Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Day Seven: The Action's Out Here, Brothers

Day 07 - A song that reminds you of a certain event

Okay, okay; so it's been a few days since the last post but hey, weekends don't necessarily count as days, do they? (Of course they don't.) In addition, today's song isn't anything worth bemoaning due to tardiness. Truth be told, it's a dookie of a song if there was one, as in total garbage! yet the song itself is relevant due to the event at which I first encountered its majestic turdiness.

Roughly thirteen years ago, I attended a house party hosted by a friend whose identity shall remain unknown, though for the sake of storytelling, we'll refer to him as Shill Warpe. Anyway, by the time I had shown up -fashionably late, as always- the party was in full swing with about sixty people strewn about the house, garage, yard, and atop parked cars. Needless to say, I was both impressed and surprised, given that the host had expected twenty people, thirty max, to partake in the alcohol-fueled glee, and I was even more dumbstruck to discover a karaoke machine set up in the garage with none other than the host himself at the microphone, singing slowly, softly, and sweetly about a girl's ass being so big he had to give her a backpack. I'll be the first to admit that -as I stood there with a plastic cup full of beer- I was taken aback (yet oh-so reeled in!) by such seductively crass words, and then... came the chorus. Not being familiar with The Outhere Brothers, it was jarring to say the very least, though one thing's for sure: you haven't lived till you've heard a grown man wholeheartedly belt out the phrase I'll fuck you stupid! I'll fuck you so hard, you'll swear my name is Cupid!

And to answer the inevitable question, yes, several ladies (as well as a few guys) positively swooned, yours truly included.

Outhere Brothers - I Wanna

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Day Six: It's a Live Show with Dead Deer, My Dear

Day 06 - A song that reminds you of somewhere

Today's song reminds me of the place from which I came; a place of no particular importance and even less substance, yet it is a place that exists regardless of such superfluous qualities, as well as a place with many deer - and for that, my dear, I am eternally grateful.

Live - Rattlesnake

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Day Five: Athlete's Foot in His Mouth

Day 05 - A song that reminds you of someone

Another day, another song. At first, I thought it would be difficult to choose today's song - a song to remind me of someone is easy enough to locate, sure, but to select the best possible song could have proven another matter entirely... yet it didn't, actually. I chose the following song because it's from an album I once gave to someone special, and they especially enjoyed the album as well as the song itself. Furthermore, I happen to think the song encapsulates a good many things about that person and my relationship with them.*

Athlete - Tokyo

* Now if you don't mind, I have a few pagodas to smash and useless military guys to vaporize with atomic breath.

Penumbral Affinity

    “This could prove to be,” begins one woman, a miscreant of all trades posing as a mercenary of sorts, to a second, more conservatively dressed woman, a besmirched individual posing as a do-gooder of some kind, “difficult.” The mercenary is looking down at an index card with a name written upon it. Surname and given name, nothing more, but the two women, seated across from one another in a cushy booth at a Denny’s on the southeast side of town one stormy night in May know the quarry listed especially well, albeit on mismatched terms - though not entirely, much to the chagrin of the prospective client.

    The do-gooder gasps in mock incredulity and posits that she’d been told to expect great things of her quirky dinner companion, that if there was anyone capable of accomplishing the task at hand, it would be the mercenary. She also studies the miscreant’s form; a beautifully monstrous amalgamation in the shape of a gaunt, yet curiously vibrant, attractive woman in her mid-twenties with long, flowing hair dyed to resemble, of all things, a beloved icon of iced Americana, the Bomb Pop. Azure at the roots, which then fade into a section bleached to the point of chalky oblivion and, finally, streaks and strands of the bloodiest ruby red imaginable that seem a bit too reminiscent of genuine ichor for comfort. With regard to fashion, the mercenary’s choices are both disconcerting and deplorable at the same time. A plain white tee shirt, of all things, is what covers all that lies beneath, and it’s shabby to boot; clean, perhaps, but torn in several locations. And beneath! Beneath the tattered shirt and beyond the edges of its sleeves is flesh enclosed by interlacing sheets of blue and red Saran Wrap, at times violet due to overlapping, which covers everything down to the miscreant’s wrists, like some manner of technicolor mummification has taken place. It’s a travesty, really.

