The Pandora Experiment: Part II

I'm predicting that this part of the experiment -- in which we see how well Pandora judges my preferences in rock music -- will be a little trickier than hip-hop. There are a lot more sub-genres of rock, for one, and even within the same sub-genre chances are even Pandora has a hard time determining what's decent from what's shitty. For example, let's say I create a station for Rage Against the Machine. RATM is typically classified as rap/rock, which unfairly lumps them in with such mindless crud as Limp Bizkit and Linkin Park. And who's to say that, if I were to create a station for radiohead, Pandora wouldn't play some Matchbox 22, or Good Charlotte? That is a rhetorical question, my friends, because the program has already done so in the past.

Another problem for me is that most of my favorite bands sound little or nothing alike. I love The Smiths, for example, and other bands which Pandora feels sound similar to The Smiths I can't bloody stand, for the most part. If I create a Smiths station, I don't want to hear bands that sound as though they were influenced by them, and who in turn are second-rate when compared to them; no, I want Pandora to play music from a group which is or was as musically innovative as they were, even if the two bands sound nothing alike. I realize this is difficult, but it beats listening to There is a Light That Never Goes Out, followed by Sarah McLachlan or some shit.

With that said, I decided to pick the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, whose 2003 album, Fever To Tell, is in my opinion one of the best (if not the best) rock albums of this decade.

1) Pin, Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Oh hell yeah. See, that's what I like: when I create a station for a band and they play that band's song right off the bat. Incidently, their new album was released this week. I've yet to pick it up or hear any tracks, but as soon as I get a chance to I'll cop it. About fucking time they dropped another one. What's up with the 3 year wait? Nick Zinner is a motherfucking warrior on the guitar, by the way.

2) Breathe, Max Cady. Max Cady's the name of the bad guy in Cape Fear, right? Fast, propulsive guitars. I don't know; the guitars are kinda overwhelming, in a bad way, and dude's singing is kinda weak; sorta emo, even. This sounds way overproduced. Keep it simple stupid Max Cady. I'm not going to select "I don't like this song; this isn't what this station should play," but I'm not impressed. I'm not wowed or anything. I'm certainly not wowed.

3) Dress Stress, Paris, Texas. This is Paris, Texas, and not simply Texas, right? One of my self-written rules is don't trust a band that uses a comma in their name. Commas are so fucking not rock-and-roll, man. And, no, the irony isn't lost on me. This is better than that last song, but not by much. The singer starts to sound like Blink_182's lead guy at one point. This is a meandering song with no real redeeming qualities, save for the fact that it's short.

4) Just Like Me, TSOL. What does TSOL stand for, I wonder? These Songs Of Love? I doubt it. The singer sounds like a watered down version of Lemmy from Motorhead. This is the best track Pandora's played since the first one. By no means is that intended as a compliment. Color me unhappy.

5) Pin Remix, Yeah Yeah Yeahs. OK, I have to admit that I was secretly hoping the fucking thing would put on another YYY song. But c'mon! A remix for Pin, which it's already played? I don't know what album this is from, but it sounds like it was remixed by Sigur Rios or something. Interesting best describes this "remix". Interestingly unnecessary.

6) Why Do You Love Me, Garbage. Shirley Manson can't hold a flame to Karen O. What is Garbage doing these days, I wonder? Butch Vig? By the way, if Pandora puts on anything by Hole or Courtney Love, I'm going to defenestrate my monitor and hard drive. What a schitzophrenic song.

7) Ain't it the Truth, The Gossip. This I can get into. Although I'm a little offended, as a woman, that Pandora has chosen to play Garbage and this track solely because Karen O is the female lead singer of a garage rock band, and so are (sorta) Shirley Manson and whatever The Gossip's lead singer's name is. I think "lazy" is an apt word to use when describing how Pandora's music geniuses determine what plays well together. Those drums are fucking awesome.

8) Head South, Pretty Girls Make Graves. OK, yes, the lead singer's a girl. Again. But this also isn't half bad. Still, I pity the guy who dares to venture into a relationship with her. She sounds as though she'd pull some "Mildred in Of Human Bondage" style crazy ass shit on any guy foolish enough to raise her ire -- which probably doesn't take much. I bet she'd have a megrim if her boyfriend were to do something trivial, such as forget her birthday, or use one of her sanitary napkins as a beer coaster. By contrast, Karen O's a sweetheart. This chick sounds like a nut-punch personified. Still, nice song. I'd definitely seek out more from this group. If I weren't so goddamn lazy, that is.

9) Warrior, Yeah Yeah Yeahs. A song from the new album. Dig it! The new CD is called Show Your Bones, but with the small pic of the album cover it looks as though it says Shoot Your Boss. Come to think of it, that's an excellent title for an album. I wonder if it's been used before. Probably. This is much more accoustic than most of their other stuff, save for the last album's final 2 songs. Still very nice, though. Is this the single? My anticipation just increased tenfold.

10) L.O.V.E., Shoplifting. Yet another group headed by a female singer. I wonder, if I were to create a station for Queen, would it play a bunch of songs by groups with homosexual lead singers? Just saying. Not a bad song.

11) Jetsetter, Morningwood. Uh oh, I have a bad feeling about this. Chewie, prepare to make the jump to lightspeed: we may have to hit the eject/panic button here. It's a close call, but I stick with it. What an awful song.

12) Sunny In California, Aberdeen. At least the lead singer isn't screaming her head off. That gets old pretty quick, let me tell you. This isn't bad. I dunno, if this song were a day old slice of pizza, I might consider eating it in the morning, even though it does sound appropriate for an episode of Dawson's Creek. But I wouldn't make it a meal or anything. I definitely wouldn't make a meal out of it.

Scoring: Pandora played 3 songs I really liked, 1 1/2 songs I sorta dug, and 7 1/2 I either disliked or hated.

Grade: D

The Pandora Experiment: Part I

Some months ago (December, I think) I wrote briefly about how I believed The Music Genome Project was overhyped. Since then I haven't changed my opinion. I don't think it's bad, exactly; I just feel that it receives a lot more good publicity and word of mouth than it deserves. For me, it's a novel concept that grows tiresome quickly, due to the fact that it plays the same songs again and again. And again. Just like the radio, but without tons of commercials. Still, every now and then it'll throw on a track that both surprises and pleases me. Just last week I was listening to it when the song Where My Homiez? by one hit wonders Ill Al Scratch came on, and I had to smile. I really like that song, but hadn't heard it in over 7 years, and had almost completely forgotten about it. So Pandora's not a total waste of time in my opinion; please don't get me wrong.

But it still isn't the revolutionary website many people claim it to be. Perhaps it one day will be. Or perhaps -- and this is the likelier scenario -- it'll turn crassly more commercial than it already is. Please, let's not fool ourselves here: the site exists as a way to get you, the listener, to hopefully buy music online. In that regard, it's better than, say, hearing 30 seconds of a song on Amazon -- but it's also far behind every P2P website out there, the only advantage it has over those programs being that with Pandora you get songs instantly, instead of waiting for them to download; but you can't save the song, and you can't go back and listen to a particular song again. And (usually, in my case) the song Pandora puts on is one which you don't want to hear. Trust me, if the site doesn't influence enough people to buy music, it'll disappear. At this point, I wouldn't cry too much if it did. Actually, I wouldn't cry at all. Because I never have*. Crying's for girls and men with low testosterone.

That said, I decided to conduct a small experiment, to either prove or disprove to myself whether Pandora is getting better, and to hopefully show you, dear reader, why I'm so ambivalent toward it. This experiment will be conducted in three parts, the first consisting of a genre of music which I love and know a great deal about (hip-hop), the second consisting of a genre which I dig but could stand to receive greater guidance of (rock), and the third being a genre which I care absolutely nothing about (adult contemporary). I hope it'll be interesting. If not, at least it'll give me an opportunity to sound like a cynical prick.

Before we begin, some predictions and notes:

1) There is a 100% chance the fucking thing will play Renegades, by Jay-Z and Eminem.

2) It still hasn't heard of Lord Finesse, which is unforgivable.

3) It plays hip-hop that I dig the best if I use my Beastie Boys station. What the fuck is up with that? Nothing against the Beasties, but I'd expect to hear something equally good from an EPMD or Ultramagnetic MCs station. Instead, what I get is shit such as Black Rob, or Little Cease. What the fuck is up with that?

4) There is a 100% chance it'll play something from either of the 2 shitty EPMD "reunion" albums.

