The PK 27 -- Game No. 1

In my elementary school days (second or third grade, this was), some mornings my brother, Leopold, and I would go up the street so my best friend's mother could give us a lift to school. I think it was because my mother was at the time pregnant with my sister, Hannah, and was in the hospital, but I'm a little hazy on that*. Regardless, the two of us always had to wait 30 minutes or so for my friend -- let's call him Erik** -- to get ready, and when we weren't playing with Erik's Star Wars or G.I. Joe action figures*** we were playing games on his now-prehistoric PC.

Archon was one of those games.

Ostensibly a game of chess with D&D characters, Archon's selling point was that when a piece tried to take one of its opponent's the two pieces -- goblins, unicorns, a fucking manticore -- would duel it out, mano-a-mano. And while each character possessed his/her/its own strengths and weaknesses, Leopold and I, at our young ages, tended to resort to that faithful standard of video game-playing youth: button mashing****; so, while I realized the game's potential, it would be untruthful to say we experienced all that Lord Archon had to offer in the way of uniqueness. At the time, though, I thought Archon was the greatest achievement in gaming innovation, despite my ignorance of its nuances. I'd figure that shit out later, I told myself. Because time was on my hands. After all, who wants to play a boring game of chess when Archon offers you combat avec swords, balls of fire, and FUCKING BOULDERS? The king in chess can only move one space and has to be protected by his wife, that pussy. History would show, I was convinced, that Archon revolutionized games and gaming like Henry Ford revolutionized the automobile industry. In twenty years nobody would be playing chess. Everybody would be playing Archon.

Of course, things didn't turn out that way, which is for the best. Kids think of the stupidest shit sometimes.


* In my old age, I'm hazy on a lot of things. But while I might not remember your name, I damn sure remember your face, especially since we met just last week, dummy.

** because that's his name

*** Destro with a gold mask! The fucking rancor!

**** Or were we using the keyboard? Again, I'm hazy on this.

Psychedelic Smörgåsbord*

* But not really.

The Wire Appreciation No. 2378 (8732)

To paraphrase Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes by way of Simply Red via KRS-ONE, "If you don't know me by now I doubt you'll ever know me," because, girl, I ain't hard to figure out. After a day's work

("work," work)

I enjoy unwinding with a cold beer or ten, a few

(dozen)

Dunhills, and some entertainment, whether it be passive (watching OnStyle on the teevee) or active (reading, writing, committing moral sins in the form of masturbating and considering ordering paperbacks from Amazon that have Oprah's Book Club's logo on their front covers). Since the beginning of June, as my most constant of Constant Retards -- Kmart, my mother -- know, I've been rewatching The Wire in its entirety, occasionally posting my praise (and one time my scorn) here on this hallowed blog,

(Write That on My Epitaph)

Psychedelic Kimchi. And I've been doing so -- as I live my life, as I sin against God when I tug my wiener -- for my own gratification. I'm not here to solicit fans of the show or to convert the ignorant/unaware. No; this is me, holding a cool glass, smoking a square, and praying to my god. Your god may be The Sopranos. Your god may be Lost. Hell, your god might even be Desperate Housewives. I won't try to sway you regardless. Won't try to take you into my fold.

I can, however, point out that while taste is a matter of personal opinion, it doesn't mean your opinion is correct. To quote Roger Ebert:

I am fond of the story I tell about Gene Siskel. When a so-called film critic defended a questionable review by saying, "after all, it's opinion," Gene told him: "There is a point when a personal opinion shades off into an error of fact. When you say 'The Valachi Papers' is a better film than 'The Godfather,' you are wrong."

Which is a roundabout way for me to say that no show is greater than The Wire.

Sure, your god may be righteous. Your god might speak to the people, a lot of people at best, some people at least. But you are worshiping a false prophet, sir or madam. Again, I'm not trying to convert you; I'm not trying to sound elitist. I'm just stating a fact. I do that from time to time.

