High Hopes and Slow Escalators

Always late to the party, but never the fallout.

Like Cashews and Bubblegum...

...Chairs and werewolves just don't mix.

Of Absence

I don't know why I had sweet and sour pork delivered. It's not like I could taste it, not with this cold. Were I blindfolded, the dumplings I ate for breakfast could have been paper for all I knew (insert joke about my wife's cooking here). Starve a cold, or so the saying goes, but for me it's the opposite. My appetite is pretty much muted when I'm ill, but for whatever reason I inevitably gorge myself. If you're a doctor or a psychiatrist (yes, that's redundant in the latter's case; you know what I mean, Einstein), maybe you can tell me why that is.

Thankfully, no fever. But, god, do I have one heck of a head cold (and I'm constipated, and my raging libido seems to be under the weather as well). My nostrils are raw from tissue erosion. (And if we're being completely honest here, also from index finger, forearm, and T-shirt erosion. I am, admittedly, a savage.) I have a pressure headache from -- when I'm not wiping my nose or blowing its watery contents into sinks Bathroom and Kitchen -- sniffling all the time. My eyes are swollen and bloodshot, making me look like a Chinese drug addict. Every fifteen minutes or so, a great sneeze will wrack my skull.

This is Beverly clearly not my best day; and, actually, I sort of wish I did have a fever running, because when my temperature is high I have the most vivid dreams. (You'll have to take my word for it; I can explain how a quantum computer works in terms Layman and Technical, but, unless you live on Elm Street, it's impossible for me to make you understand just how profoundly gripping it is to hide from a ten-story-tall killer robot.) All I have now is this shitty head cold and sore teeth. I can't even watch TV because my vision is blurred from an exodus of salty water. I'm expecting my unaffected orifices to start leaking at any moment. (Snot from my ears would be pretty neat, actually, but not from my anus, nor from my urethra.)

It's almost four o'clock and I'm bored to shit. Taking the day off work is only fun if you're faking it. No word of a lie, I'd trade being at home sick with my busiest day at work in a heartbeat. Compared to this bitchwhore of a cold, my department manager -- a.k.a. the slimiest fuckstick to ever set a Hermes-clad foot inside Olsen Food & Beverage -- is as benevolent as my grandmother Ruth, may she rest in peace. I'd rather ride the metro at full capacity than jockey this sofa alone, because at least then I'd feel like a human being rather than some overgrown fetus.

My wife called a couple of minutes ago. She asked me how I was doing and I said sportingly, like a corgi on grass, and then I told her the truth. I'm playing volleyball against a team of devil worshippers is what I said. She works in publishing, so she appreciated the metaphor. Then she asked me what my plans for the rest of the evening were, and I said I might shoot myself like the protagonist of "A Perfect Day for Bananafish," in bed and with a gun. She didn't appreciate that reference because I tried to commit suicide on New Year's Eve of 2006, only then I used almost a full bottle of prescription pills instead of a gun.

I wish I had a gun.

That's morbid, I know. I don't have ALS; I'll get better. Hopefully when I wake up tomorrow it'll be the dawn of a newer, stronger Jimmy Marshall. Chalk up another win for Team Immune System, hoohaw! But fuck if I'm not in the greatest of moods as of this writing. I can't do anything save type an angry rant against an invisible enemy, and even then I have to keep stopping because my arms get paresthesia from holding my Blackberry over my horizontally lying sofa half-corpse.

Music. Music! Of course. That'll brighten my spirits, put some pep in my step. Elevation is a scientifically proven emotion (also a song written by Bono), and nothing makes me feel better than some arena rock. Sure! I feel better already. Foreigner will revive me like Benny Hinn makes cripples walk again.

I'm a few seconds into the opening piano chords of "Cold as Ice" when my cell phone murmurs its signal that I have a text message. It's my wife. "Baby, hows ur cold?" it reads. It'll be a lot better after this Sam Adam's and "Smokin," I'm tempted to reply, but I restrain the urge because Helen doesn't really go for honesty. I could compile a large volume of books based solely on the times I've told her how I feel and the subsequent looks of boredom she gives me in response, my words wasted like spermatozoa ejaculated onto a fertile woman's stomach. No, Helen likes me when I'm at my most basic of exposition. Descriptions such as good, very good, or bad and very bad are, to her, calling cards of my acquiescence vis a vis her limited imagination. It's a good thing she has great tits.

