The Miami Heat Hate Me

I woke up early on my born day. I'm 28. It's a blessing.












I didn't get what I wanted.

Memory Lane (VIII)

(It's been a long time...I shouldn't have left you. It's just that starting these at the beginning of every month has grown increasingly difficult, for whatever reason. After the first paragraph though it was a piece of cake, and I hope it shows. Enjoy.)

After landing in Tokyo, we grabbed a bite to eat at an airport restaurant. My wife was flabbergasted that she actually had to pay for kimchi. 200 yen! It's a cruel world out there, kiddo.

My lack of sleep began to catch up with me, and while waiting to board the plane to Chicago I only wanted a nice bed to lie in. I have this thing about sleeping while sitting. Maybe I've mentioned it. Anyway, it's impossible for me to fall asleep in a sitting position. Maybe I should see a shrink.

I was also as bored as a palm reader at a podiatrists convention (I don't know what that means, either). No music to listen to, no books or magazines. I had to settle for conversation with my wife. I should have brought along Mad Libs*.

After 2 or 3 hours we were able to board. This was 8 months after September 11, 2001, and it was pretty darn easy upon entering the aircraft to spot at least one federal agent. Tough looking mother, that dude. The flight was longer than John Holmes, pleasant save for some turbulence (would people have no trouble riding in elevators if they shook considerably as you rode up and down? I doubt it) and the fact that I was as tired as a one-legged man riding a bicycle uphill (again, no idea).

One comical incident occurred halfway through the flight. I guess I have poor circulation or something, because I get cramps in my legs very easily, and whenever I take long haul flights I have to periodically get up and stretch them. This happens to me at movies, too, but I can bear it. 12 hours? No fucking way. Anyway, returning from a trip to the lavatory, I took my seat, put on my headphones in order to continue watching Legally Blond (aside: maybe it was the euphoria I felt from either returning home after 2 years away or the Scopolamine patch I was wearing, or both, but I remember that movie being a lot better than I thought it'd be, in a kitschy way of course), and grabbed my wife's hand. Correction: I grabbed what I believed to be my wife's hand. Turned out I mistakenly sat down in the unoccupied seat directly behind my own, and the hand I grabbed belonged to a young Chinese woman. It was pretty embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as the time in the supermarket when I goosed a woman who I thought was my wife. That's a true story. And it was so an honest mistake.

I apologized to the Chinese woman, not sticking around long enough to see whether she understood me. Funny thing is though, she looked pretty happy. I have that effect on people.

Other than that, the only incident of note was that there was a thirty-something nerdy looking gentleman who had a Palmcorder and was apparently recording the in-flight movies. I'm pretty sure that's illegal, but it wasn't until the 3rd movie (Ocean's Eleven, in case you care) was almost over that one of the stews

(CHICKEN OR BEEF?)

asked the guy what he was doing. And in a very polite tone, I might add. That's probably because he didn't look like an Arab or anything**. The guy told the stew

(I SAID CHICKEN OR BEEF, MA'AM)

that he bought his Palmcorder in Tokyo and was just testing it out. Yeah, right. But the stew

(NO, MA'AM, WE DON'T HAVE FISH. CHICKEN OR BEEF?)

left him alone after that and the guy continued to, for whatever reason, record.

After 12 hours or so we landed in Hell, aka Chicago's O'Hare International Airport. Because my wife didn't have a visa to visit the US, she and a group of similarly visaless passengers were summoned and herded off to god knows where***. So they wouldn't, you know, enter the country illegally. Like that's such a big problem these days****.

Ahem. Because this was O'Hare, possibly the busiest airport in the world, and we were only 8 months removed from those hellbent fuckers using airplanes as cruise missiles, the lines at customs and baggage claim were ridiculous. And I've waited in line to ride the White Water Canyon at Paramount Canada's Wonderland, so I know what I'm talking about. To tell you the truth, by this point everything was becoming ethereal. I actually felt high. If I had read the Scopolamine pamphlet carefully, I would have conceded that that was indeed the case. Besides my increasing sense of irreality, I was also as thirsty as that skeleton in The Last Unicorn. After finally claiming my bags to take to the Air Canada desk in Terminal Whateverthefuck, I stopped at a kiosk to buy a bottle of water (2 bucks for water! Hip-hop hooray). Problem was -- and there's always a problem, usually a dozen of 'em -- the kiosk only accepted US currency, and all I had was Canadian and Korean. Thankfully, an American woman (don't start) bought the water for me. She wouldn't even accept the 27 dollars Canadian I offered her, what I believed was the going exchange rate. The kidness of strangers, boy.

I drank the thing in about 2 gulps.

Then I headed over to Canadian customs to recheck my bags. One thing which I had been a little worried about ever since Incheon was the Playstation 2 in my backpack. I was worried it might, in an X-ray, look like a bomb. Reliably, as my bag went through the Tunnel of Love, one of the security guys shouted "hey! Just a minute, sir."

I turned around, my sphincter tightening in fear of what I imagined might soon come near it.

"You got a Playstation in that bag?"

"Yes."

"Alright."

And that was that. I should point out that my noticeably un-Arablike features indubitably saved me a lot of grief. And rectal probing*****.

Afterwards, I took a seat and waited for my flight to board. I was worried about my wife, but was told upon inquiring not to worry; she'd be there.

I think an hour passed, maybe two. No sign of my fiancee. Then the plane began boarding. No fiancee. I was again told not to worry, and handed my ticket over and got on the plane. I waited in my seat. No fiancee. I looked inquiringly at the stewardess. No acknowledgment. Finally, just as I was about to get up and run off, like Daniel Day-Lewis in Last of the Mohicans, in search of my (kidnapped? held prisoner?) wife, a second stewardess informed me that my wife was not going to be able to make the flight, but that she was "guaranteed" a seat on one departing 40 minutes later.

So I got to sit sandwiched between a college girl who looked uncomfortable as hell -- it probably didn't help that I was unshaven and no doubt smelled less than pleasant, and that I had maniacally asked her "so, why were you in Chicago?" after espying her Canadian passport -- and an elderly Korean lady who couldn't speak a lick of English.

The Canadian chick was no fun, so I ended up spending most of the flight conversing, in my pidgin Korean, with the elderly woman. Turned out she was visiting Toronto as a member of some kind of Falun Gong awareness group. I thought she was going to give me a whole spiel about Falun Gong philosophies and try to convert me, but she was really very sweet and only mentioned that she was trying to enlighten people about the Falun Gong's plight in China. How she planned to do that in Canada without understanding even the most basic English, I don't know. I helped her fill out her customs card; this woman didn't even know what "name" meant. But that's what she said.

