Fuck Thursday morning. Tuesday morning and Saturday morning, too; and, while we're at it, let's add Friday morning to that list. I am not a happy boy. Don't get me wrong; I love the
(money I make)
job I have, but waking up early for work prevents me from doing three things I love dearly (four, if you count this hallowed blog. I don't). They are, in order of importance: talking to The 18th Letter on Skype, indulging in an adult beverage or ten the night prior, and watching playoff basketball. For now, I'm free after 9 a.m. on Thursdays, and when I went to Yahoo!'s NBA page this morning I was informed, quite surprisingly, NO GAMES TODAY. I thought that was kinda weird, because I expected the Eastern Conference Finals to tip off today (your last night, North American Constant Retards), but the Internet has never lied to me before and NO GAMES TODAY, I've been taught, means NO GAMES TODAY.
Displeased but not discouraged, I decided to carpe my diem by smoking a square (handsomely, I should add), browsing my bookmarked websites (CHUD for skewed movie news, Dave's for skewed newbie news, and Tube8 for skewed boobie views), jotting down a few notes for my unsolicted-yet-awesome Brothers Karamazov sequel, Hurrah for Alyosha* (Ivan is a drug addict, Dmitri is getting out of jail after a 20-year bid, and they foster a plot to assassinate a local political figure. Trust me, it's awesome), and eating some frozen pizza, although, full disclosure, it wasn't frozen when I ate it.
An hour or so later, logging on to Yahoo!, that Internet blackguard, to check my email, I was informed that Dwight Howard made some sort of spectacular dunk that broke the backboard or something in A GAME THAT WASN'T EVEN EXISTING! (Transcendent!) As far as I knew, anyway. Because I am a cripple, and Yahoo! Sports is my crutch.
Fuck Yahoo! Sports.
Too late to catch most of the first half and whatever destruction D-Ho wreaked, I watched the end of the second quarter, bore witness to Mo Williams laudable heave to end the half, and waited
(in my boxer shorts)
for quarter three to start on SBS Sports. Or maybe it was MBC ESPN. All I know is that they both broadcast glaringly non-sports programs -- like NHL Hockey and 2 Days 1 Night -- to fill up air time and that they have no sponsors for NBA games save the laughable Shinhan NBA credit card.
Despite earlier misinformation and perpetual NBA promos (seriously, I'd rather gouge my eyes out than watch another black-and-white montage set to Radiohead's "Nice Dream," and I love "Nice Dream" like I love my dick size), I got into the game, one fueled by a Magical comeback. (Kill me now.)
I didn't think Rashard Lewis would hit that. I did think Mo William's jump-ball-tipped shot was going in. It didn't, and I'd still be happy either way. Good game, fellas. I can't wait to miss Game 2 because of work/Internet ineptness/heart attack.
Psychedelic Kimchi may (or may not) be a great deal of things: trashy, artsy and/or fartsy, maniacal, endearing, etc. One matter you, dyslexic reader, may be certain of is that PK is nothing if not the amalgamation of five learned scholars working synergistically. Keeping this in mind, I thought it best to select a game which truly epitomizes one of our regular contributors (and his effortlessly circuitous essays).
To that end, I give you the venerable Sword of Sodan, yet another stellar entry in the sacrosanct Electronic Arts library. Thisisidealjetsam, and if you're unprepared to appreciate such majesty, I suggest you bone up on your post-postmodern trancendentalism and try again.
Let it never be said that I am not a renaissance man. Take today for example. In addition to work (although I readily admit that no one really considers both dressing and smiling sharply work anymore, myself excluded), I played the guitar until my fingers nearly bled*, collected 21 stars on Super Mario Galaxy IN JAPANESE, took a cell phone photo of a cute girl on the subway picking her nose (irony is so easy; it's the creative yin to cuisine's ramen-preparation yang), read about half a page of Tuesdays with Morrie (make me spend some time alone with Mitch Albom and I guarantee you I won't live more than a few hours), studied Korean ('언제나 이안은 티셔츠를 잘 입어요'), gayve mah dowg a wawk, and did some other stuff that I probably shouldn't mention because my Facebook page links to Psychedelic Kimchi and I still hope to be included in several of my relatives' wills.
