신성

You know, you know where you are with, and you know you're with Korea.


(Consider the alternative.)

i

00:46

Paul Pierce

The best movie of this millennium (so far).

Testify.

Rabid

My hat goes off to you, Ms. Michelle Felicetta. That fox ain't got no game!





In related news, research indicates that Hordak enjoys masturbation on a daily basis, with the exception of Saturday, as that's the Sabbath.

600 Trees

Sometimes I lie, but you can't sweat the small stuff in life, so everything will be alright in the end (even after I listen to the forthcoming Day and Age). This is about being clean, shooting from the hip, and fucking the dog; all of which are -as you know, dilapidated reader- activities I occasionally partake in. Get ready for the funky bleu cheese of honesty. Probably.

1) I haven't read Sparkles' review of the new Killers album, and I refuse to do so until after the disc's official release. He has this nasty habit of acquiring* the 'Special New Guinea Edition' of an album, writing a review, and, subsequently, adversely affecting my initial listening experience. A while back, an ailing coworker of mine responded to my query about his health with a resounding 'You know what? Fuck my intestine,' and that's what I say to you, Mr. Eion Frobes.** You're like that guy's lower intestine, and it's time you got flushed out. I'm tired of being the one that gets fucked.*** (But you're still my hero.)

2) No squid in the upcoming Watchmen film? Daddy doesn't like it when you fuck with his side dish.

3) I can't break, but I can sink. I'm talking about billiards, jerkoff.

4) Recently, I helped move several hundred Christmas trees of all sizes (ranging from petite to mammoth) into a parking lot, and I did this because I wanted to help. No lie, so there's nothing to come clean about, right? Not quite. Hours later, someone asked me if I were sore from all that lifting, pushing, pulling, and licking, and I scoffed in response to her inquest. Total lie. I'm sore like I was after giving some billy goat a rim job in last year's Masta Ace Day parade, and my fragile bravado was, ultimately, a foolish display meant only to demonstrate my grinding machismo.****

5) Hey, Red Lobster, you know I love you (and your signature Cheddar Bay Biscuits) but you best recognize that your garden salad is a disgrace. Why bother offering something other than your spectacular Caesar salad, when that 'other' is such a dookie? Take a seat, smoke a cigarette, and drop that load, Red.

6) Someone's been burning like a silver flame, and JIKKO is her name.*****

7) I do try to answer people's questions succinctly, but sometimes my brain doesn't connect with my tongue, while my heart becomes one with my lungs (as in filled with cigarette smoke, you know), and thus it's ridiculously easy for good intentions to wander away. But my thoughts, my thoughts; they may wiggle, but they do not writhe. Anything beyond that is merely extraneous.

8) Hyperlinks and asterisks are a zombie's best friends.

9) I love Kimochi as much as anyone:




(We're already walking, correct?)


Canis Latrans


* Like Somalis to a supertanker.

** Word to your ex-wife's impressive spelling ability.

*** Which, incidentally, wouldn't be so bad if it were more Still Loving You, and less the usual, oh-so-brutal Rock You like a Hurricane.

**** Send in the clowns. No; send back the clowns. Okay; send them in backwards.

***** Yeah, baby, she's got it.

Blood, Sweat, and Eye Water (Prologue)

I'll be thirty-three years old in three years, and by that time -- unless, knock on wood, I meet my untimely-yet-perhaps-deserved demise -- I'll have lived a third of my life abroad, in South Korea. (That's three threes, if you're scoring at home.) We just call it Korea over here, by the way. Adding the preposition "south" is as pointless as ordering a tuna FISH sandwich.

To paraphrase the older Gordie Lachance, Eleven years, man. I don't know whether to laugh or to cry.

At thirty-three, I'll be eleven years removed from my senior year in college, and eleven years before that my fifth year in grade school. It's unsound to compartmentalize your life -- because existence doesn't follow chapters -- but it's what keeps us sane, I believe; in much the same way sleep helps us divide our days and memory serves to sort the everyday from the exceptional. So now's the time: to document as best I can the third chapter of my life, before the killjoy phantoms of age steal my recollections and bury them forever.

If I make it to sixty-six, I'll write a follow-up. I promise.

Let's take a walk.

The Killers -- Day and Age (Review)

(Don't worry, Kmartian will come around. This isn't anything new.)

