The Enabler

We get so few comments here at Psychedelic Spicy Fermented Cabbage that I'm always pleased when you, Constant Retard, drop us a line. Back when PK was in its earliest stages/the dream of an autistic kid, comments were more plentiful, and to be honest it has always perplexed me that the number of comments declined so considerably over the years; but Kmart, the man and the myth, has repeatedly assured me this is due more to our continual voyage into waters esoteric rather than a decline in retardship, and me being the optimistic bastard I am, and also because the overall quality of PK has grown since its shaky, often cringeworthy inception, I'm inclined to believe the lovable gore fetishist.

As the familiar story goes, PK is a blog written by people who live/have lived (and loved) in Korea, but rarely is it about Korea. To call Psychedelic Staple Side Dish a Korean blog would be erroneous, something akin to labeling Dokdo the Liancourt Rocks, Takeshima, or some shit. Sure, we will occasionally touch upon Korea-related issues (especially when it comes to the arts and hot women!), but that's a product-of-one's-environment sort of thing rather than a concerted effort to limit ourselves based on where we live and what goes on here. There are far too many blogs for that already, the majority of them pretty damn cannibalistic and poorly written. It's not hard to scan the dailies and Internet message boards for inspirational fodder or to comment on hot topics that other blogs are jumping on, and we have prided ourselves on our maxim that PK is bigger than all of that. As this blog's founder and chief editorial nutcase, why would I want to pigeonhole myself as a "Korean blog" when I can do so much more? Word to Jonathan Livingtston Seagull, Psychedelic Kimchi is forever striving for transcendence (acceptance?), and limiting ourselves to a small (but dynamic!) Asian peninsula goes against our ethos of being universal.

Still, because of PK's Korean ties, I'll occasionally get comments ranging anywhere from innocuous ("I would like to teach you about Korean culture") to downright weird ("I am lovesick man. Do you have a time?"). I generally refuse to publish such comments on the basis that they add nothing to the site, but this one time I'm making an exception. The comment in question was surely written by some bored idiot pretending to come off as an evangelical Korean, but the more I thought about it the more I pitied the dude. After all, he spent minutes of his precious life writing a comment that no one would read. Until now, that is. Thinking about it, I realized that this lonely miscreant and I share a kinship, because what is PK if not a black hole where ambitious writing remains trapped in stasis, waiting to be discovered by intellectuals and Google searchers for things that smell like cum?

So here you go, Anonymous. I hope today brings you satisfaction, a satisfaction that can only be achieved by having your lame comment published on Psychedelic Kimchi, the best blog in the history of fire or pussy.

Dear Spark,

I am happy you have a family and you all are well inCorea [1]. However you have many gross and evil pictures of horror nasty stuff an you keep on saying Christains are bad and religion is too [2]. I will tell you yyou are a bad role model for your family- I hope it does NOT happen- but I think yur kids [3] will grow up without any universal law beliefs and become hopeless wasteland pleasure seekers like you [4]- and lack any love of God. This is bad becasue than they will hurt themselves in bad sexual realtionships tat are harmful. Do you not want your kids to grow up with some morals and a rooted lasting self esteeem in the belief God loves them and wants the best for them? Ok well anyway I still think there is hope for you and your fakily because God can change anyone [5] as long as they are alive and have free will.

Anyhow I am also kind of jealious cuz no Korean girl woud marry me [6] but I can always try to marry some poor girl in the next poor country I teach in. Please contact me in a comment if you know any cute ladies who like somewaht fatty USA guys in almost 40. Yeah but it is true Korean girls are so cute- anyhow I still hope it goes good for you and the family but your hooror pictures are so ugly and gangster music is bad too [7] teaching youngsters that guns/drugs/ and violence are c00l as well as sex as afun sport. I hope you dont let your kid listen to gangster music or watch horror movies.

Anyhow I have to go get ready for church- I am riding my bike there cuz I need to lose wieght- oh I am serious about the Korean girl thing but I do not want to wed a buddha or atheist girl though...