About 20 minutes prior to landing, the TVs turned on and I was treated to the CBC evening news with Peter Mansbridge. Peter fucking Mansbridge. Dig it. Breaking the cloud cover, my heart leapt, knowing that in less than 10 minutes I would be back home, standing on my native soil.

After disembarking and clearing customs for the final time, I was faced with a dilemma: my wife's flight was allegedly to arrive in 30-40 minutes, but it was already 8:20 and my flight was scheduled to arrive at 7:30. My family was waiting to greet me; what would they think if I failed to emerge from the arrival gate? It wouldn't have been a problem for me to exit, see my folks and wait for my wife, except that her bags were sent on board the plane in which I arrived, and I was pretty sure she didn't know it. What would she think if she arrived and her bags weren't there?

I probably should have stayed, but by then I was hallucinating (really; I'd been awake for over 48 hours, and that Scopolamine patch probably didn't help) and needed to sit down and let saner minds (though that's debatable, har har) take over. I paid a porter 20 bucks (!) to take my and my wife's bags out, and met my father, mother and sister (my brother was at the time living in Thunder Bay -- home of the Thunder Bay Thunder -- and couldn't make it).

One hour passed, then two. Still no sign of Wifey, and I had absolutely no way to tell if her flight had arrived or not. Sure, I was told it would land 40 minutes after my own, but how the hell was I to know that was true? I didn't have a flight number or anything. For all I knew, my wife could have still been in Chicago. We inquired again and again whether a five-foot-nothing young Korean woman was waiting at customs, but the people at Pearson, and most airports for that matter, are about as useless as tits on a bull.

I think we waited, in total, 2 and a half hours. Then my wife finally, miraculously emerged from the arrival gate. I'd like to say she was a sight for sore eyes, but the truth is she looked madder than a cobra whacked with a bamboo stick. Much of that look was for the fine folks at O'Hare Int'l, but part of it was reserved for me, because I took her bags out, leading her to believe they were lost.

She didn't stay mad long, however, and after we all got reacquainted with one another, we hopped in my folks' new mini-van and headed home to Burlington.

Then the next morning at 5am we headed back to Pearson. Because my wife, the night prior inquiring as to the whereabouts of her "missing" bags, had left her passport, and wallet containing over 4000 dollars cash, on the Information Desk counter.

* I'm being facetious, natch.

** I'm being sarcastic, natch.

*** When we returned to Korea 7 months later, I would find out. It's a room with very little security that one can come and go from as one pleases. Which reinforces my belief that the temporary visa thing is nothing but a scam.

**** See **

***** See *

Next Level Shit (2006 NBA Playoffs: Round 2)

Yesterday, there was a moment when I realized that the media almost made me declare this year's playoffs to be the best ever. Sometimes I be trippin', man. I mean, we're only past the first round. How the hell could I call these playoffs the best ever when there are still 3 more rounds to go?

Then I corrected myself, acknowledging that this year's playoffs have (has? Can I get a ruling on this?) the potential to be the best ever, something foreshadowed by the first round, which undoubtedly was the best first round ever.

But is that true? It has certainly been the best first round which I can remember, but that doesn't count for much. Although I've been a diehard NBA fan for over 15 years, I can barely remember the matchups from last year. Ask me to tell you who team A or team B played in the first round of x or y year, and I'd be really hard pressed to give you a correct answer, I think. Perhaps that proves this post season's first round has been the greatest, but I think it just means I have a damn poor memory. I'm Guy Pearce in Memento like that.

If you think about it, there have only been 2 great series: Cavs/Wizards and Lakers/Suns. The Mavs/Grizzlies series stunk to high heaven, as did Clippers/Nuggets. The rest were mediocre at best.

Then again, there have been at least 9 great games: Dwyane Wade's comeback, 3 Cavs/Wizards games decided by a single point, Brent Barry's divine bounce and Kevin Martin's holy roller, the "Kobe" and "Tim Thomas" games, and Dirk's 3 to force overtime. Maybe the reason I feel, deep down, that this was the best first round ever is because I saw 8 of those games* (I missed Kobe's heroics because that game was aired at like 3 in the morning). Or maybe it's because I'm a sheep who has been manipulated by the media.

Regardless, it's been quite a ride. Here's hoping the motherfucking saga continues. Below are predictions for the 2nd round:


Eastern Conference Semi-Finals





vs.




Lebron and Co. (aka The Amish All Stars), meet the new Pistons, same as the old Pistons. As much as I would like to see the outstanding play continue, I think the Pistons will steamroll a Cavs team that proved in their series with the Wizards that they play defense about as well as I play the hurdy gurdy, which is to say really fucking terribly.

Last round, I had an inkling the Bucks might steal one, but predicted the sweep anyway. Here, I have a strong feeling the Cavs are going to become the title of a Madonna movie directed by Guy Ritchie, but I'm predicting they get at least one win before going down. Thanks for coming out, fellas.

Prediction: Detroit wins series 4-1




vs.




I'm afraid. I am very afraid. The Heat looked absolutely terrible in the first two games they lost in Chicago, and then they reasserted themselves. Wade played like utter crap until his comeback from that -- scarier to watch than a porno starring the cast of Golden Girls -- fall he took in game 5, and let's not even mention how poorly Shaq played. Hopefully that 30 and 20 he notched in the series' final game is a sign of things to come rather than an anomaly (there's a depressing thought). The Heat still need to find a way to stop Vince the Ballerina, but I'm picking them to win the series. They might even squash NJ. It could so happen! The key to a series win for Miami? Gary Payton. I'm dead serious.

Still, I'm scared out of my fucking wits.

Prediction: Miami wins series 4-2

Eastern Conference Champions: Detroit Pistons


Western Conference Semi-Finals




vs.




Even if this series is well-played and goes the distance, I doubt I could be made to care much about it. I'll certainly try, but over the past half decade I've grown increasingly bored watching San Antonio play their succinct brand of team ball. And Dallas, from what I've seen of them this year, looks pretty much the same. I think Dallas might actually be the favorite, which is completely bugshit crazy. Yeah, they're good, but the Spurs are going to own them like Donald Trump does real estate.

