The Cat's out of the Bag

Golly. At this point, I suppose there is no denying the truth about what Sparky Spark has been up to recently.










(The Korean Tourism Organization's prestigious R&D team has a new point man, that's what.)




Langwidere

You know a guy is the Baron of Bundang when:

A) He offers up a toast like 'Cheers to Terry Michos!' and people are pretty much obliged, nay, enthusiastic, to respond in kind.

B) He -basically- body checks some random guy within Samsung Plaza, and refuses to acknowledge the poor bastard's cries of anger. Furthermore, the man is so powerful that he continues to ignore the chump as the flustered individual's attempt to chase him down is quelled by an associate.

C) Given the offer of a late night 노래방 extravaganza, he accepts, and then counters with 'We need some beer'. While one portion of the group (the one most enamored with the concept of singing their hearts out) ventures forth on an expedition to acquire the aforementioned soma, the man decrees that he doesn't need that song-and-dance shit to fulfill his fantasies, and proceeds to another locale. Singers be damned!

D) Upon hearing that a comrade must depart, he suggests that his associate down a bottle of soju for 'the long bus ride home', even if that bus ride is, in actuality, twenty minutes in length. The other dude is powerless to resist, as the recommendation is merely a posit of the utmost veracity, accentuated by the greatness of the situation.

E) He contends that he built that -Gu on rock 'n' roll (with some assistance from Starship), and again, no one is inclined to disagree.

F) At one point, he removes his Miami Heat jersey and throws it at a random Korean woman, who consequently swoons from the prospect of being so lucky.

This stuff doesn't grow on trees. It takes power, personality, and prowess.

Finally, for those of you who, like myself, lament the sabbatical of the real force behind Psychedelic Kimchi (and to those that played the occasional coin-op game), I offer a final, imperative remark.



Hati

Mud, Honey, and the Mange that Would Not Burn (Rarefaction)

Today was a national holiday, and I had some free time (as I'm not one to plot several nefarious, social misadventures, which is to say that I'm not the belle of the ball, and as such, I'm about as cool as the macumba here in our beloved republic) so I sat down to watch two films, one of which I had viewed previously, and the other an entirely new experience. The former being Peter Jackson's interpretation of King Kong, and the latter the Island.

First and foremost, I'm a bit picky with regard to the large monster runs amok amidst the turbulence of human society genre. Call me a snob, call me a dork; either way, I've a -decidedly arousing- passion for rubber monsters and overgrown monstrosities. When something doesn't work for me, with such a theme, it just doesn't, and Kong's Fantastic Isle of Shitty Dinosaurs is a prime example of distasteful presentation. The 'terrible' lizards just came across as laughable at best, and the lack of considerable, visceral gore precipitated my disdain. Fuck, in the thirties, they had an Allosaurusish get its jagged mouth torn agape and, furthermore, you truly felt as if the two combatatants were congenitally devoted to carnage. In Peter Jackson's production, we are treated to a cartoonish, unabashedly amateurish display of sportsmanship between the mighty Kong and his fellow inhabitants.

(Let's not even begin to approach the dance routine with Naomi Watts.)

To be honest, I'm rather fond of Peter Jackson for several reasons, the least of which not being Braindead / Dead Alive. He's a great director, and I wouldn't be lying if I said that the first forty minutes of King Kong were captivating, as was the scene in which the worms attack the sailor. Nonetheless, nothing shall salvage the film for me.

As for the Island, I've nothing much to say. Not a good movie by any means, but I hadn't expected it to be. My intention was to gain an enhanced perspective of Scarlett Johansson. Recently, I had postulated that she was inferior to several Korean actresses/performers, namely, one in particular. Upon further inspection, I'm going to take that comment back - well, to rephrase: I'm going to say that there are beautiful people throughout the world, and let's celebrate all of the people we'll never be suave enough to entrance with our misguided wiles. Fair enough?

Speaking of movies, why not check out something absurd, like Bava's Demoni? Now that's a memorable film.

