Oh, Steve's seen some shit. But he makes some great albums now. Plus, he's on "The Wire". So there you go.
Somewhere between the 1930s and today we forgot that you didn't have to be a total pansy to write well. It may, in fact, inform and improve writing to have actually had some experiences in your life. Otherwise you get sucked into meta-navel gazing, and there's a place for that.
But there's also a place for hardcore troubadours.
(Only available on the Special Edition 8-track "PK 27: Funky 4 Plus 4 More," to be released in the fall of the year 49311. Order now from Amazon and receive a fossilized replica of my tortured soul, replete with kung-fu grip.)
I dedicate this to sports analogies, doppelgangers, and redundancy (write that on my epitaph!).
As though explanations were necessary,
(where were you last night when my refrigerator, disguised as a refrigerator, bit me and stole three of my golf shirts?)
I don't even like Buck 65. If there's a sub-genre of rappers whose fanbase considers themselves neo-intellectuals because their favorite poster boy for watered-down angst delivery doesn't shave, is white, and employs a rhyme scheme reminiscent of the Beastie Boys' MCA with autism, Buck 65 might be their rhyming hero. To me he's just a so-so MC with a funny Nova Scotian accent who looks extremely constipated when he spits (an incurable disease for white Canadian MCs, it appears).
That said, don't dismiss '463' or Buck 65. The kid's got talent. He keeps working on his swing, he's finna do some damage in years to come. With some polish, a call up to the majors might not be far away.
American Grafitti End Credits: Since the '463' video, Buck has continued to play in the minors, though he did compose and perform a rap song on Sesame Street, and for that I am -- honestly -- extremely jealous.
Sparkles often informs me that people generally get what they deserve, and the frequency of this philosophical gem comes second only to his notion that evolution is overrated. That second, more prevalent proclamation is regularly precipitated by my sinking of pool balls with mad accuracy, at the expense of his victory.
I should get one of those Cap'n Crunch decoder rings, because I'm just not clever enough to decipher such Eoinisms all on my own. I am also unable to fully appreciate the humor in him spinning around, arms outstretched, while yelling 'ULTRA COMBO!'.* The fact that he prefers to do it to random passersby doesn't help the situation, either.
This is my classy, roundabout way of bringing up one my PK 27 selections, just in case you're too hammered to see through my intricate ruse of buffoonery:
All the Kids Are Right, by Local H
I'll spare you any excessive reproduction of lyrics, save the following.
First the band looked wired
Then the band looked tired
Sluggish and a little slow
He's walking through the set
As drunk as he could get
And what the hell was wrong with Joe**?
Sometimes we're not as good as we'd like to be, and at others we're just lazy (or inebriated), and I'm not quite sure why that is, just as I can scarcely comprehend the mysteries of one Tiberious aka Sparkles. But it's okay, even if you won't wear our T-shirts anymore.
_________
Hati
* Okay, I get it. It still doesn't change the fact that it's dumb, even if it has gotten him laid at least four times. By women. (And) Don't even get me started on Sparkles' propensity to chant 'Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, select, start' to ladies at bars.
** Who is that guy? You decide.
This should be played at a high volume, preferably with headphones, in a dark, secluded area.
My apologies* for the easy layup. If it's any consolation, Mom, I wasn't going to post anything, except "decapitation" was 18 across in today's paper, and it reminded me of the scene above. (Tomorrow's post: Don't End Sentences with a Preposition.)
* You know what, fuck that. What's up with bloggers (read: me) apologizing all the time? "Sorry I was too busy jerking off/taking my schnauzer to the vet/cutting individual letters out of various magazines and pasting them on ransom notes; I promise**, regular blogging will resume when I break up with my girlfriend and get fired."
** Fuck promises, too.
Fuckin' in the Bushes - Oasis
I'm assuming track one will be some goddamned skit involving members of the Wu-Tang clan. If I had it my way, we'd go back in time and jack the Midnight Marauders intro. Either that or Nas' Genesis. But we're all out of plutonium, and water crackers, Einstein, so there'll be no time travel tonight.