I am again low, my burgeoning enthusiasm crushed by the weight of innocent words, my sinuses, hitherto in stasis with my mood, reacting in harmony with its sudden swing. I am again a leaky faucet, and I want to hibernate beneath pillows and covers and like warmth-providing encasing, a plump cub sleeping in a den of radiant clouds of orange.

But first, a sandwich.

Yeah, Bro!

Right on!

We Can Live on Misbehavior

http://psycedelictimetravelvoltron.blogspot.com/

There is no H in the address, but that doesn't matter. 2010 brings you the dawn of a fantastic era.

Enter: Kmart, Mab(ulous), Spark and Avis. Peanut butter and chocolate.

Hedorah

I mean, if anything, it seems like*

   At three forty-two in the morning, an eleven-year-old elementary school student named Ronnie Chilton is shaken from his slumber by a piercing screech superseded by the sound of shattering glass or something like that. When he was nine years old, the boy had dropped one of his mother's fancy dinner goblets (the ones reserved for impressing visitors) while unloading the dishwasher even though it had, officially, been his sister's turn, but she was busy preparing for some stupid piano recital so she'd given him a 3 Musketeers bar to do it for her. Things had begun well enough but then, just like that, the chalice had slipped from his buttery fingers and he'd watched in horror as it exploded upon the kitchen floor, which made quite a racket, though not nearly as much as his mother produced that same evening (and well into the next day). The sound which wakes him is like that ornate glass breaking apart but much, much louder, and the first thing which pops into Ronnie's sleepy head is Mom's gonna be mad. His parents, however, sleep in a bedroom that faces the backyard, with door and windows firmly shut, whereas, in contrast, the window of this boy's room is nearly wide open to the vacant street beyond. Though the temperature's been dropping this past week, the sounds and sensations of a delightful summer linger, and besides, the lad's pajamas are flannel, a gift from his aunt.

   

   Cool weather may not disturb him, but those harrowing noises certainly do. In the time it takes him to rub his eyes and roll out of bed, a car has sped away; the boy is at once eager to see if there was an accident of some kind, yet fearful of what may be uncovered. He's also worried about his mother, for she could burst in at any given moment to put an end to his nocturnal investigation. With each step taken toward the window there's the unmistakable creak of pressure upon wood, and not a day goes by in which little Ronnie Chilton doesn't wish for plush carpeting in his bedroom but over the years he's learned to tread carefully across this wooden minefield so as to lessen the odds of his spirited mother's intrusion. She has the ears of a desert fox, although it's a case of extremely selective hearing. Footsteps on wooden floors, dangerous. The opening of a smuggled fun-sized bag of Fritos, even more so; but a bomb could go off a block away and his mom would sleep right through the night completely undisturbed. She's weird like that.

   The Anderson's turbocharged German Shepherd, Rathbone, is barking like mad from within its outdoor kennel, one installed by Mr. Anderson so that the dog would annoy not only its owners but, potentially, the neighborhood as a whole, at least according to Mr. Miller, Ronnie's surly, nearest neighbor to the east, whose porch light shines upon the immediate vicinity with countless watts of ferocious luminosity. From his vantage point, Ronnie takes note of the street itself, for it has become a vast, sooty ocean filled with tens, if not hundreds of sparkling diamonds which float atop the surface with flagrant impunity. Mr. Miller spots the abundant chunks of glass as well, Ronnie supposes, but parking along the street is prohibited and therefore the event, whatever it had been, probably caused no damage to Miller's own vehicle (a Lincoln Town Car purchased sometime prior to Ronnie's birth), so to him would be a minor inconvenience at worst. Just another thing for the old man to gripe about.