Yep, it was a good day for art. One of the best.
All silliness aside, I'm not the person to ask whether A or B is art, because I honestly have no fucking idea. I can tell you what I consider art, and then you can tell me I'm wrong, but where does that get us? Nowhere. Because you're wrong, too. (Glibness is so easy.) Art to me is shit I like. Lord knows that's prosaic, but whatever. It saves me from trying to appreciate Salo as a film and scat porn as erotic, although I'm willing to try, just not when I'm eating. Today, Jeremy G. Butler posted a DVD review of Hannah Montana's first season on CHUD.com that caught my attention, because instead of the knee-jerk response (read: vile hatred) most 20 to-30-somethings might expect, he was surprisingly honest in his review. Instead of shitting on the show -- which I've seen enough episodes to, I believe, give my own opinion on, one which isn't too different from Butler's -- he understands its popularity. There's a reason Saved by the Bell is similarly remembered, and it's not because of its artistic value, whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. Our lives are shaped by the culture surrounding us and the shared comfort it provides. You might never understand why, in 2019, your grown children are bopping out to "The Best of Both Worlds," but you can empathize.
So, does that make Hannah Montana art? You bet. Live to be 60, 70, 80, hell, 90 and beyond, I'd say everything is art. Not to discount criticism, but, fuck, if I only have a short while to live (and we all do, some more than others, and I'm purposefully being glib again), I'm going to make everything art to some degree.
Can a video game be art? Roger Ebert says no, Clive Barker says yes, and I'm stuck in the middle with you. To me a game can, although few fit the bill, and you're better off trying to settle the Israel-Palestine conflict than taking a side in this war.
In 2001 I was reading a lot of Haruki Murakami novels and playing Ico on the Playstation 2. I've since grown upper, the games have gotten a lot deeper -- so I hear -- and it's been a long time since I thought about a horny kid (a kid with horns, I mean) leading a mute girl around a castle full of shadows.
Ah, nostalgia. Art? Maybe not. Probably not. But a hell of a lot more satisfying than pictures of you and Grandma planting trees in the backyard or a dress made out of meat.
Like the corners of my media-addled mind.
What's the frequency, Yorda?
* in the process mastering more chords than The Ramones and learning to play Neon Bible BY ACCIDENT
I just finished watching Anvil! the Story of Anvil, an excellent documentary aboat a Toronto-based heavy metal band that never really made it. And it got me thinking about Game Seven of the Lakers-Rockets series, which tips off shortly (lamentably) after 4:30 AM, KST; a game that will be decided while yours truly sleeps the sleep of the just, because, sadly, I got bigger fish to fry.
Watching Anvil, I couldn't help but notice the parallel between the band and the Rockets. I really, really wanted Anvil to make it, which is a testament to how well told the film is and not, perhaps, to how great a band Anvil is. But, despite Anvil's shortcomings, they're dedicated and passionate about what they do -- a rare, admirable trait. After all, everyone loves a feel-good story.
That's the Rockets! After losing Yao Ming they stood strong -- well, aside from getting blown out by 40 points -- and pushed the Lakers to a seventh game, winner takes all. But, like Anvil, the Rockets probably won't succeed. Sometimes life is like that. Predictable.
Still, it's always nice to dream. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow to find that dreams came true. That would be nice. That would be pretty neat.
Rockets-Nuggets, Western Conference Finals. I like the sound of that.
I have a crippling hangover, one which I hope isn't clouding my judgment...for I'm about to declare Only Built 4 Cuban Linx the best hip-hop album ever, not now but right now. Longtime Constant Retards may remember a few years back -- 2006, I believe -- when I compiled a list of the top 100 hip-hop albums and named A Tribe Called Quest's The Low End Theory No. 1. My regret then, maybe even now, was that I didn't put Brand Nubian's One for All at the top spot. But even bigger, I forgot just how high I placed Cuban Linx. No. 8? Really? That's just not fair.