General Grievous

Sundae Nights, Soju Mornings (Sight of the Spark)

There are a few things that I never would have guessed that I would say in my life, most of which I could scarcely conceive of, except as an aftersight. One of which, being something that went a bit like this.
Random Turkey: (Talking some ill-mannered jive)

Hati: Hey, you can't talk that way to Sparkles. He practically built Bundang. [with 15% solemnity]

Sparkles: That's right. I did build Bundang. [with 1003% solemnity, and an imported beverage in his hand]

One of those days, esteemed readership, one of those days; or to rephrase -and this is to say nothing of the moment in which the Spark strapped on his jetpack and flew the fuck out of that drinking establishment- evenings.

What I'm trying to indicate, for those with actual reading comprehension skills, is that yes, in fact, I did catch up with the Sparkster himself. He's neither dead, nor incognito, but rather living the life of a wayward, and yet unflagging, juicer with a mission in tow.

Second on the agenda is sexuality. Whatever that guy may tell you (or someone that you know), he's not so adept at playing the 'homosexual card' when conscripted -constricted, per chance- by a member of the fairer sex. I'm not saying that Mr. Sparkles lacks the capacity to tell a fib, but white lies are like big game; just because you can take one down, doesn't mean that you can take them all.

Granted, I suppose that I wasn't playing ball entirely, but I couldn't sit back and let S. deny his inherent, heterosexual, manliness. On a sidenote, don't anyone try to go the 'You're a homophobic bastard' route on me, as it's not that at all. It's just when I'm bombarded by questions like 'You're his brother/cousin/father, is he really gay?' and I'm on the edge of blotto, I can only manage so much.

Speaking of the fairer sex -okay, not just yet- after an evening of drunken shenanigans, the two of us searched for a place to dine, and the only place that was open was a sundae joint. Rocking place, insomuch that they provided us with meat and nectar to assuage our weary souls. (Yeah, being a teacher in Korea is just tough, straight up.) After a bout of crapulence, the Spark posited a serious critique of my life, and I had attempted a reply to him on that particular morning, but was unable to do so.

Basically, Sparkles hypothesized that I wasn't the kind of guy to sustain a long-term relationship with a woman, or even that I would be capable of such a thing. Normally, I wouldn't touch upon such a sacrosanct topic of discussion, but given that Sparkles recently informed me that I had been entirely fooled by one of his posts (I'll give you a hint, in that his post related to basketball), I feel that I should divulge a dose of honesty -catharsis- to atone for my foolishness. For starters, he's mistaken. I've long held the candle for a particular super woman. In continuation, you can gather that originally I was prone to an obligatory, good natured 'You son a bit--yeah, that's true."

While I don't excel at the one night stand, I can pull off the occasional Bloc Partyesque Prayer when need be. That notwithstanding (and certainly not to my credit) I've never been much for relationships. Sooner or later, as Jack Burton would say, I rub everyone [read: women] the wrong way, but I'm okay with that. For the record, however, I did endure a three year, on-again-off-again relationship during college, and that ended in a satisfactory manner. I also did a seven month jaunt with a woman that wasn't official, and it was hop-around, wholesome fun that left me quite defunct in a few, compulsory, ways, but that was a long time ago. I wouldn't mind spitting on her pancreas, but then again, I should be spitting upon my own.

Long story short,

1) I'm a dick sometimes. Contrary to popular belief, however, none of the women I have dated would say that.
2) I'm not in a position to be speaking about long-term relationships.
3) Sundae is fucking good.
4) I forsee a Jack Daniels night sometime in the near future, you dig?
5) Craig Conroy rules!
6) Sparkles may be a juicer, but I call the Glitter Boy.

Hati

Knock Knock

Q: What's hard?
A: Writing a one-page feature, complete with side-bar, about organic bread manufacturers without once using the word "hippy."

Q: What's harder than hard?
A: Not asking if consumers get even hungrier after trying the new hemp bread.

Q: What's harder than that?
A: Not hitting the floor laughing when they tell you how good hemp is "for baking."

Postcards From the Ledge

I'ma hop in and hop out right quick (word to Raekwon the Chef) with a few thoughts that I've been churning in my mind like curdled milk:

1) I'm not dead. Yet. Right now, food, clothes and medicine is all I need. That and Orange Crush. And my spine (word to Mike Stipe). And perhaps lots of cigarettes, booze, and fast women. What can I say? I'm high maintenance*.