"Late Editions," the penultimate episode of The Wire, is the best episode of the series. That is opinion, because, like naming your favorite eat after a night on the piss -- shawarma, a BK bacon-double cheeseburger, 감자탕 -- there are so many good treats to be had, so many memories of past and future delicacies, greasy or otherwise, to reminisce over or anticipate having again. But it's the context surrounding the sublimity that makes it superior. And The Wire is life.

Or a reasonable, hand-drawn facsimile thereof, at least.

The PK 27 -- Game No. 10

Snatcher, for the Sega CD (Konami, 1994)

Another Konami game?

Yeah, but this one's different.

Explain.

This one's less a game than an interactive graphic novel.

That's your rationale? Seriously?

I'm dead serious. It's all about the story. That, and it was one of the five (count'em, five!) games for the Sega CD to use the Justifier, and the only game to justify the purchase of said peripheral.

Toy guns! I'm already on board, but just for shits and giggles, what else do you have for me?

Set in the not-so-distant year of 2047, you assume the role of Gillian Seed (that's a hard g, not to be confused with an actress from the X-Files), a new recruit for the J.U.N.K.E.R.* agency, a group in charge of detecting -and subsequently destroying- the titular snatchers, which are a mysterious group of robots that kill humans and impersonate their victims for equally perplexing purposes.

Neo Kobe, spiffy dystopian future**

Riveting, certainly, but let me take a stab here: Gillian's a hard-boiled detective that plays by his own rules, consequences be damned. And he has a questionable, if not enigmatic, history that slowly unfolds throughout the course of the game.

Correct! But you forgot to postulate that Snatcher borrows heavily from Blade Runner, (the) Terminator, and countless other cyberpunk tales rather shamelessly, which it does to good effect.

Well, you didn't let me finish my cynical diatribe.

Yeah, I do that sometimes, but only when an interlocutor is being an ass about the topic at hand.

You can't talk that way to me! I have two vicious cats!

And a husband.

That's unimportant.

Perhaps. What were we talking about, now?

You were gonna tell me more about this stupid game on an equally-moronic list of video games.

Right. As Gillian Seed (which is an awesome name, by the way) you scour the infested streets of Neo Kobe, searching for snatchers by following up leads, interrogating various lowlifes, and engaging in the occasional shootout, Justifier in hand.

Doesn't sound very exciting.

It's hard to explain the appeal of a game that isn't much of a game, per se, but still; screw you.

Just calling it as I see it. Don't shoot the messenger, especially not with that baby-blue Justifier you're holding.

It's not plugged into the Genesis, so no worries. Did I mention that Gillian employs crude sexual humor during each and every encounter with female characters? It adds an additional shade of awesome to the whole experience.

Classy, Kennan. Classy.

Gillian Seed, man of action

Look, all I'm saying is that if the future consists of a delicate mix of cyborgs, chauvinism, and urban decay, then sign me up.

You disgust me, partially due to such crass commentary, but mainly due to the fact that you've neglected to mention that Snatcher is the brainchild of one Hideo Kojima, better known to the world as the creator of the Metal Gear series.

No shit? And you're not just reading from Wikipedia or something?

You'll never know.



* I'm sure that acronym stands for something cool, but it's been fifteen years since I played the game, so make up something appropriate at your leisure.

** This is Japan, after all.

The Wire Appreciation No. 6627 (4483)

Mr. Little, if I recall you made a promise to one Bunk Moreland that you wouldn't drop any more bodies. I, for one, believed you; because, to quote you in your own words, "A man gotta have a code," right? To your credit, you kept that promise for quite a while, almost two whole seasons -- though not always for a lack of trying. I realize that self preservation is what has gotten you this far, and I can't fault you for your survival instinct. I can't. If someone comes at me and tries to take my inhale-exhale, tries to spill my life liquid, I'm going to do my damnedest to reciprocate. Human nature.

