Can I Give My Old Heart to You?

There are moments, and then there are MOMENTS. The above photo was inspired by one such. I'll leave it up to Voltron and my mom to guess which:

a) OB lager

b) The Idealjetsam proclivity onslaught (don't think it won't happen)

c) The opening title -- no plural -- of The Departed

d) Euphoric urination

E) All of the above

Hint: I will gladly sell my soul for another sip of you.

The Fifteenth Floor

And The High Evolutionary Speaks*


Points of parliamentary procrastination:

1. Some people say I don't post on PK enough, and they're right. But that's only because of the reasons I don't. And this is the post that is meant to change all that: Get me ready for the team. Set the stage. And, uh, go. (Testing...testing...)
2. As at a DJ Shadow show, the first five minutes is like practice, so bear with me as I aspire to the heights achieved by the other masters of mayhem at PK (Sparkles, even.). Now with added peer pressure since we have that peerless Doctor Whophyte, Willie G. visiting so often.**
3. I am ostensibly here to provide a distinct flavor to the PK experience. Safety advisory for those who run the risk of whiplash when they snag themselves on my posts. They stick out like thorns on a thorny thing. By which I mean:
4. I hate basketball.
5. More specifically, you will see that I concern myself with less important topics and concerns--am, myself, concerned with topics of less importance than my PK brethren. No basketball. No poppy culture. And no freaking Nancy Lang.*** I am here to write for you about more trivial items. Tonight's topic:

THE FATE OF ALL MANKIND(TM)

Nobody asked me, but I need to say what I’m thinking in this new year in New York City, five months after the Twin Towers burned, after long stretches of fall weather eerily close to perfect—clear blue skies, shirtsleeve warmth—through December, a bizarre hesitation, as if nature couldn’t get on with it’s life and cycle to the next season, the city enclosed in a fragile, bell-jar calm till shattered by a siren, a plane’s roar overhead.

--John Edgar Wideman, Whose War

The world is going to hell. Or, rather, the slide has been remarkably smooth and consistent this past several years. Like polka-dots just surged back into style****, we've met our war, corruption, mediocrity and apathy quotas with effortless ease. Barely knew we did it, did we? John Stewart has more gray hair than an elephant's ass now and I think it's because the state of the world has gotten so bad that not even he can laugh it off anymore. It's a form of shock and awe: current events based humor isn't based in laughter anymore, just incredulity. Never have so few sacrificed so little for their own greater good that outweighs the needs of the many. Live long and fester. Disillusioned we fall.

Never fear. Like Rapunzel letting down the hair of wisdom from the heights of the Ivory Tower (in Technicolor), I am here to tell you that the luminaries of social science and societal critique have diagnosed the world's ills and prescribed a cure:

Talking.

That's right. In a world gone mad, surrounded on all sides--French to our left, international terrorists to our right, and the Chinese dancing all over the godamned floor with any colored cat that'll fill their card--the privileged percent of the population that gets to read this kind of cheerleading now knows that the thing to do is to convince everyone to just sit down and have a good chat.

I say.

This theory is the brainchild of, among others, Kwame Anthony Appiah, whose gist is basically: Because humans are so incredibly different and diverse, there's no hope for a singular human identity, so we can forget about using that identity as a way of connecting to one another. He often explains this this through the example of his own (non)identity as a gay half-Ghanaian, half-English bloke with Indian, American and Klingon branches on his family tree.***** Ergo, the Miraeryu(TM) is a mixed up batch of humans who are so hodgepdoged in terms of national, ethnic, religious, gender, sexual preference, global, local and Korean songstress affiliations that we we will soon be forced to realize two things: 1) Generalizations that hold water are a thing of the past, not to mention awkward mixed-metaphory like figments of my imagination. 2) Our increasing inability (it's lack of applicability, really) to be able to identify with each other in the traditional ways will lead us to form more cosmopolitan notions and ideals. Sounds good. Sorta. Might be a glitch or two. Tell me if you see them.