So I am now retroactively altering the Top 5. Because I can. Linx comes in at No. 1, followed by, in ascending order, Tribe's The Low End Theory, Common Sense's Resurrection, Brand Nubian's One for All, and Boogie Down Production's Criminal Minded.
(Lists are stupid.)
Now, excuse me while I get reacquainted with an old, dear friend.
Bonus: mediocrity!
(I think it's fair to say I'm not exactly excited for Cuban Linx II...I mean, if it ever gets released. Which it probably won't. Still, it's nice to see that Rae and RZA have kissed and made up.)
Metallic dinosaurs flying through space. I ask you, divergent reader; what else need be said?
Not much (correct!), but I'll say something anyway. Sure, Demon Attack was a rip-off of an earlier game entitled Phoenix, but hey, this was the Atari 2600, and there was only so much that could be done on the antiquated console.
I'll also mention that countless hours were spent in an equally antiquated basement (replete with brick walls painted in a pattern which consisted of alternating shades of bright yellow and orange) playing this game fervently, as if reaching the twelfth wave of enemies would have somehow validated my existence, which is to say that my brother was always a bit better at the game than me, and by overtaking his prowess, he would have shown me some -proper- respect. (Kids think the darnedest things.)
Demons cascade down the screen, and you fire projectiles toward them. Avoid death. Lather, rinse, repeat. That's it.
Okay, so today I watched the Lost season 5 finale, and my synapses are firing! Well...what to say*? Religion is the root of all evil. Now you flash your cards. Or maybe not. Maybe we're all just confused, without a place or time to call home. Maybe there's a paradox that needs fixing, which would explain why some kid named Jake keeps calling me, asking me to save him from some haunted house and to rewrite The Phantom Menace, replete with vagina.
Maybe we're all just the imaginings of some autistic kid. Word to St. Elsewhere (and not Hill Street Blues, as I'm oft wont to sbcbtm).
That sounds nice. I sorta like that tune...Women, don't forget them. They are either the key or the lock to solving/complicating this mystery. (There goes my master plan, wherein religion -- or basketball, at least -- and women are the path to my redemption. Maybe they're both, but I don't think so. Blame Lost for throwing a monkey wrench into the cogs of my belief system.) I can't fault the season five finale, though, because it was well told. But...fuck! Give me something new! Or old! Give me polar bears and Walt. And Vincent. Okay, you gave me Vincent, but that was cheap. You know what was cheaper? Rose and Bernard. Damn you. I came back not to an island but to a television -- or a reasonable hand-drawn facsimile thereof -- and you give me this? I should holler. I should protest ABC Studios, boycott Disney, and drink a milkshake. A Shamrock Shake. I should throw a party like Demetri Karamazov, aware that while I'm not guilty, I'm far from innocent, for I too played a part in this abject debacle.
I've been stranded on Lost for six fucking years, and now you pull this shit?
(I've been living on Earth for 31 years and now you pull this shit?)
Yeah, I'm mad. But that's life; and, as a wise little sprite once told me, it's good to be alive. Because then you can watch stuff. And, word to myself, then you can complain about it. Until people eventually start ignoring you.
Live long enough, you grow to accept it. But it's still hard.
Six fucking years.
I want to live forever, or at least long enough to eat another bacon double cheeseburger. But it's getting harder.
Year: 1988 Ownership Status: Rental Players: 2 (teamwork!) Names of Spacecraft: Vic Viper, and Lord British* (first and second players, respectively) Objective: Fly into the body of a massive alien invader, and destroy it from within Konami Code: You better believe it
I wouldn't label Konami's celebrated N.E.S. release the best spaceship shooter ever, but I will contend that it's one of the most entertaining. What better way was there to spend an afternoon with a pal than blowing your way through an alien's massive (and laughably disproportionate) body? **
* The ship's name is Lord British. Really.
** Don't say flipping through an issue of Playboy. (Too easy.)
