Dispatch From America: Duty Bound

FILING
Date: 6/13/2007
RE: Assignment Details

What you have to understand is, I didn't ask for him to be there. I didn't ask for him to come. I know that being editor-in-chief of a massive, international media conglomerate like Psychedelic Kimchi isn't an easy charge, and I know that all of us, all of us, have domestic interests on the side as well. Nonetheless, there he sat, at the Starbucks in the middle of SeaTac airport, sipping what looked to be a double espresso from a small cup and saucer.

I was surprised, sure, but I guess the tone of my last missive had really spooked the powers-that-be at the ol' home office. I had requested a meeting with my handler, carefully encrypting it so that prying eyes could cipher neither the substance nor the recipient of the correspondence. But, at the bottom, in big, block, handwritten letters, I had included the following postscript, without encryption, without subtlety:

I WANT OUT. I'M DONE. BRING ME IN. I'M COMING HOME.

I didn't feel good about writing it. I didn't feel good about throwing a hissy fit. I knew I had been chosen for the assignment of PK's American Heartland correspondent because I was viewed as having a certain steely resolve. But of late, that resolve had cracked, and I wanted to make that clear. I was asking to be rotated out, exactly one year after assignment. I felt I'd lived up to my obligation, and it was someone else's turn.

"Where's Francois," I inquired.
"Francois' cover and life were both endangered by your little tantrum on your most-recent correspondence."
"Oh, c'mon," I groaned, lowering myself into the seat opposite him. "No one is on to us. No one is monitoring us. Pressure has lifted significantly since my arrival here."
"Still," he said, pausing to sip, "it was... Indiscreet."
"Okay, look, I'm sorry. Okay? And I know I agreed to this assignment. But I'm cracking up over here. You have to get me out. Like, now. There ain't nothing wrong with me that a night in Itaewon, followed by breakfast at Nashville's, followed by approximately 26 hours of sleep at the Hamilton wouldn't fix. I need to take that freedom bird back to the world and rotate home, man!"
He sipped again, seeming to comtemplate it. "That is, as you well know, an impossibility."
"Impossibility my ass! I'm cracking up! I thought I was some hotshot, Ernest-Hemingway foreign correspondent but I'm not! These people are insane! They regularly and religiously vote against their own economic interest and the physical well being of their young adults! I tell you I can't take it!"
"Let's not get into Hemingway again," he smirked.
"Oh indeed, let us not."
"We have other American correspondents who don't seem to share your concern for their own safety and sanity. Why, IJ sits in New York even as we speak."
I became enraged. "This is what I'm talking about! You people have no idea what I'm going through out here. You really want to compare me to Jetsam? He's in New York! On a college campus! You think that's America? You think that's suffering? Do you know where I was last month?"
"I know where you..."
"Wisconsin, motherfucker! I was in Wisconsin! They prayed before every meal, served me egregious amounts of dairy products and faced hardships with good nature and faith in a higher purpose. Do you realize what that's like for me?"
"Lower your voice, people are..."
"Let 'em look! And you know what else? Sopranos has three seasons of age-centered material followed by a blackout for a series finale. Every big budget action movie that has come out since I got here has sucked. They canceled Deadwood and Rome. The 'Hawks are on their way down. The Mariners are only building hope in me so we can do our annual soul-crushing in July. The new Modest Mouse record, even with Johnny Marr on it, had only one good song (there, I said it). And here are the names of the authors of four of the current top-five selling fiction books as published by the New York Times today: Michael Connelly, Dean Koontz, Mitch Albom and James Patterson. Meanwhile, none of you fuckers can write a post that doesn't have the punchlines as footnotes, so twice every paragraph I have to count the number of asterisks, scroll down to the bottom, count up the corresponding number of asterisks, and then laugh. Do you realize how time consuming that is? And don't get me started..."
"Please don't get started..."
"The one refuge for my sanity was that every couple months I got a new PRIDE FC. And then Dana White, prince of all darkness, goes, buys it, and turns it into UFC AAA. I have been forced to endure trials here beyond what can rationally be expected of a man. I want to go home."
He pushed slightly away from the table and lit a cigarette, oblivious to or unconcerned with the law prohibiting smoking indoors in Washington State. He exhaled a plume of smoke.
"Do you know why we chose you to come here and tell the story of these people?"
"Sure, my analytical eye, my literary wellspring of talent, my personal hygiene, my breathtaking penmanship."
"Listen, dipshit," he said. "Where were you born?"
"Spokane."
"And what's your drink?"
"Bourbon."
"Good bourbon?"
"Jim Beam."
"That's the kind that's even cheaper than Wild Turkey, right?"
I saw where he was headed and tried to divert him. "I'm just saying it's not fair. Denz is in Australia. You're in Seoul. Kmart is god knows where. I'm the one that has to tolerate all this..."
"What?"
"Earnestness. I have problems, man. You wouldn't understand."
He stubbed out his cigarette, exhaled smoke, and raised an eyebrow. I was immediately regretful.
"I mean, they're small in the overall scheme of things, but still... All the more reason just to do the easy fix and bring me home."
He stood up and adjusted his coat before checking his watch, a none-too-subtle sign that his flight back to Seoul and reality was soon departing. He had never left the airport in his brief sojourn and, contemplating what I would be going back to face after I left the somewhat-international confines of the building, I couldn't say I blamed him. But as he stood there I noticed a new resolve about him, a new purpose. The change was not so much physical, although to be certain he was carrying more musculature than when I had seen him last, but more in the vain of attitude as conveyed by his posture and the obvious focus in his eyes. He was not a man who would be dissuaded from his purpose, no matter what the adversity, and I had been a fool to think I could deter him from his stated course of intent.
"Did you hear what I said you marvelous bastard," I begged him. "I want to go home!"
"I heard. But even in stories as hackneyed and cliched as yours, I'm not delivering that corny closing line you so hope for. I, you see, am not a Hemingway fan." He checked his watch again. "As you're aware, I have more pressing matters in Seoul." He touched my shoulder and leaned closer as he walked past. "Don't pull this kind of shit again."

I sat for a moment as the smell of his smoke dissipated. I thought about what he'd said. I thought about running after him and pleading with him to take me on that plane. Then I stood up, grabbed my camera, recorder, and rucksack, and walked through security, out to the parking area.
Sanjeev, my translator/stringer/confidante was outside with the Land Rover.
"Good trip, boss?"
"Not over yet, old friend," I said, stepping up into the cab and contemplating the 120 miles of road, the mountains, the weather, and the bandits we would have to pass on our way back to base.
"No, I 'spose not. Anything else you need in the city? Or you just want to go to the 'Burg?"
"No, I think I'm set," I said through the large wad of chewing tobacco I was cramming into my face. "Let's go home."

Because I, after all, am a Hemingway fan.

David Copperfield

Fairy dust.

In other news, I am enthralled by season won of Prison Break -- it's like a Stephen King novel: totally ridiculous plot, great characters, even if they are cliched, but put together so deftly that all the silliness involved can be forgiven; the PK 27 is not dead, but it might become so when I tyrannically insist that Justin Timberlake's 'What Goes Around...' be involved. If I'm found dead in an alley, blame Jenny Agutter and an as-yet unforseen conspiring contributer (Et tu, Idealjetsam?). The ides of June are a comin'; As a total Manic Street Preachers homer, I have to say that Autumn Song is a phenomenal, um..song, even though it's the power pop equivalent of Mad Libs; I still get headaches when I do push-ups, by the way. When I masturbate, not so much; I haven't seen the series finale of The Sopranos, nor have I watched the series further than its inaugural season, but from what I've read it sounded like the perfect ending. Always leave 'em wanting more and all that. Closure is for owners of dying pets.

That said:

Since April 2006, I've had a very...shall we say, eventful 14 months.

If the Cavs win four inna, I promise I'll tell you all about it, Constant Retard. But keep in mind that you never get what you really want, just what you deserve. Still, there's always a chance.

Don't stop thinking about tomorrow. Don't stop believing.

(And feel free to beat me to death with a tire iron the next time I make another vague motivational post lead by a polar bear photo.)

David Blaine

I'm in a giving mood. Last year, the Miami Heat, down 2 games to none against a frisky -- it's OK to laugh; in fact, it's encouraged -- Mavericks skwad, returned home to make love like semtex on the greatest stage of basketball, the NBA Finals.

And it was all my doing. Mostly. A little bit. A little?

What I did was, drunken tiger style, lambast the Heat for lying down and letting the Mavs tread on them. And it worked. As my old friend Mark Stein is fond of saying, why mess with success? Hence, because I love basketball like I love my

(dick size)

left earlobe, and want to see a motherfucking series, it's a Rerun and Roger of last year:

Mic Borwn: You hjave nice glasses. Yuor omptomitrist ios fnatastic. Lern to coach a ballgame in roffly 9 hours, smartsass.

Laborn Kames: You look clunky. Do you feel clunky? What i fell is you feel sacred. But dont worry! You are great and will not be scared. You cna take this Jazz team to olvian heights. You hvae it in you.

Dew Goodson: Lastet night I fell asleep and woke up around three and I was cold so I put on as white t-shit. It made me feel wamer. I stelp like a baby. You too must feel wramth. U2 must get cromfatable. Own the game, be the gmae. And take eat to another level. The back of your neck looks like an unshaved pussy.