Let's get it on like Marvin Gaye (after I finish listening to Funky Boss, that is. Get off my back):

Station selected: I went with a group for which I've never created a station, Nice & Smooth. Hopefully the adware currently running amok on my PC doesn't start flooding me with pop-ups for anal lubricant.

(OK, the Beasties station is now playing House and the Rising Son, by House of Pain. I'll start this experiment as soon as it's over, I promise. What the fuck you gonna do? Nuh-chicka-chicka-chicka-chicka-chicka-nothing.)

Well, here's our first offense: it's never heard of Nice & Smooth. Big surprise there.

Alternate station selected: Big Daddy Kane.

1) Now You're Mine, Gangstarr. Cool, though points deducted because for some reason there are scratches and beat juggling throughout the song. Turntablism is nice to watch in person, but it's always annoyed me hearing it on on a tape, etc. Mostly because a lot of DJs who do it have no skills whatsoever. I just want to vibe to the damn song, okay? By the way, when Guru says "here's one in your eye, you feel pain," I'm always reminded of Tod Browning's Freaks.

2) The Main Event, by Dilated Peoples. More props for Pandora. As a brief aside, Dilated fell off like Wile E. Coyote. Unlike Wile E., however, they never blew up.

3) Back to Back, Large Professor (via Mixmaster Mike). Man, Extra P doesn't sound too fresh on the quick beat. I've never heard this track before. The chorus is corny as hell. The second verse sounds tons better. Maybe Mike was playing the record too fast initially. Another reason I dislike listening to mixtapes. This beat grows on you. Not revolutionary, but decent. But I'm still not gonna cop the album, even though he dropped it. Oh snap, he just mentioned the year 2000. Guess this is older than I thought. Heed your own advice and don't say the year, Paul.

4) The Man, The Icon, Big Daddy Kane (via Babu). More annoying beat juggling. I guess Pandora's program has recognized this and keeps playing songs containing it. Should I tell it I don't like this track? I don't, but I don't really like it too much either (go ahead and marinate on that for a minute). Kane hasn't made a good song since the early 90s. He did fuck Madonna, though, so at least he has that going for him. Maybe he can be on The Surreal Life. Sadly, Kane is aping Jay-Z. I think I'm going to hang myself.

5) El Chupa Nibre, Danger Doom. Did DOOM drink bleach or something before he transformed from Zev Luv X to MF? Were the 2 KMD albums recorded before he hit puberty? How did his voice change so drastically? Those Adult Swim characters' voices are still annoying.

6) I Want Da Mic, Dan the Automator, featuring Kool Keith. OK, I'm pretty happy with what this station's played so far. Incidently, what happened to Keith? around 2000 he was releasing an album seemingly every other month. Now, it's like he retired or died or something. Speaking of dead rappers, here is as good a place as any to lament the murder of D-12's Proof. RIP.

7) Perspectives, Jin. No. Game made a dope album using references to past classics as a sort of crutch, but Jin can't even make a dope song doing the same. How do we get from Dan the Automator to Jin is what I wanna know. Is it because they're both Asian? I can't see any other link.

8) Rock It Out! El Da Sensei. It's been over 10 years, and still these dumbasses on independent labels think they can make commercially viable tracks. This is wack like no tomorrow. I really wish I had a closet or something in this here apartment. Seriously, there are zero fixtures here from which to tie a makeshift noose.

9) Amazing Feats, Smut Peddlers. That's better. While we're here, the only track that stands the test of time, as far as Cage is concerned, after Hell's Winter was released, is Agent Orange. Death by commas, bitches.

10) Years in the Making, Dilated Peoples. Yawn. I like this track a little, but we're only 10 songs in and already hearing tracks from albums played. Also: in retrospect, Dilated are a bunch of pretentious pussies. There, I said it.

11) The Come Up, AZ. Doe or Die was nice and very underappreciated. This track from whichever of the 3 comebacks he's attempted, however, as Jay-Z said, ehhhhhhhh. And if those scratched vocal samples in place of a chorus means this was produced by Premier, which I'm 99.9% sure it was, I'm going out tomorrow to have somebody make me a gun like Lee Geum-Ja's, because I can't take this wackness from past greats no mas.

12) Lost Freestyle, Apathy (via DJ Unknown and Mekalek). Yaw. Yaw, yaw. Yaw, yaw, yaw. Freestyle. Yeah, right. OK lyrics (written, of course, because rappers need to kick written raps in so-called freestyles like major league sluggers need steroids), sleep-inducing beat.

Scoring: My predictions re: Renegades and shitty EPMD didn't come to fruition, which was nice, but I'm sure they would have had I listened longer. Out of 12 songs, Pandora played 3 1/2 (because I'm analytical like that) that I really liked, 3 1/2 that I sorta dug, and 5 that I was ambivalent towards or hated. Still, it was better than I expected it'd be.

Grade: C+

* not even when I found out that Chris Chambers was stabbed and killed while trying to break up a fight in a bar, even though I should have. Some people have iron deficiency; I, on the other hand, have iron-willed tear deficiency. Seriously, if you ever meet me in person, kick me in the nuts and try to prove me wrong.

Spring Cleaning -- Once Upon a Time in America

Finally.

After 3 years, I finally got around to watching Once Upon a Time in America on DVD. I bought it when it was released in the summer of 2003, but always put off watching it because of its length, a whopping 229 minutes. Movies of that length change a person. You feel almost the same way you do after taking a flight halfway around the world, or staying up all night to study for a big exam. There's an adrenalin rush that goes along with it, a feeling of accomplishment, a feeling of overcoming something insurmountable. As Hector said in Wild Style, I should be earning a medal for this. 229 minutes, man. Jesus. I don't know whether to laugh or to cry.

I was lucky -- the phone didn't ring once (ironic), and there were no other interruptions. Sometimes the planets just align in the right way. Sure, I had watched the film before, but always in intervals. The first time I saw it I was in high school. I, my brother and some friends watched it one night, but by the time the first laserdisc had ended we were all too drunk and too tired to continue, so we watched the rest the next day. The second time I saw it was a few months later, alone. That time, I had intended to watch it all the way through in one sitting, but when my brother, sister, mother and father all got home and began to storm around the house, I gave up and postponed watching the final hour for the next day.

I wonder, is it possible to watch a film only three times and consider it one of the ten best films ever made? If not, that's too bad. I think I'd still proclaim it one of the ten best if I were to watch it a dozen times more, but in all likelihood that'll never happen. When am I ever again going to have 229 free minutes, plus added time for bathroom breaks? In my case, that's like a pitcher throwing back-to-back perfect games. I'll be lucky if I ever get another chance to see it, and that thought makes me a little sad. Maybe I should leave my family like Charles Strickland and move to France so I can watch all of my favorite films again and again. Tempting, but I don't speak French too well, so I guess I'll have to accept the hand life's dealt me. C'est la vie.

Yes, the film is a masterpiece, but it is not without one huge flaw, namely that it's too short like Todd Shaw. That's right, this 229-minute juggernaut is too damn short. At least another hour is needed to make it more coherent. How did Noodles find Carol in 1968? I dunno, he just all of a sudden is talking to her in a theater, of which she may or may not be the owner. Same goes for Noodles' girlfriend, Eve. How did he meet her (this is a rhetorical question, mind you, because I know the answer, having read parts of the original shooting script)? The film never explains how, but that I can overlook, because it's fairly obvious that Eve didn't mean much to Noodles, and that he never loved her. But there are similar chunks missing from the film that confuse the viewer. What's up with the frisbee scene? And why was Joe Pesci's character entering the hospital before the union leader's surgery? What happened there? I'd also like to see more of the union subplot, and more of the gang's fraternization with The Combination. This film deserves to be 5 hours or longer.

Other than that (and the runtime was hardly Leone's fault), though, the film is perfect. Absolutely perfect. The best romantic gangster film not titled The Godfather, even though in some respects Once Upon a Time in America has Godfather beat. The sets are better, for one, and it's certainly the more cerebral film of the two, the more stylish.

Ennio Morricone's score probably deserves its own post, because it is possibly the most beautiful piece of music ever put to film. Make that one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever composed, period. I often wonder how much of an impact Leone's epic pictures would have were Morricone not involved.