Prediction: San Antonio wins series 4-2




vs.




I like being right. It was a little intense for a few days there, but after Tim Thomas's miracle of a shot, I knew Phoenix was taking game seven. I predicted the Lakers would be lucky to take one at home; as it turned out, they took two. And then they folded like an accordion. Did you really believe the Lakers would pull off a series win with those scrubs? Did you really believe the L would allow for its two-time MVP to get upset in the first round by the one guy who legitimately deserved the award? Kidding of course (I'm sure some fans in southern California feel that way, though), but it's nice to see Nash and the Suns proving their critics wrong. And me right.

Ahem. As for this matchup against the Clippers, it appears that, like Rodney Dangerfield, the Suns still can't get any respect. Boy, sports writers can be really goddamn fickle, huh? Minus Kobe's clutch shooting in game 4, the 2 Suns losses were anomalies. Now they're right back on track. I can't understand how the Clips are favored here. I watched Phoenix walk all over them earlier this season, and the trend should continue. Sure, they have no interior defense, but that's less of an issue than you might think. Look for Chris Kaman to continue his shaky play, and the Clippers to struggle keeping up with the Suns' fast-paced style. (Good to see you back, fast-paced style. How was your short hiatus?) Wanna know something else? The Clips have more success running with Phoenix when Elton Brand sits.

Prediction: Suns win series 4-2

Western Conference Champions: San Antonio Spurs

What, no series will go seven games? Looks that way to me. I hope I'm wrong. I also hope it isn't the Miami/NJ series that does.

One more thing: if I hear another announcer use the verb will, as in "Lebron James willed that shot to go in," or "Dwyane Wade is willing the Heat to victory," I'm writing a stern letter. To someone.

* Edit: I also missed Kev-Mart's game 3 shot.

Rapid Fire or What I Learned the Week I Blew Up My Blog and My Internet Went Down

Seeing as how the main scribe of these pages is feeling under the weather this weekend and I have been negligent in my posting duties, allow me to offer a few things I have learned in the past week after having erased the map of my own blog and taken a week's hiatus from writing.

1. V for Vendetta is a horrific disappointment and just serves to further underscore how overrated Allan Moore truly is. I mean, really, what has this guy done to earn such admiration in the comics world? I have never understood the out-and-out gushing about Watchmen. The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen I enjoyed, but it is based on characters that he didn't create and who he already knew resonated with literary audiences. I mean, really, how much of a stretch is it to think that fanboys might enjoy it if you throw Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde in with Quartermain and The Invisible Man? No chance at all. The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen is the comic-book equivalent of a Puff Daddy song circa 1997. And V for Vendetta? Don't even get me fucking started. That thing is so convoluted it doesn't even know what it believes. It never gets around to explaining why Guy Fawkes is so worthy of admiration, because frankly the historical figure isn't. Blowing up things for blowing-up's sake is romantic only to comic book fans who have never seen kids with their legs blown off in the streets screaming. If you're going to blow something up you better have a damn good understanding of the collateral damage and be able to explain why the target is still worth exploding anyway. Like on The West Wing.

2. A good bar in Bundang is "Monkey Beach." Another is "Posse." The Irish bar close to the station...not so much. I have a colleague who heartily endorsed the cheap booze at "Monkey Beach" in between episodes of hoarking up his dinner outside of Yangjae subway station. I wish this sort of thing was more infrequent when I am in this country.

3. I was again reminded what a fickle whore technology is when both my television and internet cut out the same week and I was forced to miss a K-1 and a Pride fight card. I am fortune's fool. That was in a Shakespeare play. I don't know which one; go buy yourself a concordance, asshole.

4. Infinite Jest is really fucking long. I know because I've been reading it for about three months now (including this last week when I had neither a TV nor the internet) and I am still only 3/4s of the way through it. It goes better when you do big chunks of it at a time, though, I've found. And when I get done with it I'll be able to say I've...read all of Infinite Jest. Sigh.

5. I hate my job. Hate my job, hate my job, hate my job, job, job. Again, like Allan Moore, this is something I already knew and was reminded of.

6. I learned that I can, actually, still sleep about 18 hours a day if I'm hung over and don't drink any caffeine. This was a talent I thought I'd lost at some point in college.

So, there you go, the collected amalgamation of the wisdom I've gained over the past week. Sometimes I wonder how I used to do an entry a day at all.

Because every day is Children's Day

One thing among many that sucks about growing old: hangovers. Used to be after a night of moderate-to-heavy drinking the worst I suffered was a mild headache and possibly a case of the beer shits. Now, I'm practically a zombie for an entire day following a night on the piss.

Last night was one such night, today one such day. With only a few hours sleep, I awoke at 7:30 to the sound of my daughter asking my wife "Mommy, can I watch Sesame Street?" As tired and hungover as I was, that was so cute it made me smile from ear to ear. Then I rolled over, cursing existence and wishing I were dead.

Seriously though, it wasn't that bad, but I really would have liked another four or five hours rest. And perhaps a lobotomy. Sleep was not to be, of course, because today is Children's Day, and if there's one thing I'm not it's a father who doesn't spend time with his kid because the old man knocked back a few too many the night prior. I did however manage to delay our family excursion by a few hours so that I could watch the thrilling Suns/Lakers game (game 7, baby; dig it). Afterwards, my wife, daughter and I took a stroll around the neighborhood, walked through the forest (or "mountain," as my wife refers to it, though if that's a mountain I'm Marcel freaking Proust), and went to E-mart to buy the little angel some gifts. We wanted to do something more exciting, but the weather this afternoon was crummy, so instead we made plans to go to Everland the next time I have the day off and the climate is favorable. I can hardly fucking wait.

The little girl was so well behaved -- except for a small incident stemming from Zyzyfer's broken promise that he would buy her a pony -- that my wife and I bought her everything she wanted, so long as it wasn't a toy. She has enough of those. She's quite the scholar, actually, and we ended up hauling home a pile of books and study materials. We also bought her a Tweety Bird balloon, which I had the honor of carrying home because the little girl was afraid its string might slip from her hand and fly away.

On our way back I bought the little girl and my wife some ice cream. None for me, thanks. When I got home I took a nice, long nap. 2 hours. Dig it! I awoke feeling slightly better, but still less than 60%. Which is why you're getting this brief recap of my day and the below photographs. Neener.







(I have no idea who the lady in that last photo is, but she insisted on having her picture taken with our daughter.)