But, see, you sir are a wounded animal, and predators can smell your weakness. It won't be long until the vultures start circling, waiting to feast upon your carrion, I expect. That's a safe bet from an anthropological perspective. What I'm more interested in, however, is the metaphysical side of things. "Promises are made to be broken," so the man said; but -- and I think you will agree -- promise breakers exist on a level far below that which we, the enlightened ones, inhabit. Karma, fidelity...hell, Catholic guilt: we have a sense of justice, however biased or inherently wrong it may be, that we adhere to. A code. And once you take those abject steps into temptation (first) and violating your own morality (next), your downfall is all but assured, especially when your series is coming to a close and the writers have exhausted every exploit of yours there is left to tell.

Omar Little, you just gave yourself the kiss of death.

Love/Hate

Dog. My literal dog. I have grown to like you, maybe even love you. Real talk: I only started taking care of you because it scored me major points with Legs, your "owner," but over the years my affection for you has grown -- you, a Shih Tzu, the ugliest of dogs. When you die, I'll probably break down; because, so far in this life, I've only ever experienced mortality as it relates to pets; and you, when you're gone, will be doggie No. 3, pet No. 4. If the tables are -- possibly, probably -- reversed, however, I don't expect you to lament me. For I am but a man, and you are but an idiot dog.

Case in point: you shit on my bathroom slippers again. Again. How many times have I told you? That joke isn't funny anymore.

Dearest Jikko, this is your final warning. I'm serious. You're one sexy bitch, but if you drop another hot load on my slippers I'm finna take drastic measures. I'll leave it up to your imagination what said "drastic measures" will be, but, again, you remain a stupid dog, and I can be very creative in my torture methods, so you won't even see it coming.

Just stop shitting on my bathroom shoes, dig?

The New Style

Here in the ROK, there's a television channel known as On Style. As one may -rightfully- presume, it's a station devoted to presenting hip, stylish lifestyles so elusive to the common person (the proper peon, if you will). The programming is quite vapid, yet dangerously intoxicating, in the sense that each show is laden with hooks to keep a viewer glued to the screen as they await the next fashionable revelation, and it's not as if one need wait long, since commercial breaks are virtually nonexistent. The whole scheme is meticulously designed to captivate members of the MTV Generation with Hangover, but as long as there is plenty of Jessica Gomes sporting a sexy half-ponytail (and as long as people don't ask her questions best kept within a middle-school geography class) I won't complain, lament, or abstain.

Programming Schedule for Sunday evening

7:00 - Project Runway

8:00 - America's Next Top Model Cycle 8

9:00 - A Shot at Love II with Tila Tequila

10:00 - On the Road with Jessica Gomes

11:00 - Korea's Next Top Model

12:00 - My Perfect Life with Victoria Silvstedt

1:00 - Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency Season 4

2:00 - Oldboy

I'm not making this stuff up, diabetic reader; and you did, in fact, read that schedule correctly. Park Chan-wook's visceral masterpiece was played on the same network that airs six episodes from three different seasons of America's Next Top Model daily, right after the Janice Dickinson vanity/desperation project to boot.

I watched it, yeah, but still. Stranger than a sober Australian, I say.*

* Jessica Gomes, for example.

07/04/09

America's most patriotic domestic, American Maid, would like to wish everyone around the world a happy Independence Day. It doesn't really matter if you're a citizen of the United States because people of any race, creed, or color* deserve another excuse to drink heavily and make poor decisions (cheating on your wife, watching Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, shooting up some third-world country, and so on).

* Canadian friends, don't fret. Think of it as a special day in which to inform every single person you see (including deaf, dumb and blind geriatric Korean grandmothers) that you're not American, and then go urinate in a flower pot.

The Handshake Felt around the World

You know who gives one hell of a handshake?

Mr. Eoin Forbes, that's who. His elfin appearance belies a vice grip of unfathomable proportions long since honed by countless hours spent gripping beer, soju, and whiskey bottles. Three days have passed, and my own hand is swollen like a steaming hot bratwurst just plucked off the grill.

Life's checklist, amended.