2) Better late than never: THE LEATHER BALL IS BACK!!! PRAISE THE ALMIGHTY**!!! In other, less exciting news, the Miami Heat are sub .500. The fuck?

3) Mark Whalberg was nominated for an Oscar for his role in The Departed. Ummm...Great movie, great acting, but Marky Mark is barely in it, and his performance, which amounts to him hamming it up by acting a first-class asshole who swears a lot, is the least noteworthy of the starring ensemble. Jack Nick totally got screwed.

By the way, is there a year that goes by when Judi Dench is NOT nominated?

4) I can think of only ONE better way to use one's hands than this.

5) Jason Kidd.


Until next time. I'm gonna go get drunk and eat something living***.



* Did I spell that word wrong? If so, fuck it. No time for spell checking, Dr. Jones.

** AKA Steve Nash's bleeding hand.

*** No, not a penis, Mr. Funnyman.

Grand Theft Auto

Save Tiberious:
http://www.missingpersons.org/
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This is how the industry you work in ends...

...not with a bang, but with a whimper.

I, for one, will miss print media, and not just the paychecks either. I think Garrison Keillor does an excellent job outlining the appeal of newspapers here (http://www.salon.com/opinion/feature/2007/01/10/keillor/index.html). I can't say it any better, so I'm not going to try.

But I can't help but notice that GK wrote his little ode to the newspaper online, which leads me to wonder...

Et tu, Brute? Et tu?

Spiritual Fibrosis

With the -possible- exception of Denz, it would seem as if we here at Psychedelic Kimchi are a collection of lazy bastards. As of late, we haven't been posting much, and readers (all twelve and a half of us) may be wondering just what the future holds for Black Sabbath's illigetimate Korean offspring, and by extension, the human race as a whole.

Surely, there is reason for some concern. For starters, Elgin Perkins is looking to foreclose on our property, and by god, we've been doing our best to locate pirate gold. That shit takes time, and Kerri Green, so bear with us. Furthermore, while I can scarcely divulge too much information, suffice it to say that:
A) Yes, Doomsday has indeed fallen upon the fair metropolis of Bundang, but let fear not beat upon the breast of the faint: Superman never dies, he merely takes a breather. Call it a hunch.
B) Speaking of catastrophe, some folks have been whispering about the demise of Pyeongchon's resident champion, but again, do not abandon all hope just yet. During his absence, I promise to hunt down the venomous perpetrator at any cost, and chances are, it shall be a bitter, visceral confrontation upon Subway Line #4.
C) You may be weary of the comic book allusions, and that's cool, because the rest of the Psychedelic Kimchi crew have merely been enjoying the holidays -and/or numerous trysts- and are thus otherwise distracted, albeit momentarily.

In lieu of anything pertinent, I offer to you, dear readers, a few nonsensical ruminations.

First of all, whatever happened to Irene Cara? I mean, she was on Hit Me Baby 1 More Time, but who gives a fuck about that? For that matter, some may question my ability to give a fuck about Irene Cara whatsoever, and that's a valid question. My response is, invariably, to posit the sheer greatness of the masterwork that is Breakdance. Don't hold out on us, Irene, we know you have another hit in you.

Second on the agenda, Catharine Maria Sedgwick. This rant does not pertain to her body of work; as A New England Tale is "woman's fiction" (forgive the brief quotation of Nina Baym, as we're looking at round six of Jack Daniels here), and Redwood, while mildly interesting, does little to arouse modern sensibilities, to say the very least. Even Hope Leslie, Sedgwick's premier work, isn't that spectacular overall, but it does provide us with a few intriguing characters. I can't help but wonder about Everell Fletcher's role as the colonial, prototypical player extraordinaire. Here's a guy, seemingly a garden variety chump, with three women that pine over him like it's going out of style. The eponymous title character, Hope; the stout, perpendicular Puritan, Esther Downing; and the articulate, cool-as-fuck Magawisca.
Throughout the aforementioned novel, Sedgwick presents Fletcher as a strait-laced douchebag, and yet the three female protagonists fawn over him like he just won the goddamn Price Is Right Showcase Showdown. Esther, for example, is tempted to forego (or forgo, if you're like that) her religious convictions, while Hope is, well, just a cliche, and Magawisca, she gets her arm chopped off (by her own father) for being in love with the guy. Still, at numerous points throughout the text, the best Fletcher can manage are gems like "I might have loved [Magawisca]-might have forgotten that nature had put barriers between us." Good work, dick.
I understand that you were a lifelong spinster, Miss Sedgwick, but there's no need to portray every single male as a vacuous, obtuse piece of shit. On the other hand, Sedgwick, I should be thanking you for the creation of Magawisca, who was, arguably, the greatest female character of nineteenth century American literature. Note: This should be the topic of a secondary, 'meaningful' post, perhaps, but my brain has been akin to Swiss cheese as of late.

