Beat and Meat (Pt. One)

Like it or not, 2007 is nearly finished. It was a year of highs, and most certainly lows, but that's cool; I'm not one to complain about performances upon the World's stage, given that I play no part. I just do my job, listen to music, play video games, masturbate, swear as often as humanly possible, and eat a lot of steak. Basically, I'm Sparkles without the classy girlfriend (she's no girl, mind you), and minus the desire to write about the monumental size of my penis (mostly because I lack either, but mainly because such things don't concern me whatsoever).
On a totally unrelated note, you know what bothered me in 2007? The way Balboa has been duckin' me, it's a disgrace. You know what I mean, yes you do, but enough about that.




I tried to listen to a fair amount of recently released music this year, as opposed to reveling in past glories (even if, in the case of In Rainbows, I should ask the question of why). In the spirit of the fleeting season, I'd like to present a brief recap of my listening experiences, in no particular order.

A Weekend in the City, Bloc Party: the album began, and ended, rather magnificently but, in all honesty, the middle of the disc was mediocre at best. Still, Hunting for Witches is a fantastically catchy tune, so I'll forgive the British bastards.

Alpha, Sevendust: I'm not quite sure why I acquired this disc, but it served the purpose of giving me something like rock to engage. It seems like time is not the best pal of Lajon Witherspoon's project, but age is a bitch, so I'll forgive him, too.

April, VAST: speaking of an era past its prime, I get the impression that Jon Crosby keeps clinging to what once made him cool. Don't get me wrong, in that April is worthy of a listen, but is it anything comparable to the titular Visual Audio Sensory Theater, or Music for People? The short answer is a resounding no but, to be fair, the two aforementioned discs wouldn't be terribly impressive if newly released today. I still buy your discs, Crosby. Don't you fret one bit.

Because of the Times, Kings of Leon: I can't help but wonder if this is an album that our very own TMH would adore. I don't intend for the previous statement to be slanderous, it's just that I can't identify with this disc whatsoever, just as I lack the ability to fathom the intricacies of one Big T. Thus far.

Distance and Time, Fink: I thoroughly enjoyed Biscuits for Breakfast, and this album, while not quite as wondrous, still manages to press the right buttons for yours truly. I look forward to his next effort with muted anticipation. The fourth track, Blueberry Pancakes, manages to rock my balls, for your information.

Dumb Luck, Dntel: depending upon my mood, I either love, or loathe this disc. Bringing in random vagrants to contribute to an album doesn't endear me to your effort, Mr. Dntel, but I can't deny the rhythmic beats. You're on the fecal fence.

Echoes, Silence, Patience & Grace, Foo Fighters: Dave! In Your Honor was an awesome, disc-spanning collection of tunes. The new album is great, and superior to your late-nineties attempts to cash in on the burgeoning grunginess-turned-skater crowd, so please don't misunderstand me. I just liked your previous effort a bit more.

I-Empire, Angels & Airwaves: is this a new face of rock? Is it progressive, or digressive? I can't say, nor can I determine if this album is preferable to We Don't Need to Whisper from 2006. Tom DeLonge is such a pretentious fuck (like a contributor to this site, no doubt) but, nonetheless, he is able to make a decent, interesting disc when he puts his heart into it. Much akin to the debut disc, I-Empire keeps you occupied, pleasantly enough.

I'll Sleep when You're Dead, El-P: bet you couldn't surmise that I was, initially, hesitant to listen to this album. I'm not well versed in hip-hoppish music (if you would classify Meline's masterpiece in such a way), and it took a significant amount of prodding from Sparkles to even acquire the disc. I'm grateful that he did, as El-P has created what is, in my mind, arguably the album of 2007, even if Habeas Corpses is a bit weak. I wouldn't begin to compare it to Fantastic Damage, as Sparkles would go ballistic, but even so...

In Rainbows, Radiohead: look, I'll be blunt in saying that the version I paid for, the version consisting of ten tracks, was a worthwhile addition to my CD collection, but it didn't knock the ears off of my penis, if you get my drift (Mr. Potato Head, that is). The later, additional tracks may offer a bulbous amount of orgiastic audio pleasure (as noted in a previous PK post) but the fact remains that Yorke and the gang could have done a whole lot more, the polished perfection of All I Need notwithstanding.

Life in Cartoon Motion, Mika: an ineffectual, inoffensive, and inarticulate but still jovial romp through an otherwise dismal year for feel-good music. It's like the A-Team of musical journeys, so to speak. Normally, the Scissor Sisters would fulfill my metrosexual quotient, but Mika was a plausible substitute.

Next episode, we delve into the far reaches of...I'm uncertain.

___________________________________

KBlot

Testes. Testes. One. Two. Three?

I Wanna Rock.

What's PK? Addendum -- The Psychedelic Kimchi Men, For the Discerning Man

Before I start, a belated Christmas gift to Idealjetsam, who -- God bless his mutinous heart -- said what you all feel by calling for more transparency (and boobies) from PK in the future. My only caveat: be careful what you wish for.

Today I woke up at 11:30. That's pretty late for me. I usually wake up shortly before 10. I have been constipated lately, so I wasn't very eager to start the new day. Besides, I had nothing to do. Literally. I finished Phantom Hourglass, a videogame available for the Nintendo DS handheld videogame system, the day prior, and the next game I planned to immerse myself in, Lego Star Wars, based on the popular toy for children and the equally popular series of films directed by George Lucas, isn't very fun. Around 12 or so I went to the local Buy the Way -- picture an Asian version of 7-Eleven -- to wire money to my real estate agent and buy some cup ramen (fried noodles). I ate it with regular Pringles and a 500mL bottle of Gatorade, a popular sports drink. I was quite full afterwards. I had a bowel movement roughly 30 minutes later, but it wasn't very successful. What I mean is, I still feel backed up. My girlfriend tells me I should eat more kiwis. The fruit, mind you, because kiwi is also the name of a flightless bird. It is also a colloquialism for people who are from New Zealand. I am moving on Saturday, so I started to get my possessions -- clothes, books, DVDs, etc. -- together. They are currently taking up most of the available floor space in my apartment. My dog, a Shih Tzu name Jikko, is a little nervous. She thinks I'm leaving her behind, I suspect. I tried to assure her that that is not the case, but dogs cannot understand complex human dialogue, at least not yet. Presently, I shall smoke a Dunhill Light cigarette and have a can of OB Lager beer. Research has shown that smoking can lead to myriad health risks, but despite such evidence cigarettes remain a vice for me. I plan to quit, though, when I return to Canada, a North American country with a population of around 30 million. Cigarettes are just too darn expensive there, like 10 dollars for a pack of 25. No thanks. I'm not that rich, though I wish I were. Ha ha. Well, that was my day. Hope yours was more eventful. In a good way, I mean. Like if a stray bullet hit you while you were going to your car after purchasing a coffee at Dunkin Donuts and you spent most of the afternoon in the emergency room, that's eventful but pretty crummy. Or if you lost your job and now don't have the option of eating ramen (fried noodles) because you want to, instead because you have to, and then you found out your ex girlfriend is making Internet porn movies with your father, that's eventful, too, but in a very negative way. Anyways, it's getting late and I should probably hit the sack (go to bed). If anyone reading this knows whether there really are more chickens on Earth than human beings, please leave a comment. That one has been eating at me (perplexing me) all week.

Now, on to the list of men who exemplify the spirit of Psychedelic Kimchi. I was going to create a list of women who do the same, but it's pretty short. Like one-name short. Word to big fish in small ponds. Still, some female names might creep into it. Also (legal stuff), this list is by no means comprehensive. I hope, however, that it is comprehensible. Word to IDJ.


Film: Christopher Reeve, Terry Michos, Emilio Estevez, Bill Hader, Kurt Motherfucking Russell, Stanley Kubrick, Sergio Leone, Takeshi Kaneshiro, Mandy Moore, Frank Darbont, Wong Kar Wai,

Television: Rod Serling, Jim Henson,

Comedy, Stand-Up and Otherwise: Mitch Hedberg, Dmitri Martin, Andy Motherfucking Kaufman, Bill Murray, Russell Peters, Bruce McCulloch, Will Farrell, The Lonely Island Collective,

Music: Thom Yorke, El-P, Chuck D, David Bowie, Ennio Morricone, Karen O, Morrissey, Isaac Brock, James Murphy, KRS ONE,

Literature: Stephen King, W. Sommerset Maugham, Jack London, Fyodor Motherfucking Dostoevsky, Haruki Murakami, Ernest Hemingway, Theodor Geisel, Rudyard Kipling,

Journalism: Roger Ebert, Bill Simmons, Bob Woodward,

Internet: Byron Crawford, Free Darko, CHUD, Psychedelic Kimchi,

Art: Paul Gauguin, Walt Simonson, Jack Kirby,

Publishing: Johannes Gutenberg, Hugh Hefner, Paris Hilton,

Science and Humanities Malcolm X, Louis Pasteur, Albert Einstein, Jesus,

Sports: Gilbert Arenas, Kobe Bryant, Ricky Williams, Manny Ramirez, David Ortiz, Bison Dele, Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf, Eric Lindros, Brett Hart, Peter North, Jason McElwain,

Fictional Characters: Holden Caufield, Santa Claus, Ivan Karamazov, Tiberious aka Sparkles, Ferris Buehler, You (Choose Your Own Adventure), Jimmy McNulty,

___________

Happy Holidays, gentleMEN (and sisters Duff, Hilary and Haley)

What's PK?

A very good question, that. I sometimes aloofly claim -- when I'm having espresso and biscotti with Wolfes Tom and Thomas -- that Psychedelic Kimchi is the alpha and omega of nothing, to make myself sound profound in a self-depracatingly ironic way. No one ever gets the joke. Or they pretend they don't. Myself included.

However, the truth is that when I started this hallowed blog back in the halcyon year of double-oh-five, I drew up a manifesto, at the end of which was my goal to, in 2009, interview and bed a recognizable Korean starlet. Sometimes life has other plans, though, and so it was that, when my ultimate goal was reached three years earlier than I initially hoped, I had to revise that shit, like George Lucas pretending the original Star Wars was part four of a six-part saga.

In these, the waning days of the year 2007, I fear I may have to return to the lab yet again to rework my master plan. Because scarce time remains for me to play pool against -- then bed -- Shanelle Loraine. Four days left, and I try to stay optimistic, but I am only fooling myself.

Still, one particular section of the PK Handbook (Dungeon Master's Guide) stands unblemished by time or time-travelling device. For you, Constant Retard, I present* it now as a belated Christmas present**, in all its heavenly glory, as it was originally conceived.

April 9, 2005:

PK is...

PK is Humpty Hump and Shock G together, without the use of editing or trick photography...PK is an army, nigga, a navy, nigga...PK is fall down seven times, get up seven and a half...PK is your first erection quickly followed by your first gaming experince, then your first birthday IN THAT ORDER...PK is fire up this funk, fire symbolizing rebellious youth, funk it sucks to grow old (no Hunter S. Thompson)...PK is inside baseball, outside basketball, and, in some nations, within volleyball. Word to the Pink Spiders...PK is indellible. Costanza!...PK is I drove all the way to Sokcho on foot and all I got was this crappy T-shirt...PK is television, the drug of a nation, breeding ignorance and feeding radiation (and beefaroni!)...PK is Memph Bleek is...PK is every smile you have when you catch an obscure reference: 50 points...PK is secretly controlling the world's finance in Switzerland with the help of 12 Tall Israelis who suck at backgammon...PK is Charlie Rose vs. Larry King at Wrestlemania, no holds barred...PK is a cheese sandwich. A banana bread and cottage cheese sandwich...PK is that anonymous fear thing, sitting in traffic, thinking, ''I'm sure I'm supposed to be doing something else"...PK is a product of its environment, although it wishes its environment were a product of it...PK is that time you were comfortable settling down, only PK couldn't settle down, so you and PK parted ways, and you still hate yourself for it, because PK was huge amongst the avid readers of your cavernous novel, and these days you receive little fanfare...PK is trial by fire. Because there's no such thing as half-way crooks who are both scared to death and scared to look. It's ride or die, dun. But if you want me to circle around the block a few times, I'll keep the car running, waiting. Because YOU ARE THAT GOOD...PK is a breath of fresh air after a sigh of toxic cloud...PK is indulgence, better yet, hedonism. And then some...PK is all the things I wish I could say but don't have the time to...PK is K-Hot's reluctance to peep The Departed, and mine to make sense any longer...PK is "what have you done for me lately?" and "didn't I blow your mind this time? Didn't I?"...PK is Q-Tip circa 1991-1993...PK is an unlockable level unless you finish it on EASY, NORMAL, and HARD modes...PK is Bundang, and it has the tattoo to verify. A washable one, however...PK wants to suck your soul, lick your funky emotion, and take some time getting to know you better...PK is cyanide pills in the form of good ideas...PK is typing "busty japanese hot" on YouTube and staying home all day to bask in the glory of its results...PK is that warm feeling you get when all in the world is right for you, everything seems perfect, and then some asshole doctor tells you your ghetto pass has been revoked because you have rectal cancer. Like Contra 4, some things in life are not only unfair, they're downright criminal...PK fucks your head up like getting corn rows put in by blind giants.

_______

That's PK, I guess. Truthfully, I made up half that shit as I went along (micro managment to my dungeon master's macro), deleting only the faggy stuff.. But if you're still here, I'll fill you in on a little secret:


PK, at its core, broken down to its purest form:




* stress on the second syllable

**stress on the first

The PK 27 -- Track 20/20

Our reader would find this astonishing, I'm sure, but only a select few frequent this site. Hell, excluding my colleagues, Sparky's mum, that chubby girl that Kmart takes everywhere and the Google spider that relentlessly searches the Internet for greatness, it's really just you, dear reader. Well, you and the guys looking for pictures of Nancy Lang naked - and that's usually just me and my colleagues.

But rue your solitude not, sir or madam, for you are a witness. A lone witness.

See, what you have here is the blog equivalent of a pick-up game, in a quiet suburban park, with maybe just a wide-eyed kid and a couple of old folks watching absently. Manifold not. And five guys that can flat out play. Manigault yes.

Fuck the association.

I've seen some game on this court, so has that kid. I wrote about the pen and the roundball being the same, way back when. Truth still holds. All told.

In a field of dreams.
Stands an old hoop with no net.
French Lick, Ind'ana.

Haiku me not.

What we do here is write, right? Whether it's a short story, an interview, a lesson, a review, a joke or, insh'allah, a tome -- what we're looking for is one in the same: Perfection. Looking for the ideal form, an infinite arc, nothing but net. No flash, no gimmicks, no fancy shorts. Just dusted Chucks, TMH's funky tube socks and some pornography for the rainy days.

Praise we seek not. If these guys tell me I'm right, that's all I can ask for. If you want to stick around, kid, welcome aboard. And if not, forget us not, for the fact is, you were here. You were once a witness to it. Even if you didn't realise at the time. Folly of youth and all that.

We know that we'll be long dead before before scientists and theologians again discuss etching a snapshot of life on a gold disc and slipping it out into that implacable ether. We'll be ashes when the dust is first blown from that record. Gone like Blind Willie.

Cold will be the ground.

But that's not what motivates us. For now, each of us is satisfied to pursue perfection. Shoot the roundball and if something, anything, we write sticks and is added to that record... well, sir, that'd be nice. And if it don't, hell, we'll never breathe a word of our loss, because in the end, it was all about the game anyway.

In the meantime, kid, you're welcome to watch, but if you wanna play, you best pick up the fucking ball.



Blind Willie Johnson
Dark was the night, cold was the ground.

A Very Kimochi Christmas

This holiday season, let us not forget the true reason we celebrate Christmas. Sadly, the true meaning of Christmas is often lost in the whirlwind of Santa, Presents and Mistletoe. I, of course, am referring to your friend and mine, Jesus...



Shuttlesworth.

I'm sure Jesus would want us to celebrate his career resurrection with some eggnog. Tis being the season, and all:



Aiight, now I'm off to Midnight Mass.

The Mist (Review)

I like Frank Darabont a lot -- though more for his passion for filmmaking and easy-going, non-pretentious demeanor than for his actual output. The Shawshank Redemption notwithstanding, Darabont's oeuvre consists of interesting ideas that just haven't been executed properly. Still, he takes chances. In that regard I have no qualms about calling him an auteur. (Jesus, oeuvre and autuer in the same paragraph. George Orwell must be spinning in his grave.) The man has a passion for cinema, and even his failures contain glimpses of something special.

To put a finer point on it, Frank Darabont is part of Hollywood fraternal geekdom, someone who prefers to make the movies he wants to make -- in Frank's case usually Stephen King adaptations -- in favor of the run of the mill. I imagine he's had his fair share of offers to direct any number of crappy films, so it's admirable that he would decline such offers and instead patiently wait to helm a project for which he has a nerdlike affinity.

So it was that The Mist, based on the 1980 King novella, finally made it to the big screen after years spent in development hell. The big question: was it worth the wait? Financially, no. The film floundered pretty spectacularly at the box office; not much of a surprise for a Frank Darabont film, sadly. Critically it fared a little better, though by no means achieving the accolades heaped upon Shawshank (deserved) and The Green Mile (the most overrated film not titled Gladiator). But fans of Frank Darabont or Stephen King -- of which I am both -- only care about those successes as they relate to the propagation of their idols' future works, to which financial gain and critical acceptance are inexorably linked. King, let's face it, could perpetually write the same book, changing only the characters' names, tweaking each plot slightly, and still make a bundle (in fact, he kinda has), because he's become a brand name. Like McDonald's and Free Mumia. Shit, if he wrote six hundred pages containing the ingredients of various condiments and snackfoods' labels -- in fact, he kinda should -- for the remainder of his career I'm fairly certain his legacy wouldn't be damaged too badly. Word to the Washington Wizards' starting shooting guard, Michael Jeffrey Jordan. As for Darabont, this recent failure is much more severe. I suspect studios are going to be a lot less willing to listen when he pitches his next ambitious film -- and that's saying something, because for a man of his expertise Darabont has already had a hard time pushing his projects through the system.

There is, of course, a lesson to be learned here. Namely, save your dream projects for when you have been granted enough freedom within the Hollywood system, so that a cinematic black mark such as, say, Scorsese's New York, New York, won't hinder you in the long run. The Shawshank Redemption, a monetary triumph on video and cable years after its theatrical release, afforded Darabont the luxury of bringing another King adaptation, The Green Mile, to the big screen. You can praise it all you want, but the film's success had more to do with Shawshank's -- The Little Movie that Could -- prison nostalgia and the weird zeitgeist of the nineties which demanded every Tom Hanks vehicle receive an Academy Awards nomination. Par for the course vis a vis Darabont films, it's full of big ideas that fall flat, and the supernatural aspect, quite understandably, threw people for a loop. It's not a terrible film, but neither is it a particularly good one. Plus it's long as fuck; and intervening years have proved that Michael Clarke Duncan, as an actor, is good at snivelling and little else.

Then followed The Majestic, Jim Carrey's third attempt to parlay his acting competence into Oscar gold. Again with the big, sentimental ideas (which, like lightning, rarely strikes the same man twice; word to Norwegian Wood), Darabont tried, again, to recapture the emotional sensibility of Shawshank, mix it with the supernatural bent of Green Mile, and hopefully turn out a film that would unite the two, thematically. Tricky as fuck, I know; which is why I probably appreciate The Majestic a lot more than I should. Darabont failed, but he went out swinging.

Since The Majestic's release and merciful death, I wonder what went through Darabont's mind. Was he crestfallen? Inconsolable? Or did he shrug it off, keep the faith, and, word to White Snake (again), confidently walk down (again) the only road he's ever known? Was his decision to direct The Mist a stubborn attempt to validate himself in the medium on his terms, or an impassioned "fuck you" to Hollywood and moviegoers?

Regardless, it worked. On both accounts. The Mist is neither refreshing nor revealing -- no wonder, since it was adapted from a King Novella derivative of the Twilight Zone episode The Monsters are Due on Maple Street, and which, as well-written as it was, doesn't exactly call to mind comparisons to Madame Bovary. What it is, though, to paraphrase Dennis Green, is what we thought it was: a claustrophobic sci-fi horror film, a creepy and astonishing one at that.

Meet David Drayton, will you? Picture a man, an artist, just now putting the finishing touches on a poster for -- geek orgasm -- the film version of Stephen King's The Dark Tower. Lightning flashes, and all that you love will be taken away, Mr. Drayton. Soon. A storm hits. In the morning you discover that your painstakingly beloved Work of Mart is done, as in dead. Your wife and son, on the other hand, are okay, so you breathe a sigh of relief, an ominous one. Your boathouse is totalled, but you never liked it that much anyway. Too many cobwebs. Your asshole neighbor, Brent Norton, you notice, has it worse than you. You contemptuously smile and pity him equally, because, while an asshole, no one deserves to have a bitching ride like that crushed by a fallen tree.

You bond over fallen trees. Yours crushed my boathouse, yours crushed your car. Let's be friends. Let me give you a ride. I noticed on my way over that I was a lot less hostile towards you because in the film version you're black. Still, you're gonna be an asshole when all is said and done. Blame the screenwriter.

My son is coming along for the ride. Cool? Seriously, he's going to be a lot less annoying than most movie kids when the shit hits the fan. You're not gonna want to strangle him or anything. So take him into the Food House while I try to call my wife at this pay phone. I'll meet up with youse later.

Oh, shit. Some guy just came running into the supermarket. He has a bloody nose that will never be explained, and his friend, the prosaically-named John Lee, is lost in the mist, probably dead. This revelation has totally fucked up the check-out order. And I'm pretty sure someone took the last Clark bar. Damnation.

Just like that time you caught me beating off to Kraftwerk, all in attendance try to keep a straight face despite their fears. I, embarrassed, aimlessly wander into the back storage room, notice the generator is spewing fumes into the store, and shut it down. Then I hear a noise. You, cameo boy, will soon be dead because I mention it to a few surrounding idiots, and you have the gall to GO OUTSIDE AND LOOK. I try to stop them, but my mind is far too occupied with visions of Kim Kardashian's cleavage. Hope you understand.

After you die, I punch a few people then calm down. Because it is my duty. I don't like it, though. I'd much rather continue punching, because it's a catchy tune that my fists play well. But I have a son to think about. So I placate him and tell Mr. Plot Device, AKA the singularly wasted talent of Andre Braugher, that something fishy is out there. He reacts like a man on PCP, totally killing my buzz for being a savior. I lose my cool. Somewhere, my son is watching me, but I don't sweat it. I'm going to shoot him in the head later, so best not to give him false hope.

You know who's weirder, though? Mrs. Carmody, that's who. At first she starts proselytizing like "fuck you, bitch," but soon she has a congregation, like "fuck you, Oprah." I see now that my time here is short. I'm finna execute a plan to get out of this cursed place. I think my son is sleeping somewhere with a volley ball net twisted around his neck. Check out the tits on her!

You know what else? In the novella I at least got to sleep with a hot woman before all the madness occurs, my son asleep and my wife probably dead. What can I say, people do far out shit when the apocalypse is nigh. (It's all about perspective.) Far out shit like getting tang before bugs and other weird shit cock block me. I want out of this movie, stat.

Told you; now gargantuan insects and the dinosaur-birds they love have invaded the store. Blue. Balls.

Some people die. Not. My. Fault. Just wait, though, it will be. Everything is eventual, after all.

I organize a crew to leave the store: Me, my son, two old people who won't die, and a few young ones who will. You're gonna feel bad, because I handpicked them. You believe me, right? I'll tap your shoulder before I ejaculate.

There. Is. No. Other. Option. I was all "Ride with me, I'll keep you safe," and suddenly I was all "buck, buck, buck, buck."

Somewhere -- possibly stationary, in his gwave -- Rod Serling is smiling.

3/4 *_* (but it will live forever in our conscience)

The PK 27 -- Track 3 (Feet High and Rising)

Back in 1992, the Australian High Court handed down the Mabo decision. The Court found, inter alia, that Australia's history had been predicated on a legal fiction, that being the declaration of terra nullius made by the British on first settlement of this wide brown land. The Court held that Mr Mabo was right - Australia did have a people and system of law that predated the white man. Australia was anything but a land of nothing.

At about the same time, my Ma decided that our family needed a sea change. Perhaps without thought to the true consequences for me and my two brothers, our family upped and left Oz's second most populated metropolis for a small tropical tourist town in the deepest northern tip of Australia. 3000 or so kilometres we flew. My mother had elected to relocate us to the end of existence.

It'd be years before I picked up a constitutional law text book and first read about the plight of Eddie Mabo, but if you'd have summarised it for me just as I disembarked the plane at the end of my journey north, I could have confirmed, without need of legal qualification, that the Court had got it wrong. Terra nullius was in full effect.

4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42

Flashback noise.

I was raised in Melbourne's inner city (griots). Lived in an apartment in a marginal 'migrant' suburb. Poor, they called it back then. Grew up next to towers that blocked the afternoon sun. It wasn't a postcard, but it had an unrelenting pulse and, more to the point, it was home.

My best friend in primary school was a refugee from Laos. Came over on a boat and nearly died when he swallowed his tongue, or so his mother was fond of telling us. I remember his grandparents, sitting on a woven mat, laughing at my whiteboy ways, their red smiles broken from betel nut. When I'd visit, we'd eat ox tongue soup and ramen raw out of the packet, the entire chilli sachets included. I made the mistake of rubbing my eyes once and ended up crying like a fucking baby. Asian kids must get taught not to do this shit.

Another kid I used to run with, Achilles, came from Cyprus. He lived with his sister Maria, his mother and grandfather. They used to dry orange peels on their window sill and eat them as a snack. We'd sit there and chew that stuff, although I never knew why. Damn things tasted like shit. I remember Achilles lost his shoes after soccer practice one day, his grandfather beat him and made him wear his football boots to school for a week. I still remember the sound of his plastic molded studs sliding on the concrete as we walked to class. Poor Cypriot bastard.

Growing up in this environment, I came to love, and at the same be immune to its diversity. In my first grade photo, I'm one of a handful of white boys amongst a sea of yellow and brown kids. Fuck Benneton, we owned the patent pending. On the flipside, growing up poor, I could never quite identify with the well-to-do white kids. They all had two cars, two bathrooms, two parents, two incomes in a two-level house. All I had was two homes, homes.

It's probably unsurprising that I took to hiphop in this context. My older brother, visionary that he is, first introduced me to it. First song I heard? The Message. We used to listen to it in secret when my Ma wasn't home. Even then, I knew, that some black music could be more relevant to me than white music ever could.

As I got older, I also took to ball. I first started shooting with an old Chinese guy who, come to think of it, probably wasn't all that old. I loved hoops immediately. As I have said many times before, it's one of the few sports that makes sense with ten guys, four, two or one. All you need is a hoop, a ball and some will. Sometimes all you need is a hoop.

Consciously or not, I had consumed a lot of black culture by my midteens. And whilst it would prove to bring a lot of love and relevance to my life, I never felt the compulsion to not be white. Never fronted that I was a hoodlum. Didn't even own a baseball cap. I loved hiphop and I loved hoops, but I also had other things on my mind. Poetry and pussy, mostly. That said, I was more coloured than I realised.

Flashforward noise.

The first thing I noticed was the unceasing heat. It was late in the summer when we first arrived, and you wear that kind of humidity like a fucking G-suit. Our place was located ten minutes north of the main strip of town, but even at this short distance we were edging the town's limits. I remember my pasty white legs strolling through the wide fucking streets, gazing up at wooden houses that disappeared into the mountains, subsumed by the tropical forests with greens so deep they swallowed the unrelenting sun. As I walked, people stopped to say 'hello' for no reason. Where the fuck was I? Kansas?

Starting school in a town like this may have made for a good sitcom pilot, but it was a dark HBO comedic hell for me. The kids were all tanned, all wore short shorts, spoke slowly and didn't know a fucking thing about the city or hiphop.

Life up north would quickly drive my brother south. While I eventually acclimatised to some parts of life in the tropics (tanned girls are easy), I never truly felt comfortable - I always missed the rattle and hum of the city. A tropical town always slept and on hot humid nights the lack of noise, apart from the high pitch of mosquitos and the low thud of falling coconuts, is enough to drive a city boy mad.

Blasting holes in the night 'til she bled sunshine.

At school, I fit in well, but I was always the city kid. I never could convince anyone to embrace hiphop. Hiphop is for black people, they told me. See, underneath all that tan, my friends were white. They liked rock music and lived in nice wooden houses. They didn't eat orange peels and they ate their ramen cooked and watery. The sun would last long into the evening and set beyond the mountains. What appeal or relevance would Illmatic have to a kid who has never felt a city's respiration? Not fucking much.

So I did my time. Learned to appreciate the whiter things in life, like cricket, cucumber sandwiches and Sonic Youth.

After three years up north, I finished school and headed back down south to colder and cooler climes to study at university. Back to civilisation. I recall immediately feeling at home on my return. Truth told, I miss the north sometimes. Stockholm Syndrome, I suppose.

So what prompted this little trip down memory lane? Thanks to that cancerous little social networking tool, I am starting to hear from people I knew way back when. Some I'm even happy to hear from. One such girl from my high school days in the tropics, I hadn't heard from in close to 12 years. We weren't all that close, but I seem to recall we took an art class together.

She sent me a message recently, out of the clear blue. She wanted to tell me that I was, in fact, right. She explained that it took her a few years to realise, and some travelling, but she now loved hiphop. She told me that she was most partial to A Tribe Called Quest. And that's pretty much all she wanted to say.

For the life of me, I can't remember the conversation to which she referred, but it made me smile, nonetheless.

This one is for Bec:



I left my wallet in El Segundo
A Tribe Called Quest

Back to the Grill, Again

The prodigal son returns. And ain't a damn thing changed but the weather.

Longtime readers of this hallowed site of journalistic ejaculate* -- that would be you, Constant Retard -- will recall that, as recounted in my initial Memory Lane post from a few years back**, my life as an expatriate began nearly eight years ago, in the Hongik University area, PKA Hongdae. Well, friends and Navers, serendipitously your favorite blogger's favorite blogger is set to return there at the beginning of the year of the rat. (I mean 2008, not 2020.) Babies stop crying, women start having orgasms again.

Forgive me for being so literary minded (you've been blinded...), but, in the long-ass novel that has been my life in Korea, a return to Hongdae serves as a fitting final chapter for what will likely be my final year in the Land of the Alonzo Morning Calm.

And while I am indeed excited and eager about my new job and giddy (Lee) to reacquiant myself with the sights, sounds, and soaplands of the old 'hood, I am simultaneously filled with an almost unbearable sorrow at the prospect of leaving my home of five years, Bundang (PKA The Planet). For, like Mrs. Todd's shortcuts, Bundang is not a place revealed on any map. It is a state of mind. It is a state of grace. It is where the 18th Letter was brought into this world, and where, on October 28, 2006, true love seemed possible. Bundang is all those things and more. If you haven't lived here you wouldn't understand. Especially if you're a slow mutant from Ilsan.

On the eve of relocating, we tend to make promises we rarely keep. Perhaps I'm doing that now, because I ardently intend to visit Bundang as often as possible. But I know how it goes; in the beginning I'll be there every weekend, then every other weekend, then once a month, then maybe never again, as my affection for the place first recedes and then eventually becomes in my memory just another way station I've passed en route to WHO THE HELL KNOWS. In that way, the places in which we've lived are similar to relationships, friendships, and all that we once held fond. And that's why I'm feeling misty eyed at the moment, because, deep down, it doesn't feel as though it's time for me to move on. It feels as though there is so much more left to be said.

Bundang, It's not you, it's me. It happens sometimes. Affluent suburbs of Seoul come in and out of our lives like busboys in a restaurant, and there's not a damned thing you can do about it. I'd like to think that you understand, that some birds aren't meant to be caged, their feathers are just too bright. And I hope you don't feel too drab and empty when I'm gone. I'll miss you, baby. I'll never have as much fun later on as the fun I had when I lived in you. (Jesus, will anyone?) And I'll always remember the time I came in your mouth without warning, and you shrugged it off like a champ. That was boss.

Bundang, don't you cry. Don't you cry. Don't you dare shed a tear. Because there are other worlds than this, and hopefully I'll see you again in at least one of them.

When we are both cats.



* Naturally, I mean that in a good way.

** Don't peep the archives, Bruce; them shits were brutal. At least they are now, avec perspective, sans complacency.

The 2007 PK Awards -- Sparkles

Lamentably, due to personal issues

(I went to prison)

I failed to comprise a "best of" list last December. My bad. The next time I cop dust in Itaewon, I promise not to jump from a third floor window and bite a police officer's shoulder. At least I'll try.

That out of the way, I present to you, Constant Retard, a far-from comprehensive list of everything great about this past year, least how's I sawed it.

If there is any justice on this godforsaken interstellar commercial towing-vehicle we call Earth, Beowulf will be nominated for Best Picture at the Academy Awards in March. What do you know, Ivan Reitman made a boring-ass epic poem, which people only read because they are forced to, interesting. Scratch that, profound. Best. Adapted. Screenplay. Ever...

People -- usually stupid people, occasionally academics with agendas -- tend to unfairly criticize white men who are fond of Asian women. But I ask you, who is more foolish: the man who devotes his time to pointing out stereotypes of such relationships, or the man who disregards biased analyses and perpetuated stereotypes and instead follows his libido vis a vis what he believes is the apex of feminine beauty? In this writer's opinion, Asian women are simply prettier than their western counterparts, and this view has nothing to do with culture. That said, Katherine Heigl is crowned, by me, as the sexiest woman alive, until tomorrow...

Ever since I stopped drinking water in favor of Gatorade and started using nuchaku in favor of birth control, The Nintendo DS has made me smile like a man possessed. A man possessed by smiles, like David Guest. Unintentional poetry aside, the Nintendo DS Lite is Viagra for former late-twenties gamers. Best. Invention. Of. The. 21st. Century. Ever.

That said, fuck Contra 4. Man, fuck it 'til it bleeds. The inimitable and illustrious K-Mart posted that it is a game harder than having sex with nuns (maybe I'm paraphrasing; maybe you just wanna slam a nigger's head through a plate-glass window). The man wasn't wrong. In the King of Kong documentary, Donkey Kong is described as "almost impossibly hard." As per Contra 4, omit the "almost" part. That game gives me nightmares. Shit, I played it today on Easy level and couldn't make it past the second boss, although, in all honesty, I was high on dust...

Psychedelic Kimchi is meta. You know this. Therefore, post of the year goes to TMH for A Materials Darkly. It's not as amazing as Aggressive Mistakes, which I will forever be thankful to the author for kindly passing me, but it's close. TMH walks softly and carries a big stick; and when you see his posts on this hallowed site, you, Constant Retard, are in for a treat indeed. No Idealjetsam...

Psychedelic Kimchi is also, among other things, a revelation. At least it was to me when I belatedly discovered that one half of PK's resident rhyme is finna be a father soon. Congratulations, KMart! May your first child be a masculine child! And may he type fast. Prediction: God's Son posts a missive on Dora the Explorer before Idealjetsam reawakens from his ancient slumber. Word to Mumra...

Word to missed opportunities, the best unseen post of this and any other year is the follow-up Nancy Lang interview. You will have to trust me on that point...

Best vacation goes to the time we went to Gangneung and I bought you a bikini we both knew you'd never wear in public. I'm not mad. Word to the Secret Weapon...

Let's run through the rest of the list like Adrian Peterson snorting the Konami Code: Modest Mouse's We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank is the year's best album, "Tarantula" by Smashing Pumpkins the best single; KMart the world's sexiest replicant, myself the ugliest clone; cigarettes my biggest vice, women a close second; ballerina of the year? Easy, Tiballerina aka Spandau, aka the 18th Letter in the alphabet; best sampler? Easy, the SP-1200; biggest regret: no Super Mario Galaxy, not calling "Spitting Venom" the year's best song*, being an insufferable asshole.

Wear your seatbelt, Pineapple.



* Cues: 1:27, 2:19, 4:16, 4:59...fuck it, the song deserves its own post. Until then, the Mumra Award goes to Johnny Marr. Now I can die peacefully.