   Another five seconds pass and the light is shut off, Mr. Miller bearing neither a reason nor the will to care, but even now, with only the pale moonlight to chaperone him, Ronnie keeps staring out the window, his nose just centimeters away from the screen barrier. Rathbone has ceased barking, apparently satiated by the lack of continued disturbances (yet too stupid to realize the futility of his own) and the curious lad seizes upon the opportunity to simply gaze outward, taking in all the night has to offer; even though it's pretty much the same as the daytime hours, there's an odd sensation sweeping over him, a feeling of serenity, of timelessness, which is an experience oft-maligned by eleven-year-olds of most any disposition. Ronnie's no different but still he marvels at the wondrous, nearly infinite range of dark blue and black that blankets the cooling Earth.

   In the daytime, Roosevelt Middle School is aswarm with teenaged life, and the raw energy discharged by those older, scarier kids frightens him. Fifth grade has only just begun yet the rumors of what transpires during middle school abound: serious fights, meaner teachers, girls that don't look like girls anymore, a class entitled Life Skills, and so much more. Worst of all, Ronnie basically lives across the street -kitty-cornered, actually, but it's all the same, really- from his future middle school, which won't leave him much room for avoiding bullies and -if the tales told prove to be true, which in his experience, they most certainly will- come this time next year a legion of newly-promoted eighth-grade monstrosities would descend upon the sixth graders to zealously tenderize the fresh meat without the slightest shred of mercy.

   Such thoughts trouble the boy greatly, but at night, the massive structure is both majestic and wholly unthreatening. Ronnie Chilton's no commando, however, and the notion of being trapped inside the empty school scares the crap out him, but from a distance its mute simplicity is breathtaking. According to his father it's the nearest bomb shelter to their home, which makes the place even cooler just as long as the other kids don't get in there when the bombs start falling. Bombs don't exactly terrify him as they're an unlikely assailant (who would want to bomb Cedar Rapids, anyway?) whereas tangible threats such as oppressive people -and giant snakes!- are absolutely horrifying.

   Giant snakes! The thought alone causes his bladder to quiver. He hasn't the slightest clue as to how, when, or whence this phobia originated, but Ronnie's irrational fear is so great that his otherwise mundane imagination has been known to get the better of him, especially at night. In the absence of proper illumination, an untethered garden hose can become an adder; a wound extension cord a coiled King Cobra just waiting to strike. Nevertheless, from his mother's perspective a storm drain turned predatory anaconda is an outrageously infantile apparition for an eleven-year-old boy to entertain, and she may be correct but Ronnie doesn't care; if it scares him, it's scary.

   Upon first sight, he spots what appears to be a gargantuan snake slithering atop the thinning grass of the field across the street opposite his opened window, and for this reason he's trembling profusely yet unable to avert his eyes from the disturbingly amorphous curiosity. This shadowy, seemingly-reptillian mass is mostly obscured by the darkness, a half-eaten chunk of licorice spat into a puddle of unwanted coffee; nonetheless it exists, be it snakelike or not. The longer he watches, the more Ronnie placates the dread of it being a titanic snake, serpent, worm, grub, or whatever, but it moves like a slug (albeit a humungous one), creeping through the sticky grass, leaving an icky trail of putrid, nondescript goo in its wake, although it's too distant and too swarthy to ascertain much more than that, especially with the slovenly blob so near the ground.

   Maybe it's the Blob! he thinks for a moment, reminded of that old movie he saw on AMC last year while he was home sick with a vicious case of the flu. His mother stayed home from work for two days to make certain he'd been comfortable. Ronnie remembers the film well because the special effects were entirely laughable and his mom agreed but said that it was a classic, so they watched it together. But this thing couldn't be the titular blob. Even in the absence of manufactured light, Ronnie is able to discern that there are pieces or appendages of some sort moving about, which implies a definite shape or form, one that's, as of yet, unknown.

   Whatever the thing may be, it's slithering away from the houses toward the middle school with increasing speed (yet still progressing at a snail's pace). Ronnie wonders how long it's been since he began watching the shape crawl. Thirty seconds? A minute, tops. Then it halts.

