Merry Christmas

Word to Big Bird.

Lipstick on a Pig

"The NBA has taken numerous steps to clean up its image after the fiasco in Detroit, implementing a dress code and its community relations initiative NBA Cares last season, and trying to eliminate excessive complaints to officials this season." -Associated Press

And let me tell you whom those initiatives are aimed at. Those initiatives are aimed at me, a male, smack dab in the middle of the 18-to-34 demographic (okay, a little closer to 34 nowadays) with some measure of disposable income who has gone away from the NBA in recent years. And yes, it's aimed at white people mostly, and I'm that too. So after all of those initiatives, what do you get? You get another brawl, this one in the most famous arena in the world. Cosmetic changes cannot affect what is at the core of the beast: machismo mixed with a sense of entitlement. A sense that NBA players are above the law and basic rules of human decorum.

So are these measures having the desired effect? Would I go to an NBA game? Would I spend my hard-earned money on NBA memorobilia? I might go to a game if a buddy had free tickets. And I might work out in an NBA t-shirt if I got it for free.

But would I take my wife to a game? Would I take my two- and four-year-old nephews to a game? Would I take my two-year-old niece to a game?

I would sooner take any of them to a strip club. There are less fights there. These are the blackest days for the Association since the pre-Magic and Larry Coke Binge and I, for one, am done with the whole fucking thing.

Oklahoma City, enjoy your Sonics. The NBA won't have me to kick around anymore.

He chose...poorly (and God is a jerk, too)

Looks like the 'commish', David Stern, has decided to make set things right, and what's good for the NBA is good for Señor Sparkles, and what's good for pops is good for Psychedelic Kimchi, and what's good for Psychedelic Kimchi, is good for us. Glory be to God.

While I am on the topic of our* lord, I've got this skanky, dilapidated bone to pick with Mrs. Jehovah. As stated, it's nothing pressing, nothing revolutionary, but rather a quiet whimper of protest, one designed to ellicit no spectacular response. Nonetheless.

I should be thanking God for, if nothing else, that delightful, fever-induced dream in which Friday the 13th alum Amy Steel made a welcome appearance. I would do so, but gratitude from me comes across like Jack Burton at the White Tiger**, so instead I'll lobby a slight complaint.

I viewed Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade this past weekend, and no, before I go any further, this is not the first time I have viewed the film***. Great film, but I can't help but wonder: What's your deal, God?

Exposition: Near the end of the film, at the Canyon of the Crescent Moon, Indiana Jones must face three trials, the first of which consists of a spinning blade that beheads the unfaithful, as demonstrated by a few unfortunate, initial contestants. Coerced into participation, Doctor Jones enters the fray and, realizing that "The penitent man kneels before God!", successfully avoids the pernicious device. Indiana Jones has satisfied the Almighty, and divine rewards shall be his.

Not so fast, Harrison. Now you've got to dodge a second, vertically eviscerating buzz saw. Kneel through this, bitch.

For those of you who don't recall, Doctor Jones, having solved the first riddle, must then roll forward to avoid being castrated (at the very least) by an additional, utterly superfluous blade. It appears that penitence just isn't satisfactory; God doesn't swing like that.

Again: What's the fucking deal, God****? Just because you give us the occasional glimpse of heaven, does that mean you can jerk Harrison Ford around? He was Bob Falfa!

Low blow, missy. Low blow.

(Would Gautama have thrown a second blade at Ford? I'll leave Mr. T to address such a hypothetical scenario.)

Hati

-------------

* By our, I mean anyone who smokes crack on daily basis. Welcome to the club!

** Mrs. Sparkles: Here, have some delicious kimchi. / Hati: (scratching head) Well, the cab driver said, well you know, that Casa del Sparkles could meet my kimchi needs. [End awkward attempt at me being extremely grateful]

*** If I am to be internet pimp-slapped by someone for something -anything- written, let it not be for a misunderstanding on that issue.

**** I refuse to blame Spielberg, let alone Lucas, for this travesty of justice. I may blame the -soon to be extinct- new NBA ball (Crystal Pepsi, anyone?) but even that would just be a projection. Shame on you, Jehovah.

Back in Black

http://sports.espn.go.com/nba/news/story?id=2694335

And now, finally, I get the chance to say it...