    The mercenary shifts her gaze toward the do-gooder in response to the snide expression of disbelief, smirks, and pulls a loose cigarette out of a gently held soft pack with her teeth. She offers her potential client one as well, but the other woman declines, noting that she doesn’t smoke Marlboros. The do-gooder rummages through her purse, removes a Newport, and lights up. Cute. The mercenary lights her own cigarette, inhales, and regards the company she now keeps. A dress the color of dandelions, with a black purse. Newports. Female. Eyes full of angry expectancy, but pretty nonetheless. Whatever. Physical attributes aren’t of much concern to the miscreant, nor is apparel, though she considers the woman’s selection of clothing, specifically the color, to be amusingly inappropriate. The do-gooder’s scent, however, is of interest to her, for it reeks of something far removed from the moniker of good-natured whatsoever, and thus the miscreant’s almost beginning to like this woman, gaudy attire notwithstanding.

    “The issue isn’t one of me being capable or not,” the miscreant begins again as she pulls her multicolored mane into a loose ponytail, “but rather, the paucity of suitable candidates. I mean, who else is going to pull it off?”

    The do-gooder scowls. “I could,” she retorts defiantly.

    “Yeah, maybe,” the mercenary replies, rolling her eyes. She then waves her hand lackadaisically amidst the growing cloud of smoke. “You can do anything you put your mind to! and shit, and if I may be so bold, your resolve is evident. I can smell it, even through these delightfully noxious fumes. Believe me.” She shrugs. “Or not. Anyway. But here’s the thing; and yeah, it’s a laundry list of sorts. Truth be told, I’ve been... Shit.”

    “Yes?” the other woman enquires, raising an eyebrow before setting her second Newport ablaze.

    “Where’s the best place to start, you know? Well, I’ve been, in no particular order: shot in the face - twice in fact, to say nothing of my chest; had my ribcage and skull smashed by repeated blows from a sledgehammer; fallen down three stories onto, of all things, a goddamn children’s play set; shot through the windshield of an automobile, only to be crumpled against the fertile earth, and what a bitch that was; fucking blown into numerous, readily identifiable pieces, and if you’ve seen The Monster Squad, yeah it was kinda like that; had a middle school partially collapse upon me, keeping in mind that I was the projectile that caused said collapse; and some other shit not worth mentioning. The point being is that I’m, shall we say, resilient, and it’s not the pain of dying that sucks so much, but the agony of returning to life that blows, to say nothing of the maddening, blackened emptiness which lies between the two extremes. Even so, if you require something or someone dealt with, I’m the one to beg, but...” The miscreant taps her finger against the notecard. “This would be an irksome endeavor indeed, understand?”

    The do-gooder nods in earnest appreciation of the miscreant’s account, her own confidence diminished. “Will you try?”

    The mercenary beams the brightest of smiles. “Obviously.”

Day Four: Armed with a Ray Gun

Day 04 - A song that makes you sad

All things considered, Ray LaMontagne's Till the Sun Turns Black isn't the saddest song ever produced; and it doesn't make me wail, punch my pillow in the deepest depths of night, or elicit fears of love lost. It's more, hmm, sad in the abstract, I suppose, or maybe just sad in a manner unrelated to romantic or otherwise personal woes though for whatever reason, it makes me think of my father, but shit, we all have issues with our fathers so there's nothing especially sad about that.

But it's a good, sad song nevertheless.

Ray LaMontagne - Till the Sun Turns Black

Monday, May 23, 2011

Day Three: Not..Dying?

Day 03 - A song that makes you happy

You want to know what makes me happy? John Travolta eating two slices of thin-crust pizza at the same time, that's what, and what goes better with the 'Volt' than the Bee Gees?

Bee Gees - Stayin' Alive

You know what else makes me happy? Boxes with the word ATARI printed on them... twice!

And if you want to know what makes me really happy, then...


... ah, now that would inappropriate for a blog of this caliber to depict.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

Day Two: Heart Attack

Day 02 - Your Least Favorite Song

Let's be honest here: I don't hate Heart. All things considered, the band's got quite a few likable tunes, but Barracuda isn't one of them. The song doesn't cause me to froth at the mouth in rage, nor does it incite violence upon its mere appearance; it is a song, however, which leads me to change radio stations, click the 'next' button on iTunes (if, for whatever reason, it were to rear its ugly head in the first place), sigh on behalf of the human race when someone foolishly puts it into rotation at a social gathering or pub jukebox, and drink copious amounts of alcohol to fool myself into believing it doesn't exist. But I don't hate it.

