Miller Time

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps I should shut the fuck up now.




* My apologies to Ex-Lax

Sore Thumb Soliloquy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Game. Over.



* No, not porn. At least not yet.

Jealous Ones Envy

Before we begin, a quote:

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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


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

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




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

Plant the seeds and watch them grow.




It is true. The makings of you.



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

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

*** No double entendre.

The PK Report: Nancy Lang Gets Naked*

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

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

Long live the Bill Report.

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

Testify.

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

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

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

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

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

Right into the ground.

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

Too close for me.

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

Word.

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

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

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

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

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

10. Some Kimochi for your ears: Ayame Misake.

Enough said. Zel out.

*Metaphysically

Mystery Whiteboy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ohmo, I love him" she sighed.

I asked her why.

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

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

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

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

And then she smiled, like she does.

So, here's to you, Robert.

I owe you.

Everything is Eventual

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll be back before you know it.

I've always wanted to be an astronaut.

Psychedelic Kimochi (aka "Mom, there's nothing interesting on the Internet!")

Okay, okay...since I've been under a lot of pressure from work,

(I've been getting drunk a lot and starting fights with random passersby)

I haven't had time to a) compose a log* of today's exciting Game 4 between the Suns and the San Antoniobanderas Suckerpunches (Ill Mare, baby! By the way, why isn't Steve Nash's name mentioned more often these days when it comes to the game's premier clutch players? MF is dependable like sanitary undergarments), b) write up a review of Babel (an amazing flick that falls apart in its final act; I want nihlism, dammit! That bad boy was set up to be a crushing nutpunch of tragedy, yet winds up having a happy-ending-that-isn't-really-that-happy-nor-too-bittersweet. I like my films like I like my tea: hot and steamy, or cold and icy. Fuck that lukewarm shit. If I invest nearly two and a half hours of my valuable time** preparing for an emotional high or low, I tend to feel a little ripped off when all I get is the cinematic equivalent of a silent fart. I'm sorry, I know the story's conclusion is more or less realistic and doesn't rely on cheap sentimentality or pathos, but if I wanted to prepare myself for a would-be tragedy which turns out to be somewhat the opposite and contains a subdued sense of hope, I'd watch Oprah interview burn victims who've become concert pianists. The film's biggest problem: there is no real antagonist, and indeed the theme seems to be that the events which transpire are nobody's fault but Fate's. Maybe that's innovative, but for me it was far from interesting. Have Cate Blanchett die; Have the cops shoot to death the two brothers and their father; have the two Caucasian kids die in the desert and their housekeeper expire from dehydration; have the housekeeper's nephew get hit head on by an eighteen-wheeler while on the run from po-po; have the deaf/mute Japanese girl take a dive, ELO-style, from her highrise; end the film with a close-up of her anguished father realizing all the destruction his innocent gift hath wrought. THAT would have been one motherfucking heartwrenching film experience, boy. I must say, I did appreciate the nudity, though.), and c) call back the Matron Saint of PK regarding a follow-up interview; but if you're anything like Idealjetsam (nee Mr. T; the theme for May -- both prayed for and, in some cases, granted -- has been one of returns, and it's nice to see homeboy's handle back in ack; it's like when The Artist Formerly Known As dropped that effed-up symbol and came back as Prince. Matter of fact, it's EXACTLY like that. And if you don't think I'm going to start referring to dude as The Purple Playboy, you don't know me very well.), points A and B matter about as much as a Uwe Boll movie, so, Great White Spark, stop stalling and show me the goods.

(If you read all that without pause, Constant Retard, I'm buying you a double-scoop chocolate chip mint ice cream. With guitars!)

Truthfully, though (alright! be patient a little longer, okay!?), I HAVE been concocting something in the few days between posts: a short story that I may or may not toss up here. Depends upon whether I can strike the right balance between touching somberness, bizarre humor, and a lingering aftertaste of eternal hope. Right now we're in the fetal stage, and I'm not that hype about it, but I'm confident that if I spend more time on it -- rather than fruitlessly composing brick paragraphs with the sole intention of confusing what little readership I have left, say -- I can pull it off. After all, I'm Tiberious aka Sparkles. And you're not.