You're With Me, Leather

Flippin off the Wall like Lucy Ball

The Spark leaves the Internet for 5 minutes and *blamn* Mark Stein suggests an end to the era of round ball version 2.0:

In the latest strong signal that commissioner David Stern is seriously considering a ball swap just three months into the new microfiber composite ball's first season, league sources tell ESPN.com that all 30 teams were due to received calls by Friday from Stern staffers. NBA officials want to know how many leather balls each team has in storage from last season, in case the decision to switch comes quickly.

Teams were allotted 75 new synthetic basketballs at the start of the season, but Stern has acknowledged that the cuts various players are suffering while handling the microfiber version could force him to make a surprising in-season recall of the old ball . . . which might include emergency orders with Spalding for teams that have little or nothing left from last season's leather shipment.

**

I, for one, will welcome an end to the recent proliferation of orange scapegoatism. While we're at it, let's hope the Commish decommissions asterisks as well. Brothers have been dropping them on these pages like they're Al Uderzo... or something.

Rest (Assured)

I know, I always do this.

When I took a TO(J) in October, deep down I knew I'd be back. Not for your sake, rather mine. I'm proud of Psychedelic Kimchi. It's not perfect*, granted, but there are some genuine diamonds amongst the rough. It's getting there. You hear that? It is getting there. Word to John Hirschfelder.

I just needed to recharge the batteries was all. And by batteries I mean "Jack Daniels." By recharge I mean "drink."

Still I kid. Truthfully, I just wanted to be able to come home from work at night and not have to feel as though I had a homework assignment waiting for me. I wanted to listen to music, watch a movie or two, read a book -- whatever. The main thing was that I didn't want to have my evening already set out for me. I wanted to play that shit by ear. You're not the boss of me, Psychedelic Kimchi.

Predictably, I couldn't stay away like Too Short. Break up to make up style, I took a breather** and returned as hard as ever (can I get an Alex DeLarge right-right on that?). Harder, maybe.

It's in my blood. I think, therefore I Psychedelic Kimchi. Resurrection track 10. As long as my heart still beats, I will not leave you.

But I have to step away for a sec due to familial issues. Tomorrow my brother arrives in the ROK, and we're gonna work it out. Word to PE.

Because blood is thicker than Blogger.


(I'll be back.)



* Picture me trying to type that with a straight face.

** If you liked my Memory Lane posts, stayed tuned for Psychedelic Kimchi: The Wilderness Years.

Resist (I Was a Sixth-Grade Firebrand)

1999 was a good year for basketball; 1990 was a good year to be in the sixth grade. When I think back on my school days, the sixth grade ranks as one of the best years of that time in my life. If not for a dearth of girls, alcohol, and pubic hair, it would definitely be number one like Ill 'Mare. Alas.

We were suburban badasses, bet. You weren't legit unless you knew all the lyrics to NWA's Straight Outta Compton , had a PE T-shirt, and daydreamed constantly -- and spoke openly -- about your desire to "finger" a girl (that was my goal, anyway; I couldn't even come yet, so I decided to take it one step at a time). Throw in the Sega Genesis, The Cosby Show, and Marvel Comics, and that was life as I knew it. That was all that seemed to matter.

I remember when PE's Fear of a Black Planet was released. One of my friends' brothers had it on cassette (pity us then, we of little or no disposable income). That bad boy was passed around for dubbing like the dutchie 'pon the left-hand side. I think mine was a copy of a copy.

(That summer, I would buy the real McCoy while on vacation in Nova Scotia. Big shout out to the Mayflower Mall in Sydney.)

NWA was controversial and shocking, but PE was righteous. They were the truth like the Celtics' no. 34. And this was the follow-up to It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back. This was a big deal! Despite it's many outstanding, classic tracks ("Brothers Gonna Work It Out," "911 is a Joke," "Welcome to the Terrordome," "Burn Hollywood Burn," "Who Stole the Soul?," "War at 33 1/3" and "Fight the Power"), it became apparent to me in subsequent years that it's also bloated and has a second half weaker than watered-down Molson Exel (it's like witnessing the decline of the once-mighty Bomb Squad in real time), but back in the day that shit was my bible.

Conscious hip-hop music was what I listened to mostly back then (that and REM*), and I mean I listened. I took the words spoken by such MC's and groups as Chuck D, KRS ONE, Poor Righteous Teachers, 3rd Bass, De La Soul and A Tribe Called Quest very seriously. Say what you will about the more racially-charged, vitriolic hip-hop which in a few years would follow (an amalgamation of afrocentricism and gangster rap, as well a by-product of the LA riots), but in 1990 most of those cats were speaking the truth about societal ills and black oppression. Hearing music like that made you want to fight for change.