Thirdly, a ponderation: Hard to Kill or Die Hard, which can be overplayed more? I've enjoyed my sojourn here as much as any random foreigner, but still, what is with Korea's fascination? Don't even get me started on Castaway. During my initial stint in a Korean hagwon, a guy was hired based upon the fact that, in his photo, he (to paraphrase) 'looks like Tom Hanks, from Castaway' and no, the guy looked nothing like Mr. Hanks, whatsoever.

Last, and most decidedly least, the Sonic Boom. Where would 1993 be without it?

_____________

Hati (asterisk-free and writhing through every minute of it)

Denz vs 2006 (A Year in Review)

One of my weaknesses is television 'year in review' wrap-ups. Montages of the best and worst of the year backed to sentimental music (invariably a Coldplay track these days). As a somewhat enlightened man, I imagine that I should be able to transcend these cheap transparent appeals to sentimentality and/or ratings, but I can't get enough of them. If that makes me a media muppet, then string me up, Jimmy.

With that in view, and given Sparks in Hiatus 2.0, I have decided to take up arms and commit my own montage to the year of 2006 and, in doing so, pen the first kimchi for the year Two-Bond. [(c) denz 2007].

My random musings begin, of course, with everyone's favourite jack-off medium - the internet.

Best online development of the year: Erm..
*crickets chirping* - Um... how about a lifetime achievement award for porn? You know what, aside from the resurrection of the PK, the internet can go fuck itself.

Worst online development of the year: Video Blogs
Damn those V-Blogs or whatever they are called on Youtube (and their associated drama bombs). Honestly, as a fan of words, I love a decent blog. But watching some heavily edited narcissist film his or her opinions is just a bridge too far. Honestly, why aren't these the people getting car-bombed? Pareto optimality anyone?

Runner-up: asterisks.

Worst realtime development of the year: Desensitisation to Iraq.
How we came to tolerate this clusterfuck, I'll never understand. Our capacity for emotional and moral atrophy knows no bounds. And at 3000+, the administration has fucked more Americans than Wilt Chamberlain.

Runner-up: The de-evolution of the Sports Guy.

Best realtime development of the year: Bush
Por... wait... Knowing that the reign of Bush will soon be over. It is my sincere hope that history paints him as the most incapable and deleterious leader of all time. We all know he'll get off. Nevertheless, I'm counting the days until Obama in 2008. What's not to like about Barak?

Runner-up: Porn

WORDS

Best Book: The Road - Cormac McCarthy
Up until a few days ago, I hadn't read any book published in 2006 that had blown me away. It wasn't until my dear old Ma sent me McCarthy's book as part of a Christmas package that I discovered the one and only contender. Much has already been penned about this book, but I'll leave it to the book itself to speak for its force:

He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.

Best Not Quite Book: Tuvalu - Andrew O'Connor
I wanted to give homeboy a chance. He's an ex-ESLer repatriated Australian much like myself, but Tuvalu felt ... ehh... If Number9dream was Murakami lite, Tuvalu is like diet, decaffeinated, sugarless David Mitchell zero. But props where props are due; the man went out and won the Vogel. Which is one more than I have. O'Connor: 1 v 0 : Denz

FILM

Best Movie: Children of Men
It's a rare thing to feel both transported and connected to a film set in the future, but Alfonso Cuaron brings it home like a god damned DeLorean. Wonderfully shot, well paced and just flat out intelligent. The religious undertones might irk some, but the last sweeping one-take action sequence is divine.