Ok c u in Korea soometime if I ever go to seoul and we meet up beacuse you want my advice. I got to go back sometime foe all the milions of cash Ileft in myKorean bank account take care- and I rthink read the book of John so you can come to serve Christ and not your fleshly desires of hambergurgres and taco bell - oh by the way I am going to taco beell today ha ha u go it some kimchee chigah for mre ok [8]>?

Later

Some comments:

1) I am well, but my family is not solely in Korea. We span the globe like sleeper cells.

2) Have I? I was raised Christian, and I have no ill will toward any religion. Heck, I still spell God with a capital G and use words like "heck."

3) You are under the mistaken impression that I have more than one child. They -- God, as it were -- broke the mold with the 18th Letter, so I'm not eager to have any more. My ex-wife, though? That bitch is a baby factory!

4) Hopeless wasteland pleasure seekers...I like how that sounds. I'm demanding that Kmart adopt it as the title of his American vacation fast food blogging posts.

5) I sincerely hope God can change your poor spelling. Do you believe in miracles?

6) I married two (not concurrently, lest I be branded a bigamist). Try to have more confidence. Women like a man who's assure of himself. Failing that: chloroform.

7) If you have issues with the pictures, take it up with Kmart. I tend to post pics of nature, because that's what garners the most hits. And calling KMD gangster music is akin to calling Yanni reggaeton.

8) I could eat "kimchee chigah" till I vomit, and occasionally have I done just that. No sarcasm. I love that shit like Christ loved Judas.

Chocolate and Chicken Bones, Vol. 3

- I miss the NFL. The NFL and I amicably broke up before I left for Le Peninsula nine years ago, but still I yearn. I long for Sundays spent on the sofa, me surrounded by chips, dips, and pussy lips/Dan Marino. I caught the final score of this year's Super Bowl 30,000 feet above terra firma. Unfair.

- Kmart, your fiend and mine, is back in Iowa after a bad motorcycle accident. Our prayers are with him.

- I will never, ever be able to grow a beard, and this fact pains me very much. Hey, I like that I've been blessed with genes which make me look a lot younger than my actual age (43), but I'm downright furious that my legs are furrier than a jungle cat, whereas after three days of not shaving I look like an adolescent Mexican teenager.

- I will finish Twilight Princess before JD Salinger dies. I will. So too will I finish reading Stephen King's "Chattery Teeth" and Rockstar Games' Chinatown Wars. Then, Golden Sun, then rewatch Zodiac, then...

- 도망하고싶어.

- Add the number in HBO's series ___ Feet Deep to the letters in the city The Wire takes place in, and you have the answer to why I don't participate in Quiz Night. (Fifteen!)

- John Carpenter made three absolutely classic films: Halloween, Big Trouble in Little China, and The Thing. Let the guy smoke dope all day and watch basketball, because he's paid his fucking dues. Tenfold. I want to see a new Carpenter film like I want to have my balls squeezed.

- Kim Hyesoo's voice is brainfryingly annoying when I'm writing a post while slightly drunk at 10:50 p.m. on a Sunday night. Deliver me from Hyesoo. Please.

- Love:



- Tomorrow, I recover from a weekend of fried food and infrequent bowel movements. Ideally.



Let's be fresh. Yes.

Cannibal

There are bad habits, but also are there instinctive behaviors. I tend to bite my inner cheek with my incisors -- both sides, but usually the right. Cheek, that is.

So do I smell my own breath, a self-taught trick I hide when in good company. What I do is, I stick out my jaw and inhale and sniff at the same time. It smells gross, usually. When it smells grosser, I brush my teeth, sometimes my tongue.

I know I won't live forever, but at least let me live a little longer. I am trying to delay the onset of time, the inevitable descent into autumn, winter.

There's a growing crimson knot on the middle knuckle of my right hand. I'm playing the piano, and then snap! My eye is bloody, and I can't see.

I could chat for days about how when I was twelve I loved everything. Even you. But you aren't worth the narrative. I don't want to waste my time, my precious life, dwelling on the past. That's what books are for.