John Candy in Spaceballs

Disturbing image warning!


Upon the little girl's insistence, this is what my wife prepared her for breakfast:



In case you can't tell, that's Corn Flakes with strawberry milk and processed cheese. Please don't call Child Welfare Services on me.

Back to Back Rhymin' -- Leaving lasting impressions like cuts to flesh.

As an aside, has the switch to 24 been explained yet? Speculation?

ESPN's Mark Stein ran a list sent in by readers that was quite interesting. Among some of the theories: Nike is trying to start a 24/7 gimmick between Kobe and Odom; he's trying to show that he's one better than Jordan; and 24+8=32, Magic's number.

The Jordan theory makes the most sense, but the real reason is obvious: after the rape accusation Kobe's merchandising took a big hit, and now, with his image rehabilitated somewhat, he and his agent are looking to cash in.

Cha-ching.

That reminds me. Is the 18th letter actually named after the 18th letter? Because if you called her Ra and her Korean surname is Kim… well, I wouldn't know what to think. Does she know the lyrics to “I ain’t no joke”?

I have to admit something. Neither I nor my wife can remember the kid's name. It's the strangest thing. I had it written down on a piece of paper, but haven't the foggiest were I put it. These days we just call her "you" and refer to her amongst each other as "the child". Like a pet.

All kidding aside, you're half right. Her Korean surname is Bae, her given name Rakim. Thus making her Rakim Bae (Mutombo).

All kidding aside (for real this time), check your e-mail. And keep it secret. Keep it safe.

Some additional thoughts:

- I feel for you about the cable TV thing. My wife won't let me get Playboy/Spice TV. And she gets all whiney when I read porno mags at the breakfast table.

- Did those Bosstralia NBA salad days have anything to do with a certain ginger-haired center who played for the Bulls? I believe his name was Bill Wennington ^^

- The "fuck you" dunk was nice, but I'm showing my bias and proclaiming D-Wade's sick pass to 'Zo yesterday as the best play. In fact, I'm petitioning for it to henceforth be referred to simply as "the pass".

Back to Back Rhymin' - A wiseman killed one horse and made glue.

1) Are you as surprised as I am about the Lakers? And do you think they could possibly make the conference finals? The NBA finals?

Not at all. In fact, I really thought you underestimated the Lakeshow in your predictions. I know this is easy for me to say now (pre-playoff B2BR in absentia), but I just knew that regular season Kobe was only the shape of things to come. I think it's easy to overlook the fact that Bryant (just like Shaq) is all post season. Now that diesel is spluttering, I say the eel is the only one in the L that can step up and single-handedly change the shape of an entire series (compared to say a game or two with Wade and Bron).

Two additional factors capped the Laker's leap for me:
1. The MVP snub
2. The poor showing in game 1

Those two developments should have had the Suns taking stock and taping up the windows. Reminds me of one other guy who would probably use those two setbacks as a motivation to destroy another team, and I'm not talking about Marciej Lampe. What has surprised me is the way he is done it. Homeboy can spell team.

The only thing stopping KB24 reaching the finals is whether or not the new and improved model runs out of gas – but hey, there's oil in Texas, right? (To paraphrase Daniel Tosh - You like that? I was walking down hoops street when *bamn* I took a left on politics). Seriously though, I do wonder if it is humanly possible for Kobe to sustain this emotion and intensity with only a solid number 2 in Odom (who's been 1 part Horace/1 part Scottie) and a Walton – whom I fucking love, by the way. In fact, I love any player who takes the regular season off and only shows up for the playoffs (with the exception of Jerome James – aargh, I promised myself I wouldn’t think about it). Walton is like the white Robert Horry, only minus the game winners and any passing resemblance to that sellout the fresh prince.

The critical question for the Lakes is whether they can really win it all with guys like Smush and Kwame. Only one guy has won with less, and he at least had a separate Pippen and a Grant. He also had Phil. Go figure.

Could they win in the conference/finals? I don't know, I think Dallas (horses) and Detroit (horsepower) both have what it takes to beat LA. In the interim, maybe Cassell (hung like a horse) could say a thing or two about it as well.

They still have to get pass Boris Diaw. If they do though, the LA series should be great.

As an aside, has the switch to 24 been explained yet? Speculation?


2) Which series has been the most engaging?

Look, Spurs/Kings is probably the most interesting from a hoops theory perspective. Personally, I'd rather watch stock footage of insurgency in Fallujah.

But for sheer playoffs, it has to be the Suns/Lakers. I think might even be rooting (cf. raping) for Kobe.

As for the Suns, they're proving that even without Amare, they truly are an exceptional regular season team.


3) Though I disagree with the Heat's thuggery (they're turning into the new-millennial New York Knicks), how does Posey get suspended and not Walton? Furthermore, is it ethical to have Bill Walton calling a game in which his son is playing?

(i) Walton is white, right?
(ii) You know, it would be unethical if Bill Walton exhibited some level of coherency. I think I smoked up with Walton in 1994. Nice guy, but he's no Steven Hawking.

Man, you made me all nostalgic for that old Knicks team. In fact, I resolve to write a column about how I came to be a Knicks fan. I’ll call it… I hate myself and I want to die.


4) How's the playoff coverage in Oz? In Canada these days you can catch every game, but it wasn't always so. Until about 7 years ago it used to be that the NBA on NBC was your only chance to catch the playoffs, which during the week meant catching scores on CNN's Headline News or in the paper. Boy, that used to suck.

Are you kidding? On free-to-air, I'm lucky to get a 5 second play of the day. The salad days of hoops on Australian TV are over (1990s).

There are options. Although the missus believes that getting pay-tv (cable) is reserved for people with eating disorders (you know, fat people) and the unemployable. As I am currently neither (give me time – I’m a later bloomer), I am lucky if I get to see a game or two a week. Imagine a scenario where a fella would have to eat up his monthly bandwidth by downloading games from China and Eastern Europe? Not that I could ever endorse such a scenario.

I wonder if my disconnection from the game is starting to affect my ability to engage thoughtfully on hoops. In between married life, work, home improvements, grad school, korean school, sitting in traffic, standing in supermarkets, standing in hardware stores, standing uncomfortably outside women's change rooms – I even caught my wife in the planning for pregnancy section of Borders the other day – I can fit in two, tops. Choose life?