Heart - Barracuda (Live)

You loathe the song, yet you provide the file for download? Weird.

Well, just because I dislike the song doesn't you should. That, or I wish to inflict misery upon humanity at large. You be the judge.

The 30-Day Song Challenge (of Boredom): Day One

Have I mentioned that as of late, I've been suffering from a bout of boredom? Perhaps I referred to it as an ennui of sorts before tonight, as between the not-so-imminent Rapture, shovel filing, and malt liquor there's been, shall we say, a veritable dearth of stimulation, and what's a polyphonic wraith to do when there's no one left to haunt? Why, peruse the hive of scum and villainy known as The Mos Eisley Cantina Facebook, of course! Let it be known, here and now, that I'm well behind the times 'cause I, literally, just noticed the 30 Day Song Challenge existed, and there's like, a million fans of it already. While better late than never is such a bullshit phrase indeed, I'll grant it some merit in this particular case since I've nothing better to kill than time.

Day 01 - Your Favorite Song

Fuck, that's a tough one, as there are so many amazing songs in existence; yet, having said that, I simply must choose something, and I'm going with Radiohead's Let Down.

Radiohead - Let Down (If you'd like to download and keep the song you can 'right click' on the song title and save the link to your own computer.)

Frequent readers of Psychedelic Kimchi are already well aware of my fondness for the song (one example can be found here) but they would also understand that I don't readily identify with the lyrics, insomuch that the song evokes neither feelings of sadness nor depressing pessimism whatsoever; if anything (as the provided link demonstrates), the theme of Let Down elicits an almost-visceral glee of sorts in yours truly. Beyond that, Let Down is, put simply, six thousand shades of awesome.

Monday, May 16, 2011

Sunday, May 15, 2011


For years I was an insomniac, but now the poles have reversed and I'm narcoleptic. Good night. Wake me in the mourning.

Thursday, May 12, 2011

Photo of a Day (or Two)

And what a day (or two) it has been, folks, yet I've learned a lot about acceptance as well as personal responsibility; both for the mistakes I've made, and to the person I've hurt (yet love) so deeply, but one can't dwell upon the past nor the present forever, and thus tomorrow is born.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011


ASSIGNMENT: Write 300 words about a hero of yours. It could be a family member, an historical figure, or a celebrity chef, but please, no rappers or religious icons/gays.

My Hero

by Jake Jameson (3rd grade)

If I had to pick a hero I would pick Pat Riley. First of all, he has really cool hair. Sometimes I put a lot of mousse in my hair and comb it back to look like him. The kids in my class call me names because of it, but they wear Crocs, so who's the real pansy? I feel that time will prove me more stylish.

Did you know that Pat Riley coached like a million championship teams? He did. His rings have rings. He also put together the best team in history. I'm pretty sure James, Wade and Bosh could take out the Justice League and the Avengers combined. People don't like that team for some reason, probably because they're the best and people hate good things (gay marriage, Internet piracy). My dad says it's because cities like New York and Boston and L.A. have a "scents of entitlement" and get mad when cities like Miami or Metropolis or Geo make them look small.

Pat Riley is very smart. For example, he can tell the difference between crab and lobster by taste alone. He can also beat Pole Position on just one quarter. These qualities are envious. He also is an advocate for being awesome.

Thank you for reading my essay.

Thursday, May 05, 2011

Last Meal

Roger Ray Riley, more familiarly known by his pseudonym, Rated-R, was a director and star of gonzo-style pornographic Web content. He was executed in Florida in 2007 for the double homicide of his girlfriend, Jean-Louise Bishop(28), and their live-in friend, Jessica Wampling(31).

From the time of his arrest until his execution by electric chair on April 29, 2007, Riley claimed that he was innocent. "I'm guilty of more things than most people," he was quoted as saying minutes before his conviction, "but I'm no murderer."

Twelve jury members believed differently, and so it was that, after swift deliberation, he was found guilty of first-degree murder and transferred to Florida State Prison to await execution. He never appealed.