As for the characters, we as viewers are asked to compromise our morals somewhat whenever we view a film in which the protagonist is a gangster. Gangsters are deceitful, and the ones around whom the stories often revolve are cold-blooded murderers. They're amoral superheroes. They'll do whatever it takes to succeed and survive, and you'll envy their power, because what they do takes a certain kind of skill, a special kind of nerve. They're also philanderers. In the case of this film, the main character is a rapist. It's as though Leone was making a point of sorts: this is my story, and I want you to be interested in the lives of these men, to hope they succeed and aren't killed; but make no mistake, these men are also tigers with claws and sharp fangs. They are not good men. They are not moral. Approach with caution.

(As a side note, I find this a very intriguing and important part of fiction. It's when it crosses over to the real world, and people start to make heroes out of such base individuals as John Gotti, Chopper Read, and Issei Sagawa (just to name a few), that I believe a dangerous line is crossed.)

To wit, the main characters of the film, specifically Max and Noodles, are both protagonists and antogonists -- because there are no other well-defined villains. Is Noodles the good guy? Yes, but he's also the bad guy. Is Max the bad guy? Yes, but he's also the good guy. Of every gangster film I've seen, the roles of these two men best exemplify the duality of man. Tony Montana? Bad guy (self-proclaimed to boot). Michael Corleone? Tragic hero. Lucifer. Noodles? Probably closer to you or me than the aforementioned. Max? Ditto.

In the end, it's astounding that a film about men who are, to put it bluntly, dispicable thugs, has the power to make one contemplate the sad fate of loss, regret, and to consider how things might have been, had the dice not been loaded from the get-go.

Which leads me to my final point about the film. It's obvious to anyone with half a brain that Leone's intention was that the portions of the film which are set in 1968 are an opium-induced fantasy on the part of Noodles. Yes, there's no way he would have known the Beatles would write the song Yesterday, nor would he know about televisions or how cars at that period would look; but would the film work if his vision of the future contained flying cars and other far more surreal elements of fantasy? Of course not. The 1968 scenes are indeed not part of the film's reality. If one considers them as such, the fact that Carol happens to be the owner of the theater at which Deborah is a headlining actress is not only implausible, it's a downright insult to the viewer's intelligence. And if the 1930's era car that passes just after Noodles sees Max disappear behing (or into) the garbage truck, or the film's final scene doesn't convince you, you probably also believe Neil Armstrong never walked on the moon (though both cases make for stimulating debate).

Either way, it's unimportant whether or not the 1968 scenes are a part of the film's reality. They're a part of the viewer's reality. They happened and they didn't. That's what makes art great: how you interpret it, which part you choose to see. And contradiction be damned, both scenarios are equally valid and poignant. How things "really" happened is up to the viewer, much in the same way the end of Yann Martel's Life of Pi is. Both are real, because both are completely false. That's the beautiful paradox of art.

but I'm still correct: it's all just an opium-induced dream

The Treacherous Three:

Seven Samurai
Scarface
Training Day

The Kindness of Strangers

...I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. -Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire

When you come right down to it, a lot of us who live here in Korea like to complain about it. Like, a lot. And in some ways that is justfied. It is easy for us to forget that the generation of Koreans my parents' age was born in a third-world country recently liberated from colonial occupation. It's easy for us to forget that people my parents' age lived through a civil war. It's easy for us to forget that while things look and feel and seem modern to us in Seoul, these changes are largely cosmetic and synthetic because economies and nations may modernize that quickly, but cultures do not.

And, make no mistake, the Korean economic rise over the past 50 years has been nothing short of amazing. South Korea allowed itself to be used as an outsourced manufacturing hub for more industrialized and modern countries, only to eventually catch up with and even pass some of those countries (Koreans are fond of mentioning they are the eleventh biggest national economy in the world) and begin outsourcing their manufacturing to countries like the Phillipines and Thailand (Taiwan performed a similar trick). And now, with the global economy based more and more on technology and networks, South Korea seems poised for more growth and a continuance of its past success.

So those of us who live here don't understand why the Korean government feels the need to prop up and defend each national conglomerate, or chaebol, with what seems like excessive protectionism. We don't understand why the Koreans seem willing to reap the rewards of the global economy but unwilling to allow foreigners to come here and succeed. We don't understand why, in the year 2006, a Korean parent will still not correct a Korean child when the child sees someone who isn't Korean, stops, points and says as clear as day, "Look, a foreigner!" as if the non-Korean were a monkey flinging shit in the zoo.

This is the mistake that most of us in the Korean expatriate community make: we assume that because Koreans have achieved a certain level of economic modernity that Korea is also culturally modern. This is not to say that Koreans are culturally primitive; rather, they are culturally traditional. New teachers get off the plane here and they see the Internet in every office and home they visit. They see ATMs, buses, taxis, a subway, movie theaters, airports and hamburger stands, and none of it (okay, not most of it) dilapidated and outmoded; on the contrary, everything seems thoroughly modern. So they forget. All of these things look like home, so they expect the Koreans will act like people would at home. They expect that Koreans will judge them not on the color of their skin (or shape of their eyes) but rather on the content of their character. They expect Koreans to look at other countries, their own country, and the geo-political situation as a whole not with xenophobia or nationalism but rather with cold detachment. They expect Korean people not to have ideas of racial homogeneity, and not to purport to believe that there are no gay people and no AIDS sufferers on the entire Korean peninsula. They expect the carpet to match the drapes. They think the culture should have grown up with the economy.

Korean culture is getting more modern and more global, and at an amazing pace, but we can't expect miracles. I see grandmothers and grandfathers walking around the city and I just think about all that has happened in their lives: Japanese occupation, General MacArthur's Incheon landing, splitting the penninsula between the Chinese and Americans, the Korean War, profound economic growth during the Sixties and Seventies, the assassination of President Park, hosting the 1988 Summer Olympic Games, continuing squabbles and negotiations with the North and hosting the 2002 Soccer World Cup. It would be akin to America having its revolution, Civil War, industrial revolution, Kennedy assassination and the Sixties all in one lifetime. It's a lot to wrap your head around, but I think it gives new meaning to Tom Brokaw's phrase about "The Greatest Generation."

So, yes, I grant you, not all Koreans are savvy or sensitive to the fact that it is somewhat rude to point and stare at other people, be they Korean or not. And yes, at times, and especially at national sporting events, you realize just how rabidly nationalistic the general population still is. But all of that being said, there is no doubt in my mind that these things, and other things like them, are on the way out, and there is no doubt in my mind that there is a total lack of malice in the Korean psyche as a whole.

The reason for this assurance is times like the past, say, 20 hours of my life. My wife and I wanted to put together some bookshelves we had bought but we didn't have a screwdriver and I was too lazy to go all the way to Wal-Mart (no, I haven't changed my mind about big chain stores since my last post) so we went to our local market instead, not really thinking they'd have one but taking a flyer. After using my pidgin-Korean to explain to the store owner what I'm looking for he pulls out his own personal screwdriver from behind the counter and hands it to me. When I tell him I can have it back to him that same night he insists that I keep it for as long as I need it and that he will be just fine without it.

My wife and I then go home to attempt to use the newly-borrowed screwdriver, but it has a flat head and is small while what we really need is large Phillips head. As I am still too lazy to go to Wal-Mart, my wife now goes to another market to ask if she can buy a screwdriver. A second shop owner, completely unrelated to the first, produces another personally owned screwdriver (this time a large Phillips screwdriver) and hands it to my wife. "How much is it?" she asks him in Korean. "Rental," he says in English, "First hour free." My wife comes home, we finish the bookcases and return both sets of screwdrivers within the hour.

The next morning I go to sign up for a membership at a gym which is always excruciating because, frankly, the fitness community hasn't exactly embraced English the way the commerce or education industries have, and while my Korean is serviceable it doesn't quite reach the lofty peaks of "I don't need no goddamn Pilates, just show me where the bench-press is." And so but I walk into this gym (which is just my style, scuzzy and 95% male) and the owner speaks perfect English. He charges me $60 for a month which is exactly what the sign on the front of his store says (try pulling that trick in America, where there is always a goddam $40 "initiation fee"). He shows me where to pick up my membership card, he shows me where to put my locker key, he shows me where my locker is, he tells me to enjoy my workout and then he leaves me alone. Can you beat that? All in perfect English. Later I'm in the shower and an employee I've seen cleaning up around the place starts up a conversation with me. Usually this is doubly awkward because 1) I'm naked and 2) there's a language barrier but, again, this guy speaks flawless English. He assures me that it's perfectly okay to take more than one towel ("several" is the word he uses and I'll be fucked if I can figure out where he picked up that vocabulary) because I'm a big guy. I say that being a big guy is why I'm here and I'm trying to get down to a one-towel body-size. He actually laughs, he actually gets that! And then (I swear to god, I'm not making this up) he asks me how I like the gym and I say I like it plenty and that the price is very good relative to other gyms in the area. And he says, "Yeah, you don't want to pay 100 bucks a month for a place that offers Pilates classes when you never do Pilates." My jaw hits the floor, which is unfortunate, as it probably has athlete's foot on its underside now.

And finally, today at work I have my pre-school class. My English academy made a deal with another daycare/kindergarten thing that we would take their kids on Tuesdays and Thursdays for an hour and a half just to get the kids some light experience with the language and so they're not horrified when they see a pair of round eyes. Obviously this approach backfired when all 225 pounds and bald head of me walked into the room the first day, but the kids have come to treat me as a crazy uncle who they tolerate, and it works most days. Unfortunately today one of the students' grandmother and grandfather come to visit and the kids are really bouncing off the ceiling. They're yelling, they're getting out of their seats, I'm having to reprimand them every five seconds; every teacher has days like this, or at least I like to tell myself they do. Regardless, do Domingo's (I swear to god that's his English nickname for class, and I didn't give it to him) grandparents complain? No. Do they file a complaint with the principal? No. They buy milk for every goddamn kid in the class so that I don't have to teach the last ten minutes, then they buy me coffee to show me how much they appreciate my efforts (which largely involve yelling "sit down" in both English and Korean, for all they saw).

I don't much relish writing autobiographically about my life in Korea, just because my life is prety dull. I'm happily married, I'm content with my job, I go to the gym (not as much as I should) and I'll be resuming my martial arts classes here pretty soon, none of which I think would much fascinate the general public. But the reason I felt like I had to trot out these anecdotes from the not-too-distant-past was just to prove the point that Korean people, I feel, are as good and as kind and as welcoming as anyone, if not more so, and that any shortcomings they do have will be resolved in short order as they become more familiar with their international neighbors and more savvy about intercultural relations.

I bitch as much as anybody here (of course I bitch as much as anybody anywhere) but in the three years I've been here my hosts have taken good care of me, and for that I am truly grateful.

감사합니다.


You can find TMH blogging seven days a week at http://anamericanwerewolfinseoul.blogspot.com/. -ed.

The Catcher in the Lye

I read The Catcher in the Rye in high school (which proves to my non-Canadian readers just how much of a joke the Canadian school system is, because I think the book, while one of my all-time favorites, would be better suited as required reading in junior high), and one of the assignments our teacher gave us was to compose a short story, with Holden Caulfield as the main character, set in the present day. It was fun -- definitely a step up from rest of the mundane shit we were assigned. I remember my story pretty well; in it, Holden visits a shrink and complains about the slow, steady eradication of the middle class, cruelty toward animals (I made him a vegan), the rapid growth of technology, and other issues that I believed the character would disapprove of, were he an adolescent growing up in the late 90s.

Sometime last week, probably while on the can, I had a thought: what would Holden be like if he were an ESL teacher in Korea? This intrigued me for a number of reasons. First, it would be fun, and hopefully funny (also the most difficult part, mind you). And, second, it would be a challenge. I don't think, for anyone who's read the book, it's very hard to write similar to Holden's narration in Catcher, but it'd be no piece of cake to make it engaging. And, as you probably already know, I'm always up for a challenge -- be it writing about a boring basketball game, or eating 6 hot dogs in an evening.

The Catcher in the Rye was published in 1951, and in it Holden is 15 years old. Instead of making him a 15-year-old ESL teacher in Korea -- which sounds ludicrous, but I wouldn't be surprised if it's happened -- I've decided to keep it real and make him the age he would be in 2006: 70 years old. Still, I think you'll see that he hasn't matured very much in the intervening years.

Is this fan fiction or parody? Or Satire? It's a little of all three, or at least is intended to be. Below is the opening chapter of a series of posts I plan to continue writing on a fairly regular basis (Spring Cleaning's not dead, by the way; I hope to put up a review of Once Upon a Time in America by tomorrow night, which is a herculean task, seeing as how the film's like 300 hours long), provided there's enough interest and JD Salinger doesn't sic his thug lawyers on me, which is a very definite possibility. That crotchety old recluse is as litigious about his works as a crotchety old reclusive guy (my simile generator*is still busted). So if this disappears within the next hour/day/month/year/decade, you know exactly whom to blame.

1

I don't know why anyone would want to hear about all the madman stuff that happened to me last year, but there are people who'll read just about anything, or so I've heard. My sister Phoebe says her two kids can't get enough of something called blogs, which there are apparently millions of, all about the lives of normal everyday people. Jesus, I bet they write about what they ate for dinner, what stupid movies they watched, and what they plan to eat for dinner the next night, and what stupid movies they plan to watch in the future. All very highbrow stuff, naturally.

So, like I said, I don't know why anyone would want to hear about this mess that happened to me, but people'll read just about anything these days, or so I've heard. If there's one thing I hate, it's the Internet. Don't even mention it to me.

I'm not going to bore you with all the details of why or how I ended up teaching English in Korea and all that crap, because if I did I'd probably write 2 sentences and then drop dead of a heart attack. You probably would too if you read it. I'll just tell you about what happened after I secured a job, beginning with shortly before I got there.

For most of my flight I had to sit next to this crummy looking guy with an eyepatch. Boy was he a character. He was all fidgety and looked as though he was having a fit. He kept breathing through his nose all funny, making this whistling sound that told you how much of a bastard he was, how much he hated being stuck on an airplane next to an old man. I've heard that when you get old your nose hairs grow more plentiful and thicker, and that's why old people make such funny noises when they breathe through their noses -- but I've never had that kind of problem. This guy probably wasn't even forty though, and he was breathing through his nose and huffing like an angry bull. It's pretty ironical when you think about it. You could tell he wasn't one for flying, because he wouldn't open the window for anything, and he kept his eyes closed, at least the one that wasn't covered with that patch of his, the whole time.

The lady sitting to my left was no treat either. She had her hair pulled back tightly in a bun and looked all haughty. You could just tell she was uncomfortable sitting next to me. She probably thought I was going to wet myself or something, or that I hadn't taken my liver pills. Believe me, it was no fun being sandwiched between her and the psycho with the eyepatch, but at least I didn't show it. You can tell a lot about a person just by looking at their face, you really can.

I had nothing better to do on the plane than to stare at the big screen they have at the front of the aisles that tells you how high up you are and how fast you're going, like it's the most interesting thing in the world. I had a book, which I bought before leaving JFK, but it was a goddam monumental bore. Something about a Japanese guy whose cat goes missing, then his wife goes missing, and pretty soon you start to hope he goes missing so something at least halfway exciting happens. I should have known, nothing you buy at airport bookstores is ever any good. That's why you never hear people who enjoy good literature say "I picked up this terrific book while I was on a layover in Chicago," or "LAX has a really great selection. It's a virtual treasure trove of underappreciated classics." Every now and then I'd glance up at the screen to see how close we were to reaching our destination. Even though that's the absolute most tedious thing imaginable a person can do, it was a million times better than that book. Other than that, I tried to sleep. I also made a few trips to the lavatory, which was harder than you might think because the goddam stewards are always pushing or pulling something or other up and down the aisles, blocking your way.

One of the meals we were served was rice and an assortment of chopped vegetables, most of which I'd never seen before. It didn't look very appetizing, but I'm not very choosy about that sort of stuff, if you can believe it. It came with a small tube of what was labelled hot pepper paste. I didn't think my ulcer could handle it, but I wanted to keep it for later, so I put it to the side of my pulldown tray. But when the stewards came back to take away the plastic containers, wrappers, and all the other junk left over from everyone's meal, one young attendant snatched up the tube and whisked away before I even had a chance to complain. I tried to get her attention by staring at her with this really hard, patient look, like Mike Wallace interviewing the Ayatollah or something, but she didn't pay me any attention, even though I knew she saw me. I could have made a scene by shouting at her and telling her to come back and hand me the tube of hot pepper paste she erroneously mistook for waste, but then I probably would have had the whole plane looking at me, thinking I must have wet my adult diaper or something. Believe me, that's not fun, and it happens quite a lot for people my age, if you want to know the truth. People thinking I'm a senile old coot, and not me wetting myself, I mean.

Near the end of the flight I was just about bored out of my mind, so what I did was, I started fanning myself with the in-flight duty free brochure, sort of like a southern belle in a 30s picture. I wish old Phoebe was there. Boy, that would have killed her. My immediate fellow passengers didn't find it very humorous though, so I stopped and after a while pretended to be asleep. I stayed that way until we landed. I considered pretending to be dead, just for kicks and to make my fellow passengers in row 16 feel guilty, but didn't think any of the other bastards on the plane would get the joke. Most people never do.

Clearing customs took almost as long as the goddam flight, and afterwards I waited about an eon at baggage claim. I noticed my bags, but for a while I stood there waiting for someone else to pick them up, just for kicks. The thing about luggage is that it all looks mostly the same, so it's not exactly a mortal sin to mistake someone else's bag as your own. But tell that to the bastard who practically tries jumping on you and tackling you if you so much as look at his bag for more than 2 seconds. People get really overanxious about bags, I've learned.

After I got my bags, I went out to the area where people are supposed to get picked up. You'd think the people waiting there would have happy looks on their faces -- unless their friends or relatives had just returned from an overseas funeral or something, I mean -- but none of them did. They all looked depressed, like how people look in the waiting room when they're at the doctor and waiting for the results of a blood test or EKG.

Eventually, a short fellow wearing a San Diego Padres baseball cap waved at me and shouted "over here, mister Cawfeld!" I approached him, and when I did he asked "you dint see me? I was here whole time, holding sign." The sign he held read Halden Cawfeld. I was about to tell him it was natural for me to overlook him, seeing as how he was holding a sign with my name misspelled, but I didn't want to start things off with this guy -- whoever he was -- on the wrong foot. I lied and said it was because I took my contacts out during the flight and hadn't yet had an opportunity to put them back in. People will believe just about anything an old guy says, as long as it's about how old and feeble they are.

"Follow me. I have car," he said, taking one of my bags and my knapsack. Then he began skipping ahead of me like a goddam jackrabbit or something. He stopped a couple of times and looked back to make sure I hadn't dropped dead from exhaustion, and once, when my suitcase toppled over after getting off of an escalator, he ran back with panic-stricken wide eyes. After that, upon his insistence, he pulled both of my bags. I offered to at least take the knapsack, but he wouldn't allow it. It was pretty funny, in a way.

My initial thought that this kid was my saviour quickly wore off, though. After we finally found his car in the airport's labyrinthine parking garage and began driving towards Seoul, I started to realize what a phony this guy was. He kept staring at my acne scars -- something that makes me very uncomfortable, if you want to know the truth -- and asking me questions like "so, how old are you? Really? Your recruiter said you were much younger. He said only 51," and "why you have no grandchild? Why no married? You don't like women? You a very handsome guy."

He could tell his questions were bothering me, and after a while said "you lying! You look younger than my father, and he 43! Funny joke, Mr. Cawfeld." Then he laughed like a big phony and slapped my leg. But what he did afterward was, he left his hand resting on my knee, and stared at me sheepishly. Guys get all flitty with me a lot more often than you might think, even today, but I've never been comfortable about it.

"We almost there," he said, rubbing my thigh. When something perverty like that happens, I start sweating like a bastard. I tried to knock his hand away whenever we went over a bump in the road, but it wouldn't budge. It was like a goddam vice or something.

"You will like new neighborhood," he said, all soft-voiced and all. "Lots of PC rooms. Lots of bath houses. And I live in upstairs apartment, if you need something fixing."

It was then that I realized that this kid would be the first in a long line of bastards who I would soon meet. They must make them in a factory or something.

* which is another way of saying that I'm too tired and/or drunk to, as the British so aptly put it, be arsed to come up with something better.

Psychedelic Kimochi -- Nancy Lang

This afternoon, while the wife was out picking wild mushrooms or something, I was endlessly flippping through TV channels and came across an interview with a pretty young woman, Nancy Lang, on Channel Art (the art channel). I was instantly blown away by her alluring beauty and unmistakable sexiness. This was perhaps the most attractive woman I had ever seen! I asked the little girl (who was pretending to be a librarian stamping books) if she thought Ms. Lang was pretty. "She looks like Mommy," she exclaimed. Which is possibly the best compliment any female can receive.

I wrote before that I didn't intend to do any Psychedelic Kimochi posts for the forseeable future, because if someone wants to find pics of sexy gals there are a ton better and more extensive sites than this humble blog; however, I felt I had to make an exeption here. I had never heard of Ms. Lang until today (surprisingly, my wife has, so maybe I'm just out of touch). Perhaps most of my readers haven't, either. I know my mom hasn't, anyway. But everyone should know about her. Not only is she comely to the Nth degree, she's also an accomplished artist. I'm telling you, this is every intelligent gentleman's dream girl.

She has her own website which contains tons of pics of her, her art, and fashion work. Seriously, there are close to 60 pages. You can check it out for yourself at http://www.nancylang.com, although the link wasn't working the last time I checked. There are also lots of pics here

Below are 2 photos of the lovely Ms. Lang, and a piece of her artwork. I'm hoping to in the future get an interview with her; here is a woman Psychedelic Kimchi readers want to know more about. I know I do.

Memory Lane (VII)

I had to work the day before I was to fly home, and by 6 o' clock I hadn't received my plane ticket (and a ticket for my wife which we of course paid for), nor my severance pay. But I wasn't too worried. If I had been less naive, perhaps I would have been. Since then I've read and heard firsthand numerous stories of teachers getting stiffed at the 11th hour, but ignorance sometimes works in one's favor, and this was one such case. I just made an ass at of you and me and assumed that my boss would hand me my pay and tickets as soon as my last class finished. Which is what happened. No congratulations, no "great job this year. We'll miss you." In fact -- though I'm not positive -- I don't remember the guy even shaking my hand, a courtesy I'm pretty sure even the Pacers management extended to Ron Artest when he was sent to Sacramento. Whatever. It's not as though I was very fond of the guy. He knew my students liked me tremendously, and that's probably why he didn't fire me during the 10th month of my contract when I refused to do makeup classes, without overtime, for the lunar New Year, because it went against my contract. Being a man of principle (and lazy, let's not forget that), I had been ready to quit over the issue, and, in the end, with some unsolicited help from my recruiter, whom my boss called to complain to about me, I got my way. But my boss was none too pleased that I had refused to do his every bidding, and afterwards treated me as though I were a necessary evil, sort of like how every NFL team treats Terrel Owens.

I arrived home at around 10 to find my wife (then girlfriend, for you newcomers), her friend, and my wife-then-girlfriend's mother finishing up cleaning my apartment, god bless 'em. We ordered pizza (Pizza Hut stuffed crust, which I can't recall eating since), and afterwards I packed my clothes and transferred all of my CDs to a huge Case Logic folder I had bought because I figured the cost of shipping all of them in their jewel cases was too expensive. The jewel cases I ended up leaving behind, and I imagine the next person to move into that apartment must have been quite shocked, initially, to find a bookcase full of CDs, and later quite pissed off to discover that none of the cases contained any discs.

After my wife's girlfriend left, we all called it an early night and got ready for bed. Our flight from Incheon -- with stopovers in Tokyo/Narita and then Chicago O'Hare -- was for 11:00am the next day, which meant that, in order to check in 2 hours before departure, we would have to leave by 8am at the latest, in turn meaning we should wake up at 6 to ensure we wouldn't be late should something delay us, which, in my experience (with my wife), is almost always the case. Because I have a hard time falling asleep the night before a flight (RIP Reggie White/Jimmy Walker's dyno-mite!), I popped a Gravol to help put me to sleep.

Bad move. All the pill did was make me drowsy, but ultimately unable to sleep. I was too nervous about the flight, and too excited about the thought of returning home after being away for more than 2 years. I ended up staying awake until 6am, my heart and my mind racing.

I woke up my wife and her mother, took a shower and brushed my teeth, got dressed and threw on my lucky flying cap (over a dozen flights and no crashes so far!), and ate a small breakfast, even though I wasn't hungry. Once we were all ready, we hauled our bags (I thought my wife was concealing a baby elephant in one of hers), through steady rain, to Sinchon rotary to wait for my wife's brother, who was to drive us to Incheon International. Little did I know that the guy had never driven in Seoul -- he's from Daejeon -- and would get lost. We waited and waited, but it was obvious from the conversation I overheard between him and my wife that he wasn't going to make it on time. I hated to be a bastard and not allow my wife to say goodbye to her brother in person, but by that time we were already dangerously late, and I told her that we absolutely had to take an airport limousine bus if we were to have any hope whatsoever of making our flight. Within 15 minutes, an airport bus came along and we boarded.

There was still hope that my wife's brother would be able to see her off, because after we got on the bus my wife called him and told him to stop trying to locate Sinchon and to get his ass on the highway and get to the airport. Once we arrived at Incheon Int'l, my wife and I got our bags and rushed to check in. My wife's mother stayed outside to wait for her son.

I wrote at the beginning of this entry that ignorance is often a blessing, however it was anything but when, upon arriving at the United Airlines desk, we were informed that that my wife would have to purchase a 60,000 won temporary visa for our stopover in Chicago. It wasn't the money, but rather the fact that doing this was going to eat away even more of our already very short time that turned my stomach. We bought the temporary visa, checked our bags, and headed to the customs gate.

Unfortunately, my wife's brother still hadn't shown up. My wife called her mother and told her to come inside, that we had no time to lose and that we needed to pass customs. One of the ticket checkers seconded that statement, telling us that if we didn't go through immediately, we would miss our flight.

Bad fucking luck. Again I felt like a complete bastard, but I had to urge my wife to settle for saying goodbye to her mom over the phone. I wonder, is there anyone who would have done differently?

We passed customs, my wife sobbing visably, and were again told that the flight was ready to leave and that we'd have to hurry if we were to have any chance of making it. In our rush, I nearly left behind my Case Logic book of CDs, which I didn't check. Luckily, one of the airport staff noticed I'd left it behind and ran to give it to my wife, who was trailing me by almost a hundred yards. After running what must have been at least a half kilometer, we arrived at the departure gate, handed them our tickets, and boarded the plane. I was sweating like a madman, and asked a stewardess if I could please have some water. And, bless her (this was a UA flight, remember; I'm lucky she didn't cut off my head a la that nurse in Exorcist III), she got it for me, even smiling in the process.

We found our seats, and I asked my wife if she wouldn't mind taking the window. I've since discovered that, with my fear of flying (fear of dying is more like it; I can't remember which comedian said something along those lines) a window seat is the best thing for me, because I don't feel so much as though I'm trapped in a deathbox bound for hell; but at the time I absolutely did not want to look out the window. The sweet angel agreed.

If you've ever seen Say Anything, that movie's final scene perfectly describes our takeoff, if only it were John Cusack's character nervous about flying, instead of Ione Skye's. My wife, who had never before taken an airplane flight, took my hand, and even though she was still crying a little because she couldn't properly say farewell to her mom and brother, told me not to worry, that everything would be just fine. Then she kissed me and put her head on my shoulder.

To this day I still have a fear of flying that borders on pure terror, but never when my wife is by my side.

Wifey, you are my courage. My adamantium skeleton, if you will.

***

I really hate to stop here, and had intended for this entry to end with our arrival at Toronto's Pearson International Airport (yes, we lived), but the rest will have to wait for another time, barring my untimely demise, hopefully and ironically not due to a highway bus accident. Believe me, there's plenty more interesting parts of that sojourn to be told. As Rod Serling used to say, I hope you'll join us.

How Soon Is Yao? (Rockets vs. Blazers)

Earlier this week I received a blog comment, from a gentleman who goes by the vaguely familiar name Anonymous, in which he complained about my lack of coverage in regard to other NBA teams and accused me of being, due to my bias for the Miami Heat, unable to write in detail about a game not involving them. Because I refuse to have anyone criticize me or my work, the comment was promptly deleted. I'm a Nazi like that.

Still, I couldn’t help take his words to heart. Can I write about 2 teams that I have no interest in and make it interesting in the process?

I’m always up for a challenge, and after a complete lack of inspiration while trying to write the next Memory Lane entry, which I started and stopped roughly 74 times before realizing that I currently don’t have the mojo to pull it off, I decided to keep a running diary of today’s game between the Houston Rockets and the Portland Trailblazers instead. Plus, it sounded a lot easier than Anonymous' other suggestion, which was for me to stick my head up my own ass.

Following this game in detail (if you can call it that) certainly won't be easy, or fun. Both teams have absolutely no chance of making the playoffs, and are simply going through the motions as they eagerly await for the season to mercifully come to a close. If I can somehow breathe life into this seemingly uninteresting matchup, I feel I will have proven Anonymous wrong.

I am also using this piece as an opportunity to issue a challenge to my readers who couldn’t give a damn about basketball and normally skip over these kinds of posts (if this describes you, I thank you for sticking with me during this no doubt trying period. I know it can’t be easy). Trust me, in the case of this game, I couldn't give a damn, either. I am simply asking you to do me the favor of reading this post, in its entirety, and then judging for yourself afterwards whether it was worth your time. Readers are encouraged to comment, and I promise to post any and all negative criticism, as long as it’s constructive, and not, say, about how much I suck and how small a penis I have. I don't expect everyone to get all the stuff below, but that's part of what makes it a fun read. If you're confused, consider this as the blog version of a David Lynch movie. With guitars.

And with that, let's hop aboard the caravan of love:

Pregame Warmups:

I hear that for this game Tracy McGrady might be back (spasming)...Reason no. 49311 why I'm smarter than the people who coordinate Rockets home games: whenever Yao Ming makes a nice play, I'd blare the part in Planet Rock where Afrika Bambaataa says "yaoooowww!"...Yao, late last year I had a dream in which you scored 75 points in a single game. With T-Mac out and all, and you guys playing the lowly Blazers, can you do me a huge favor and try to make me look as though I'm a latter-day Nostradamus? Seriously, look who's guarding you. Thnx, Tiberious aka Sparkles. PS - Ha Seung-Jin called your country "dirty" and said you dunk like a little girl...Here's what Yao said after the Rockets' last game, a loss to the Seattle Supersonics: "I don't understand my fouls. I don't understand. It's a normal action." Go ahead and wrap your head around that one...The Trailblazers are losers (of 11 straight)...If Nate MacMillan were a Hollywood director, he'd totally be Bryan Singer...Today's television commercial matchup pits KIA and their esteemed minivan, the Carnival, against our reigning champ, the LG Flatron LCD monitor. Personally, I don't think Flatron, with its recent tough schedule, has what it takes to emerge the victor...If Ha Seung-Jin were a basketball player, he'd totally be Rafael Araujo...Martell Webster and Brian Skinner won't be playing today, supposedly because 2 of Webster's oxen died after his wagon axle broke, and Skinner was accidentally shot while hunting for buffalo. And if you think that's it as far as Oregon Trail references go, you're wrong...Yao should say "got rice, bitch?" everytime he dunks on someone...I'm making a prediction that Yao will be an MVP candidate next season, and I'm never wrong about these things. [Flashback, last August]: I'm gonna go out on a limb here and predict that Jerome James will have a pretty good season in NY. He's an underachiever who has the talent and body to be one of the top 5 centers in the East, even though that isn't saying much. Who wrote that? Me? The fuck out. [Flashback 2, last November]: Coach of the Year prediction: Rick Adelman. OK, whoever's doing that, stop it!...The Korean announcers are claiming that Stromile Swift will be the x-factor for the Rockets, which is kinda like saying the appendix is one of the body's most important organs. That's it, I'm referring to Swift as The Appendix from here on out...Now the announcers are discussing Lebron James and Carmelo Anthony. I ask, is there a better story this season than 'Melo becoming one of the L's signature clutch players?...FSN Northwest believes one of the biggest keys for the Blazers, if they hope to pull out a W, is to double team Yao Ming. As the Colonel said in Boogie Nights, oh you think so doctor?...