Hey, isn't it weird that a post which was supposed to excuse myself for mailing it in has taken up the better part of an hour? Shit, I gotta get back to "work."

If there's a metaphor here (and with me there always is; you're just too slow to figure it out), it's that waiting is the hardest part. Enjoy the loveliness of Harumi Nemoto. If, however, you failed to read the above, and simply scrolled down to look at her chest rock-wells***, well sir, may you get shot on a bus in Morocco and eventually survive. I'm wrathful/beneficent like that.

But I can't make any promises that your illegal-immigrant housekeeper won't get deported.





* Of the intangible variety

** (snicker)

*** That's awful, I know. But throw the noodle at the wall and see if it sticks, right?

Kryptonian Kimochi (Psychataxia)

Well, it looks as if another festive Masta Ace Day has come to a conclusion and, frankly, I feel that this year's celebration may go down in history as the greatest ever. The Ace Parade in downtown 'Chon was exemplary, to say the very least, and the annual deflowering ceremony left me anxious to wind down the evening with the sound of vitality. I also decided to watch some television.

Having said that, I just finished watching National Lampoon's Pledge This! To be quite honest, I can't accurately describe just how awful the film was. Imagine taking a dump, flushing the brown bastard, and then finding out that the chunk of choco-delight produced, directed, and starred in a film. I'd rather see that film. Fuck, I don't know what I had been thinking, soiling such a wonderful holiday with this piece of jaozym*. On the other hand, a different movie station was playing Nightmare on Elm Street, part five - The Dream Child, so basically I had chosen to go with something unseen. Freddy's attempt to return via the dreams of a young woman's unborn child is too classy for me, at this point in my life.

Here's a picture, to help you grasp the plot of Paris Hilton's masterwork.


(If you want a synopsis, stare at the picture for about ten minutes, go headbutt a mirror, and then leave a comment. I'll get back to you.)

In hindsight, I must have been more intoxicated than I expected to be, or perhaps I was lured in by the sporadic appearance of large-breasted, naked women (or both). No, okay, look, I was really watching it because I've a penchant for spry, nubile young women. Not really young, mind you, as such things are reserved for the once-in-a-millennium idealjetsam post, but definitely outside the realm of the mature quail.

Which brings us to Sarah Carter.This entelechy has suffered through several bogus productions, but that just implies that she makes poor choices** (Pledge This!, DOA, being a member of the Canadian Debate Team, etc.), and we've all done that***. Hopefully, her upcoming role in Skinwalkers will rectify past errors. If all else fails, she'll at least look a bit more like my ideal woman. (See below.)

Speaking of ideal women, as a lad I had a big crush on Helen Slater aka Supergirl (I think that's why I'm a sucker for vivacious blondes, and luscious magicians), and Sarah Carter kinda reminds me of Kara Zor-El. Sparkles probably thought that my first picture was merely a homage to two of the greatest performers in cinematic history, but alas, I'm simply a drunkard reminiscing about a romanticized past (namely, my affair with Peter O'Toole, but also about Helen Slater, who has successfully spurned me sixteen times). I truly believe that a shard of my boyhood innocence was lost upon discovery that Helen Slater had borne her breasts in a film. I won't say which film, because I'm a gentleman, but rest assured that it can easily be uncovered by any enterprising individual. It also scarred me for life****.

What had I been talking about? Something akin to an ideal woman, I suppose. (Enlarged canines, splattered by blood, and a feral disposition.) You know my number, Carter, and it's time to make the call.