Skit aside, PK needs some opening theme music. And this, in my mind, is what it's all about:
We put this festival on, you bastards
With a lotta love
We worked for one year for you pigs
And you wanna break our walls down
And you wanna destroy us
Well you go to hell...
And afterall, we're the Oasis of the blog world.
Tell me I'm wrong, Jesus.
"Though odds were against us, I still took a chance."
My biographer recently asked me what song I consider the most romantic. Normally, this would be a question which would include a lot of introspection on my part, were it not for the fact that -- my twelfth-grade Creative Writing teacher, Ms. Brewer, is probably smoldering after that last part; in Constable Brewer's class, writing the phrase "were it not for the fact that" was considered akin to eating the charred flesh of burnt babies -- I've contemplated the question myself for the better part of a year.
In the Sparkles's Library of Romantic Songs, a lot of books have been checked out and returned late, but none moreso than Man Oh Man (I Wanna Go Back), by Curtis Mayfield and The Impressions.
Mayfield sings "I found you at last, with love at first sight," and, like a glove, I can find no better analogy or tired cliche to explain how heavenly this song fits.
I've fallen in and out of love not a few times in my laugh now-cry later life, and throughout it all has been the cooingly soothing voice of Curtis Mayfield, reminding me of the sweetness of time. And I'll never forget, no I'll never forget.
A chance in a lifetime was with us that night.
I post this for no reason other than to document that Battles is biting the Wonder Twins.
In case you're not a canine and didn't quite catch those lyrics, they go:
Beefaroni, Beefaroni
Eoin's sandwich
Why open eyes is an eyelid island?
I feel like Nas after peeping the album cover for Ready to Die.
Chuck Bronson time.
I one the sandbox: This week, the 18th Letter will begin kindergarten at the elementary school I attented as a kid. Circle of life. Unlike the old man, here's hoping she graduates. (6th grade was hard!)
Make like a tree and get out of here: Language is a powerful thing, and this point was recently driven home when, last night, I watched The Exorcist on Korean cable, where such shocking proclamations as "your mother sucks cocks in Hell" and "stick your cock up his ass, you cocksucking faggot" were replaced with "your mother is in Hell" and "don't make me laugh." Which partially explains why, tonally, William Friedkin's masterpiece of horror isn't considered as terrifying as it is in the west. It also explains why the film is rated 15+ on the penninsula. TVNgels is 19+ and The Exorcist is 15+. Go figure.
Who's gonna take the weight?: Further proof that I am a man with a child's mind, this morning I woke up and weighed myself on the bathroom scale I keep in my kitchen. 69.6 kilograms. Then I drank a liter of water and weighed myself again. 69.6 kilograms. I cry bullshit. I want my money back for the scale, and if the warranty has expired, I figure I can easily sell it to an underachieving, optimistic dieter.
Taurus: David Fincher's Zodiac is a great film. I was inrigued for every 256 minutes of it's duration, even the part in the middle where Jake Gyllenhaal had to take his dog for a walk, clean his bathroom, and cook tomato soup. Zodiac, like sniffing glue and eating semi-live octopus, is a terrific experience, one which I loved yet don't wish to repeat. Because if 300 taught me anything, it's that you need to skew history a bit to make it rewatchable (why the fuck wasn't Ione Skye riding a rhinoceros?). Otherwise, I might as well go back to school like Rodney Dangerfield or Johnny Depp and Peter Deluise, Mr. Fincher. No thanks (unless I get to have a gun and take down drug dealers). And Mark Ruffalo stating that he's been a police detective for 25 years is perhaps the most incredibly unbelievable line delivered in cinematic history. Ruffalo -- who has a funny surname and talks as though his jaw were wired shut -- is 39, although he looks much, much younger. Word to Tim Olyphant. I am supposed to belive this baby-faced marble-mouth has been on the force 25 years? You'd be more successful convincing me Vince Carter has male gonads.
If a train leaving Topeka...: It took me 25 years, but I finally discovered how foolscap paper got its name. Which makes me feel smart. 20-years-old-Brain Age-level smart. Hopefully by the time I'm 70 I'll have learned how a bowling ball and wedding band can fall to the ground at the same speed, and why lions and flamingoes can't make babies.
Dogs are forever in the push-up position:
Remember that night I told you I wanted a picture of the way your face looked an inch or two from my own as you lay next to me because I had seen your face a million times but never in that way? Maybe my eyes were crossed or weren't focused well enough to see your flaws is what you said demurely, and I said you had none. You touched your forehead and sighed, then smiled preciously a moment later when you looked into my eyes and saw how hurt I was that you mistook my genuine honesty as some sort of practised line.
Remember that?
Do you recall the time we went to the amusement park and I marveled over the photograph displayed after we rode the Amazon Adventure coaster because your face was buried in fear while mine was unbridled glee personified, and I wanted to purchase the photo as testement of our stark differences yet mutual pleasure -- I believe you brought up the sexual symbolism, not me -- but you didn't want me to, and I conceded because the glossy photograph would only tell part of the story, while the entire novel was nestled comfortably in my head (still is; always will be)?
Sound familiar?
Think hard. I mean REALLY think. Do you remember the night -- when we first met, this was -- we stayed up watching TV, paying absolutely no attention to whatever was on the tube at the time, staring at it instead as a beacon, a lighthouse guiding you and me to each other? I kissed the back of your neck and held you in my arms for a thousand years.
Nothing?
How's this, then? Do you remember when I promised to love you forever, till the day I die, that I would never stop loving you?
Ring a bell?
Of course not.
Because this is not about you.
Yesterday morning, a day like any other, I awoke, tamed my piss boner* so that I could urinate the way God intended (not in the shower), smoked a square or five, and killed Dracula.
And I'd like to say that that last morsel was the highlight of my day. (Word to Lester Burnham.) I'd like to, but I can't.
Certainly, I felt a sense of triumphant accomplishment. Dracula, like The Sound and the Fury and Bo Jackson in Tecmo Bowl, is hard to tackle. Took me a few days, but finally I made that pasty-faced dandy kneel before Emperor Spark. And I believed I had finished a game which -- my sincerest apologies, Constant Retards -- had consumed and obsessed me so for almost a month.
But I was fooled.
Castlevania: Portrait of Ruin is the drug, the Nintendo DS Lite its vessel. Tiberious aka Sparkles: Psychedelic Victim and potential casualty.
My soul needs saving.
See, PoR, or any similar game for that matter, is fun: it's superbly well-designed and intricate, and provides hours -- or am I just slow? After all, it took me a few days to read Deathly Hallows -- of non-sexual, non-corporeal enjoyment; but do I really want to spend most of my time with it when I could put both my brain and body to better use?
Of course not. Right?
Right?
The notion (fear?) that video games are addictive and dangerous was pretty much deaded by most in the late 90's and early aughts when everyone and their meth-addled goldfish succumbed, Invasion of the Body Snatchers-style, to the Internet age. For that I was thankful. For that I felt redeemed.
You know what, ALL CAPS JACK KIRBY THOR BLURB STYLE: REDEMPTION NO LONGER!
Here's why:
I am a completist, albeit a poor one. I never mailed in for limited edition Star Wars or G.I. Joe action figures, nor did I read the shitty Internet comics which supposedly make The Matrix trilogy 0.01% less confusing and conversely 100 000 000% more convoluted; but when it comes to video games, I want it all like Warren G.
Castlevania: Portrait of Ruin, if I am to master every weapon (a Herculean feat perfect for prison inmates serving life), complete every quest, conquer The Nest of Evil, and finish the game on Richter, Sisters, and Old Ax Armor modes, will consume my very soul, I'm positive.
Apparently, there are people who have done just that, which amazes me profoundly. It also scares me, for anyone with enough time on his hands to perFECT PoR is probably jobless and will continue to be so, or is a student wasting his time mastering a fucking video game instead of memorizing irregular German verbs or how to suture a displaced sexual organ.
Me, I'm in a precarious position: I killed Dracula, so why does it feel as though stepping aside and getting on with my life makes me a quitter? Why do I hear a voice saying "you never finish anything" when I try to walk away?
Moreover, why do I feel a video game will somehow validate my cred as an AANG?
Beats you, beats me.
(But I'm still going to master that sucker. Just to prove a point. To no one.)
* aka the breakfast of champions, for some. (Not Allison Stokke.)