Jimmy Iovine Time

Yao opens scoring with a layup...Darius Miles looks like he would make a good undercover police officer on TV. Since he's a Blazer, I'm assuming he already knows how to handle a gun...Ming again with a nice fade-away...Joel Przybilla with an airball at the other end of the court...The Blazers are actually double teaming Yao. Unheard of! This is definitely the kind of unorthodox coaching decision only Nate MacMillan would have the guts to try out...Yao blocks a shot, prompting one of the Korean announcers to call him The Great Wall of China. How imaginative!...The LG Flatron commercial opens things up in today's other matchup, but the KIA Carnival immediately follows to tie...This game is being broadcast in Iceland. Just thought you'd like to know...Yao is now being triple teamed. This may be the greatest coaching innovation since "keep your eye on the ball"...You can't stop Keith Bogans, you can only hope to contain him...I bet Luther gets mad Head...Carnival 2, Flatron 2...Darius Miles is the king of double-clutch missed layups...The Appendix makes his first appearance of the game. By the way, if Swift starts playing well, instead of writing "he's heating up" or "he's on fire," I get to comment "The Appendix is starting to swell" and "The Appendix is about to burst!" Lamentably, I don't see The Appendix swelling anytime soon...The score is tied, 17-17, after 1 quarter...What the fuck is going on here? Super Action has just played 6 new commercials consecutively. I have a feeling a momentous sea change has just occurred...Are you gentle?...Looks as though Jeff Van Gundy is going to limit Yao's minutes...Both teams are taking a lot of outside shots...Flatron 3, Carnival 3. I hope anyone reading appreciates what I'm doing here, because I really prefer using the time in between commercial breaks to go to the bathroom. And to surf the Internet for naked pics of Jessica Alba...The Appendix just airballed a free throw. X-factor. Yeah. More like Caliban, or Warren Worthington with razor wings...Theo Ratliff dunks on Yao...The Carnival takes the lead, but Flatron quickly catches up. 4-4...Both teams are taking plenty of 3-point shots...If this game were in Houston, and my advice re: stadium noise were followed, we wouldn't be hearing too many yaooowwws in the building, party people...OK, finally, Yao makes another bucket. Only 69 more to go, big guy...MBC Movies is showing Gremlins 2: The New Batch, or as I like to refer to it, The Movie That Shot John Lennon...Flatron 5, Carnival 5. This is like Ali and Frazier going blow-for-blow, only better...According to FSN Northwest, the Rockets have zero blocks. They just cold dissed The Great Wall, man...You know, if I were to play Yao Ming in one-on-one, and he couldn't just stand in front of the basket, I seriously believe I'd have a shot at beating him. Any guard with 2 legs (this disqualifies Baron Davis) can blow by him like Steve Blake just did. Similarly, I think I could take Steve Blake in a fight. That nigga's mad pussy, son...Portland is up 43-39 at the half...

Stay Tuned, Nas, Soon The Real Rap Comes At...

Halftime...Are you gentle?...Super Action just played 4 more new ads, one of which, for the KIA Sorento, uses DJ Shadow's Stem/Long Stem from Endtroducing. I don't really care too much as far as Shadow's pursuit of the papes goes, but just to be a dick I'll say this: y'know why hip-hop sucks in '06? It's the money. Plus, I would have used Organ Donor...You're beautiful. You're beautiful. You're beautiful. It's true...Super Action shows an ad for Rock School, a reality series (how imaginative!) starring Gene Simmons. I won't lie, my interest is slightly piqued. The strange thing is that the music accompanying the commercial is a song by The Offspring. C'mon, it's Gene Simmons! Play a damn KISS song for cryin' out loud...Choi Een-Seon, Super Action's color commentator, is the new Czar of the Telestrator. Mike Fratello who?...The first K-announcer -- the guy on the left for those of you scoring at home -- calls this "a good game." Are we watching the same one?...Keith Bogans has 15 points at the half. What did I tell you? He's going to be an All-Star next year (in the D-League)...

Back to the Grill Again

Portland has opened up a 10-point lead...Carnival 6, Flatron 6...The Rockets are within 7...Carnival 7, Flatron 7...Yao Ming, sitting on the bench, looks forlorn...Steve Blake is swarmed and blatantly fouled about 20 times with no whistle from the refs, resulting in a shot clock violation. Is it really that hard to be an NBA referee and call a game correctly?...I think I'd pay money to see Joel Przybilla, Ben Wallace and Shaquille O'Neal compete against one another in a free throw shoot-out...I think Dikembe Mutombo has a good 20 or 30 years left in him...Yao Ming, sitting on the bench, looks perturbed...We have a tie game with 2:08 left in the 3rd...Am I a bad guy for hoping that a brawl erupts?...Is there a gayer nickname currently in all of sports than Skip To My Lou?...Houston 62, Portland 59 after 3...Are you gentle?...I don't ever remember seeing Nate MacMillan smile...Yao is pushed to the floor. prompting one of the K-announcers to say "The Great Wall has fallen." Good grief...Yao gets knocked down again. Stand up for yourself, dude, or pretty soon I'm going to start calling you Johnny Fontaine...Carnival 8, Flatron 8. I have a feeling both matchups are going to come down to the final play/commercial block...Yao Ming, again sitting on the bench, looks genuinely sad. How do you say "put me in coach, I'm ready to play" in Mandarin Chinese?...I don't think I've ever been less excited about a close game. The crowd seems to feel the same way...I promised myself I would never mention it again, but I couldn't help notice that, at the end of the 미녀는석류를좋아해 ad, there appears to be a pregnant chick sitting on a sofa in the background...Flatron 9, Carnival 9. Should we finish with a tie, the winner will be whichever commercial is shown first during the final block of ads...Both the Blazers and Rockets have made like 6 straight turnovers. I never would have guessed it, coming from teams of their caliber...Carnival 10, Flatron 10...The Rockets take a 1-point lead with 1:17 remaining...Keith Bogans shits the bed by missing a wide-open layup!...I think Super Action has filled their advertising quota for the game, because they keep showing the NBA promo that uses that Blackalicious Excellent song (I got a fistful of fury in my knapsack...).In that case, the KIA Carnival is our new ad nauseam ad champeen!...Some kid in the crowd is wearing a Joel Przybilla jersey and holding up a sign which reads Blazers are #1. Turn it up! Yeah, right. You'd have a better chance tossing a needle through a Cheerio in mid-air than getting this crowd excited, and if they ever turn the NBA standings around, only then would the Blazers be sitting in the front row...with 27 seconds left, Sebastian Telfair fords the Columbia river in his Conestoga wagon to put the Blazers ahead by one!...The Rockets waste a lot of time before settling for a bad look shot. Yao gets the rebound, but misses a five-footer at the buzzer. Why the hell didn't they take a timeout when they had 20-something seconds remaining?...The Blazers really deserved the win: they shut down The Great Wall, Nate MacMillan outcoached Jeff Van Gundy in every way (which would normally be a compliment, but I get the feeling Van Gundy couldn't wait to exit the court, head to the locker room, and crack open a Diet Coke), and they never gave up. In short, they showed heart like Kano...Final Score: Portland 76, Houston 75...Player of the Game: Sebastian Telfair...And on that note, I'm out like shout.

Back to Back Rhymin -- Next up, yo I believe that's me

1. The Takeover/Ether - Who won?

Jay won with The Takeover, hands down. It wasn't even close. Takeover has better lyrics, and by far the superior beat. Ether is a decent track, and Nas got in some good jabs (plus the whole song is dedicated to ripping Jay, compared to The Takeover, which only contains one verse directed at Nas -- but for me it's really a case of "less is more" also working in Jay's favor), but the beat is just so-so. And, as I mentioned in my last post, Takeover was ingeniously masterminded. Jay put out the bait, and Nas gobbled it up, hook, line and sinker. It's perhaps the only song which I can think of that is positively machiavellian in terms of how it came together.

Ironically, Takeover almost singlehandedly rejuvinated Nas's career. It's a shame, though, that Nas didn't do the most with the opportunity Jay presented him. Stillmatic was dope, but far from classic; God's Son was worse than Stillmatic; and Street's Disciple was just garbage. Nas's career trajectory repeated itself all over again.

Now, with things patched up between the two former rivals, it'll be interesting to see what's in store for Nas. Does he have another classic in him? I say no, because his lyrics these days, while still impressive, are nowhere near as dope, as poetic, as the verses he dropped on Illmatic more than 10 years ago. Aren't artists supposed to progress talent-wise? Nas has done nothing but devolve. Maybe he has it in him (I've been wrong before), but I really doubt it. If he did, I think we would have seen a true return to form on Stillmatic, which didn't happen, regardless of how much of a step up that album was in comparison to the dreck he was churning out prior.

The more important question though, I think, is how does Nas signing to Def Jam affect the rumored album with Primo? My magic 8-ball says outlook not so good, if you recall what Jay-Z -- who has to be calling most of the important shots on the direction of Nas's Def Jam debut -- did with his "final" album. Sheet, he didn't even put one Premier track on that shit. Type strange.

We'll have to wait and see. I'm looking forward to purchasing it when it's released sometime in 2012.