Hati

* Jaozym

** That she makes poor choices implies that I may have a shot with her...so blow me!

*** I worked at a Wendy's during college, and you read this post. We're about even.

**** It disrupted my sense of perception, but not nearly as much as the head-changing Mombi did.

You Can't Stop the Power of the Ace in Your Eye

I've touched upon this before. Here's the Reed Richards version (because I got home this morning, drunk as a lord, and listened to Go Where I Send Thee half a dozen times before falling asleep*):

I dig Masta Ace so much that, occasionally, I'll spell it Ase as tribute. If this were 1993, I'd be sitting in art class, trying in vain to sculp a fucked-up earthenware ashtray, arguing to everyone in proximity that Slaughtahouse is the most underappreciated hip-hop album of all time, Ace an unheralded genius. Much has changed since then (I got laid a few times, for one; praise Allah), but, still, Ace remains overlooked to all but a few cellar dwelling purists. If this were ball -- and, really, what isn't? -- Ace would be Robert Horry: never having a prime, yet staying consistent spanning his entire career, and always coming through in the clutch.

Not a career retrospective, I simply want to reminisce over the Masta. As I've previously mentioned on this

(testament of sublime prose)

blog, if someone had told me 17 years ago that Masta Ace would have the most consistent -- if not the most commercially lucrative -- career of any Juice Crew member, I would have told him he was crazy. Then I woulda thrown a Sega Genesis controller at his face.

Yet Ace never released a subpar effort (Big Daddy Kane's A Taste of Chocolate and Prince of Darkness, anyone?) or, to quote Mike Tyson, faded into Bolivian like Kool G Rap. He's never been mainstream, but he's never been far from the collective true head consciousness. And it can be argued that he's only gotten better in the veteran stage of his career. A Long Hot Summer, if indeed his final release, was on some Jordan buzzer beater in the '98 Finals shit -- the crowning achievement of one of the greatest, most innovative MCs to ever bless a mic. (Let's pretend we live in a world where Jordan's ill-conceived and conceited comeback to play for the Washington Wizards never happened, shall we? I like that world. They have grilled-kimchi-flavored potato chips there.)

Anyway, I am officially declaring May 13th Masta Ace Day. There's no other special day on this date as far as I know, so why not**? Do yourself a favor and peep the following vids. And if you're particularly resourceful, try to download the hard-as-fuck to locate Go Where I Send Thee, a track I will proclaim is unequivocally one of the top 5 hip-hop songs of all time. Word to Bill Simmons: I will not argue this.


Saturday Night Live:



Slaughtahouse:



Me & the Biz:



(Ayo, Lincoln wasn't Cuban. That line will forever crack me up.)

And The Crooklyn Dodgers:



* Also inspired by Baron Davis's ill 360-degrees layup yesterday. In the pantheon of amazing shots, that ranks not far behind Jeff Malone's falling-out-of-bounds 3 pointer and

(K-Hot, read no further)


Leo getting capped in The Departed. Simply stunning.

** How long, I wonder, until my mother officially disowns me.

Two Birds...

Well, a former posting of the lovely Miss Lin Chiling was zapped due to some legal nonsense wherein I seemed to have stolen a picture from...blah, blah, legal-blahdie-copyright-blah-BLAH. So, to stone two fouls with one roll, I would like to compensate for Taka-shi's recent Kimochi Katashtrophe and preface a new IJ post with a little of the old flavor:

idealjetsam kimochi

That' s better. But, to tender a true dooble, here's some more of (as I like to say to all my homies at Asia Finest, hollah!!) the other white meat:

idealjetsam kimochi

The older-than-all-of-those-centerfolds-we-used-to-look-at-when-we-were-adolescents-so-chillax-that-holier-than-thou-vibe, the lovely, and the entirely devoted to me, not any other PK staff writer, Miss Kwon, BoA in her latest venture, endorsing Nike. I now know what Buddha got me for his birthday.

* You're-a gonna wanna click on that BoA pic, gents. Just do it.

** Don't get me wrong, I am still the High Evolutionary: This is proof of my admiration for the pinnacle of human evolution.