The application side to this theory is that the way forward in establishing cosmopolitan ethics is to de-emphasize reaching a consensus: with Muslims, Muppets, Mavericks, Manchesterites and that bastard Michael Bay all inhabiting the same planet, there are just some things, some REALLY important things (as in the ones that people bomb each other over) that we are just never ever ever going to agree on.

So why bother trying?

Appiah and his posse think we would be better served just talking to each other without worrying about reaching a consensus. The idea is that by communicating with each other, we'll be faced with each other's humanity (the thing which, if you recall, he says isn't a real identity at all...), develop empathy for each other and reset to an ethical default. Why do you think the good terrorists never talk to their prisoners? Why was Mr. Zuckerman in denial about Wilbur?

Now, I, and other Buddhists, should be applauding Dr. Appiah for his brilliance (there's even a healthy taste of dukkha in it all). Means not ends, hear-hear! However, I find myself rather asking: What in the bloody hell are you thinking, Kwame??

I don't buy it. I can't. I mean, it's a nice theory and all, but what about the particulars? How long are we supposed to sit down and talk to each other? I can't sit at the same Thanksgiving table for more than an hour with my family, how am I supposed to with the real enemy?****** And a lot of people think this is the way forward. A lot of people. (Mainly in Cambridge and on the Upper West Side.) But I'm not sure it's not more about Wideman's righteous rant. I.e., it's less about people saying things to each other and more about what people feel they just have to say. (Hello, blogging revolution, kinda.) And when what they have to say makes it over to "each other" it isn't always going to jive with the way "each other" thinks this blue marble rolls. Paradigms are a dime a dozen, the only thing you can be sure of is that the insurance policy that came in the box with yours doesn't provide global coverage. So you had better be ready to shift.

Talking is good. But dancing is better. When paradigms collide, people get stuck. Fixed and rigid. When people are fixed and rigid, ain't no amount of chitter-chatter and open-listening gonna help. Hell, a just sublime example of this took place the other week when I was at a seminar on discussion as a means of conflict resolution: three of the academics at my table opted for halt over gestalt and the talks bogged down halfway through the day. The topic we were discussing? Appiah's theories on conversation and cosmopolitanism. When I pointed out the irony of the situation, I was told to get stuffed. Empathy, my patookus.

Talking is essential, but Dancing is fundamental. What I mean to say is:

'Dance,' said the Sheep Man. 'Yougottadance. Aslongasthemusicplays. Yougotta dance. Don'teventhinkwhy. Starttothink, yourfeetstop. Yourfeetstop, wegetstuck. Wegetstuck, you'restuck. Sodon'tpayanymind, nomatterhowdumb. Yougottakeepthestep. Yougottalimberup. Yougottaloosenwhatyoubolteddown. Yougottauseallyougot. Weknowyou'retired, tiredandscared. Happenstoeveryone, okay? Justdon'tletyourfeettop.' ... 'Dancingiseverything,' continued the Sheep Man. 'Danceintip-topform. Dancesoitallkeepsspinning....'

--MH, Dance, Dance, Dance

It's nice to think that talking will save the day, but in the end you are as likely to end up with a brawl as a group-hug (betting types go for the brawl). So let's not kid ourselves about the wonders of the written, spoken, or listened-to word--let's just be ready for anything that comes our way. Because when people have got to say what they've been thinking, you had better be ready to loosen up what you bolted down.

And what does this have to do with you? Well, if you think I'm the only one letting down his locks from the tower you don't know how eager some punters are to shimmy up that ladder of dirty hair and scale the buttresses. For our audience in the World, don't be ambushed by hearing that word "cosmopolitan" bandied about outside of a SATC context, but do expect those doing the bandying to be the same vapid set. For our audience in Korea, read the book now so you can snatch the early openings at the imminent rash of 코스모포리탄 학원s before the maple leaf peril corners the market, just like they did with the Sarah Jessica Parker Academies of the Literally Petty Bourgeois.

And that, by way of an introduction, is my first five minutes of spin. The team is ready. The theme is set. And...


___________________________________

*Hey, the boy gave me a name, what am I supposed to do?