That reminds me. Is the 18th letter actually named after the 18th letter? Because if you called her Ra and her Korean surname is Kim… well, I wouldn't know what to think. Does she know the lyrics to “I ain’t no joke”?

Back to hoops, I have not seen a second of either the Grizzlies/Mavs or Stones/Bucks series. Then again, if they were showing these games, I probably wouldn’t watch them anyway. Sure, I feel guilty about it, but you know – it’s not like the Knicks are playing. That said, if my boss ever fires me, I plan on buying NBA 2K6 and simulating the entire season as penance for my sins.

Hopefully we're only a few short years away from being able to subscribe to, and watch hoops (or, during the offseason, porn) on my phone. I'll get some mood lighting installed in my toilet and I'll be set.


5) Besides Reggie Evans grabbing Chris Kaman's nuts from behind, what's been the best play of the post season thus far?

On Court:
Kobe over Nash. I could even imagine him visualising it before the game, in his den, stroking his mamba. There's only one way to describe that dunk. It's the "fuck you" dunk. Poetry.

Off Court:
Kobe and Shaq having babies 6 minutes apart. It hasn't been discussed openly yet, but I am confident we are witnessing the most intense game of horse ever.


6) Who's the most overrated coach in the L? The most underrated?

Haha, most overrated? Larry Brown. [The missus made be delete my thoughts about Coach]. Short story – Brown can go fuck himself.

Underrated? I’d lean towards Skiles, but he’s doing well without me and none of us will ever forgive him for the assist fix. I’ll say JVG. People always forget.


7) Finals prediction? And which movie will rule the box office this summer?

Finals? I’m thinking anywhere from 4 to 7 games, with the championship winner taking four of them.

Cine – I’m interested in how the Da Vinci Code is going to pan out given that every one who can read already knows how it plays out. Unless the Catholic Church paid off the producer and it culminates in Jesus coming back and messing everyone up… Now that’s a movie I’d pay see. “Oh my god, it’s Jesus!”.

Superman Returns looks like it might be okay, although I am more of a Marvel man that a DCkhead. X-men looks like the kicker – I mean, come on. Phoenix? The trailer makes me feel like a charter member of Lambda Lambda Lambda.

And as for Flight 93 – Unless they show that USAF shooting that sucker down, forget it. Oh wait, never forget…


[Epilogue – I offer no explanation for William Simmons patent plagiarism of all ideas expressed within]

Ghostface Killah, Fishscale -- Review

I'm going to take a big sip of Hatorade Lite and say this: Ghostface has been called the Wu's most consistent artist, and this is certainly true, but it doesn't mean he's been dropping classic album after classic album. Far from it. Ironman of course is one of the best hip-hop albums of all time, but he's never been able to match its inventiveness. Has never come close, actually. Sure, Supreme Clientele is dope; but it's far from a classic. Who plays that disc these days? SC dropped at a time when the Wu's ship was sinking fast; it was a life-preserver, something for fans to latch onto and say see, the Wu's still sharp, still got it.

I'd say at the time that Ghost was still sharp, still had it, but that few, if any, of his comrades could stake the same claim (my favorite Jackson is Jermaine/Clint Eastwood played Shane). Maybe GZA (I still don't know whether I love or hate Beneath the Surface). Maybe RZA. Maybe. He can still cook up a serviceable beat from time to time (and he prepared a couple on SC), but I haven't been more saddened, more disappointed, by how drastically a talented person's career trajectory has been altered since Grant Hill. I mean, dude was set to be the best producer of all time, better than Primo, better than Dre. And then his "mansion" got flooded and he lost like 3000 beats or something. What, he can't create new beats that are as good or better than those lost? If an author's manuscript is destroyed, does that all of a sudden make the author lose his talent? Of course not. The reason RZA's production skills weakened is because he stopped caring about the music as much as he once had. He spread himself too thin, venturing into film, clothing, and a slew of other projects. What he should have done was stick to producing albums for his "family". The Wu initially began to slip when RZA began farming production out to his immitators, such as 4th Disciple, Mathematics, True Master, and others. The aforementioned could make great beats from time to time (B.I.B.L.E, produced by 4th Disciple, and Fish, produced by True Master, instantly come to mind), but they were nevertheless trying to duplicate RZA's sound. Shit reminded me of back in the days of Image Comics when artists such as Rob Liefeld, Jim Lee, and Marc Silvestri hired a bunch of artists who drew in the same style they did. Who wants that? Trouble was, when RZA returned to produce full-length albums such as Bobby Digital In Stereo, The W, and Iron Flag, the results were above-mediocre-to-borderline-wack, never great. Never classic. He'd lost his shooting touch, a fact which continues to bug me to this day, as you can probably tell.

Back to Ghost. Like I said, I don't consider Supreme Clientele to be anything other than a very good album. His next effort, Bulletproof Wallets, was a disappointment. It had its moments, but overall it wasn't worth the 15 or 16 bucks I spent on it. Last year came The Pretty Toney Album, a vast improvement over BW, but still not a classic. Toney and Supreme Clientele complement each other nicely, actually. But they're still Eyes Wide Shut and Full Metal Jacket to Ironman's The Shining.

Taking another sip of Hatorade Lite, I think Ghost has been on cruise control ever since Bulletproof Wallets. He's been sharp, no doubt, but compare any of his verses post BW to his verse on Daytona 500, say. It's like comparing a King-Size Snickers to a Bite-Size Kit-Kat. I'm afraid he's gone all Ray Allen-like: an esteemed veteran who's been going through the motions. In Jesus's case he's doing so because he probably doesn't have that extra gear, but I know Ghost does. Or did. Guy is 36 years old. Hard to stun the hip-hop world at that age, unfortunately and lamentably. Damn.

That out of the way, time to return for some Chamber Music. This spring brings Ghost's fifth studio album, Fishscale (it's drug slang for high-quality coke, I think). Let's check her out and see how she stacks up:

(Before we begin, I should mention that I got tired of waiting for the CD to arrive at my local CD/DVD store, so I downloaded it. Shame on me. Maybe I'll use the money I saved to order a pizza with mayonnaise on it.)

The Return of Clyde Smith

Raekwon (I think) has something to say, but he's too shy to say it without disguising his voice. Hard. What a terrible way to begin the album.