   The slippery shadow begins to rise, and in doing so, inadvertently satiates a large portion of Ronnie's initial curiosity. It's a struggle at first; though his vision has adapted to the surroundings somewhat, the best he can manage is to speculate that the blackened creature has four limbs, and that it can stand, but at least one of those limbs is crooked, thus its upright position is uneven, like that of a marionette with a few of its strings cut loose. Yeah! Like a puppet! he convinces himself. The thing appears to possess arms, legs, torso, and a head of sorts. Given the restrictive viewing conditions, precise delineation is impossible, but Ronnie's confident that it's a head which rests atop the torso, for what else but a head would reside there, he supposes; so it's human or at least humanoid, although its stance is perplexing, to say nothing of the fact that it being humanlike is scarcely reassuring.

   The broken toy pulls its arms up toward the glistening sky, but the left arm seems reluctant to accompany its corresponding appendage, and Ronnie can see that the arm in question is bent, not at the elbow but, rather, at some inexact point nearer to the wrist. The shoulder itself, to which the arm is attached, is slumped at an implausible angle, as in the arm struggles upward while the shoulder continues to slope downward. The boy's no authority on human anatomy but he's pretty sure the position is an entirely unnatural one, and ostensibly the sinewy shadow concurs, for the disfigured arm is lowered gingerly, only to be whipped back toward the stars with bestial savagery. Once. Twice. Three times. There's a whole lot of snap, crackle, and pop involved, accentuated by a throaty, concluding moan, reminiscent of the ones occasionally heard in movies he's forbidden to watch but still does before his parents get home from work on weekday afternoons. The process seems to have done the trick, since both arms now arch toward the moon as if to strangle the light from its aluminum veins.


  Rathbone's back on the scene, frantically barking at whatever's out there while part of Ronnie wishes to God the dumb dog would just shut its trap, even if a second, more powerful aspect of him wants his neighbors to wake up, turn on some lights, and take heed. Ideally, that would happen, but most people have become so desensitized to Rathbone's prattle that they simply shut their windows, cover their heads with pillows, and sleep through it as best they can. No one arises: not a mother, father, or neighbor, and Ronnie merely watches in utter silence as the discomforting shape lowers its arms lackadaisically, pauses briefly, and pivots toward Ronnie and Rathbone's general direction, the twisted, unidentifiable mass stretching itself ajar to peek at that which disturbs its moment of grace. Amidst the blackness, therein lies a mark partially recognizable, like the soggy letter X found within a bowl of half-eaten alphabet soup, as well as something reminiscent of eyes, albeit a pale, unearthly shade of electric blue, leering at him or, perhaps, at Rathbone, for the canine's voracious yapping has grown despairingly frantic as if the dog were possessed by frenzied anticipation. Either way, Ronnie Chilton wants his mommy right now, but is unwilling to speak, move, or breathe lest he draw further attention to himself; instead, he merely gawks at the ghoulish, blacklit apparition that's peering at him. For a languorous moment the soiled wraith sways with the same cool breeze that gently assails Ronnie's cheeks, as if the wind itself were a callously duplicitous harbinger of atrocities to come.


   But nothing comes; the abstruse spectre turns from him, leisurely realigning itself toward the towering red-brick structure which so effortlessly dominates the not-so-distant landscape and then begins shambling toward some unknown destination. Hobbling at first, the creature nonetheless gains considerable, albeit wobbly momentum until, as to Ronnie's best reckoning, the crooked leg corrects itself, at which point the achromatic abomination surges into a dash of impossibly equine proportions, dashing across the field, up the ensuing hill, and then, finally, beyond the scope of Ronnie's restricted vision.


   Whatever the horrid thing may have been, it has departed and the world returns to normal, even if it hasn't. For the first time this season, Ronnie slams his window shut, oblivious to Rathbone's ongoing racket as well as his own. He charges into bed, pulling the covers well over his head, only to curl himself into a tight ball of shuddering flesh; his bladder is on the verge of exploding yet he cares neither about that, nor the unmistakable sound of his mother's approach. She'll thunder and moan about his wetting the bed, but even that is better than attempting to explain the situation to her. Rathbone would have better luck in convincing anyone of anything Ronnie's just seen, and even if the lad were capable of doing so, he wouldn't, though he'll scarcely forget anytime soon.




*  There's a foolish little boy eager to see the world for what it shall soon become.

Year of the Tiger

Downside

A decade shall conclude a bit differently than envisioned.