Do you know

(about Dokdo?)

that The Killers have released three studio albums in four years, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs only two? I mention this because The Killers' newest, Day and Age, is only a scant 10 songs long. And yeah, I'm a little mad at the fact -- a little at The Killers, a lot at the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. If you're going to release a 10-song album filled with tracks that average just over three minutes, don't make me wait so long, okay? And those songs better be great, every one of them. If they're not, I'm going to be a little pissed off. And I'm going
to have to call Iowa to make sure Kmart didn't pull a Choi Jinsil. (Too soon?)

Come to think of it, I can forgive the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Show Your Bones was short, sure, but it was solid. This is where I can't forgive The Killers. Day and Age? Short, yes; a perfect game? No, sir.

My appetite ain't got no heart.

Day and Age listens like a baseball starter pitches after only a day's rest: it starts out intimidating as hell, business as usual; but it starts to lose its heat around the fifth inning. It manages to get out of a bases-loaded, no-out sixth, but after that the away team -- mediocrity, in this case -- starts tacking on runs and catches up. By the time we reach the first extra inning, our beleaguered hurler is so spent that he ends up blowing the game in remarkable, shameful fashion.

Get 'em next year.

I wish.

Since I'm a firm believer in retribution, here's my short, half-assed review of what I honestly do think is a very good album. You'll have to wait for the Sparkles-Kmart podcast, however, to hear me explain why.

---

Losing Touch: Just as good as "Jenny was a Friend of Mine" and "Sam's Town" as far as album openers go. No, Kmart! Put down that knife!

Human: A song Black Bolt can't relate to.

Spaceman: Shark jump, or whimsy? Regardless, it's fun. Why so serious?

Joy Ride: Joy ride!

A Dustland Fairytale: Brandon Flowers should probably stop playing the piano. Not now but right now.

This is Your Life: It's about eating the same sandwich every day and smoking too much. It's like they know me!

I Can't Stay: I can't listen.

(Seventh inning stretch: I'd probably sell my soul for a propulsive "When You were Young" song. Not going to happen. Lamentable. The sun is beating down my neck.)

Neon Tiger: A neon tiger? I'd like to see that!

The World We Live In: Korea just bought half of Madagascar for free! No, really.

Goodnight, Travel Well: Flashbacks of "Everything is All Right," times a million.

[Edit: One day later, I realize how fucking wrong I was about that assessment. Even though I take umbrage with the incorrect usage of a comma rather than a semi-colon or period, what a great song!]

---

Is it possible for an album to be milquetoast and awesome at the same time? If so, Exhibit A, ladies and gentlemen.

4/5 *_*

One of Those Days

It would have been far better had I sewn my mouth shut, pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt, and avoided Sam's Town entirely; but there was so much I wanted to say so poorly, had no hood to pull over my head, and that town is the town we built from shit. That's when yester met day, but even at its worst, it's the kind of memory I'd hate to cast away.

This is what makes sense to me.

We Eat Fish

Some thoughts (mostly basketball related), as I question for the nth time why Q-Tip called himself The Abstract when he should have been called The Straightforward:

I realize I'm biting myself here, but there's a reason the guy's name is Tracy. Dude is fragile like Mr. Glass, and not just physically. The mind tricks the body, body thinks the mind is crazy, and all that...Terry Porter, COY?...I'm digging that D'Antoni has turned the Knicks into the basketball equivalent of mashing the buttons on a Super NES controller in a game of Street Fighter...Iverson as a Piston has lead me to believe that a situation can be (Nene) hilarious, intriguing, embarrassing, awkward, captivating, deceptive, and self-deceptive all at the same time. It may, in fact, be the weirdest basketball situation I've ever seen, yet nobody's talking about it. And I understand; because it's like staring at the sun during an eclipse: fuck the short term, I want to bear witness! Even if I go blind, I might find the answer...Is Gilbert Arenas the KRS ONE of hoops? More like Canibus...I wish Darvin Ham was still in the league and playing for the Grizzlies for a potential "Ham and Mayo on Roy" headline when Memphis plays Portland...Charlie Ward called Larry Brown stubborn...

Tomorrow's headline(s): Reggie Theus to coach Kevin Martin in Hang Time spin-off. Show's name: Sacremento Kings...Oklahoma Thunder change name to the similarly singular Oklahoma Crab, world rejoices...Lebron tells Jay-Z, "That's a one-hot-part-ownership every four-year average." Beef ensues.

Next.