Shakey Dog

Is Ghost the undisputed king of talking before the song starts? This is funky, somewhat. He's got the soul sample playing throughout the song, a la Pretty Toney. Is Ghost the undisputed king of talking to himself in his verses? You know what, I just realized that, if I were tight with him, I would never, under any circumstances, fall out of his good graces for fear of being chewed out like the faceless characters in his songs. That would be no fun at all, I imagine. I wonder what he sounds like when the drive-thru girl at Wendy's fucks up his order. Bitch, is you tone deaf? Tone's def, oh that's right. Fucked up my order -- where's my medium-size Frosty and large fries?

Kilo (feat. Raekwon)

Time for some basic math: a kilo weighs a thousand grams. Thanks. The weight of disappointment, however, is immeasurable. And a pile of shit has a thousand eyes.

The Champ

Some guy starts off the song doing a poor impression of Mickey from Rocky. Just Blaze produced this, he's not afraid to let you know. Oh lord, now some dude (probably the same guy) is impersonating Mr. T. This song is pretty good, save for all the bullshit. Just like life. Now dude is impersonating Ali. I wish he would impersonate a dead person.

Major Operation (skit)

Unless your name is Prince Paul, you don't deserve to have this many skits on a single album. This is about 5 seconds long. Why not just tack it onto the end of the previous track? Is that too radical an idea?

9 Milli Bros. (feat. The Wu-Tang Clan)

If I never hear RZA say "Bob Digi" again it'll be too soon. Ghost starts things off in a sing-song style, then breaks out like ebola. This started off sounding weak, but is actually pretty good. I imagine RZA produced this. Sounds almost vintage, with the overlapping sounds and such. Cappadonna says "it's the return of Bin Laden". Ugh. Hey! It's Method Man! And GZA! And some guy who must be Inspectah Deck with one hell of a sore throat. And Masta Killah. And U-God (don't he and RZA have beef? I can never keep up with these sort of things). Dirty's appearance makes the whole thing seem surreal, as though it were recorded before the turn of the century. It probably was. Here's a wager I'm willing to lose: the Wu will never release another good album. Dope song, though only worthy of being a bonus track during the Clan's heyday.

Beauty Jackson

Oh no, Ghost is talking over yet another soul song. There's a trace of dustiness, but it's really nothing to write home over. This is to Wildflower what a spinal tap is to a blowjob. Thankfully it's short.

Heart Street Directions (skit)

The worst skit I've ever heard in my entire life, bar none.

Columbus Exchange (skit) Crack Spot

Hey, great, another skit! Why doesn't Ghost just release an entire album full of them? That would be grand! You know, this is where a competent executive producer is needed. Who executively produced this? The back of the CD probably says RZA did, but that's just legal shit. He was probably in China studying feng shui and earthenware pottery the entire time this was being made. Whoever let all this junk pollute the album really needs to be fired for it.

The skit actually segues into a short (mediocre) song, begging the question why not just combine the skit with the previous one? Better yet, jettison them both from the album! Who's your A&R, Ghost? A mountain climber who plays the electric guitar and does a lot of drugs?

Ragu (feat. Raekwon)

Wasn't this once upon a time supposed to be the title for Raekwon's sophomore album? Pretty good beat. The back-and-forth between the two MCs rekindles the magic somewhat. By the way, remember that State of Grace song by Rae that was leaked a while ago? Now that was dope. This is okay, I guess, but too short. Again, nothing overly special. Definitely nothing overly amazing.

Bad Mouth Kid (skit)

The second worst skit I've ever heard in my entire life, bar none.

Whip You With a Strap

In case you've been waiting for Ghost to give the green light, he has just given you permission to beat your kids. Another soul sample permeates the track. Who does this guy think he is, motherfucking Kanye West? Another song with no personality. This entire album so far has been a series of half-songs juxtaposed together.

Back Like That (feat. Ne-Yo)

I know a poor interpolation of I'll Be Around when I hear it. This song is best interpretively summed thusly:



Get it?

Be Easy (feat. Trife)

You know, on Supreme Clientele Trife was absolutely terrible and helped contribute to my somewhat negative opinion of the album's staying power. Then he blew my socks off with his performance on the independently-released Theodore Unit 718 album. This could have been a song from that. Prettyokaydecentborderingonalmostawesomeness. By the way, am I the only one who has grown tired of Ghost's animated flow? It's as though he took it too far, much in the same way the animation on The Simpson's is crisper than ever, but lacking the rawness that made seasons 3 through 7 so great. Can I get a witness?

Clipse of Doom (feat. Trife)

That guitar lures me in immediately. Bomb Squadesque. Can't disguise the fact that the song sounds like a mix tape "freestyle," though.

Jellyfish (feat. Cappadonna, Sean Wigs, and Trife)

This is similar to the previous track, only substitute the guitar loop with an organ. I'm scared this will give me an epileptic seizure, but I stick with it. I think Cappadonna put as much of an effort into his verse here as he did his career as a cab driver. As far as "token white rappers accepted into the fold after Eminem blew up" go, how long do you think Sean Wigs's (get it?) "career" will last? Longer than Haystack's but shorter than Bubba Sparkxxx's is my guess.

Dogs of War (feat. Trife, Cappadonna, and Son God)

This is giving me bad flashbacks of The W. Industry rule no. 4093: if you're at a loss in coming up with a song title with impact, hit your local video store and scour the old releases. Actually, this is quite faithful to the 1981 Christopher Walken/Tom Berenger film in that it's entirely unmemorable.

Barbershop

Why don't Ghost and his entourage just make a fucking low budget film and save me the task of having to listen to all that talking already? Some songs can be called "cinematic" (Spot Rusherz immediately comes to mind), and I suppose this could be, too...but only if we're comparing it to a Uwe Boll movie.

Sweetwater (skit)

Why do I even bother?

Big Girl

Is it possible to commit suicide jumping out a second-floor window, or would I probably survive and have to pay a shitload of medical bills? Dammit! If I hear another Ghost song where he raps over a soul record, I'm going to make sure we get an apartment on a higher floor the next time we move. Also: Ghost is in love with the sound of his own voice. He should start a blog. If his writing skills are lacking, he can just do podcasts!

Underwater

This sounds Salaam Remiesque. Here's a novel song concept, Tony: you're lost in a forest, surrounded by orcs, and searching for your stolen ability to craft a decent album. But just before you find it you're slain by an ax-wielding dwarf. Fantastic!

The Ironman Takeover (skit)

Another 5-second sample from the Iron Man cartoon. I am Jack's awestruck imagination.