He did, however, have quite a unique request for his last meal, and that's what has fascinated me. I'm uninterested in whether Riley was guilty or not. The machinations of men and justice are so myriad, so tangled, that without clairvoyance it's all just guesswork, and one can drive himself mad considering it for too long. I'm more interested in his last-meal request. Who knows, perhaps there's something in that, too, which might shed light on the guilt or innocence of a dead convict.

8500 grams of cherry tomatoes, bought locally as per state law. Total calories: 2000.

When initially denied his request because it was deemed extravagant, Riley wrote back, "Gentlemen, you think me a murderer, and the law has declared me as such. I will not try to convince you otherwise, for it would be folly. But if I may appeal my case in the matter of my final meal, I would beg of you to hear me out. I love steak, lobster, ice cream -- but their deliciousness is fleeting. I am to die soon, and quickly, so I would very much appreciate you granting me one humble wish. I want to eat as my "special" meal 500 cherry tomatoes on the day before I die. I realize that such an amount makes up the FDA's total daily caloric intake and doesn't constitute a meal, but I hope that in this case a blind eye can be turned. I might not get a chance to eat for a long time afterwards."

I was the guard on duty the evening two hulking grocery bags full of ripe cherry tomatoes were brought into Rated-R's Death Watch cell. "Five-hundred," he said enthusiastically as he popped a fat one into his mouth. "Four ninety-nine," he said, smiling. By the time he had consumed twenty, his face was ashen. He ate five or six more before lying down on his bunk and falling asleep. Yet throughout the night I could hear him counting down numbers in his sleep.

When the governor asked him if he had any last words, his response was, "Zero."

Wednesday, May 04, 2011

0 + 1 = 3 - 2 = Zero

Oasis - Fuckin' in the Bushes

Now Earth, that's a happening place. It said what I meant and I mean what it says but it just doesn't say enough about the Blue Planet, the temperate one without all the dusty rust and rusty dust. I also expressed the desire to pizzazz, yes pizzazz* that shit to the ground with sizzling bolts of deadly energy but there's more appeal to Mother Earth than senseless destruction. Inhabitants, for one. Once upon a time, Planet X was the bustling cradle of an efficient, if not stoic race of ostensibly emotionless humanoids known as Xiliens (or Xians, to some); but they've long since been eradicated from the face, and possibly the innards of this now-forgotten, rotten lump of celestial flesh and bone. Sounds extreme, I know, yet once upon that very same time, I flaunted three gloriously-horned heads where now there is but one alongside a pair of scabby, shabby stumps and besides, monster see, monster do - until there’s nothing left to be done, of course.

The Xiliens, yeah. They weren’t as emotionally vacant as they had touted themselves to be, though in comparison to humankind most everything’s positively robotic, which must be somewhat distressing for most everything else. For Xiliens, passion was demeritorious. Xiliens exercised, whereas humans work out. Xiliens consumed food designed to meet nutritive requirements, while humans ravenously devour anything that suits their particular fancy. Xiliens copulated for the purpose of reproduction. Humans, on the other hand, fuck one another -in every possible location, be it the gutter, the glassy skyscraper or even the bushes- for reasons such as stress reduction, futile replacement strategy, revenge, career advancement, boredom, self-abasement, cruelty, projection, misplaced attachment or detachment, spending money, and whatever else the mind can concoct, including love. Love, yes, love! Those poor, poor Xiliens were incapable of love, unlike mankind, for whom love moves the proverbial mountain. Of all the comparisons available, love is what truly separated the extinct race from that which dominates the Blue Planet. That, and the Xiliens could only yell, whereas humans scream, moan, and wail; this, amongst so much else, made decimating the cities of this dead world so utterly disappointing, and makes for a depressing planetary carcass on which to traipse.

Perhaps, if fate smirks upon the inhabitants of Earth, some enterprising astronomer will cast his or her telescopic gaze in the direction of this planet designated X only to see an O of sorts peering right back, though my eyes apprehend far more of them than theirs will of me.

*Pizzazz is the sound of one's flesh when teeth, tongue and lips enter the fray.

Everybody Knows

And everybody likes to think they know everything about the stuff that makes them sad, or everybody's only acting sad when they hear about: