Douchebag

So I wrote this long diatribe about how much I hate the resurgence of ‘douchebag’ and how it seemed to ride its way back in during the past couple years, hiding amongst the Lacoste shirts and 80s shit like that, but it was just way too violent. I had to delete it. So let’s just say that I don’t really like the ubiquity of 'douchebag' these days.

Taking things back to the hip hop, who knows about – well, first of all, why is everyone sleeping on The Perceptionists? Black Dialogue has some awesome tracks. Fantastic beats, both hard and groovulifical…clever, deeply insightful lyrics, and a true mark of the degree to which hip hop has evolved. It's knowledge rap that can hold its own against thug rap, like Kweli (but markedly different). I know, I just totally dated myself with the use of the term “knowledge rap” – that’s what we called all that Jungle Brothers/Public Enemy/BDP stuff back in like ’90. Now that I consider it, I guess some folks still use that term.

I’ll have to write a separate post about The Perceptionists, when I have more time for an intelligent review, some social commentary-type crap, and generally to tell you all to listen to the damn album – but getting back to my original thought, who is familiar with “We Know” on the Cappadonna album titled The Yin and The Yang? Y’all know that one? Da Brat’s verse on that track a) completely destroys anything Cappadonna and his darts, darts, darts have ever done and b) is one of the hottest verses by a female rapper that I can think of. Look, I know she’s no Jean Grae, but this verse is hot. I love how she ends it, too:

We know not to let a mothafucka get too close
Cuz in this world we know there ain’t shit free
So I work nigga!

Yeah, you do, Brat. You work. Oh, that’s a hot one. You have to hear it to know what I’m talking about. She kills ‘em on that verse. Of course, the lyrics websites once again disagree with me, contending that she says “Cuz in this world we know there ain’t shit free so why work nigga?” - which doesn’t even make sense. I have confidence in my ear, though, and I’m certainly not going to take notes from a lyrics web page contributor who hears “Cream of the crop/Pop any nigga like Redenbacher” and goes on to print “queen when I crock?/pop any niggah like, red (buck?)” instead. Hey, got enough question marks in there? ?? ha ha. Your ear is wack, and my ear is funky fresh, dressed to impress, ready to party, money in its pocket, dying to move its body. Word. MC Lyte.

Funny thing about reading the lyrics to this song online is that Cappa’s verses are all short and repetitive, like bad poety, just a few words per line, while Brat’s verse is this monster that goes halfway across the page and shares none of the boring repetition that Cap’s verses employ. I mean, damn. Think about that - even in the actual physical layout of the lyrics – the printed transcription – Brat’s shit makes Cappa look like a…what? Douchebag or something.

I don’t have the ipod with me so I just listened to the snippet of a file they have on Amazon – it perfectly proves my contention. Have a listen. There’s just enough of Cappa to get an idea of what he’s all about, then there’s a nice bit of Da Brat’s verse that’s just totally ripshit. I wanna be drunk, standing in my underpants with the ipod tucked in the waistband, tube in one hand and 11-87 Premier in the other, pumping my arms in the air like that cat at the end of Platoon when Sheen is getting evac’d.

Yes, we get it, Chucky. You like the verse. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

Ok, at this point, I think I’ve proven my nerdular dorkitude. Quit throwin’ darts, Cap – Da Brat already hit the bull’s eye. Get it? Hey-o! Now that’s what I call CORNY! That’s some corny shit! Man, using ‘corny’ reminds me of back in ‘95 when Andrea used to teach snaps to Destinee when she was still only like 3 or 4 years old – “Your poo has crumbs and corn in it!” was a personal favorite. Hard to throw a snap back at a 4 year-old when she drops that one on you. Especially if it happens to be true.

Later,
Chucky

Mo' Betta Friday

Home now - stone groove. The week is done. I suppose I should be out in Wanchai somewhere, spending money, fending off ho'des of hoes, but you know what: I don't wanna chai. I'm tired and I am chilling. Besides, redlining "My Hoodlums and My Thugs" can sometimes be just as satisfying.

Keep on smilin', dialin' and calling collect, peoples - if you my folks you know I'ma accept.

Chucky

(Yes, I have in fact come to the realization that this blog, in its essence, is entirely about E40)

Friday

Just sitting at my desk…Friday evening. I have had one hell of a week or two. What to say…put in 13+ hours yesterday, then went home and kept working from 8-12. Back to work at 7am. Pretty neat. Today has finally slowed and I’m mulling the idea of prank calling (crank calling? whatever) a bunch of my homies in the States. A whole lot of you are on deck, and you’re sleeping away and don’t even know it. 4.17am…sweet. God, I’m dying to do it. Even JJ is probably asleep by now, though he won’t get one because…well, because. Because, believe it or not, after all of the scammy-ass BS he pulled back at Swarthmore, that’s my boy right there. The guy who comes through when you need him, remembers your birthday with awesome, thoughtful gifts, forgives you when you forget his birthday, and knows what it means to be a good friend. Plus, his job is cooler than like 90% of you people.

So here’s to you, JJ – no 4.19 phone call for you. I hope you’re ready to go shooting this fall when I get back, because I want to completely destroy those two cases of shells. I wanna shoot all day long until my arms are tired and my shoulder is bruised. We’ve got to find out what kind of punch those light competition loads are packing, you know?

I can’t wait to get home. I wish there was some cool DVD that I could nick from the video store. Hell, I’d even pay for it. VCDs here are cheap, but DVDs are a fortune, and my local VCD joint has disappeared (second one, too) so I’m stuck with Sam Goodyballsac. Paid almost 30 bucks last month for that Metallica DVD, but it was kind of worth it after the week I had. Their lyrics are funny. I used to sort of hate James and Lars equally, little “we are Metallica” snotbags, but now I’m a big fan of James – keep fighting the good fight, man. I think I covered this already. Lars, you little rich boy brat punk. Your wife’s name is Skylar. My baby’s name crushes your baby’s name.

Ok, I wrote more but cut it. Some of this stream-of-consciousness stuff is better left inside. Yikes. Later.

Chucky

Lyrics…plus OutKast.

Hey! Who needs reminding about a dope track from OutKast? You, right? You do, trust me. You forgot how dope it was to bop around town listening to this one. Put this bright little gem in the pocket of your headphones – no, not those softbatch earbuds (I mean, come on - earbuds?) but through the big boys:

I’ll call before I come
I won’t just pop-a over
Out the blue-ooooo-oooo
I hope that you do too….

I’ll call before I come
I won’t just pop-a over
Out the blue-ooooo-oooo
No, after you….

Bwah ne ne neer ne ne neer neer
Bom bom
Bom bom…

Yeah, that’s a good one. Looking up rap lyrics is funny – it’s classic to see what people come up with. Aloisius becomes Allawishes, Vallejo becomes Thelel…”How can a small town like Thelel have all these damn homicides?” Ummm….it’s Vallejo. You know, V-A-L-L-E-J-O, H-I double-L Side, ya heard? That town he mentions ALL THE TIME? “The Story” is a great example of aural mangling – 365lyrics has the lyrics to “The Story” pretty much right, but Lyrics Depot has all this funny stuff in there:

Wonder why all the good people get put through some manydifferent changes of the web/And all those folks that do wrong seem like they live forever

Hmmm, what rhymes with “forever”? Changes of the…the…web! That’s it!

Uh, Uh fatty is the key to end all your walls/Contemporary crib, cash cards and clothes/But then it cause problems like guns and spids/Families fall out and don't talk for years

Let’s see here – I’ll forgive you “fetti” even though I shouldn’t, and maybe forgive “woes” even though that’s more of a stretch…and I guess “cash cards” is similar enough to “Cash, cars” even though I seriously doubt anyone raps about ATM cards except for when they’re rapping about choppin’ butter. But I’m not forgiving “spears.” That’s where I draw the line. What the hell is a spid anyway? Thanks for coming out, brainiac. Yeah, spid rhymes with years real good like.

It's rough/How much money you earn, /enough, I own my own law firm/Don't need a tux, I twerks picoods and kakis (kakis)/Levis and t-shirts/Whatever the street's works

Picoods? Try peacoats, idiot. Are picoods like spids? They wear/use those in the Magical Land of Thelel?

Ain't nothin changed but the tad toy/Same time, different day, different star

This one is just funny. Territory is heard as “tad toy.” Come on, you know that’s funny. And then hearing “story” as “star” – when the name of the song is “The Story” – is too much.

There are others, but I thought I would stick with a sampling. Of course, I’m the one who once thought the lyrics to that guido dance song was “Save the Humans” instead of “Me do you miss,” so I shouldn’t talk smack. But I never put that on the interweb; on top of that, if there’s one thing I learned about the interweb, it’s never to let a little hypocrisy get in the way of a righteous post. I mean, shit. At least “Save the Humans” is comprised of actual words that actually exist in the actual world. There’s no such thing as a picood, a spid, or a tad toy.

Except in Thelel, of course.

Peace
Chucky

Often, my observations about Hong Kong and Asia in general are not terribly insightful.

This one is no exception.

I’ve noticed that, on television out here, they censor any curse word that is used as a noun or, more specifically, an appellation. However, they don’t censor (or alter) any other form of curse word. For example, HBO is showing Deadwood over here right now, and they’ve got these guys saying “sucker” left and right in place of “fucker” or any other form of curse word involving “sucker” like, I don’t know, say, thumbsucker or lollysucker. I can’t think of any others, can you? However, they allow other versions of “fuck” to be used freely. Like, when Wild Bill is talking to Swerengen (or however you spell it, I don’t watch the show enough to know or care – yes, I know I can go to the HBO site and check, sod off you hater, do it yourself jerkface, I hate you, ok I’ll stop now) about the rich dude who krumped off that rock face, Swerengen says, “Well, I hope it’s delivered in the right fucking light!” – but everything else is sucker, suck, sucker, sucker. Later on, when Jane finds that sick guy in the woods who keeps saying, “I apologize”, she says (a one-liner that serves as a great bit of comic relief, I might add) “SHUT THE FUCK UP!!”

The funny thing is that they seem to continue to review and censor on an ad hoc basis. I know for a fact that Jane said “shut the fuck up” the other night when I was watching that episode, but when Pops and I were watching it again last night – forgive me, I get like 4 channels over here – she just said “Shut up!” That change occurred over a period of a few days, so they are definitely fine-tuning the censorship as they go. On the way to work this morning, I wondered whether that particular change had to do with translation issues and a poor understanding of what that phrase really means. In other words, if censors are not aware that “Shut the fuck up” is a common expression in the US and essentially means “shut up”, they might take it literally and think the expression refers to an actual person, i.e. “shut the guy up.” Which, of course, would fit in with the whole swears-as-nouns-are-bad hypothesis.

Just wondering.

Chucky

Introducing…another night.

Drinks for myself and many others: $200
Canon SD 300 digital camera: $267
Brand-fucking-new 1GB photo chip: $70
Last Saturday night in Central: Pricel—oh, wait. Not priceless. Actually, $537. About 4 thousand Hong Kong. And a big, giant, monster hangover. But no booting.

Shit. My travel insurance better cover that camera. First damn night out with that thing. At least I had fun – but there’s nothing like getting out of a cab in Wanchai, heading into a bar, and immediately realizing that your camera is long gone. I think it fell out of my pocket in the cab, though I may have left it on one of the tables at Red and someone nicked it. No matter, it doesn’t happen but every bunch of years anyway. What I found funniest about that moment of realization is that every time I go to Wanchai – EVERY TIME – I have no idea where I am. None. If someone asked me to take me back to the bars I’ve visited in Wanchai, I would just give them a blank stare. I’m such an automatic, systematic mess that my brain is on emergency fly-by-wire – you know, stay safe, watch for traffic, don’t fall down anywhere…

Oh, why did I make it home at 4 instead of 1, as I had so naïvely planned? Why did I doom myself to a Sunday of (yes, more) Stouffer’s pizza and other fridge raids, bad TV and near-constant wackular excursions in the land of the interweb? I think I broke my personal record on Sunday – would I call it my personal best? I don’t know. Didn’t feel very best. I mean…you know...not something I’m crowing about. By the time I felt normal – about 4pm – it was already time for a nap, having woken at 10am after going to sleep at 4.30 or so. Neat. Waiting for me on the coffee table when I woke was a warm, completely full San Miguel Big Boy that I had picked up on the way home. As if I needed that at either 4am or 10am. Well, stupid behavior begets stupid behavior begets…you know the drilly.

The recap will be boring. Not much happened other than lots and lots of drinks and photos and good conversation with lots of cool cats and breezys. We all met at Red Bar in the IFC for birthday celebrations for B and a friend of his named Pholita or something. B offered a rather pithy and spot-on observation early in the evening, which was that it’s so typical of us to be drinking in a bar, in a restaurant, in a gym (Pure Fitness), in a shopping mall. It’s true – that’s Hong Kong. That’s also Red. Which is where we were. Which is where my camera was last seen, dammit. I’m expensing some dinners this month fo sho. Damn, that camera was tight like a stereolabrat’s pantene poonani. No worries, the replacement will be here in mere days, and all the pain and regret of yet another overly rageified Saturday will fade into memory. You can BET I’m robbin’ a hipster for the nano now, though.

Sunset looks awesome at the moment, by the way. That one tower near my apartment that fades from purple to blue and then green, orange, yellow and red is lighting up, and the sky behind it is reddish pink, both beautiful and kind of scary looking. The combination of natural and artificial light, combined with the fact that the lights of the building match the sky every so often, makes this sunset a killer one.

So, the night. Typical. Lots and lots of reporters, Stellas, Jack Drys, Red Bull and Stolis, some white wine of one sort or another, some straight Jack later in the night (for some stupid, stupid reason) and the money just floated away. I remember breaking the HK1000 bill I keep in my wallet for a backup, although I don’t quite recall spending the 500 bill I got for change. So maybe that went off somewhere too.

You know what? This is actually a pretty boring and depressing post. Here’s what I did: I got totally shitfaced at Red, went to some bar in Central after that and continued my shitfacular behavior, went to Wanchai, patted my pockets and went back to Central, and went home. Had lots of fun, B’s friends are all cool and friendly people, his man T was extra-cool about the camera, and I totally spent – and lost – way too much money. That’s it. I’m done with that.

Chucky

Oh, snap. Snappity snap snap.
Chucky

Fintan O'Toole, writing in The Irish Times, said the disaster revealed "the underlying nature of a troubled country.""When America looks at the huge expanse of filthy, fetid water that has drowned New Orleans, it becomes a mirror in which it finally sees the scars on its own face. The scars of poverty, of racism, of ideological zealotry, of public corruption and of environmental degradation, usually concealed by a cosmetic media, become visible," he wrote.

-From the AP

Birthday Love in Kowloon

So I had an insane night this past Saturday. In. Sane. At the request of my friend B, who required a gweilo wingman for this particular obligation, I attended the birthday party of his girlfriend’s mother at a large dinner/dancing hall in Kowloon. It was a costume affair – well, at least for the two tables’ worth of relatives and friends. For the other 300 people at the restaurant, it was just another night out; that said, it was certainly interesting and more than a little humbling when we entered the place and had to walk past several large tables of regular diners while dressed as, respectively, a pirate (B), a Native American (E) and a 'big Chinese dude', which I discovered a few weeks later was a Chinese vampire, thus explaning the attention and praise of the locals (me). I was rockin’ one of those silk shirts with the high collar and toggle buttons as well as a crazy hat with a long ponytail in the back. Luckily it did not take long for us to reach our two tables of already litacious revelers, most of whom were in costume as well. Ah, the safety of the other freaks.

You know, I’m really not sure where to start. I think I might just do it diary-style, in chronological order, as I have done with many other talez of my Kongistanian Drunkitude.