Momma (feat. Megan Rochell)

...Is to All That I Got Is You as From a Buick 8 is to Christine.

Bonus Track -- Three Bricks (feat The Notorious B.I.G. and Raekwon)

I believe this was to be included on the abortion that was Duets: The Final Chapter. Awful, simply awful. I'm convinced this was purposefully made to further Ghost and Rae's beef with Big for "biting shit off of Nas".

Conclusion: Best 14,400 won I never spent. Compared to this shit, Bulletproof Wallets is Criminal fucking Minded. We'll always have Ironman and the Hide Ya Face remix (which, even when I'm not on medication -- read: beer -- I'm still convinced is one of the top 10 best songs ever made), though, Starkey Luv.

Yours,

The Eyes That's In Back Of You, Kid.

2/5 *_*

Straight Outta Locash. Heroin. Deep like fried chicken parts. Bitter pill. Masturbatory. Catch phrase.

Schindler's List may have won the Best Picture Oscar in 1993, but that winter the movie I and my friends were excited about was CB4, starring Chris Rock. In retrospect, I have no idea why that was, but we were all dying to see it, anticipating its release with bated breath. Kids are strange that way.

The Friday it opened, I, my brother, and 4 or 5 of our friends were to attend the 9 o' clock showing. Before taking a bus to the local Cineplex Odeon, however, we planned to have "dinner" at a Cantonese restaurant in my neighborhood. I write "dinner" because the truth is that the restaurant, named Bo Chin (Cantonese for "fried cat scrotum", I think), was known amongst a small circle of us to serve alcohol to minors. This at the time was a very big deal, as you can well imagine.

It may be hard to believe, me being a product of early 90's suburbia, but the truth is at the time I had never been drunk. And I wasn't going to bust my cherry that night, unfortunately, because at 4 bucks a bottle I didn't have the money. What I did have money for, though, was a joint that my brother had bought from our Friendly Neighborhood Weed Pusher but hadn't gotten around to smoking -- mostly because he was never really much of a head, but also because the thing was roughly the size of a Magnum 44 marker. Because his plan was to get shitfaced drinking Budweisers and Carlsbergs at Bo Chin, I convinced him to sell me the joint for a very reasonable five dollars.

"I wouldn't smoke that by yourself," he warned after closing the deal. "It'll fuck you up."

Yeah, maybe, I thought, but I'd never been stoned before, and I figured if I were going to start I might as well dive in head first, so to speak.

But when two of my friends got wind of the transaction, they insisted on chipping in for a share. I adamantly refused, but my brother's influence prevailed. I think he threatened to give me an atomic wedgie unless I relented. He was Vito Corleone like that.

The joint was to be split three ways.

Later that evening, after the first couple of rounds at Bo Chin, I and my two friends, accompanied by a fourth who was there strictly as a spectator, went out back, as giddy as school girls, to fire up the bone*. I sucked that bad boy prodigiously**, holding the smoke in my lungs and exhaling only when the joint came back around. My friends toked with considerably less gusto, and I imagine 2/3 of the thing was sucked up by yours truly.

After the joint was done (I think I remember chucking it on the ground and putting it out with my shoe heel, much to the chagrin of my mates, who chastised me for wasting the roach), we headed back inside.

The last thing I remembered before [Shogun Assassin] everything changed was my brother commenting on how bloodshot my eyes were.

You know the intro to Tales From the Darkside where the screen flips and the green, sunlit forest becomes dark and haunting? That's the best I can describe what happened. It actually felt as though a television's vertical control was being adjusted before my eyes, finally settling on a picture much darker and foreign than the one I was used to.

I actually believed then that I was in another world. "Hell" is probably the most apt name for that place. Later I would come to equate the sensation to New York Knicks fandom, which is pretty much the same thing.

I immediately got up without saying anything and walked outside. My heart was beating as fast as a jackhammer, and I was convinced that, if I wasn't already dead (which seemed quite plausible), I was going to have a heart attack.

A few of my friends followed me out, and when word got around that I was higher than Microsoft stocks (I believe "chewed out of his fucking mind" is the way it was eloquently phrased), the rest soon came.

Although I was fairly quiet and not gouging out my eyeballs or anything, it was obvious that, if I were to remain pacing back and forth in front of the restaurant like Cotton Fitzsimmons pacing the sidelines, our underage group's favorite (read: only) watering hole would be compromised, so by committee it was ruled that I be taken to the small municipal park nearby and babysat, in turns, until I calmed down***.

"You're still going to make the movie, right?" my friend E -- who you may remember from a recent anecdote aboot a road trip to Hull, Quebec -- asked.

"No, I don't to think so," I said. No fucking way in hell was more like it, but I didn't want to piss the guy off more than I had already done. Remember, this was CB4 we were in danger of missing.

Now, I'm no expert on marijuana, but I still believe there was a little something extra added to that joint we smoked. Why it was my other two friends barely caught a contact is something I still don't get, but the fact remains that, in addition to somewhat normal signs of marijuana intoxication such as an accelerated heart rate, acute paranoia and a mouth drier than beef jerky in the Mojave, I was hallucinating, not a little but a lot: cars' headlights looked like fire leaping from a dragon's nostrils; I could see letters and numbers inside everything; and, perhaps strangest of all (certainly to my friends it was the funniest), I saw NHL team logos on the snow-covered ground.

I was also 100% convinced that my parents and the police psionically knew I was stoned, and would any minute arrive to apprehend me. Sounds like a bad after school special or episode of Degrassi High, right? But people on drugs aren't known for being rational, especially fourteen-year-olds.

Around eleven o' clock, all plans of seeing CB4 shot to hell, I and my brother went to E's place to crash. His parents were asleep by the time we arrived, and my brother called our folks to tell them we would spend the night. Although I smoked the joint sometime before 7, I was still stoned like St. Stephen. We watched Orca - The Killer Whale and Deliverance. That didn't help bring me down, obviously.

I experienced repurcussions for the next few days, actually. No one believed me, and to tell you the truth it does sound odd that I would be the only one so royally fucked up, but them's the facts. Eventually I returned to normal (though that's debatable), and came to the conclusion that drugs aren't for me. Seriously, I won't even take a Tylenol when I have a headache.

I did on a very small number of occasions throughout high school and college again smoke marijuana (or hash), as an experiment to see if the highs produced matched my first experience. They didn't. All they did was reinforce my opinion that getting blazed isn't much fun for me. And make me want to eat my weight in Doritos. They did that, too.