People get hung up over details, the this and the that. I say fuck it, let it linger and fade. Nothing lasts forever. Nothing. Ever.

If it was so great to begin with, why, then, did it disappear?

Spit.

Radiohead -- These are My Twisted Words (Track Review)

Like Pitchfork, those villainous tastemakers, I too am a worshiper of all things Radiohead. The band has never released a sub par album*, even if their last two efforts, Hail to the Thief and In Rainbows, didn't match the perfection of their previous four (no mean feat, that). There's a lot to like on Hail to the Thief and In Rainbows, sure, but there's also a lack of cohesion, no demanding necessity for the albums to be listened to from start to finish. Thief is (Johnny) marred by unsound sequencing, whereas In Rainbows, as fantastic and groundbreaking -- in a (non?)commercial sense -- as it may be, is largely a dish without seasoning**. I suppose it's too much to ask for another classic from a band rivaled by few*** in terms of consistently superb albums (and a pretty nifty solo joint from Mr. Thom Yorke), but when Radiohead put their two latest singles(?), "Harry Patch (In Memory Of)" and "These are My Twisted Words," out on this here Internet, I was, as I increasingly am in my old age, underwhelmed. As a tribute song (even if it's an arguably crassly self-serving one), "Harry Patch" works. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of "These are My Twisted Words."

Which is not to say that TAMTW is a bad song, because it's far from it. But neither is it a particularly great song, and if the rumors are to be believed that Radiohead has indeed decided to stop making albums in favor of releasing single tracks every now and then, "These are My Twisted Words" makes for a pretty crummy opening salvo, one into waters already chartered.

Call it the "Knives Out" corollary. For reasons unknown, after perfecting their jazz-rock experiment on 2001's Amnesiac, the band has returned to that dry well far too often (particularly on In Rainbows' latter half), the results ranging from middling to mediocre. "These are My Twisted Words" is, unfortunately, no different.

It's impossible to say where the band is heading creatively, but based on TAMTW -- a song I've replayed almost a dozen times in the span of forty-eight hours, upon each listen hoping it will sound better than the last -- it's an unwelcome one, at least as far as this fan is concerned.

Over and out, boyo.


* Shocking: I've never heard Pablo Honey

** The seasoning being CD 2 sprinkled throughout the release proper, as reviewed here

*** The Beatles, Outkast

Cardinale

She's wearing no jewelry or accessories, not even a pair of earrings. She doesn't need any. Even the simplest adornment would look superfluous, would mar a beauty so natural. She is wearing makeup, but it's been applied so sparsely that it's barely noticeable. Clear gloss highlights her dark pink lips, and she has ostensibly used mascara to volumize her eyelashes. The rest is God-given perfection. Her cheeks are naturally rosy and instinctively elicit lust from men and women alike. Her skin is so delicately pure and blemish free that, more often than not, other women's reaction upon seeing it must be one of awe rather than of jealousy. She doesn't even have a vaccination scar on her left shoulder.

Her hair is short and looks good that way. The ends curl like commas under her dainty ears. Black and lustrous, her short bangs are swept across her forehead by the humid mid-August wind.

The wind is blowing the skirt of her sheer, one-piece dress in a like manner; but, remarkably, although it's a considerable breeze and the dress' hem only extends mid thigh, no hint of what lies beneath is visible, and she makes no effort whatsoever to ensure that passersby aren't given the assuredly pleasant surprise of glimpsing her panties. Squinting from the sun's rays, she continues looking up at the bus sign, her eyes crescent slits.

She's holding a cell phone and a leather day planner chest high in one hand; her other arm hangs idly free. Her nails are painted opal, as are her toes. On her feet are low-heel dress sandals, and her legs look none the worse for it. She doesn't need pumps. Her legs are lithe stalks, her cute knees ripe fruit.

I am taken aback. Here, at this bus stop, on this corner, at this precise time, is beauty incarnate. Despite myself, I furtively keep glancing at her -- but only for a second, like I'm viewing a solar eclipse without ocular protection. She is love and lust personified, and I am a mute witness to the unspoken glory of physical sublimity.