Denial Gibson: dnot listen to your coack. A sudent cant teach a sholar, right? Do you. I useda know a guy named Svete Gibson, and he slod cheap cigarettes at school. He was the man what I'm taryning to say is that you are the also man also. so don;t forget that.stab someone

Zydrunas Ilgaukiss: Nivea? Clearasil? How come your face always looks so fresh, so clean? You post up lkie my leg hairs make graet violin strigs.

Demon Jones: if you make anuther great shot like you did lestat year against the Wizxards, I'll but you a car! I'll buty you a fucking car, Damon!

Larry Hues: You look really yung for your age. Me and boobie are going top go buy some beer, do you want to chipin? I coulod fallasleep right now, but boobs has some terrific eyeborws, and he keeps asking me to hnag out. it's kind of annoying, but hes alittle steressed out so im gonna find a motel room and let hem slep it off. wish u were here.

Andersen Varajow: why the forwn? don't felel too bad, its not everday you get to sleep with no. 29 Svete Javie.

Fnas of Celvlaand: amke some noise, could you?

___

Ah, my heart wasn't really into it. The Cavs are still doomed. They're done. Done. I have a better chance singing Karma Police at a noraebang at 2AM with strept throat.

D-E-A-D I tells ya.

Unless my reverse psychology actually works. And Mike Brown stops coaching like a retard.

Cleaveland Rokcs!

Signed,

Tiberious aka Craig Ehlo

No Pain, No Migraine

Lady* and gentlemen, I am proud to announce that my once-skinny ass is these days up to a very healthy 71 Kilograms (nearly 157 pounds), 6 Kilos more than what I weighed only 2 months ago. Surprisingly, this is not due to my late-night beer and later-night galbi predilection, but rather a rediscovered zeal for exercise of the non-onanistic variety.

Please don't mistake my confidence for arrogance, a few months ago I mentioned to a friend that I possess the willpower to achieve any goal I set for myself**. (It's what got me on the roster of the Seoul Samsung Thunder, after all***.) This conversation centered upon my prodigious smoking habit (a pack a day, if you're curious), and when it was posited that I'm a motherfucking liar -- because who in his right mind sucks down a pack of squares per diem and has the wherewithal to claim he's an authority on successful living? -- I replied that I can quit any time, I just don't wanna****.

But I WANTED to get in shape. When a four-year old challenges you to an arm-wrestle and nearly pulls off the upset*****, you start to see things a bit more clearly. You kinda have to have an epiphany. Of sorts.

I decided to prove the imaginary detractors in my head wrong. I decided to start working out every day until I could replace the adjective "scrawny" with "stupid" as the most apt word to describe myself. I'm almost there.

Certainly, I'm no Hank Azaria in Along Came Polly -- but after 3 weeks of eating well, exercising every day******, and constantly looking at myself in the mirror and kissing my biceps like a WWE heel, I'm seeing some definite progress. Think Max Cady with a lot fewer tattoos (read: none) and a lot more pot belly.

Someday soon, I'm totally gonna go to the beach and kick sand at some random ajumma. Although I'm considering abandonning my regimen, cuz my dick looked a lot bigger before I started working out. And if I don't have a long johnson I have nothing. You think I'm joking.

Regardless (vis a vis my incredible shrinking penis), today I was faced with a tough hurdle. See, on Sunday I started out exercising*******, and after 40 push-ups I got a pretty mean headache. I told myself it was just the aftereffect of an evening of carousing. But today, as clean and sober as Michael Keaton, I caught a bad one. After 20 push-ups I had to take a T. My headache had returned, and this time it felt as though my skull was imploding.

I now know what David Kessler felt in An American Werewolf in London when he transformed into a lycanthrope, I'm convinced. I was literally brought to my knees, clutching my head in agony. The only thing that stopped me from screaming was the knowledge that it would only intensify my suffering.

I picked up the telephone to call who the hell knows, but I couldn't see straight to dial a single digit; and my always reliable hands, as though magnetized to my scalp, would not under the most concentrated effort stray far for more than a second or two. Jesus, I wish I'd had a Bluetooth.

You know what, though? I walked that fucker off. I did another 20 push-ups, was again brought to my knees, then did another as soon as the pain subsided just a little...lather, rinse, repeat; and in the process I learned something I already know: if I'm truly set on something, I'm going to do it, and only the reaper can stop me. TRY to stop me, I mean.

(Please, don't mistake my arrogance for confidence.)

When I arrived home from work this evening I had completely forgotten about this afternoon's cranial torture. I was again reminded of it when I dropped and gave 40, however. Big deal. Maybe I have some fucked up spinal shit or something********, but everybody hurts, right? Michael Stipe taught me that.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll soon turn into a werewolf.

Which would not only be cool, but would also compound the claim that I am always right.

Bite you later,

Eoin







* Hi, Mom.

** Obviously, the initials NL were used as proof.

*** With great willpower comes great compulsive lying.

**** As far as debating goes, my skills are unmatched.

***** In my defense, she WAS Little Miss Titania, 3 months running.

****** Full disclosure: 300 push-ups, 300 stomach crunches (I haven't shit in a week! THAT's progress), 100 arm curls with my mammoth Case Logic CD holder, and an unknown number of times lifting my fold-away table above my head until I make up new swear words when I try to put it down without dropping the fucker to the floor in a heap of splintered wood.

******* Or, "exorcising," a term I coined for exercise the day after a night of heavy drinking. I should write for Men's Health.

******** I'd make the best doctor in the world, I'm convinced. "Doc, give it to me straight," Patient X says, and I say, "Drew, you don't have long to live. Some crazy-ass weird shit is blocking blood flow to your heart. Wanna get in a game of Scrabble while there's still time left?"

Detasseling

It seems that Psychedelic Kimchi's favorite songstress is pushing a new product, which is a tea accentuated by the flavor of corn or, precisely, corn tassel (옥수수 수염 차). The new product that she's promoting is not terribly impressive insomuch that, having sampled said 'drink' (and I use that term as loosely as Adam Corolla uses the phrase comedian to describe his profession) I can attest, with no exaggeration whatsoever, that I'd rather ingest Enerst Borgnine's urine*.

Should I dismay the conduct of PK's resident dryad**? Nope. As vile a concoction as Corn Tassel Tea is, BoA cannot be faulted for her actions. She is, after all, promoting a derivative of corn and I, bred from the land of corn (and pesticides, but that's how we roll on Tainted Soil) applaud her sensibilities.

Her devotion to corn invariably suggests her predilection for me, as opposed to some other, vagrant contributor***. That's what counts.

Eddie Quist

* Okay, I probably wouldn't, unless he were dressed up as Sergeant 'Fatso' Judson or Dominic Santini.

** 'She's a dryad?' Yes, as Psychedelic Kimchi is the veritable Tree of Mystery.

*** Click on the picture, if you're willing to unravel that harrowing enigma.

Psychedelic Kimochi -- Eyebrows Edition

This is going to be my second consecutive brief post* (only this time I'm sober!), but remember one thing: there are no short posts, only short posters.

That said, a few thoughts before we delve into one of my biggest fetishes:

- The White Stripes' new single, Icky Thump, is unequivocally their best song ever. I will stab you if you disagree. By the way, since Icky Thump is also the title of their forthcoming album, I'm curious as to where it ranks on the list of albums with titles that are embarrassing to ask for in CD stores**. I'm putting it just behind I'll Sleep When You're Dead and ahead of EFIL4ZNAGGIN

- I can finally say it: Stan Van Gundy wants to spend less time with his family!

- Game 1 of the NBA Finals was without a doubt the worst Finals game I've ever witnessed. And, goddamn my magic 8-ball, it looks as though we're in for at least 3 more trips to the torture chamber. Here's the thing: the Cavs are, obviously, doomed -- but if I'm Mike Brown (and who's to say I'm not?), during halftime here's what I'm saying to my guys:

"Look, we're not down by much, but the Spurs are going to absolutely slaughter us in the third quarter. That's their bread and butter. We take away their third quarter, we have a fighting chance. I don't care if you have to stick Manu Ginobli with a syringe while the zebras aren't looking, DON'T LET THEM RUN AWAY WITH THIS THING IN THE THIRD! Damon, run into the stands during a timeout and fondle Eva Longoria if you have to. The third is the key. We win the third, we win the game, 'cause those motherfuckers always leave a window open in the middle of the fourth. And, hey! Lebron, stop biting your fucking nails. Your tell is worse than John Malkovich's in Rounders."

- Yeah, the Spurs are great and all, but put together two consecutive championship seasons and then call me back Re: consistency. You motherfuckers are like Star Trek films (not that I like Star Trek, btw).

Conspiracy theory: the league outlawed playing music during possessions, right? So why is it I heard, not a few times, music being played when the Spurs had the ball? And if that wasn't egregious enough, they played that godawful "Day-yo!" chant when the Cavs were in control. Cheaters.

- If I'm ever on death row (and, really, it's only a matter of time), my last meal would be tuna kimbap and kimchi mandu. And a can of Welch's Sparkling Grape. Tse-tse fly.

---


Now...

I'm a man of simple pleasures, something moribund in these times. Thong underwear does nothing for me (to quote Andre 3000, I prefer those old school white regular draws); ass fucking is, in a word, gross; bondage? I'll see you later, unless I see you first. And I'd rather cut my penis tip off than watch a guy shit in a girl's mouth (or vice-versa). People make the world go 'round, perhaps, but give me a facsinating smile, lithe figure, and perky breasts anyday over...whatever shit turns fucked-up weirdos on these days.

Oh, and, give me thick eyebrows.

Maybe, just maybe, you're sitting at home, reading this, thinking "Sparkles, you definitely are one fucked up cat," and, if that's the case, let us agree to disagree. Unless you get turned on by watching shit-eating porn, that is. In that case, seek help. I won't deny that you are free to indulge in depravity of that sort; but, at the same time, EWWW!

I won't*** write a long essay on the un-sexiness of most porn (unless you pay me), but from what I've seen -- and, boy, I've done my research in that department -- it seems that porn these days is the last battle cry of mysoginism against a world in which the gap of equality between men and women is ever closing. Rebellion against the status quo is healthy, and if done properly can have great artistic impact -- take punk music for one example, hip-hop for another; but, I'm sorry, the raison detre of porn is to titilate. I appreciate feces porn and its ilk as much as I appreciate seeing a child abuse documentary. Honestly, I could watch both. I'd feel shock, horror, disgust, anger, maybe a little intrigued, even. Hell, I'm only human. Sometimes my curiosity gets the best of me. But, to reiterate (and to quote Dirk Diggler), it's not sexy.

Maybe, some day, some visionary will come along and strike an accord between hardcore porn and art. But I doubt it. Not to be crass, but if I go to a restaurant and the meal I'm served looks like it was crafted with the same care and precision it took to paint the Sistine Chapel, I'm not thinking about how pretty my dinner has been arranged -- all I'm thinking about is how good it's going to taste. In the same way, nobody watches porn and expects to ken the deeper urges of the human psyche -- he or she (usually he) just wants to be aroused, jack off, and later consider the aesthetic complexities of life. In that way, porn is merely a transition atween animalistic tendencies and man's pursuit of progression apart of the animal kingdom****.

One last thing needs to be said: as far as I know (and, to quote Aaron Neville, I don't know much, but I know I love you), no other creature on planet Earth derives pleasure from watching another of its kind degrade its mate. They may not have Burger King and Netflix, but even pigeons know that shitting on someone isn't a mating call, it's another way of saying "fuck you".

___


Now...

Thick eyebrows ARE sexy. Maybe I (purposefully?) killed the buzz, but, if you're still with me, let's step into my libido.


(This was inspired by Ideal "Flash" Jetsam's blink-and-you-missed-it Kimochi. And Chivas Regal. And Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.)


Without further adieu, I give you the sexiest caterpillar-browed human beings. COUNTDOWN!


5) Kathy "Kiss Me I'm" Ireland
Thinkin' 'bout a masterplan. 'Cause ain't nothin' but sweat inside my hand.


4) America's Next Top Model 7's Anchal Joseph

I start to think, and then I sink; into the paper, like I was ink.


3) Brooke Shields

Me and Eric B was coolin' at the Paladium.


2) Sherilyn Fenn

I put a hole in the speaker, pull the plug, then I jet.


1) Martin Scorsese

Word to Daddy, indeed.


(My supreme apologies to Idealjetsam and K-Hot for not including the illustrious and praiseworthy Jennifer Connelly. To be sure, she's the sixth-woman of the millenium. And she deserves badly to be kimochi-ized. And now she has been. I'm sure she appreciates it as much as we do.)


* Didn't happen. I cannot be contained!

** Like anyone goes to CD stores these days.

*** purposefully try to

**** And, no, love between man and beast -- in the non-Benji sense -- is still wrong.

Can I Give My Old Heart to You?

There are moments, and then there are MOMENTS. The above photo was inspired by one such. I'll leave it up to Voltron and my mom to guess which:

a) OB lager

b) The Idealjetsam proclivity onslaught (don't think it won't happen)

c) The opening title -- no plural -- of The Departed

d) Euphoric urination

E) All of the above

Hint: I will gladly sell my soul for another sip of you.