We show up a the place and I’m generating all sorts of laughter and praise for my costume, from enthusiastic shouts of “Beautiful!” accompanied by a thumbs-up to some remarks in Chinese that well could have been mean-spirited insults for all I know. Everyone was laughing – no one was giving me the stinkeye – but laughing with people and at people often go hand-in-hand in Chinese culture and, while they may bear no ill will toward you, people make no mistake about the fact that they are making fun of you. Some of my friends would not have done so well in this environment. But, like my father, I try to keep in mind the inherent goodness of people, be respectful and have fun and, unlike my father, drink my way into relative comfort.

And that’s what B and I proceeded to do, although we were first sidetracked by – what else? – photos. Lots and lots of photos. First we were bombarded with the introductions: we met E’s crazy sisters (dressed as Pebbles and a sexy cop, fishnets and all), her mother (a belly dancer), various friends and boyfriends (a gay Spock, an Arab, cowgirl, etc) as well as E’s father and aunt. They didn't dress up.

Then came the photos – B, E, and myself, then B and I with two women from the other table, then B with just the two women, me with just the two women, group shot after group shot…at one point, I was surrounded by people imitating a bunny hop (you know, hands curled, palms down at chest level, hopping away), saying to me, “this how Chinese Frankenstein walk! Not like this” – Frankenstein move, with arms outstretched like a zombie – “but like this!” (bunny hop). “Now you do! You do!!” Completely confused yet eager to make nice with my new friends, I obliged to their immense delight. Dude, I had no clue at this point. Honestly, I’m desperately scanning the table for a beer. The table is littered with dirty plates, hard-boiled eggshells, cans of soda, and empty bottles of Chivas and Henny. Lots of full sodas and empty beers, but no full beers. Finally they start flowing out of the ice buckets off to the side. I have both an excuse to avoid the photos and a way to bear with them. Down they go, along with some scallops, squid, chicken, duck’s feet with mushrooms (ok, I bagged the duck feet), and some weird cream cheese and onion thingies that look like fish sticks but were not.

And so it continues…with a blown kiss and a sodden, indecipherable remark, Pebbles challenges me to a drinking contest – one beer, as fast as possible. I win to cheers. Her boyfriend immediately pours me another and, with a glare, begins downing his beer. I blast through that one too, to more cheers. Cowgirl raises her eyebrows as she notices me chat briefly with Victor. My foot hurt.

As the food and drink flows, and more bottles of Chivas and Henny arrive, the focus turns to dancing. At first, our crew made comedic little forays into the crowd of couples waltzing about. Gay Spock and Sexy Cop first give it a shot with dramatic, exaggerated tangos that plow straight across the floor, narrowly missing the other couples. Then Pebbles and Sexy Cop pair off and do the same. Keep in mind that, while everyone else is wearing slacks and oxfords and such, we’re the ones wearing afro wigs and fake titties and carrying everything from cap guns to plastic bones to feather boas. Everyone is having a great time. At some point, we’re pressed into conga line service – a few drinks too early, I might add. A little later, E’s moms pulls me up to the dance floor for some one-on-one time, and we remain the focus of attention for a while. Soon there are several of us dancing in little groups, switching partners at our whim.

After settling back into our seats for a while, I notice that a sort of group dance is developing. Set to an ominous, bass-heavy groove to which everyone knows the words – something that sounds like a slowed-down version of Noize Organized’s “Set it Off” – everyone links arms and does this little two-step deal which involves a kick and a “HEY!” every so often. Two smaller circles morph into one huge oval that covers the dance floor. Their own little Electric Slide. B and I compare it to something you’d see at a C&W bar.

By now, everyone is pretty well plastered, and it’s time for the cake. We all gather in front of the band for the blowing out of candles and a couple happy birthday songs, including the ubiquitous English version, and several more photos are taken. Beers keep filling my glass from all directions – Pebbles’ boyfriend seems particularly intent on doing me in, and while I have not had need to seek out a drink for the past couple hours, I’m feeling a little more nice than I should.