The breeze wafts her scent my way. Baby powder and olives. Like a dream I had. I know her name can't be Lucy, but that's what I'll call her. A woman of her singular attractiveness doesn't need a name, anyway, but Lucy she shall be.

To be in her presence for only a little longer, I pray that she is taking the same bus I am. I have forgotten all of my worries, my hitherto stressful day but a vague memory. For she is life. She is a breath of the freshest air. Please, God, let me stay near her. Let me bathe my senses in her magnificence.

My bus arrives, but when it's apparent she's not going the same way I opt to stay. I have an appointment that I'll be late for, but that's a welcome sacrifice. I want to prolong this moment as much as I possibly can.

Two minutes later, her bus -- Lucy's bus -- arrives. I'm tempted to hop on and go wherever it takes me, but I freeze before doing so. I wonder where she's going. I suppose I'll always wonder where she is, what she's doing. Something pretty neat, I bet.

I like her very much.

Things that Make You Go 'Hmm'

Quiz Nanairo Dreams, a quiz game/dating sim (!) that never made it to North America but almost qualified for the vaunted PK27. Just be glad it didn't.

Skyhook

Sometimes you gotta reinvent the wheel; at others, you gotta do a damn good job of putting the wheel where it needs to go.

I prefer neither, but then again, wheels, circles, and spheres aren't my thing.

I've a mean skyhook, but only if you ask for it. And even then, only if you're among the blessed folk.

(image from www.espn.com)

Catch and Release

Calvin Edwards was a specialist, and his specialty was shooting. He was a true marksman, a sniper absolutely blessed with -- given enough space and time -- a dead-eye shot. Rarely did this equate to glory, but Calvin had no illusions of grandeur. He knew his role and was content with it. God, Calvin believed, had put him on this earth twenty-three years ago to do one thing: shoot.

And shoot he did. In his rookie season, Calvin's field goal percentage was an unheard of sixty-one -- no mean feat for a first-year guard who rarely (read: never) drove the lane. His three-point percentage was similarly outstanding: fifty-three. Non-superstars, especially ones who average just under seventeen minutes per game of playing time, are rarely blessed with complimentary nicknames, but midway through his inaugural season Calvin was dubbed in the press and by fans as "Archer," after the character from the Robin Hood legends.

What Calvin lacked in PT, however, he more than made up for in scoring efficiency. He averaged 14.3 points per game, and the only reason he wasn't given more playing time was determined by two factors. One, he was cursed with legs slower than a senior citizen doing hydro therapy. Two, he was more comfortable launching shots midway between halfcourt and the three-point line; and the fact that he missed less frequently from that spot on the floor than he did from just behind the arc meant little to his coach or teammates. When Calvin hit it was a glorious surprise to everyone but himself; when he missed, people called it an embarrassment to the sport of basketball.

But Calvin knew his purpose. Shoot. Catch and shoot. Create space by any means necessary. Stand and wait for the rock. If need be, stand alone where no defender will dare to come out and guard you. In a way, Calvin Edwards was more automaton than man; and, indeed, he was initially labeled "The Mighty Casey" after a Twilight Zone episode about a robot pitcher. No one believed he was a sound basketball player, and his reliance on his jumper -- didn't teams know what they would get when he was scouted out of Kentucky? -- had most reporters and fans calling him a bust. But numbers don't lie. Ten games into the season, he was being lauded on sports news programs and drive-time radio as basketball's new idiot savant, and after his first season had wrapped (with a heartbreaking 87-81 loss to the Pistons that eliminated the Sixers from playoff contention), he was practically a legend in the city of Philadelphia, the city that booed Santa Claus.

In the first game of his sophomore season, Calvin scored only two points in five minutes (a garbage-time fifteen-foot jumper) in a loss to San Antonio. Back in Philly for the November 2 home opener, Coach Williams had promised Calvin a more substantial role in the offense, a role that, despite Calvin Edwards's outward nonchalance, he inwardly relished.