Fiction

Marvin Gaye said this ain't livin', and I tend to agree. This is more like Heaven. When I was fourteen I broke my clavicle -- freakishly -- on the Dizzy Lizzy at Six Flags New Orleans, and on top of the thirty-three-thousand-dollar settlement I received (which, God bless America, helped pay for a considerable chunk of my college tuition) I was granted free admission to the park, myself and up to two acquaintances, for the remainder of my adult life. I used to think, for a time, until Katrina put a kibosh on that deal, that I would achieve no greater pinnacle of success in life. Turned out I was wrong.

I suppose I have simple desires. I've never seen much allure in driving the most extravagant car or living in the nicest house in the poshest neighborhood. I live in a one-room apartment, and my preferred modes of transportation are my Chuck Taylors, a transit pass, and, occasionally, when I get the urge to shake the urban cobwebs from my head and see the countryside glide past in panoramic sublimity, the mighty iron horse to the coast. My carnal desires are a tad more pronounced, but in this day and age they're relatively subtle, I would venture. I watch porn on the Internet almost daily, and I enjoy watching men come on the faces of good-looking women, but that's about as far as my lasciviousness -- if you can call it that -- stretches.

I do have a few vices, but, again, they're nothing out of the ordinary. I often enjoy a beer or ten, maybe some bourbon, and, like my porn watching, I'm sure I indulge more than the average Joe in terms of frequency and quantity, but you have to admit that, in a society where rape, murder, sex with animals, and child molestation are rife, my flaws are pretty tame, victimless. Hedonism is not and should not be a crime. If it doesn't include criminal activities, I mean, and mine doesn't.

But now I feel like it might appear I'm making excuses, fooling myself. Trust me, it's not that. How could it be? My slate is wiped clean, and nary a peep has come from my conscience in as long as I can remember. I've sinned (who hasn't?), but any transgressions I've made are long forgotten. Because they were never that big to begin with, probably. A couple nights ago I woke up in a cold sweat, terrified that the Polaroid I took of my penis with my brother's camera when I was ten, the Polaroid I stashed in my bedroom air vent, was discovered. Then I took a piss and realized I don't care. If that's the most long-lasting, haunting fear my subconscious can come up with, I should thank my lucky stars. After all, what kind of scandal can a photo of my ten-year-old, prepubescent dick elicit?

This life is good, boy. It's not all fun and games, of course, and there is work to be done, but it's more like work with quotation marks or work written in italics.

"Work." Work. Yeah, that's about right.

When I'm asked what I do for a living -- and this question comes up more times than I'm comfortable with, in all honesty --, I say I'm a painter. When pressed to divulge what, exactly, I paint, I say, "Mostly ironic paintings, like say a telephone answering a person," then I'll draw a crude sketch. Look, there is a big black phone receiver holding a small writhing man in a suit! they inwardly exclaim, eyes flashing. What a sharp comment of our society! Then they ask me to sign the sketch. Because it'll be worth something some day. Joke's on me, it probably will be.

When I'm not telling baldfaced lies, I'm always romanticizing what I do. I find such duplicity mutually beneficial. If, for example, I tell you I'm the love child and ostracized heir to an Eastern European royal family, I get to sleep with you (ideally, usually) in exchange for you being able to tell your friends you hooked up with the would-be crown prince to the Latvian dynasty. If I tell you I'm a writer who is published worldwide instead of saying, honestly, that I write regularly for an Internet blog that few people read, well, that's fine, too, isn't it? Because there are lies, and then there are polished truths.

Sometimes I get a little manic, depending on my mood. Haha. Other times, I'm the worst person in the world to live with. I've smelled my own farts, so I know. I can certainly empathize. Compulsion, the need to scratch that itch: it can be a person's biggest strength or their most prodigious weakness. Or both. Usually both.

My time is short, I know. Windows. But look at this one! It's big, and if my eyes aren't betraying me I think I see something in the background. A man with suspenders! Yes, I see it, too. A faded blue shirt, pant legs rolled up to discourage grass stains, encourage mosquito bites. He's smiling, and he has a short beard. Reddish, like van Gogh's. It's hot, but he doesn't care much about that. Because he's going home to his pipe and his family. Two kids, one six the other four. Boys.

Heaven.