Upside

A decade shall commence a bit differently than envisioned.

The Top 5 K-pop Songs of 2009

I haven't had time to watch or listen to some of the most acclaimed films/albums of 2009, but what I have been able to do is get bombarded throughout the year by every hot Korean pop single without even trying. They're inescapable, ubiquitous. They follow me wherever I go: to the convenience to buy beer, smokes, and condoms (in that order!); when I'm out shopping; when Kmart and I are consuming a thieves' ransom -- avec 소주, 맥주, and the alcohol Voltron that is 소맥 --in fusion-food gastroforbestestinal glory; when I turn on the radio in a stolen car.

You learn to accept it. Sometimes, you learn to like it, and not in an ironic way. Just as there are five stages of culture shock, so too are there five steps to K-pop inundation: 1) That's so awful? Who listens to that?, 2) The girl in the middle is kinda cute, though, 3) [Googling for images of Lee Hyori], 4) Yeah, it's garbage, but whuddaryagonnado?, and 5) You know what, this is actually pretty good!.

Keep that in mind while we reminisce over the year that was, the soundtrack of (y)our lives:

(Also keep in mind that, while this list is chock full of girl groups, it's a sign of the times rather than Spakros perving out. Really. I could listen to these tracks without the videos, although I won't say I dislike them. No, I won't say that.)

5): Kara, "Mister"



4): Clazziquai, "Love Again"



3) Brown Eyed Girls, "Abracadabra"



2) SNSD, "Gee"



1) SNSD, "Genie (Tell Me Your Wish)"

The Hurt Locker -- Review

Pro or anti, what the hell difference does it make to the guy who gets his ass shot off? -- Sam Fuller

Pro or anti, I suppose Kathryn Bigelow's The Hurt Locker is a war movie in the same way Cameron Crowe's Almost Famous is a musical or Paul Thomas Anderson's Boogie Nights is a porno. Set in Iraq in 2004*, a series of intense vignettes -- with almost no plot save for a countdown until the company's rotation -- depict the insanely dangerous missions of the three men of Bravo Company, a bomb-disposal unit.

Sounds like a war movie, doesn't it? But what Bigelow has done instead is craft an incredibly authentic allegory about addiction**, using the Iraq War as her backdrop.

The film opens with war correspondent Chris Hedges's quote that "war is a drug," and it certainly is for Sergeant First Class William James, played wonderfully by Jeremy Renner. James joins Bravo Company early in the film, and at first he appears to be a nice enough addition the unit; it doesn't take long, however, for his comrades in arms to realize just how reckless James can be. Undeniably skilled, yes, yet nevertheless reckless. Unlike other professions, bomb disposal doesn't allow for do-overs. Not only does James risk his own life, he risks those of fellow unit members Sergeant Sanborn (Anthony Mackie, Papa Doc from 8 Mile) and Specialist Eldridge (Brian Geraghty). Is it really surprising, then, that when an opportunity presents itself Sanborn and Eldridge contemplate murdering him?

Explosives disposal is James's drug. He gets off on it. We see the almost sexual lust the danger provides him, like a junkie getting a fix. And while James revels in the Nirvana of his exploits, for the viewer the level of suspense raised during each mission is positively Hitchcockian. There's a reveal early in the film that is as goose bump-inducing as anything in modern horror.

Of course, with addiction comes abuse. James's craving might ultimately get himself killed, but before that comes a decline in mental function. There are only so many hits for a junkie, only so many drinks for an alcoholic. Eventually, substance abuse catches up with its abuser, and for William James this current deployment may be where the seams start to unravel. James is a high-fuctioning addict when he joins Bravo Company -- with fewer than than a couple of weeks left before rotation, not so much.

Credit Bigelow and screenwriter Mark Boal for making a film about substance abuse that is never heavy-handed or trite. Yes, The Hurt Locker reveals its hand at the beginning, but it isn't until late in the film that we understand just how literal Hedges's quote is and how it resonates when applied to William James. The slasher genre is often maligned for relying on tropes and having a lack of fresh ideas, but war films can be equally cliched, the difference being that instead of imaginatively created new breeds of killers/forms of onscreen murder, all a war movie needs to invigorate the genre is a new war, the more authentic the better.

Good thing The Hurt Locker isn't a war movie, pro or anti***.

4/4 *_*


* Two anachronisms in the film: neither YouTube nor the Xbox 360 was around then.

** Vive alliteration!

*** What it is is possibly 2009's best film. I can't decide yet whether it or Inglourious Basterds (also a war-movie-that-isn't-a-war-movie) ranks at the top of the films I've watched this year. I haven't seen a lot of possible contenders (although I plan to), but for shits and giggles here's Herr Spakros's list of the best five films he's seen this year:

Honorable Mentions: Paranormal Activity, The Hangover

5) Up (a sublimely imaginative story Johnny marred only by its too-brief third act and an unconvincing villain)

4) District 9 (I will protest by drinking a two-liter bottle of soju and eating a Blue Russian cat if Sharlto Copely isn't given a Best Actor Oscar nod)

3) Watchmen: Director's Cut (my favorite movie of the year)

Tie for now: Inglourious Basterds (extreme tension by way of humans disposing humans, the payoff in the series of buildups before the carnage, save for its climax) and The Hurt Locker (extreme tension by way of humans disposing bombs set by other humans and a truly great analogy for the rush that comes from narrowly skirting death)

The PK 27 -- Game No. 16

Title

Seiken Densetsu 3 aka Secret of Mana 2 (as dubbed by fans)

Console

Super Famicom

Release Date

September, 1995 (Japan only)

Publisher

Square Co.

Genre

Action role-playing game

Why It Made the List

     Back in the autumn of 1993, Square released Secret of Mana with considerable fanfare, and for good reason; the game was, by all accounts, the epitome of digital excellence. At heart the story of a boy, a girl, and a magical midget, Square's title was the stuff dreams are made of  -sure, one could argue that anything with magical midgets basically develops itself, but whatever- and, furthermore, it satiated gamers' collective desire for something akin to The Legend of Zelda in form, except that in the case of Secret of Mana, the legend itself was challenged by incredible graphics, seductively engaging musical numbers, compelling storyline, and an intrinsically likable cast of cartoonish characters.

   Beyond that, you should also know that the game supported up to three players; and let me tell you, the first time I played through the game was in the company of two friends. Basically, we were (give or take a few hours) a sorry but diligent fellowship dedicated to destroying the Dark Lich and his cronies, and to this day I have fond memories of our trials, tribulations, and taco breaks. More than the technical and artistic merits of the game, it was the potential for comradery that affixed me to the Secret of Mana, and like all sensory-deprived children, I eagerly awaited what I had assumed to be the inevitable sequel, as it was far too popular a game to get left behind in the mire of mediocre Super Nintendo products, right?*

Right?


   Wrong. Seiken Densetsu 3 never saw the light of day outside of the Land of the Rising Sun for reason of...Well...There's never been, to my knowledge, a definitive answer given to that enigma. Some have blamed it upon programming quirks (also known as glitches) so glaring as to be far too time-consuming to remedy to warrant release to the world at large, while others attribute the project's abortion to an understaffed localization crew. Yet another hypothesis is that the nearly-simultaneous development (and subsequently underwhelming release) of Squaresoft's Secret of Evermore took precious resources away from the SD3 project or, in a slightly more acidic vein, that Squaresoft was rather bitter regarding the lukewarm response to Evermore and opted to 'punish' gamers by abandoning SD3. Rumors have persisted for years; I'm scarcely the one to put them to rest, suffice it to say that Seiken Densetsu 3 has never been officially released in English (or any second language, for that matter), ostensibly limiting it to those for whom Japanese is easily understood.

   Seiken Densetsu 3 has yet to be released in licensed fashion, but the story doesn't end there. At the turn of the millennium, a team of dedicated fans pooled their resources for the explicit purpose of making the game available to a much wider audience than ever before, and that's how we've arrived at where we are now.

   The game's on the list because it's amazingly fun and that it could -by all rights**- have remained nothing more than a sore spot within many-a-manchild's memory.





* Yeah, 'cause there's never been any manner of disappointment involving Nintendo. Never ever.

** Your mother's got nothing on the saucy bitch entitled Legality.