"Lace those shoes up tight, Edwards, and loosen up your fingers."

Minutes before game time, Calvin's teammate, Blaine Black, the guy Calvin roomed with and sat next to on charter flights and occasionally traded fart scores with, had considerably more sobering news.

"Look, Cal, there's no way we're beating Dallas, but this early in the season who can tell? Just do me a favor, okay? Play smart. I mean, don't do anything that might get us, you, me, we, in trouble."

"What do you mean, Blaine?" Calvin asked, genuinely curious.

Blaine Black sat down on the locker room bench, next to his naive, possibly non-human teammate.

"There's a fix," Black whispered. "The season is long and this one doesn't matter. We have to lose by eight points. My guess is that we'll lose by at least double that, but who's to say. What I'm saying to you right now, though, is that it's best to take the night off from your regular gunslinging antics, Cal. I know Coach is gonna give you floor time, and I'm just worried that you might swing this one. Please, for the love of god, don't. Do not."

"Okay, Blaine. I got it."

"Thanks, Cal. You always listen to reason."

---

There are forty-three seconds on the game clock. With possession, the Dallas Mavericks are leading the Philadelphia 76ers by a score of 98-88. The Sixers have been lethargic all game, save for Calvin Edwards, who is having a career night with 31 points on 11-of-15 shooting (nine treys, two jumpers). Just before the game clock hits nineteen seconds, Calvin Edwards lunges from out of nowhere to knock the ball from Devean George's hands, the ball careening off of George's leg in the process and possession given to the Sixers.

During the ensuing timeout, Coach Williams praises Calvin for his hustle and draws up an out-of-bounds play. Edwards will inbound to Darius Parson. Parson will pass immediately back to Edwards with a prayer that he'll get off a quick shot and cut the score to seven. With no timeouts left, the players are instructed to go for a steal or foul.

"Prove your mettle, Edwards!" Coach Williams shouts as the timeout buzzer sounds and the Sixers walk onto the floor.

Don't fucking do it, Cal, Blaine Black's stare says as he shakes his head and walks backwards toward the opposite side of the court.

---

Darius Parson is not in front of Calvin for the inbound pass. He hasn't run off the drawn-up screen. Instead, he's standing midcourt like a neglected scarecrow, arms at his sides, his head staring up idiotically at the JumboTron.

Calvin spins the ball into his right hand and whips it with all his might at Parson's head. It bounces off Parson's dome and drops like a live grenade a few inches before the halfcourt line. Calvin Edawards is running on legs a chicken wouldn't envy, but he picks up the ball before anyone else, feels its familiar leather, finds its holy seam, and launches.

The crowd erupts. There is no way in pluperfect hell the Sixers are winning this game, but the crowd erupts regardless. Later, a clip of the game's final minute will garner 3,738,493 views on YouTube, and ESPN will declare it No. 7 on their Top Ten Plays of 2011. And that will forever be Calvin Edwards's legacy. Thirty-four points, 12-of-16 shooting.

---

Calvin Edwards is not a name most people are familiar with these days. Because most people don't delve into the archives of basketball lore. But, if I were to tell you that Calvin Edwards, drafted out of Kentucky with the nineteenth pick in the 2008 NBA Draft, had his feet cut off by mobsters, would you believe me?

Maybe not. Probably not. But I saw what I saw, and I know what I know.

These days, Edwards is content with his basketball cult status. "I wouldn't change a thing," he told me over barbecue ribs and badminton at his family's estate in North Ridge, Montana. "I never sacrificed my principles. Maybe that's dumb, but for me it was never a question."

I ask Edwards if he might be up for a game of 21, to which he replies, "Only if I can heave shots from halfcourt."

I lose 21-0. Edwards consoles me with this gem: "Yeah, I win, but at least you can still run away if I point a shotgun at you."

Pakistan is Threatening My Border!

As a lad, I wished for games like this; and to be honest, I still do.

KMD + Brand Nubian = Friends