visage, I'm not too sure why special FX make-up was needed, but it's clear from the get-go that this is Rourke's defining role, in fact the only role I recall him ever being memorable in. Props.

The succeeding tale, 'The Big Fat Kill,' is my favorite of the film's three stories. It takes a little longer than 'The Hard Goodbye' to get going, but once it does, boy, hold on. Benicio Del Toro plays Jackie-Boy, a woman-beating scumbag who gets on the wrong side of Dwight (played well, but with a god-awful American accent, by Clive Owen), and later the assembled hookers who control Old Town. But when Jackie-Boy is slain and discovered to be a cop, all hell threatens to break loose...and does. Sin City relies more on style than inventive storytelling, but 'The Big Fat Kill' is one hell of a yarn.

The final story (again, not including the Harnett bookends), 'That Yellow Bastard,' continues the opening storyline, following Hartigan (Bruce Willis) as he's convicted for the crimes of the pedophilic son of a corrupt senator, whom he stopped and whose weapons -- both of them -- he took away. Fearing that the girl he saved eight years ago is in danger, Hartigan admits to the crimes he didn't commit, and is thusly parolled. A little too easy, non? Oui; little does Hartigan know that he's being used as bait.

Hyper-violent in the extreme, Sin City isn't for everyone. Though comics-style exaggeration and unique coloring lend it a detached-from-reality surrealism, making the film easier to digest, there are parts where it's overdone and even I, no stranger to violence on film, felt more than a little sqeamish.

If you can handle it, though, it's a delight -- both for its seamless blending of two mediums and its relentless pace. Sin City is like film noir on acid. It has its minor flaws (the aforementioned Clive Owen accent; a horrible turn courtesy of Michael Clarke Duncan, whose career should be locked up and put to death like his character in The Green Mile; and portions which too closely resemble Who Framed Roger Rabbit?), but mostly it's every fanboy's cinematic fantasy come true: a comic book come to life, broken down (to paraphrase The RZA) in its purest form.

The Special Edition DVD also joins the elite echelon of the packed The Lord of the Rings and Hellboy SE DVDs in my collection that I'll probably never get around to immersing myself in.

Peep game:

Dolby Digital 5.1, DTS 5.1
Recut and extended theatrical release with over 20 minutes of additional footage- separated into four stories
Original theatrical release including:
All-new feature commentary with Robert Rodriguez & Frank Miller
All-new feature commentary with Robert Rodriguez & Quentin Tarantino
An audio track featuring a recording of the Austin premiere audience reaction
Exclusive never-before-seen extras:
15-minute film school with Robert Rodriguez
The movie in high-speed green screen
The Long Take: 17 uninterrupted minutes of Tarantino's segment
Sin City Night at Antones -- filmmakers, cast and crew party
10-minute cooking school with Robert Rodriguez
Bloopers
Teaser & theatrical trailers
A Hard Top With a Decent Engine: The cars of Sin City
Making the Monsters: Special effects make-up
Trench Coats & Fishnets: The costumes of Sin City
Booze, Broads & Guns: The props of Sin City
How it Went Down: Convincing Frank Miller to make the film
Giving the Characters Life: Casting the film
Special guest director: Quentin Tarantino
Sin-Chroni-City interactive game
Film soundtrack

I'm reminded of an early Seinfeld episode in which George accompanies Jerry to a bank and tries to have a large jar full of pennies converted into dollars. When the teller suggests he roll them himself and then return to cash them in, George obstinately shouts "What, should I quit my job?"

That's how these uber-stuffed DVDs make me feel. But it's nice knowing that I have a few huge jars full of pennies to cash in one day when I find the time. I look forward to catching Sin City's full experience when I'm old and incontinent. Plus, who needs Cialis or Viagra when one has Carla Gugino and Jessica Alba?

Am I right?

Rating: 4 out of 4 *_*


* Watching Frank Miller "direct" ranks a perfect 100 on the Unintentional Comedy Scale. Word to Bill Simmons.