And, although I promised my friends that I'd see it with them the following day, I've never watched CB4. That's probably for the best, I suppose.

***

Time for some hits from the bong:

1) How 'bout them NBA playoffs? (Where are you going? Please stay. We're serving refreshments and pork pies later.) Theme song for the Miami Heat: Self Destruction by the Stop The Violence All-Stars. I fear we're headed for a collapse of epic proportions...Theme song for the Denver Nuggets: Dosed by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Take it away, I never had it anyway...Theme song for the LA Lakers: Watch Me Now by the Ultramagnetic MCs. You can take that MVP trophy and stick it up your ass, Steven..Theme song for the Detroit Pistons: Ya Slippin' by Boogie Down Productions. Watch for them to bounce up like roundball..Theme song for the Sacramento Kings: Mr. Scarface Is Back by Scarface. Amazing to think that they could be leading the series 3 games to 1 if Brent Barry's 3 didn't drop...Theme song for the Chicago Bulls: You Played Yourself by Ice-T. Amazing that the Lakers and Bulls are the scariest teams out there to me right now...Theme song for the Dallas Mavericks: It's So Easy by Buddy Holly...Theme song for the LA Clippers: A Long Rhyme Coming by Prince Johnny C (as an aside, I once owned this on cassette). Can you imagine the impending Lakers/Clippers series, where every game is a home game? And people say the playoff seedings need to be readjusted. Whatevah...Theme song for the Phoenix Suns: Let Down by radiohead. Second place is first place for losers...Theme Song for the Memphis Grizzlies: Never Had No One Ever by The Smiths. To quote Slater in Dazed and Confused, you're dead man. You're so dead...Theme song for the Indiana Pacers: Kill Or Be Killed by Twisted Sister. These playoffs will determine whether or not Jermaine O'Neal is worthy...Theme Song for the Cleveland Cavaliers: The Faster Blade by Ghostface Killah (feat. Raekwon). Gotta keep that sword sharp. Probably not a good idea to give interviews before the half in which you hint that the game is already decided, Lebron...Theme song for the New Jersey Nets: A Boy Named Sue by Johnny Cash. That one's for you, Wince...Theme song for the Washington Wizards: Step In The Arena by Gangstarr. Step in the Arenas...Theme song for the San Antonio Spurs: Bones by radiohead...Theme song for the Milwaukee Bucks: Respect by Aretha Franklin. Can they win another? And another? And -- oh, who the hell am I kidding?

2) Two interesting things I witnessed yesterday:

- The wife, daughter and I walked around Seohyeon after I played basketball (I'm a gambling man: it looked like rain, and the Clippers/Nuggets game was just starting, but I correctly predicted that precipitation wouldn't fall, yet the Nuggets would). As we were heading toward the bus stop, I saw a pair of scissors hit the ground. At first I thought the two Samsung Electronics employees who were crouching down and smoking had thrown them, but their look of surprise matched my own. I looked up, and that's when I saw a kid stick his head out of an open 1oth floor window and shout "those are my scissors! Nobody touch them!"

I was more than a little pissed off, because my daughter was chasing pigeons at the time fewer than 15 feet away from where the scissors landed. My wife's ire was similarly raised, and she stormed into the building to find out why the object was thrown. Turns out the the kid just chucked the scissors out of an open window because, y'know, he felt like it. Maybe he was bored. The place was a 공부방, or study room, and when my wife confronted the "teacher" that worthy said snarkily**** "they didn't hit anyone, did they? If not, what's the big deal?"

Come to think of it, that pair of scissors metaphorically represents life (or a cruise missile). Sometimes you get hit, but usually -- while you're playfully chasing birds around or smoking a square -- it's a miss. Lucky us.

- Just as that was Mehmet occurring, a couple happened to stroll by, and they were far from happy. The woman (who I won't make any further character judgement on save to say that she looked like quite a handful), ignorant of the fact it was raining scissors! wound up and punched her boyfriend/husband square in the jaw. Then she did it again. First hard, then harder. I would never condone violence against a woman, but, during my short time upon this strange planet, that was an occassion where it almost seemed justifiable.

Come to think of it, that fueding couple metaphorically represents Kobe Bryant and Steve Nash.

3) Recently, between periods of basketball (both live and televised) and sleep, I've managed to catch an episode or two of the reality series Girls of the Playboy Mansion, airing on the deceptively-titled Xtm channel. And my only question is how can you fuck up something which is so fundamentally easy? Seriously, you'd think a show about a group of Playboy models would appeal to any straight male, right? Wrong. So far I've watched as they tour the Statue of Liberty, visit some place where they have a competition stomping on vinyard grapes and gush over pigs, and drive around in a limo. I think it airs on Channel Boring in the States. And all the girls are blond (most unnaturally so). Why no brunettes or redheads? There are also scenes involving a brainwashed Hugh Hefner -- or the pod person who assumed his form -- which even I don't have the heart to mention. Remember when Playboy had class and dignity? Between this show, the Jessica Alba cover thing (which leads me to believe they hired the recently unemployed Ray Benzino) and selecting the quite unsexy Lee Pani as a Korean Playmate, I think it's safe to say Hef's empire has seen better days. How the mighty have fallen.

4) This month marks the one-year anniversary of Psychedelic Kimchi (has it really been that long?). As such, I'm making it a personal goal to post something new every day, so bookmark the page if you haven't already. Besides the usual dopeness of Memory Lane, Catcher in the Lye (recently put on blast here), these fucked-up musings, Spring Cleaning and other reviews, pics of The Golden Child, and more basketball ramblings than you can handle/care for, I've got something that will really knock your collective socks off. Really. Stay tuned.

5) Maybe it's just me, but I firmly believe the phrase "but Samantha wanted hors d'oeuvres!" deserves (Professor Isaac gets on my nerves/my favorite Griffin is Merv) to be a part of this generation's zeitgeist the same way "where's the beef?" was to a generation 22 years before. I'm just extremely honored to be a part of both.

* To be followed by an awkward pause. Death by commas pt. III, by the way, bitches.

** Another awkward pause. Just so you know, "I sucked that bad boy prodigiously" is to be my epitaph. I have it written in my will and everything.

***Pt. IV

** **I'm not sure if that's an actual word, but it's been a lifelong dream of mine to one day put it to use.