The Fifteenth Floor

And The High Evolutionary Speaks*


Points of parliamentary procrastination:

1. Some people say I don't post on PK enough, and they're right. But that's only because of the reasons I don't. And this is the post that is meant to change all that: Get me ready for the team. Set the stage. And, uh, go. (Testing...testing...)
2. As at a DJ Shadow show, the first five minutes is like practice, so bear with me as I aspire to the heights achieved by the other masters of mayhem at PK (Sparkles, even.). Now with added peer pressure since we have that peerless Doctor Whophyte, Willie G. visiting so often.**
3. I am ostensibly here to provide a distinct flavor to the PK experience. Safety advisory for those who run the risk of whiplash when they snag themselves on my posts. They stick out like thorns on a thorny thing. By which I mean:
4. I hate basketball.
5. More specifically, you will see that I concern myself with less important topics and concerns--am, myself, concerned with topics of less importance than my PK brethren. No basketball. No poppy culture. And no freaking Nancy Lang.*** I am here to write for you about more trivial items. Tonight's topic:

THE FATE OF ALL MANKIND(TM)

Nobody asked me, but I need to say what I’m thinking in this new year in New York City, five months after the Twin Towers burned, after long stretches of fall weather eerily close to perfect—clear blue skies, shirtsleeve warmth—through December, a bizarre hesitation, as if nature couldn’t get on with it’s life and cycle to the next season, the city enclosed in a fragile, bell-jar calm till shattered by a siren, a plane’s roar overhead.

--John Edgar Wideman, Whose War

The world is going to hell. Or, rather, the slide has been remarkably smooth and consistent this past several years. Like polka-dots just surged back into style****, we've met our war, corruption, mediocrity and apathy quotas with effortless ease. Barely knew we did it, did we? John Stewart has more gray hair than an elephant's ass now and I think it's because the state of the world has gotten so bad that not even he can laugh it off anymore. It's a form of shock and awe: current events based humor isn't based in laughter anymore, just incredulity. Never have so few sacrificed so little for their own greater good that outweighs the needs of the many. Live long and fester. Disillusioned we fall.

Never fear. Like Rapunzel letting down the hair of wisdom from the heights of the Ivory Tower (in Technicolor), I am here to tell you that the luminaries of social science and societal critique have diagnosed the world's ills and prescribed a cure:

Talking.

That's right. In a world gone mad, surrounded on all sides--French to our left, international terrorists to our right, and the Chinese dancing all over the godamned floor with any colored cat that'll fill their card--the privileged percent of the population that gets to read this kind of cheerleading now knows that the thing to do is to convince everyone to just sit down and have a good chat.

I say.

This theory is the brainchild of, among others, Kwame Anthony Appiah, whose gist is basically: Because humans are so incredibly different and diverse, there's no hope for a singular human identity, so we can forget about using that identity as a way of connecting to one another. He often explains this this through the example of his own (non)identity as a gay half-Ghanaian, half-English bloke with Indian, American and Klingon branches on his family tree.***** Ergo, the Miraeryu(TM) is a mixed up batch of humans who are so hodgepdoged in terms of national, ethnic, religious, gender, sexual preference, global, local and Korean songstress affiliations that we we will soon be forced to realize two things: 1) Generalizations that hold water are a thing of the past, not to mention awkward mixed-metaphory like figments of my imagination. 2) Our increasing inability (it's lack of applicability, really) to be able to identify with each other in the traditional ways will lead us to form more cosmopolitan notions and ideals. Sounds good. Sorta. Might be a glitch or two. Tell me if you see them.

The application side to this theory is that the way forward in establishing cosmopolitan ethics is to de-emphasize reaching a consensus: with Muslims, Muppets, Mavericks, Manchesterites and that bastard Michael Bay all inhabiting the same planet, there are just some things, some REALLY important things (as in the ones that people bomb each other over) that we are just never ever ever going to agree on.

So why bother trying?

Appiah and his posse think we would be better served just talking to each other without worrying about reaching a consensus. The idea is that by communicating with each other, we'll be faced with each other's humanity (the thing which, if you recall, he says isn't a real identity at all...), develop empathy for each other and reset to an ethical default. Why do you think the good terrorists never talk to their prisoners? Why was Mr. Zuckerman in denial about Wilbur?

Now, I, and other Buddhists, should be applauding Dr. Appiah for his brilliance (there's even a healthy taste of dukkha in it all). Means not ends, hear-hear! However, I find myself rather asking: What in the bloody hell are you thinking, Kwame??

I don't buy it. I can't. I mean, it's a nice theory and all, but what about the particulars? How long are we supposed to sit down and talk to each other? I can't sit at the same Thanksgiving table for more than an hour with my family, how am I supposed to with the real enemy?****** And a lot of people think this is the way forward. A lot of people. (Mainly in Cambridge and on the Upper West Side.) But I'm not sure it's not more about Wideman's righteous rant. I.e., it's less about people saying things to each other and more about what people feel they just have to say. (Hello, blogging revolution, kinda.) And when what they have to say makes it over to "each other" it isn't always going to jive with the way "each other" thinks this blue marble rolls. Paradigms are a dime a dozen, the only thing you can be sure of is that the insurance policy that came in the box with yours doesn't provide global coverage. So you had better be ready to shift.

Talking is good. But dancing is better. When paradigms collide, people get stuck. Fixed and rigid. When people are fixed and rigid, ain't no amount of chitter-chatter and open-listening gonna help. Hell, a just sublime example of this took place the other week when I was at a seminar on discussion as a means of conflict resolution: three of the academics at my table opted for halt over gestalt and the talks bogged down halfway through the day. The topic we were discussing? Appiah's theories on conversation and cosmopolitanism. When I pointed out the irony of the situation, I was told to get stuffed. Empathy, my patookus.

Talking is essential, but Dancing is fundamental. What I mean to say is:

'Dance,' said the Sheep Man. 'Yougottadance. Aslongasthemusicplays. Yougotta dance. Don'teventhinkwhy. Starttothink, yourfeetstop. Yourfeetstop, wegetstuck. Wegetstuck, you'restuck. Sodon'tpayanymind, nomatterhowdumb. Yougottakeepthestep. Yougottalimberup. Yougottaloosenwhatyoubolteddown. Yougottauseallyougot. Weknowyou'retired, tiredandscared. Happenstoeveryone, okay? Justdon'tletyourfeettop.' ... 'Dancingiseverything,' continued the Sheep Man. 'Danceintip-topform. Dancesoitallkeepsspinning....'

--MH, Dance, Dance, Dance

It's nice to think that talking will save the day, but in the end you are as likely to end up with a brawl as a group-hug (betting types go for the brawl). So let's not kid ourselves about the wonders of the written, spoken, or listened-to word--let's just be ready for anything that comes our way. Because when people have got to say what they've been thinking, you had better be ready to loosen up what you bolted down.

And what does this have to do with you? Well, if you think I'm the only one letting down his locks from the tower you don't know how eager some punters are to shimmy up that ladder of dirty hair and scale the buttresses. For our audience in the World, don't be ambushed by hearing that word "cosmopolitan" bandied about outside of a SATC context, but do expect those doing the bandying to be the same vapid set. For our audience in Korea, read the book now so you can snatch the early openings at the imminent rash of 코스모포리탄 학원s before the maple leaf peril corners the market, just like they did with the Sarah Jessica Parker Academies of the Literally Petty Bourgeois.

And that, by way of an introduction, is my first five minutes of spin. The team is ready. The theme is set. And...


___________________________________

*Hey, the boy gave me a name, what am I supposed to do?

**All I can guarantee is that whatever's off the floor after post-production, it will be better than Dostoevsky. But consider this post the first five minutes of my PK oeuvre. It'll all tie in, fo' sho. (It'll seem less preachy-like too. Gah-run-tea.) For now, to ease the transition, I will footnote smarmily like the brothers.

*** That's more of that damn jealousy, perhaps. I can, however, guarantee there will always be some kimochi smuggled into every post. You show me an intellectual who doesn't like beautiful women, and I'll show you the academic establishment.

**** "Mediocrity is like a spot on your shirt, it never comes off." --MH

***** The last one may have been Kenyan. Semantics.

****** Al-Dostoevsky.

Caveat: I agree with 99.99% of what Appiah writes. But that doesn't sound even half as edgy.

One Game

Witness.

I don't know if it is chance or design, but the teams that I support are, invariably, doomed. As our longtime readers (trans: the five contributors and the Chloe Sevigny enthusiasts) will attest, I am a Knicks fan (W 33 / L 49) . I also support West Ham United (W 12 / D 5 / L 21). At the World Cup, I supported Australia (recap). When they used to show college ball here in Aust, I tuned in for Michigan (sup, Chris). I'm even rather partial to Ms Lohan. Here in the Antipodes, in our unique code of football, I support (or 'barrack', to use the parlance of our times) for Melbourne.

Coming in to today, my Demons had lost the first nine games of the season. We were heading towards the worst season since 1912 and the worst losing streak since the 1980s, or some shit. In the last few weeks, we had come agonisingly close to winning, but with no joy (four of the last five games we'd lost by a goal or less). Today, we were scheduled to play the second place Crows. Things were looking grim, brother.

It's not that I can't cope. I can. Because when you support the teams that I do, the lows are almost expected. What I stick around for is the highs. Because the highs, when they do come, are much, much sweeter.

Today, some how, things seemed to be looking up. The sun was shining over the MCG. The fans were up for it. The boys ran out on the field and looked hungry. From the first bounce, Melbourne played like winners. They came out and crushed Adelaide for three straight quarters and played like the proverbial team possessed. The game had me out of my seat and wailing like some grieving muslim woman who'd lost her kid. It was long overdue manna from the sports gods.

And then it happened, the inevitable collapse came. As the pressure of the possible win kicked in, fear crept into the eyes of the Melbourne players. And Adelaide, like the elite team they are, pounced. They clawed their way back and every Melbourne fan, whether they were at the G or in front of their TV, sat in silence and thought 'fuck, not again' as the lead was chipped away.

Then, with a few pain filled minutes left, our oft-injured skipper David Neitz somehow got the ball 60+ metres out (65 odd yards for you Norks). The smart play would have been to kick the ball in for better position. Instead, Neitz spun the ball in his palms, looked towards the white posts and kicked the ever loving fuck out of the ball.

Goal.

The Crows had been broken. The siren sounded and it was over. Melbourne's drought was finished. I heard our theme song sung for the first time all season. Little kids and old folks alike, screaming at the top of their lungs.

And it was a great fucking feeling.

W 1 / L 9
[Streak - 1 Win]

Fillmore

I've been getting quite a bit of sleep lately. It's not that I am terribly depressed, nor am I fatigued, per se, but rather, I have a pretty good time during slumber. You know? Of course you do.

My daily routine is a rather hectic, surfeit bonanza of Beck's, thighs, and adhesive tape*, as many -rightfully- presume. I do enjoy life, and there is nothing to complain about, but nonetheless I do confess that at times I yearn for a simpler existence, one utterly devoid of both material wealth and spiritual enlightenment. I seek the bounty of fanciful diversion, and nocturnal remission is the key to my salvation (but not yours, because you touch yourself at night). The previous evening was no exception, as I was treated to not one, but two (sexually derelict) subconscious reveries**. The first of these dreams was, I shall admit, a bit ethereally abstract, and as such, I am daunted by the task of describing it to you, but alas, I started this post, and I am damn well going to finish it.

-Catapult-

In the first dream I felt my soul, nay, atman spiral downward, through the heavenly stratosphere toward a defiled planet controlled by a demonic entity of some manner. The celestial body in question may have been our Earth, but I prefer the avenue of colorful allegory, so let's assume that it was just some place like Earth. My spirit bore through an immense canopy of hitherto unassailable foliage (oddly, my soul suffered a few scrapes), and came to the solitary statue of a warrior. It wasn't a chiseled, macho warrior such as Conan the Barbarian, but it was particularly regal in attire, and for that I am grateful. Thrust toward the point of my origination was a sword of exquisite craftsmanship, as if to beckon my arrival, and arrive I did. Invigorated by my essence, the statue sprung to life, eager to dispense beatific justice.

The forest was indeed endless, as wherever I cast my gaze, there was nothing short of boundless timberland, bathed in a powder blue concoction of light and shade. Alas, there was little time to enjoy the scenery, as I was besieged by countless, swarthy goblins of the callous variety, as well as malformed, voracious baboons (and those baboons didn't fuck around, believe me). Despite their malevolent ardor, they were no match for my suave mastery of the sacrosanct blade, and with every enemy I dispatched came an explosion of fiery proportion. No big deal, but strangely, I had to leap over the occasional growth of thorny thicket, as my dainty feet were, apparently, exempt from invulnerability. Goblins? No problem. A prickle? Get me the fuck out of there, stat.

I also ran into a few coniferous denizens of the wondrous forest. One was a tree hag of some sort, who attempted to douse me with acidic juices, and naturally I chose to behead the old...hag***. On a positive note, there was a helpful, albeit crotchety, treant that offered to assist me with some of the dangerous thickets, by allowing me to hitch a ride on his sizable branches (on a Freudian note, he must have represented my mother, as she's always been a strong, masculine presence in my life). Ultimately, I encountered a daunting centaur covered in ornate, obsidian armor and bearing a spear of intimidating merit. I won't bore you with the sordid details of the spectacular ordeal, except to mention that he could discharge some serious electricity from the aforementioned spear, much like Emperor Palpatine. I emerged victorious from the tribulation, but to be fair, I must admit that I cheated. Don't ask me how****.

At that point, I awoke. Stimulated by my faux-homeric exploit, I decided to turn my television on, and enjoy a beloved Goo-Goo Cone. It was then that I stopped and realized that I should get back to bed, instead of terrorizing the cherished Psychedelic Kimchi audience, at least until I arise tomorrow.


Zeppelin Wolf

P.S. I almost forgot about the requisite kimochi.




* idealjetsam knows precisely what -and who- I am referring to, and he's insanely jealous. There's no need for resentment, of course, as I'm a sharing kind of guy.

** 'Hey now, Hati, how can you have a subconscious reverie, as the term reverie denotes a daydream? Do you comprehend the English language?' Wow, do I feel like an ass, what with such learned critics on my heels.

*** Revel in my brilliance!

**** 'Don't ask me how' because you shouldn't pretend to care.