Runner-up: The Departed
Another exceptional film. Damon and DiCaprio nail it. Looked great, felt great and ... *headshot* ... oh yes.

Best Performance: Monica Bellucci in 'Combien tu m'aimes?'
I'm not sure if this is classifed as acting, but when a performance from an actress leaves my own wife somewhat flushed... well... you get the nod. Honourable mention to Holly Valance in DOA. I have to represent.

SPORT

Best in Show
Nate Robinson's block on Yao.

Worst in Show
Carmelo Anthony - don't even get me started on how flatout lame Melo is in for cold clocking Collins and running away like a big girly girl. Watching the Sports Guy attempt to justify Melo's actions only made it worse.

Best in Hoops
Aiight. This is for my boy: Rebound

Best Fantasy Pick-up: Marques Colston
Things started out fairly awkard for me this season. Drafting Willis McGahee (busted), Chris Chambers (bust) and Caddy Williams (nothing but a buster), things were looking wrong, well wrong. In week 1, I picked up a little WR by the name of Marques (erroneously registered as a TE by the good folk at Yahoo!) and promptly brought my fantasy season to life. Granted I got Saddamed in the semis, but hey - it's all swings and roundabouts.

Best Story: Drew Brees and the New Orleans Saints
As much as I love hoops, there really isn't any better sports story than a dumped and injured Brees signing with the Saints and becoming an MVP candidate, drafting R-Bush, unearthing Colston and just completely turning around a city that was dead in the water. Inspiring stuff. Makes you wonder if the NFL didn't somehow plan this all along... and not just the draft picks/signings, I'm talking about the Hurricane. Voodoo, baby. Sing with me...

Runner-up: Amare 'Microwhat?' Stoudemire.

MUSIC

Skillz has his rap-up wrapped up on Myspace and the AV Club also provided their usual great review of music in 006. My thoughts? Nah, never that. Instead, some random songs that you should own:

Best Drinking in the Flatbed: Space City - Drive-By Truckers
Best Life is Good: Love Generation - Bob Sinclair
Best Suicide Watch: Anything off 9 by Damien Rice
Best Kickflip: Lupe Fiasco (turns out I was outdrafted like a motherfucker)
Best Sophomore Slump: When You Were Young - Killers
Best Narrative/Onion Reference: Shaky Dog - Ghostface
Best Driving Song: The Witch - The Broken Keys
Best Rehash Beat: Hiphop is Dead - Nas (Thief's Theme anyone?)
Best Ressurection Beat: Jay-Z - Kingdom Come (had to dust off the hammer / damn can't touch this...)
Best Black Keys: Your Touch - The Black Keys
Best Love Song: I Called You Back - Bonnie Prince Billy


LIFE, THE UNIVERSE & EVERYTHING

Best Death: Irwin/Hussein (tie)
Both were batshit insane, both died doing what they love (Irwin in the wild. Saddam in the execution chamber), and both had their death videos become the top rated search on YouTube. That, my friends, is how to live and how to die. (I heard Saddam said 'Yeah, fuck all ya'll' in Kurdish just before they dropped him like a sack of Tikrit potatoes).

Runner-up: The Knicks.
Who will continue to die for the next three or four years. Now that's a dynasty, baby.

Best Hope for World Peace: The PS3.

Best Babe:
Another sterling year for women - Cheryl Tweedy, Emmy Rossum, Autumn Reeser, either one of those Rihanna/Ciara/Amerie girls, Yukie Kawamura and Risa Shimamoto.

Got milk?

Runner-up: Ayame Misake.
The Japanese World Cup girl would have taken home the entire pig if it wasn't for the Lohan Precedent (Translation: A brother has to stay out of Folsom, right?).

Best Hero: Harry Kewell.
Even my wife loves you, Harry.

Best Villan: Fabio Grosso.
So help me god, if I ever see this man in the street I will string his arse up like Mussolini.

Arrrgh. I can't even stand thinking about this again. I'm still gutted. You know what... fuck 2006.

Happy 2007, expletives.