2. Who is the Greenspan of J-babe-onomics in 2006?

This is a toughie for 2 reasons: one, because tastes in women range perhaps wider and further than those of musical genres and styles, and, two, because there are only a handful of Japanese ladies for whom I keep my eye (and penis) out for. That said, here's the short-list of J-babes who keep the flames of my unhealthy perversion stoked:

Matsugane Yoko

She's got a huge rack. The rest is pretty much average. In that respect, she's a one-trick pony. A one-trick pony with a huge rack, mind you.

Harumi Nemoto

Like Matsugane Yoko, she has a huge rack; but she's far prettier. The only downside with her is that her photos make her look way sexier than she actually is, in person. But it's the same with any gal. Just last week I saw a glamour shot of Liza Minelli that gave me wood.

Natsuko Tohno

Possibly the best pair of breasts I have ever seen in my life. Definitely the best pair I've ever seen on a computer monitor.

And the winner is...

Reon Kadena

Yes she has a snaggle tooth, but if anything it makes her even sexier. By the way, in the coming weeks I plan to further alienate my female readership by following up the 10 Most Annoying Korean Celebrities post with a list of the 10 Sexiest Korean Celebrities. Coincidentally, Kim Su-Mi made both lists.

3. Sir Charles.

Without a doubt, KRS ONE. Both are outspoken and controversial, and while they often appear to be talking out of their asses (KRS moreso than Chuck), they are brutally honest and unafraid to call things how they see them.

By the way, have you heard this (part 2 here)? Dude is crazy. But he's still number one.

(Come to think of it, there's an interesting correlation to be made between South Koreans, with their general, unconditional love for their Northern brethren, and my unwavering support for Kris.)

Wilt.

Madonna. Both had sex with a lot of people and authored books about it (though Madonna, unlike Wilt, isn't a bald-faced liar who invented a ridiculously inflated number). And much in the same way Wilt's 100-point game will probably never be topped, it's hard to imagine anyone reinventing himself/herself more times than Mrs. Ritchie.

Kobe.

Ian Curtis. Both are/were talented and brooding, seemingly haunted by unknown (and perhaps paranoia-based) personal demons, with the only differences being that people actually liked Curtis, and as far as I know he wasn't a rapist.

Mahmoud Adul-Rauf.

Sinead O'Connor. Sinead's career would have lasted longer had she not ripped up that picture of the Pope on SNL (she should have done it in the privacy of her home, which is what I do -- except I use a voodoo doll; and it's likeness is not that of the Pope, but rather Antoine Walker). Likewise, the former Chris Jackson would have stuck around the L longer had he not refused to stand during The Star Spangled Banner.

(BTW, I really miss watching closeups of Abdul-Rauf's grill as he shot free throws. How he managed to shoot such a high percentage while twitching like he did is a complete mystery to me.)

Dominique.

Johnny Marr. I was outraged when 'Nique was left off the list of the Top 50 at 50. Similarly, a few years ago Rolling Stone magazine compiled a list of the top rock guitarists of all time, and Marr was snubbed. Neither were the greatest of all time, for sure, but both men's contributions to their respective fields easily place them in the top 50, once again proving that lists are stupid.

Magic.

Joe Strummer. Both were two of the most gifted and most talented in their respective fields, and just as Strummer helped bring punk into the mainstream in the early 80's, Magic (along with Larry Legend) did the same for basketball.

PS - I debated likening Magic to Keith Richards -- because both remarkably keep on living -- but couldn't in good conscience.

Craig Hodges.

Craig G. Craig G was one of the best freestylers of all time, but that was pretty much it for his skill set. Same goes for Hodges and the 3-ball. Also, neither of their contributions to team success (Hodges with the Bulls, Craig G with the Juice Crew) should be overlooked. But once Hodges' 3 stopped falling, that was it for his career. Of course, it could be argued that he was blacklisted and pushed out of the league for his outspoken beliefs, in which case he too deserves comparison to Sinead O' Connor.

Back to Back Rhymin – Still Coming Up Wit Lint

1) Who's to blame for the whole Amare Stoudamire thing? After his first game back, I was ready to eat my words; he wasn't springing up and down the court, and he showed caution (or so I've read), but I thought the guy was as right as rain. Then he plays like crap 2 games in a row and might be done for the season. Being right never felt so wrong.

You mean, who is to blame aside from the fantasy basketball community?

I am just surprised anyone gets rushed back from these things. Haven’t we learned from Hill, McDyess etc that a player should wait until he feels 100 percent, then add an extra three months of rehab just to be sure. I mean, Jesus, the guy is what… 24? Do we really want to see him hobble around like Webber when he’s 30? It’s insane to think about where he was two years ago.

Ultimately, I don't think the Suns needed him back. Sure, if he was a lock to return strong, I can see the logic, but he wasn’t. There were too many ifs, which should have meant a big ‘hell no’ from D’Antoni.
.

Hopefully, the Suns will look after his family. He died, right?

2) Adam Morrison: Cry Baby. Does his emotional meltdown hurt his draft position? And can we please start referring to him as Adam Morrissey? How soon is now?

I don’t see the drama. I get misty over sport montages all the time, so it’d be pretty rough of me to start calling homebrew a pansy at this point. Hell, if I was playing in the NCAAs, I’d probably cry the whole time. But that’s just me. I love ball.

Does this hurt his draft position? I say ‘no’, if only for the sheer fact that most NBA GMs are grade-A morons. Alternatively, does this hurt his draft position? I say ‘yes’, if only for the sheer fact that most NBA GMs are grade-A morons.

Just choose either of those.

I think the tourney is great opportunity to boost a player’s stock, but I don’t think that a bum game, a few tears or an ill advised timeout is going to hurt a player’s stock too much.

That said, if Morrison falls deep in the draft, I see him bouncing back to be the next white messiah. Kind of like that high school kid, if they ever find a cure for Autism. Either way, November will spawn a monster.

3) That last question's got me thinking; if NBA players were musicians, who would they be?

Jesus, man.

MJ
Elvis. Easy. The best in the game. A great comeback (1968/1996), misfires (baseball/film), that culminated in a fat guy with a problem (drugs/gambling) who walked away too late and made us lose sight of the fact that he was King. Moreover, I all but guarantee that MJ will be dead in 10 years.

And yet we can still look at back at both of them and think… damn that dude was good.

Karl Malone
Tom Petty. Good, sometimes very good, but never that good. The real reason though? Mass white truck driver appeal.
.

I also considered Chris Cornell.

Bison Dele
You know, I have always been a fan of a good out-of-nowhere Bison Dele reference. Is there a better story out there than Williams walking away from guaranteed ends and the game, only to get murdered by his brother out at sea? I don’t think there is a musician that can attest to that, those fuckers never leave until the game is gone. Given that, the motherfucker has to be Buddy Holly.

And you’re Mary Tyler Moore.

Larry Bird
Bob Dylan. It took me forever to get Dylan, same deal with Bird. Both had physical limitations. Both had an unmitigated capacity to drop science. And Bird, like Dylan, has aged unscathed.

Steve Kerr
Tommy Morello. Sweet stroke. Sitting on the wing. In the shadows. Nothing but net. By extension of this, Bob Horry is Hendrix.

Ron Artest
Rick James.

Bitch.

John Starks
Kurt Cobain. Both were on top of their game in 1993. Both died in 1994.

Sir Charles
I thought about this one for a long, long time. But nothing quite stuck. I’ll leave it up to you. See below.

4) Is it OK to play a shitty game of outdoor pick-up and blame the fact that your shot wasn't falling on the wind, and on not being able to get a good handle on the ball because your hands were caked with dirt? I desperately need to know this; I think I went like 2-for-22 on Sunday.

Part of me says ‘damn 2-for-22 is some John Starks/Kurt Cobain shit’. The other part of me says ‘damn, who keeps count during a pick-up game?’. I haven’t felt this uncomfortable about unsolicited sports statistics since Ice Cube fucked around and got a triple-double on ‘Today was a Good Day’.

I don’t know, maybe it’s a regional thing, but the only records kept on courts down here are feats of incredulity and acts of sheer futility. The latter of which I was a part of more often than the former.

Bottomline - never make excuses for your game. And like Mary Schmich said, if you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

5) What's the biggest prank you or someone you know has ever played on someone?

You know what? Fuck you, you no baby having motherfucker.

.

Back to Back

1. The Takeover/Ether - Who won?

2. Who is the Greenspan of J-babe-onomics in 2006?

3. Sir Charles.

Wilt.

Kobe.

Mahmoud Adul-Rauf.

Dominique.

Magic.

Craig Hodges.

With an added bonus - You're limited to post 1980 musicians.