This was also a period of increasing awareness regarding environmental issues. In Ontario, blue boxes were ubiquitous in every household. Tossing an empty juice box or bag of potato chips on the ground made me fear I had committed a federal crime. Earth Day was all the rage.

Earth Day. Ask me, I don't even know what fucking day it's on. I know it's in April; that's it.

But then? Earth Day was a big fucking deal. Save the planet, dig it!

So when -- to my and my fellow classmates' surprise -- it was revealed that our school had no Earth Day activities planned (plant a tree, pick up trash at municipal parks, no homework), it was time to, you guessed it, fight the power.

I don't know who came up with the plan. I think it was me, but I also like to think I'm the most charasmatic person alive, so maybe my memory is a little selective on that. Regardless, at lunchtime it was decided that we would hold a sit-in to protest the lack of Earth Day festivities. Because if Paul A. Fisher Elementary School didn't plant a fucking tree** or pick up shards of beer bottles (and condoms) in the woods abutting our grounds, the planet was doomed!

During the lunch break, we wrangled up most of the school (because kids are easily led, I suppose) and sat on a hill facing its main doors. I believe the resistance chant du jour was "Hell no, we won't go!" As you can see, we came prepared.

When the lunch bell rang, a few of the younger kids got up to go back inside. We

(beat them with sticks)

bade them sit down, and the greatest sit-in Burlington, Ontario has ever witnessed continued.

(I think one kid peed his pants. Whatever, those are the sacrifices we all must be willing to make. I think that kid, wherever he is now, realizes that. In fact, I'm sure he does.)

A few minutes later, our teachers perhaps wondering what the fuck was going on, an envoy from the Dark Side was sent: Ms. Grady, the 1st-grade teacher. She was pretty. But we would not be broken. Ideally, I mean.

"Children, come inside," she said gently.

And you know what, half of our brotherhood -- mostly 1st-through-3rd graders -- arose and followed her! Turncoats.

Still, the true stayed true. We would not be broken. Until, that is, our teacher, Mr. Moore, came out and reminded us what we were missing: the D.A.R.E. program.

Now, most of us couldn't have given a shit about D.A.R.E. Though I have no evidence to support the claim, I'm pretty sure most of my former schoolmates are currently drug-abusing lowlives. But what got us shook (you play a mean game, Mr. Moore) was the threat of him going back inside and having our D.A.R.E. "counselor," Constable Delaney***, come out. She was a cop!

It was clear we were beaten.

However...

That evening, while I was at home munching on some golden, crispy McCain french fries and watching TV in the living room, my mom came in and told me a reporter from The Burlington Spectator -- that luminous bastion of reportage -- had just called to request an interview. Was I interested? You bet your sweet ass I was. (Those were not the words I used to intimate to my mother that, yes, I was willing to partake in the interview, however. It was more like "Do you get paid if a newspaper interviews you?")

An hour later, at a classmate's house, the interview was conducted. Because I was the only interviewee out of the three of us radicals who wasn't accompanied by a parent, I couldn't get a word in edgewise. That was vexing.

But you know what? Afterwards that didn't bother me a bit, because the next day I saw myself on the front page of The Burlington fucking Spectator. (Slow news day?) Me, with my Johnny Depp-styled hair, my faded jean jacket with the Hulk vs. Thing button on the left breast, and my alluring blue eyes. It didn't matter that I wasn't quoted in the article, because often silence speaks louder than words. (The irony of that last part is not lost on me.)

I looked like the brains of the operation. I still do.

***

What I'm trying to say here is, ideals and standing up for what you believe in is noble and all, but sometimes what you believe in and stand up for is essentially bullshit, and it's only a matter of time until you realize it for yourself. I used to think Public Enemy would make a lasting difference vis a vis race relations in America; then, as I grew up, I learned that Flavor Flav is a recovering crack addict****.

I used to believe a lot of things.

And while, yeah, the truth crushed to earth may rise again, there's no telling.

But face time? Celebrity? Money? (Leather NBA basketballs?) That shit lasts forever.

Or so I hear.

Tomorrow: Rest


* I've got my spine, I've got my Pocari Sweat.

** I'm all for planting fucking trees.

*** I bet she was assigned the task because she shot her car or something. Word to Roland Pryzbylewski.

**** Then, later, I learned he's in love with Bridgette Nielson! Goodbye, cruel world.

Revolt (9407 Is a Joke)

I don't like working on Saturdays. Frankly, I don't like doing anything on a Saturday, but certain things -- laundry, dishes, taking out the garbage/dead bodies -- need to be done. Despite the protestation of my younger self*, I'm a grown-ass man, I will acknowledge; there's shit I have to do. No complaints there. I have responsibilities. I can't lay about all the time waiting for someone else to clean up my mess...most of the time. And if something needs to be done (changing light bulbs, fetching out-of-reach materials, opening pickle jars), well, baby, I'm your man. Word to Larry Underwood.

I joke, but the truth is that I do a whole lot more. Monday to Frigga, I'm on the grind like take your pick. Come Friday eve, though, all I want to do is unwind, stay up late, get a little you-know, and watch teevee 'till the test pattern comes on.

But I can't. Because I hafta work on Saturdays.

And never have I complained about it, until now. Again, I have responsibilities. Life could be damn harder. Life could be a lot harder, certainly.

But that 9407 bus, man.

See, I live in a certain area of Bundang that is as far as Charles away from a subway stop. If I lived within walking distance of Migeum Station or Jeongja Station, we'd be cool breeze. But I don't. I have to walk my ass 5-10 minutes -- depending on the alignment of the stars, aka my departure time in relation to the rhythm of the traffic lights -- down to the bus stop. To catch the 9407. And that motherfucker is as unpredictible as a knee after microsurgery.

Sometimes I wait no more than ten minutes. Sometimes...a little longer.

"A little longer" was the order of the day two Saturdays ago, and the last one, and despite my Yeoman-like work ethic, I begged off after waiting 50 fucking minutos for that bus from hell.

A man is not a piece of fruit, 9407 bus.

Boo-fucking-hoo, right? Things are tough all over. But peep it, getting there is only half the battle, and it's the easy part. Try catching that fucker back to the 'Dang on a Saturday night at 7:30. To paraphrase Egg Shen, it won't be easy.

Word to Hubie Brown: you stand outside in the heat/cold; traffic is at a standstill; you wait, then wait some more; you consider walking 10 minutes to catch the subway, knowing that would mean another 20-to-30-minute wait to catch a bus home afterwards; and you're a man: you're resilient; no fucking bus is going to make you tap out. So you stand waiting, watchful like the eyes of a hawk; waiting for deliverance; waiting for the 9407.

Like Job, you're being tested, you're convinced. You wait some more. You're not impatient, but damn that infernal bus is taking its sweet time, isn't it?

Finally, mercifully, it arrives. The driver opens the door, and you hop on. Or try to, because the 9407 is so jam-packed with passengers that you can barely nudge yourself in so that the driver can close the door. You're touching glass like Robert Ridgely in Boogie Nights.

(But I didn't do anything. I didn't do anything, Jack.)

Barreling down the highway at break-neck speed, you realize just how close to the reaper you are. But you got on the 9407, right? You knew the rules of the game before you hopped on. You know there's nothing to it but to do it. And so you do it, because there's no other ride to take you back, nothing else to take you home.

So you ride. You're a passenger.

The 9407's the only ride you got. And you leave it up to fate.

You ride. Because you can't get off if you don't get on.

Tomorrow: Resist

* He's lampin' next to Tony, in my mouth.

The Nerve

My name is Luca
I live on the second floor
I live upstairs from you

Not to get all meta on y'all, but I was at a loss for words, literally, after reading denz's poetic recognition of the blood, sweat, and beers I've put into this starting way back in 2005, when roundballs were tan like the back of a Cuban's hand. That was unequivocally the best post this

(movement*)

blog has seen in a few moons. Maybe I'm biased. D, I got mad love for you. No Omar Little.

So anyway, tonight I got home from

(Burger King)

work and took a shower (in the place from which all funky thoughts must come), all the while wondering what the fuck I was going to write about. The Wire? Start a petition to dead the new NBA "ball"? Psychedelic Kimochi (easy like Sunday morning and shoplifting)?

After getting dressed, I decided that anything I'd write would probably sound forced, and that it was best to take an L on the evening. It's not quantity, but quality, after all. Word to Slater.

What the hell, I told myself, Nancy only reads PK on her day off, anyway, so how's about we spend our Tuesday night leisure time** another way, for a change?

I was resigned to my fate. Still, to keep hope alive I threw on my black Charles Taylors and walked downstairs for a square. That's my failsafe measure.

And, behold! the Psychedelic Kimchi God truly is beneficent (and just), for, unlike Old Mother Hubbard's dog, I was thrown a bone from heaven, Deux ex machina style.

Before we continue, an explanation:

Not counting the owners -- who live upstairs -- of the building in which we live (because old people don't count), there are six families which inhabit this blessed dwelling, all of them (yours truly's naturally included) swell like 짱구's head after he backtalks his moms. A minister lives next door with his wife and two children. They're nice. Downstairs, two large, separate families reside (I feel cramped here with the three of us; how the folks downstairs don't wind up attempting to murder each other is beyond me). And in the two basement apartments live two more families of considerable size (word to John Holmes). We're always cordial to one another. We pass 반찬 like J-Kidd throws dimes. Everything is peace in the (y)east.

Or was, until one of the cellar-dwelling famlies moved out in October, and in moved She Hate Me.

Look, I'm not a bad guy. I work hard. I take care of my family. I say my prayers and eat my vitamins like a good Hulkamaniac. Shit, save a propensity for foul language***, I'm a regular choir boy. Put it this way: I do harm unto others like AC Green got laid in the latter half of the 20th century.

Someone tell that to the matron of apartment B101, though. She thinks I'm the motherfucking devil's son-in-law. Word to Eazy-E.

How it all started I haven't the foggiest, but, from early on, it was obvious that she was all If I see this guy Tiberious Sparkles, oh, it's gonna be a problem.

Whatever; she lives in the basement, I live on the 2nd floor. So I took the higher ground. I didn't flinch when she would scoff as we crossed paths; I always bowed and said 안녕하세요, despite her cold reception. Turn the other cheek and all that.

But tonight...boy. Outside smoking a square, trying feebly to turn water into wine****, I was extinguishing my filthy habit just as my non-microfibre enemy happened to walk by. I was on my way in, but yielded the right of way to her; and because I don't like shadowing people, I waited a few seconds before proceeding indoors, taking out my cell phone to check my text messages.

Then -- word to Joan of Arc -- I heard a voice. I turned the corner to find Enemy Mine standing at the top of the landing leading down to her (cave) apartment.

She shouted at me. Me!

Translated from the Korean: "Don't try to pretend you're not following me, you bastard!"

It took me a second to register her oath (What can I say, I'm slow), and by the time I did she was already slamming the door to her (coven's lair) apartment. Nonplussed like a motherfuck, I ambled upstairs and...well, I'm right here, relating this odd occurrence to you*****.

As always, there's no real point behind this, save perhaps the adage that smoking will kill you. But I realized three things this evening:

1) This post, for all its verbosity, could have been summed up in the following Korean exclamation 정말 열받았어!. I'll leave it up to you to determine which is better.

2) I currently have 1-and-a-half crazy females in my life, and I need another like I need wool underwear.

3) One bad apple don't spoil the whole bunch, girl.




* Word to Marky Mark.

** Did somebody say hot dogs?

*** And pr0n, natch.

**** Though unintentional, there's a Christload of biblical allusions in this here post. Proof-reading (I do so!), I was like "holy shit!" Thank you, I'll be here all week. Try the vegetable 호빵.

***** Hi, Mom.

Heaven is a Playground

When the chosen one hung up his keyboard back in... well, whenever the fuck it was... we all knew it was more Jay-Z than Van-H. I couldn't blame him. After all, the man had been extra prolific. 48 minutes per game x 82 territory. The other starters - Washington, Hasselbeck and Jarobi - made the current Cavs look like Pippen, Grant and BJ/Kerr. And if you don't get the reference, that means we didn't make enough shots. Mea culpa.

So he took a rest. Was he burned out and starving to death like Rian Malan? Did he get the subterranean homeboy blues? I don't know - I got the same memo you all got. But deep down, we all knew it was only a matter of time until Forbes pulled on his chucks, picked up his ball and started popping again.

That basketball/ink jones is one in the same. Gets in your blood and becomes your pulse. Makes you bounce, spit, pass and fire. Makes you step on the court, rather than watch. Makes you hunt that loose ball. Makes you want to spin that leather in your palms and feel its amber cadence. Makes you see lanes, angles and, occasionally, through time. Sometimes your shot is on and that hoop is as wide as the ocean. Other times, a man can't hit nothing and it burns. Burns like nothing else.

What makes the game unique is that it can be a team of five, one on one or just you, a street light and some time to kill. Whatever the equation, once you get that jones... you're gone.

And once you're gone, you'll always find your way back.

Sizzlin' Salmonella

Let's begin this post on a positive note, as I don't wish any of our fan base to become disillusioned about the greatness of our lives, and by natural extension, their very own.

'Can we go to Sizzler please?'

Yes, we can, fuck you very much. The Sizzler is a great place; with such a delectable palate for its customers to peruse at leisure, it's no wonder the franchise has become an international corporation. You want fried chicken? They've got it. What's that, you want some egg, bacon, and potato salad to go along with those wings? Got you covered, baby. Hold on! You just can't live without a massive, daily dosage of chocolate ice cream? Throw it on the same plate, and don't forget to lather all this food with cheese sauce. Mix it up as much as you like. Some folks prefer the soup selection, whereas I particularly enjoy the taco bar. Rumor has it that Psychedelic Kimchi's very own illustrious Mr. T has his own Sizzler ritual, one that involves two bottles of the finest merlot, a cup of chocolate syrup, an exposed navel, a waitress named Flo*, and a bunch of flatulence. While I shall leave the erotic details up to your imagination, let it suffice to say that A) At the Sizzler, what the customer wants, the customer gets, and B) The Salad Bar gets a whole lot sloppier.

Sizzler in Korea is no different, and make no mistake, I have no intention of disparaging the franchise. As a foreigner, I am expected to eat at such restaurants on a monthly basis, and who am I to resist? So yeah, I went to one of the many friendly locations within the greater Seoul area on Wednesday night, accompanied by two of my peers -five year old girls, you guessed it- and proceeded to gorge upon the feast presented to me. Each of our trio ordered a chicken entree. That was an awesome idea.

Let's skip ahead, to Thursday evening. (As little as anyone may care about food poisoning, they should care even less about my day at work, after all.) I headed to the gym, intent upon blasting my abdominal muscles into ribbed perfection**, and while there, I took note of a slight pain in the aforementioned muscle group. I was working out though, so I erroneously presumed that I was 'feeling the burn!' of a solid session.

Speaking of solid sessions***, let's discuss what I had a lack of. Around three in the morning, I was aroused from slumber by a sharp pain in my gut. My initial fear was that I had become the expatriate equivalent of John Hurt, minus the whole chest bursting thing****. After rolling down the steps of my swanky Officetel -that's office + hotel to those beyond the grasp of the Korean peninsula- with a lit cigarette held gingerly between my lips, I contemplated my next move. Nausea was slapping me around like a bitch, but the stomach pains were far worse, and to top it all off, I really felt the need to excrete some unwanted materials. Choices, choices had to be made. I cast my lot with the final option.

Made my way to the bathroom, accompanied by the soothing beat of Radiohead's Exit Music (for a film) -eerily appropriate, perhaps, but I'd like to think of it as karma in effect- playing on my computer, and took a seat, but not before popping the remnants of my cigarette into the bowl. I wasn't delirious, you know. As a veritable deluge of bile burst forth from the nether regions, I cast a wavering glance at the weathered copy of Bret Easton Ellis' American Psycho -now a major motion picture!- that serves as diversionary reading material when a brother needs to get some work down on paper, and could scarcely refrain from contemplating 'What would Patrick Bateman do at a time like this', but it was less a query than an affirmation of the inevitable. Patrick Bateman would convulsively vomit upon himself and his clothes, while hunched over in fecal agony. Actually, that may be what Sean Bateman would do. Tough call, really, but I'm neither, so I just did something with a decidedly Korean twist.
Momentary Rewind: Around midnight, before going to bed, I had devoured a plate of kimchi bokumbap and a side of gogi mandu*****. Ironically, it's just as viciously delicious coming up as it is going down, albeit partially digested, and sticky like duct tape. Bits of kim and rice were strewn about haphazardly, and while the situation was deplorable, the festive decorations have, in hindsight, improved the quality of Mr. Ellis' novel considerably. I spent the next hour sitting upon the bathroom tile, shower running full blast, mainly to wash myself and the surrounding locale, but mostly due to the fact that I was continuously emitting noxious fluids from every cavity of a shell once proclaimed a body******. Hare Krishna.

After that, it was a jerky, abrasive upward spiral. I slept in short, beloved bursts, replete with febrile dreams. One of them was rather curious, involving actress Amy Steel. I'd like to expound upon the contents of this peculiar hallucination, but I'll need the prior approval of Señor Sparkles, as it may somehow conflict/compete with the sacrosanct image of P.J. Soles.

As I am still comparatively ill, and possibly rabid with hysteria, let me summarize the main points of tonight's post:
1) Visit the Sizzler for a good meal.
2) Tarnish any available copy of American Psycho.
3) Check my toilet if you'd like to know the current whereabouts of Marky Mark's Funky Bunch.
4) Krishna won't help a man in need.
5) What's with the picture? Well, that's what my bathroom looked like in the wake of Behemoth's rage.

Finally, I'm just glad that I hadn't ingested several bananas before the food poisoning took effect, like an unlucky coworker did. Brutal, man.

Hati

-----

* The actual name of a waitress may vary, but Sizzler cares about their customers enough to supply Mr. T with the requested name tag.

** Put one of those annoying dogs (you know, the kind that every unmarried Korean woman carries within her purse, and dresses up like a miniature proctologist, pop singer, etc.) in a mesh sack, and then drug it. As it sleeps the rest of the day away, take note of the shape. That's what my stomach will look like in three months, god willing.

*** The official theme to Psychedelic Kimchi's Greatest Bowel Movements

**** Imagine a smaller dog in a sack once again, but this time zap it with a tazer and then watch its body bounce around spasmodically. That's what my stomach looked like at the time in question. I don't condone violence toward annoying dogs, unless they're dressed like Gene Siskel. Fuck, that pisses me off to no end.

***** The keyboard on my laptop does not employ hangeul. The travesty. Kmart/Hati hwighting!

****** To rephrase: I felt as lame as Zach de la Rocha's solo career. No joke.

The Game, Doctor's Advocate (Review)

Before I start the review proper, some quick thoughts and notes:

- Ill 'Mare is the greatest nickname in sports, bar none. And I invented it. If it fails to catch on (Channel 22), that's the story of my life. Anyways, as mentioned in passing at the 'Net's 2nd-greatest blog, dude was looking sharp today against the Bucks. Herculean, even. What I failed to mention, however (because it goes against protocol), is that the Orange Roundie, apart from burning my retnas, did surprisingly little to piss me off. But it sure as hell raised the ire of Michael Redd in the closing minutes: he missed a free throw (I think it was his sole miss from the stripe that game), was clearly vexed, and vociferated "It's the *expletive* ball, man." He said that twice. Redd Dog, welcome aboard.

Blame. The. Ball.

- I don't want to scare you, but there's a (definite) possibility that my blogging

(obsession)

activity is going to slow its roll like 5 o' clock traffic come next weekend. I'm such an Indian giver.

(And, yes, that's a subtle hint for the vaunted PK Braintrust to pick up the slack. The memo's signed "JJJ")

As for the why, in the immortal words of Robert Plant, all will be revealed. Maybe.

- Lastly (because it's a Saturday night, and I know you're simply dying to read how Doctor's Advocate rates), I have to mention, because I'm

(mentally retarded)

Canadian, that it's colder than a mutha tonight. Coming back to The Holy City (bet you didn't know we have 474 hospitals. That's a FACT) from Seoul earlier, I waited for the 9407 bus (the transportation equivalent of a body cavity search*) for 30 minutes. Picture Jack Nick at the end of The Shining. I hate winter. I loathe winter.

I need more insulation.

***

I don't know why you hoes keep tryin' me:


Lookin' At You

The game's voice got deeper. He sounds all growed up. My little Hercules. Actually, he sounds sorta like Dre. So does the beat. But that's not the case. Right? This is produced by Urban Pope. Um, sure. Awesome opening track.

Da Shit

I'm absolutely in love with the title. It's funny to pretend that Dre didn't produce this. Let's keep it up. Actually, it sounds almost like something Andre 3000 (no Idlewild) might cook up. But the credit goes to DJ Khalil. Pat yourself on the back, DJ Khalil, Barry Horowitz style. I'm in the Hall of Fame, next to Snoop, behind 'Pac. The fuck? Another capital track, but one suggestion: let's make a new emo-gangster rap category, right motherfucking now.

It's Okay (One Blood)

Classic. Music to drive by. The best mainstream hip-hop song I've heard in, Jesus, a few years at least (word to Kanye West**). Of course people always try to find fault in Game's style because he name drops, but I like the name dropping. Perhaps you've gotten that impression. Word to Curtis Mayfield.

Compton

Live. I can't believe this was produced by that dipshit will.i.am. Well.I.can, because the guy is talented, but so is Darius Miles, and he's not going to be winning Player of the Week honors anytime this...forever. My glock to me is like Ice Cube to Yo-Yo. Nice. Like I said, I like the name dropping and all, but when you reference the Black Eyed Peas, we got a problem. That aside, the lyrics so far are fiyah.

Remedy

I know it's been 20 years (really!?), but no one

(puts Baby in the corner)

samples Black Steel In the Hour of Chaos. But I can't front, this is dope. Dig the scratches over the break. 2nd verse is incredible. Game switches his cadence up nicely. Another fantastic track. We're 5-for-5. No jinx.

Let's Ride

The album's lead single (I think), produced by The Great White Dope**, aka Scott Storch. It's a good song, but that's about it. It isn't as amazing as the previous five tracks. It certainly isn't as amazing as them.

Too Much

So we rock it like Tracy MacGrady. Sweet, Yao Ming? Nate Dogg mails it in here. (Peace, denz.) Storch makes up for the B-plusocity of "Let's Ride" with a better beat here. But the grittiness of the album is slipping like dress shoes on bowling lanes. Give me a hard track, stat!

...

Wouldn't Get Far

...

Jesus doesn't walk. But this Kanye West-produced/assisted memo to groupies is solid, save the annoying censorship (blame lawyers). Vida Guerra gets her comeuppance. Still...

Scream On 'Em

I probably woulda killed myself if this wasn't a banger. Fortuitously, I will live to see another day. (Good -- tomorrow is meatloaf night.) Swizz Beatz produced this? Bonkers. I'm the rap Stackhouse. The fuck!!? As a slight aside, can we put an end, once and for all (word to Stud Doogie), to "rhyming" the same word over and over again? Game takes it to a new low here, using "building" as the offending word. And, no, it's not used creatively, a la Common Sense's "Communism".

One Night

"Hood" is the new "building". I'm going punch something. By the way, for those counting at home, the current number of Dr. Dre references is 1,080. This track is not bad meaning bad, but it certainly isn't bad meaning good, either. It certainly isn't bad meaning good.

Doctor's Advocate

Game and Busta Rhymes miss Dre like Bambi misses his moms. I wonder why? Isn't this the thug version of John Cusack -- who is Psychedelic Kimchi like a motherfuck, by the way -- holding up that ghetto blaster in Say Anything? Like I said, emo-gangster rap. Also: word has it that the remix of this will feature guest artists Rakim, Truth Hurts, Hittman (word to Brett Hart), Eve, Ice Cube, and the ghost of MC Ren. Among others.

Ol' English

Somewhere, Talib Kweli is crying. And if Naomi Klein is a fan of hip-hop, I imagine she is, too. All kidding aside (you know I love you, Nao-K), this is as heartfelt as Doctor's Advocate gets. Excuse me while I reflect on my own youth and shed a few tears for the TurboGrafx-16**** (word to Kmart).

California Vacation

Time warp back to '94. Produced by "Jonathan Rotem". Yeah, right. Word to Richard Bachman.

Bang

Caveat to all

(thieves)

downloaders: it's probably a good idea to qualify your search if your looking for this track. I dunno why, either. Hey! it's the Dogg Pound! Daz just said "Booyaka! Booyaka!" Word to Rumble. Somewhere, Ras Kass is cackling maniacally.

Around the World

Ooh, featuring Jamie Foxx. This has got to be good, then. I wouldn't know, though -- my CD keeps skipping past the track, which is a euphemism for saying "it was impossible as fuck to download." When I eventually buy the CD and hear it, I'll let you know. Like Part IV of In Cold Blood , consider it a work in progress. Word to Shaun Livingston.

Why You Hate The Game

See above. It's all very metaphorical.

Rating: Unless the final two tracks (word to the Teac 7300 RX) are heaven like Mike Landon's Stairway to, Doctor's Avocado is a strobe light honey.

3.5 out of 5 *_*



* More on that tomorrow. Maybe.

** See what I did there?

*** In both senses of the word.

**** Is there a heaven for Bonk's Adventure?

Psychedelic 김아중

And now, my beloved disciples, the moment of truth...The Needle of Love.

Yes, it's annoying as hell...but also is it the greatest thing you've ever seen. Admit it.

Kim Ah-Jung > masochistically prodding a gum sore with one's tongue.

NB - I just finished eating 12 of those fuckers. And I feel good. I feel kinda invincible, actually.