**All I can guarantee is that whatever's off the floor after post-production, it will be better than Dostoevsky. But consider this post the first five minutes of my PK oeuvre. It'll all tie in, fo' sho. (It'll seem less preachy-like too. Gah-run-tea.) For now, to ease the transition, I will footnote smarmily like the brothers.

*** That's more of that damn jealousy, perhaps. I can, however, guarantee there will always be some kimochi smuggled into every post. You show me an intellectual who doesn't like beautiful women, and I'll show you the academic establishment.

**** "Mediocrity is like a spot on your shirt, it never comes off." --MH

***** The last one may have been Kenyan. Semantics.

****** Al-Dostoevsky.

Caveat: I agree with 99.99% of what Appiah writes. But that doesn't sound even half as edgy.

One Game

Witness.

I don't know if it is chance or design, but the teams that I support are, invariably, doomed. As our longtime readers (trans: the five contributors and the Chloe Sevigny enthusiasts) will attest, I am a Knicks fan (W 33 / L 49) . I also support West Ham United (W 12 / D 5 / L 21). At the World Cup, I supported Australia (recap). When they used to show college ball here in Aust, I tuned in for Michigan (sup, Chris). I'm even rather partial to Ms Lohan. Here in the Antipodes, in our unique code of football, I support (or 'barrack', to use the parlance of our times) for Melbourne.

Coming in to today, my Demons had lost the first nine games of the season. We were heading towards the worst season since 1912 and the worst losing streak since the 1980s, or some shit. In the last few weeks, we had come agonisingly close to winning, but with no joy (four of the last five games we'd lost by a goal or less). Today, we were scheduled to play the second place Crows. Things were looking grim, brother.

It's not that I can't cope. I can. Because when you support the teams that I do, the lows are almost expected. What I stick around for is the highs. Because the highs, when they do come, are much, much sweeter.

Today, some how, things seemed to be looking up. The sun was shining over the MCG. The fans were up for it. The boys ran out on the field and looked hungry. From the first bounce, Melbourne played like winners. They came out and crushed Adelaide for three straight quarters and played like the proverbial team possessed. The game had me out of my seat and wailing like some grieving muslim woman who'd lost her kid. It was long overdue manna from the sports gods.

And then it happened, the inevitable collapse came. As the pressure of the possible win kicked in, fear crept into the eyes of the Melbourne players. And Adelaide, like the elite team they are, pounced. They clawed their way back and every Melbourne fan, whether they were at the G or in front of their TV, sat in silence and thought 'fuck, not again' as the lead was chipped away.

Then, with a few pain filled minutes left, our oft-injured skipper David Neitz somehow got the ball 60+ metres out (65 odd yards for you Norks). The smart play would have been to kick the ball in for better position. Instead, Neitz spun the ball in his palms, looked towards the white posts and kicked the ever loving fuck out of the ball.

Goal.

The Crows had been broken. The siren sounded and it was over. Melbourne's drought was finished. I heard our theme song sung for the first time all season. Little kids and old folks alike, screaming at the top of their lungs.

And it was a great fucking feeling.

W 1 / L 9
[Streak - 1 Win]

Fillmore

I've been getting quite a bit of sleep lately. It's not that I am terribly depressed, nor am I fatigued, per se, but rather, I have a pretty good time during slumber. You know? Of course you do.

My daily routine is a rather hectic, surfeit bonanza of Beck's, thighs, and adhesive tape*, as many -rightfully- presume. I do enjoy life, and there is nothing to complain about, but nonetheless I do confess that at times I yearn for a simpler existence, one utterly devoid of both material wealth and spiritual enlightenment. I seek the bounty of fanciful diversion, and nocturnal remission is the key to my salvation (but not yours, because you touch yourself at night). The previous evening was no exception, as I was treated to not one, but two (sexually derelict) subconscious reveries**. The first of these dreams was, I shall admit, a bit ethereally abstract, and as such, I am daunted by the task of describing it to you, but alas, I started this post, and I am damn well going to finish it.

-Catapult-

In the first dream I felt my soul, nay, atman spiral downward, through the heavenly stratosphere toward a defiled planet controlled by a demonic entity of some manner. The celestial body in question may have been our Earth, but I prefer the avenue of colorful allegory, so let's assume that it was just some place like Earth. My spirit bore through an immense canopy of hitherto unassailable foliage (oddly, my soul suffered a few scrapes), and came to the solitary statue of a warrior. It wasn't a chiseled, macho warrior such as Conan the Barbarian, but it was particularly regal in attire, and for that I am grateful. Thrust toward the point of my origination was a sword of exquisite craftsmanship, as if to beckon my arrival, and arrive I did. Invigorated by my essence, the statue sprung to life, eager to dispense beatific justice.

The forest was indeed endless, as wherever I cast my gaze, there was nothing short of boundless timberland, bathed in a powder blue concoction of light and shade. Alas, there was little time to enjoy the scenery, as I was besieged by countless, swarthy goblins of the callous variety, as well as malformed, voracious baboons (and those baboons didn't fuck around, believe me). Despite their malevolent ardor, they were no match for my suave mastery of the sacrosanct blade, and with every enemy I dispatched came an explosion of fiery proportion. No big deal, but strangely, I had to leap over the occasional growth of thorny thicket, as my dainty feet were, apparently, exempt from invulnerability. Goblins? No problem. A prickle? Get me the fuck out of there, stat.

I also ran into a few coniferous denizens of the wondrous forest. One was a tree hag of some sort, who attempted to douse me with acidic juices, and naturally I chose to behead the old...hag***. On a positive note, there was a helpful, albeit crotchety, treant that offered to assist me with some of the dangerous thickets, by allowing me to hitch a ride on his sizable branches (on a Freudian note, he must have represented my mother, as she's always been a strong, masculine presence in my life). Ultimately, I encountered a daunting centaur covered in ornate, obsidian armor and bearing a spear of intimidating merit. I won't bore you with the sordid details of the spectacular ordeal, except to mention that he could discharge some serious electricity from the aforementioned spear, much like Emperor Palpatine. I emerged victorious from the tribulation, but to be fair, I must admit that I cheated. Don't ask me how****.

At that point, I awoke. Stimulated by my faux-homeric exploit, I decided to turn my television on, and enjoy a beloved Goo-Goo Cone. It was then that I stopped and realized that I should get back to bed, instead of terrorizing the cherished Psychedelic Kimchi audience, at least until I arise tomorrow.


Zeppelin Wolf

P.S. I almost forgot about the requisite kimochi.




* idealjetsam knows precisely what -and who- I am referring to, and he's insanely jealous. There's no need for resentment, of course, as I'm a sharing kind of guy.

** 'Hey now, Hati, how can you have a subconscious reverie, as the term reverie denotes a daydream? Do you comprehend the English language?' Wow, do I feel like an ass, what with such learned critics on my heels.

*** Revel in my brilliance!

**** 'Don't ask me how' because you shouldn't pretend to care.

Miller Time

It seems Koreans are krazy about Michael Scofield, aka 서코필, pka Wentworth Miller. Sure, as far as acting goes he has only one emotive style (I am hypnotizing you with my sexy, squinty stare; I am talk-whispering; take off your pants), but it works, so why tamper with success? It takes a certain kind of man to pull off that look -- when I try it the biggest question I get is "Are you drunk or something?" and, occasionally, "Did you lose a contact?"

Wentworth Miller is a sensation: he's a Bean Pole model for cryin' out loud; and if you don't think Koreans' attitudes vis a vis tattoos has seen a drastic paradigm shift since Prison Break started airing on the penninsula, ask a teenager. I'm firmly convinced that Miller could singlehandedly -- single-eyesedly? -- spark a sexual revolution in the ROK. If this indeed happens, call me the Malcolm Gladwell of tracing Korean cultural tipping points. If it doesn't, just call me Angel of the morning, baby.

And while the summer of Scofield would be nice and all, what I really want is for Miller to hear his true calling. Arousing the Korean populace from its ancient sexual slumber is one thing, but what I really wish is for Miller to assume his birthright: becoming the next great gunslinger.

The Hollywood western needs a motherfucking revival, and who better to kickstart a movement* than Mikey-Sco? Are you telling me cat wouldn't be the dopest six-gun shooter since Clint Eastwood? Nobody'll replace Clint, but Miller's the closest thing we've got as far as steely-eyed toughguys go. Sure, he's a little too pretty and a little less weathered than The Man With No Name, but give him time.

I'll be patient. Johnny Depp, Clint Eastwood, even Patrick Fucking Dempsey: they all needed a little aging afore their true cinematic viewing comfort could be achieved. Right now, Miller is a new leather couch: nice to look at, but a little tough to sleep on. Give him a few years, though, and he'll do something marvelous. I haven't been this excited about a rookie since I saw Skeet Ulrich in Scream.

Perhaps I should shut the fuck up now.




* My apologies to Ex-Lax

Sore Thumb Soliloquy

I know, with ninety-nine percent certainty, that I will never again buy another comic book. Much like as an elementary school student I believed I would play with action figures my whole life, my adolescent self would have scoffed at that proclamation; but during my teens my once veracious love of funny books waxed and waned, then waned some more, until I finally, in my early twenties, stopped dropping by my local comics store every week. Now all I have are fond memories of the fantastic adventures of men and women with secret identities. And to be perfectly honest, dammit, I even have a soft spot in my heart for poly-bagged, silver-embossed, glow-in-the dark (etc.) gimmicks. And to be perfectly, perfectly honest, I even miss the constipated visages of Rob Liefeld's tooth pick-legged monstrosities.

But there comes a point in a man's life when he must put behind him the fancies of his youth, move on to bigger and more important interests. Like religiously watching VH1 countdown shows and pretending to be a relevant writer on a blog nobody reads.

Similarly, these days I find myself on the precipice of another bold step towards abandonning something which has provided me with endless hours of enjoyment and asked so little in return*: video games. Jesus, impotence can't be too far ahead, can it?

Let's get one thing straight: this is by no means insinuating that game playing in one's adulthood belies a lack of ambition or maturity. Unless you're past your twenties and still trying to defeat the Macho Man in Punch Out!, I mean. In that case, you should have done the world a favor and become a human test subject for drug companies a long time ago.

I actually admire hardcore gamers. They seem to be having so much fun. Not to say that I don't still experience an occasional sense of euphoria, but receiving a 15% off cupon for women's leggings at E-Mart is markedly unexciting compared to finishing Shinobi on a single life.

Many moons ago -- or so it seems -- a wise man gave me Marvel Ultimate Alliance for the PS2. Comic book characters and gaming, dig it! What's not to like, right? Shit sounded better than peanut butter and chocolate, tuna and mayo; but when I sat down to experience what I believed would be an orgasm of fanboy Fantasia, a weird thing happened. I felt as though I were stepping foot in a foreign land, my fingers betraying me like Judas, my geek libido making an about face.

Like Dirk Diggler coked up and masturbating furiously in Boogie Nights, I desperately tried to make it work -- but I soon realized that my enthusiasm for gameplay was NEVER GOING TO COME. Back.

Two weeks ago, a colleague passed on to me a copy of Metal Gear Solid 3, a game which I've anticipated playing for, I guess, 4 years. And as much as I want to feel that fire again, the very thought of immersing myself once more into a relationship...sorry, 3-dimensional virtual escapism...scares the hell out of me. I never half step, because I'm not a half stepper. Do it or screw it.

As is my nature, I'll give it a shot. Maybe I'll rekindle the flames of a misspent, Sega Genesis-fueled, youth. Maybe I'll go someplace where you can never find me.

Maybe I'll finish it in 3 hours and spend the rest of the day completing a short story about a bicycle-eating dead girl.

Or, just maybe, I'll walk away with my fond memories intact, no regrets.

Because when I was in third grade I beat Mike Tyson. And everything which came afterwards was meaningless in comparison.

Game. Over.



* No, not porn. At least not yet.

Jealous Ones Envy

Before we begin, a quote:

"I'm about to serve you in a minute/like rice on the table/'cause I'm able like Mabel/to skip, slip, dip, stagger/and still remain stable"

-- Ace, Masta, "Go Where I Send Thee"

(Which, in layman's terms, means the brief leave of absence is o-v-e-r. Any leftovers, Ma?)

***

It must be pretty sweet to be TMH right about now. Sweeter, I mean. Pretty soon, cat'll have two future -- knock on mahogany -- Hall of Famers playing within 3 hours of each other. The 2006/2007 NBA season and playoffs might've been a fetid sack of yak turd, but fuck it, I'm SO hype at the prospect of Pacific Northwestern b-ball dominance that I can forgive the Bill Simmons that was this year in professional hoops*. Now the area is gonna be known for harvesting another kind of dope. May your first children be masculine children, Luca Brasi style, PNW.

Sorry to sound like a flustered little girl, but gosh! how the hell did this happen? I won't look a gift horse in its grill, because with every fiber of my soul I wished all season long that the Memphis Fucking Grizzlies would get neither Oden nor Durant**, but the Blaze and The Emerald City? I'm making up a new word: justice.

Justice. I made that word up. From the era of a Dapper Dan texture. It's cool like a Lark super menthol. Domo.

(Aside: Can the NBA please restructure the L WWE Raw/Smackdown style, where competitive teams or players -- see: Pistons, Detroit; Wade, Dwyane; Mascot, Raptors -- from the Eastern Conference are called up to play with the big boys only if they can show and prove they can hang with the REAL league? This deserves its own post, actually, but I would be remiss if I didn't mention that Vince Carter would absolutely flourish in NBA Division 2 ball. If he weren't a female, I mean.)

To ease it up and bring it back, the obvious Portland pick is Oden, Durant for president -- Kevin Duckworth and Rashard Lewis weep. But let's suppose the reverse occurs. Still good, money. Still good.


And I can't help imagining Randle Patrick McMurphy smiling.

Somewhere, sometime, TMH is singing Na-na-na-na-na-Na-na-na-na-na-na-na.




The 2007 NBA Draft Lottery: Psychedelic Kimochi of the Year.

Plant the seeds and watch them grow.




It is true. The makings of you.



* But not, however, the inevitible snore fest of another Spurs/Pistons Finals. Please, God, anything but THAT.

** The Celtics not as much, because, as much as I disparage The Sports Guy, he definitely deserves basketball bliss; and I feel sorry as a Parker Brothers board game (or is it Milton Bradley? I need K-Hot to straighten me out***) for that worthy.

*** No double entendre.

The PK Report: Nancy Lang Gets Naked*

My learned friend, William G, once penned a frequent little ditty called the Bill Report. The Bill Report is no more, but I'm jacking the format for a week in review. I know William G wont mind, because we're old school like that [see picture, WG on the left]. The mosaic is a homage to his infamy and, well, Japanese pornography censors asked me to do it. Think about it.

If you haven't checked out Bang Barstal by now, then you best do so before it's too late.

Long live the Bill Report.

1. Did you know that Psychedelic Kimchi gets more referrals from 'Chloe Sevigny Blow Job' and 'Nancy Lang' than anything else? Well, now you do. Speaking o' which, I decided to hit up that search engine thing to check out where we placed on such searches. I promptly found some ... erm ... additional images of our patron babe, Ms Lang. Let me just say, I had no idea.

Testify.

2. I'm predicting that this little video on Youtube will be the next netizen drama bomb. [You're not missing anything].

I can only hope it turns out as well as this: Lions vs Buffalo vs Crocodiles. Do yourself a god damned favour and watch the above video in its entirety.

3. Thank Christ the NBA lottery resulted in two non-tanking teams getting the rights to Oden and Durant. As a 90s NBA fan, the prospect of a reborn Sonics and Blazers axis makes me all warm and fuzzy. Again, I'm old school. I might even crank out Ten and stop washing my hair.

On the flipside, what the Cs and Memphis did during the regular season was an insult to the game. Ultimately, justice was served, because in life and in fantasy, one should never test the hoop gods.

4. On the subject of tanking, I think I finally get it: Isiah is tanking the Knicks in order to have the best chance in the 2010-11 NBA draft. Degree of difficulty? A solid 10.1. Hell, I'm pretty sure we don't even have a first round pick that year. That's how you run a team, folks.

Right into the ground.

5. The Spark/Wade paradigm just gets spookier. Check the date of the last Spark post and then the Heat injury report:

Too close for me.

6. In other hoops news, it looks as though we're headed to another exhilarating Pistons/Spurs final, which should be the hoops equivalent of lawn bowls. Aside: do lawnbowlers have NBA-esque groupies? I can just imagine an old fella spitting: 'Man, check out homegirl with the purple rinse. I've heard she has two prosthetic hips and a pair of deflated spalding game balls that'll make you drool... moreso'.

Word.

The one burning question I have with the NBA finals is whether Chris Webber will be allowed on the floor during crunch time. Can you imagine if Webber were to call a non-existent timeout that cost the Pistons the championship? I'd like to see David Blaine explain that shit.

7. The Lost season finale was unbelievable. The sequence of events beginning with Hugo in the Combi was flatout champagne television. [Spoiler] And showing the future from the first scene was just genius. [/Spoiler] I no longer care if they are making it up as they go along. Good times.

8. Not sure if you caught it in your part of the world, but the 'Search for the Next Pussycat Doll' was, in its own unique way, also champagne television.

TSFTNPCD [acronym, boys] was clearly the product of a bunch of coked-up TV executives saying 'Fuck it. Let's just stop pretending and make a show about hot young women in skimpy clothing and make them undertake lapdance competitions'. They even threw in singing and catfights to make it unmissable for the female audience (ie. free pass, gents). Honestly, it was the finest TV triumph since TV execs on the Simpsons dreamed up 'Police Cops'.

9. To spit some lit, I recently finished 'Black Swan Green' by David Mitchell, and while it doesn't hold a candle to Cloud Atlas, it's a fine read nonetheless. I'm now on The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolano. It's all poetry, sex and south american women - sold. And if you're still sleeping on 'The Road', it has now been Pulitzered and Oprahed.

10. Some Kimochi for your ears: Ayame Misake.

Enough said. Zel out.

*Metaphysically

Mystery Whiteboy

I don't usually watch House MD. It's not that I don't like the program. It's just that Heroes is shown at the same time and... well... Heroes is about superheroes. House MD is about a crotchety old guy. If I want to look at bitter old men, I'll open my eyes when I'm commuting to work.

Heroes has it all: flying, invisibility, poor role models, cheerleaders and the inevitable destruction of New York. It's like being a Knicks fan, just in 60 minute increments.

What House does have going for it is Robert Sean Leonard. Now before you think that I have gone all Alan Jones/Ted Haggard on you, let me explain. You see, I owe Robert Sean Leonard my life.

He doesn't know this, of course, but it's true. He didn't stop me from being hit by the trans-Siberian in 1995 or help me get into rehab during my crack cocaine phase in 1987. Lord knows I needed him, but he wasn't there. But you know what? It's okay. Because I'm about as good at holding grudges as Ali Ismail Abbas. [Seventh circle, coming right up.]

I owe Robert Sean Leonard my life because of Dead Poets Society. DPS (acronym, folks) is a wonderful film for impressionable young literary minds. It certainly helped galvanise my love of prose. As a youngster, it made me see lit as legitimate and cool. And I don't mean cool like Milhouse, I mean cool like Whitman and Neruda.

At 13, I read a great deal, but always in secret. See, when I was 13, reading was for homos. So I became a closet case. I read under the covers with a torch, in the toilet with the door locked, in a makeshift cubby at the park. I loved reading, I just didn't want anyone to know about it. The upside was a hobby unhindered. The downside was that my mother thought I had become a chronic masturbator. She would prove to be right, just three years too early.

I can't recall when I actually first saw DSP, but I do recall that it made me stand up on my desk, proclaim "O Captain, my Captain" and masturbate gayly in public. I mean this, of course, in a metaphorical sense.

DPS isn't without faults. I concede that it is single-handedly responsible for ensuring that every high school speech has the groaner 'carpe diem' locked and loaded, but that's okay. Because it gave you, dear reader, this blog. And in that celestial game of pong, that makes us 1:1.

But that's not why I owe Robert Sean Leonard my life.

My wife happens to be from one of the more homogeneous cultures on God's grey earth. And I'm not fucking around when I say homogeneous. We're talking about the people who invented an impenetrable ship named the Geobukseon and pride themselves in having a pure 5000 year old lineage. Coreans are the freemasons of Asia. No one on the outside knows how to join. I'm sure they even have a secret handshake and wear strange undergarments. [Move on.]

With that as a context, let's go back. Back to the autumn of 2000, where I met an amazing girl from an impenetrable pure blood line. Let's look at the operative word a little more closely:

im·pen·e·tra·ble (ĭm-pĕn'ĭ-trə-bəl). adj.
1. Impossible to penetrate or enter.

Understand that my wife isn't your garden variety stone head. She's good quality. When I first met the lass, I knew that the odds of my successfully courting her were obviously not good, even for a man of my considerable penetrative skills.

As you are no doubt aware from the extensive Wikipedia page on my personal history, I managed to secure my fair lady with nary a finger waved in resistance. For reasons I could never quite explain - until now.

Whilst watching Heroes the other night, I channel surfed over to House MD. Whereupon the missus caught sight of Dr James Wilson (aka Robert Sean Leonard).

"Ohmo, I love him" she sighed.

I asked her why.

She then relayed a tale of a naive young girl who watched a movie named Dead Poets Society. She told me she fell in love with the character Neil Perry (Leonard) because he was so intelligent, fair-skinned and sensitive. She explained there was one scene where she actually gasped at his beauty. She said she never forgot how that movie made her feel.

I sat there for a moment. Usually I'd be a little pissed hearing her talk about some other guy so glowingly. Hell, if I'd made similar remarks to her about Jessica Alba, I'd be shitting into a bag for the rest of my life.

But I was fine. Instead, it dawned on me that I'd solved a riddle. I could actually pinpoint the precise moment that the universe shifted in my favour. If she had never seen Leonard in DPS, she may never have glanced at this curious whiteboy that was now her husband. In all likelihood she would have ended up with some Samsung salaryman named Bum Suk and never travelled to my distant shore.

I explained my little epiphany to her. She told me I was stupid. She paused for a moment and then asked if Bum Suk was rich.

And then she smiled, like she does.

So, here's to you, Robert.

I owe you.

Everything is Eventual

29 years, months, weeks, days, hours or seconds -- once that period of waiting is at an end, the rest is, as they say, history; and suddenly a fourteen-year bid in the bing is kin to the day your local comic book store gets its new issues. When it finally sinks in that the wait really is over, it doesn't matter the case. Because waiting sucked, and tomorrow you won't have to wait any longer.

As much as I want to be the extra-prolific master of ceremonies of yesteryear, I've been waiting forever for tomorrow. I mean that literally. And I have to

(don't say it, don't say it)

step away from the control tower, at least for the next few weeks. Get busy living or get busy blogging style.

Fear not, this isn't Psychedelic Hiatus V3.0: I'll continue to kick around The Fortress of Solitude on the daily (because I'm vain like that, and not a day goes by when I don't read my own ish and think, "Damn, I put your favorite blogger's favorite blogger to shame"), but there are other worlds than this, Constant Retard, and I'm finna put as much -- nay, more -- love into them as I have here. I mean that colloquially.

In the mean, don't wait for me. Because the more you anticipate, the more you suffer. I should know.

I'll be back before you know it.

I've always wanted to be an astronaut.