Around 12.30, we all headed out to grab taxis. B, E, Cowgirl and I take a cab back to Central, where several folks are gathered at a jazz bar above Dublin Jack’s. This is when things get a little hazy. While I recall speaking to Tony, an editor here, I don’t recall what we talked about. B was only too happy to fill me in the next day:

Me: I’m litacious, man.
T: Uh-huh, I see.
Me: It’s like a new word for lit. I need to make up words to describe how lit I am.
T: o-kayyyy…

At some point, I left the place and managed to make it down the stairs of the place, and down the series of steps below the mid-level escalators, without killing myself. Stopped in the 7-11 for supplies – by now the shirt is open and I’m carrying my hat in an attempt to make this journey with some dignity (yes, I was wearing a t-shirt underneath), and either no one notices or I’m too nice to notice that they’re noticing. I think my brain was on emergency autopilot, keeping my litaciousness in check until I reach the relative safety of my apartment. Ah, the apartment…so safe. I know! I’ll turn on the oven! That’s a capital idea! Two Stouffer’s pizzas later and I’m passed out. One of the last things I remember is turning the oven off – all the way off, like not just the oven but the power switch at the other end of the kitchen. Didn’t burn myself, and there’s no way I’m going to burn down the building. Well, not this time anyway.

The next morning…well, at some point I opened up the sluices at both ends and went back to bed, still completely shitfacular…and when I woke up, I didn’t feel particularly good about myself. Took me about 5 minutes to find my glasses, and I was still wearing by boxers - something I probably haven’t done since 1989, unless I’m forgetting a night that was similar to this one. My clothes were spread from the bathroom to the kitchen, where the oven door was still open. Guess the closing-door part was deemed a little less important than the turning-off part.

More later,

Chucky

Pairings

Ok, so perhaps my mind just happened upon a few comparisons at once, and perhaps it was sneakily inspired by my comparison of the real Raekwon lyrics and the fake yet cooler ones I had in my head (see previous post). I don’t really know how this half-baked idea emerged, but really, who cares? Here goeth some more zardly musings for you to ponder what I call….the pairings.

Slap Shot vs. Caddyshack – everyone knows about Caddyshack, and how all the dorkus malorkuses in banking and other golfsturbation-oriented fields of work know all the best lines from Caddyshack. Even SNL did that skit where you can order some tapes that help you learn all the good lines so you can shuck and jive with the best of them at the office parties or around the water cooler or whatever. But really, the tru tank shit is the Slap Shot shit. I mean, who wants to imitate Bill Murray’s stupid-ass character when you can drop lines like “think about all the snatch down in F-L-A” or “I’M TRYING TO LISTEN TO THE FUCKING SONG!” Let’s face it – Caddyshack is Nation of Millions, and Slap Shot is Yo! Bum Rush the Show. It’s true. I mean, everyone knows about Baseheads and Bring the Noise and all that, but the real connoisseurs love rapping about how their Uzi weighs a ton. Caddyshack, like Nation of Millions, is vibrant, full of action and zaniness and accessibility; Slap Shot and Yo!, however, are rugged, raw, two-fisted and blue collar. No yachts or country clubs here – it’s all Sophisticated Bitch and hockey wives saying stuff like, “I can’t stand it if I’m not tight.”

Think about it. You like Caddyshack, that’s fine. I do too, and I like Nation as well. It’s a hot record, one of the best of all time, a true desert island disc. But if you want to take it to the next level, to the real shit, you gotta go up to the hinterlands, to cold steel towns and Oldsmobiles and Rightstarters and Hansens. It’s like this: you party to Nation, but you fight to Yo! – ain’t no more to it, as Biggie says.


LA Riot Songs: Dre vs Cube – I have been reacquainting myself with The Predator, Ice Cube’s post-LA-riots album, and one of my favorites on that one is “We Had to Tear this Mothafucka Up.” I’ve often considered this comparison in my own little mind, but thank God for blogs! Now I can write about the question of which riot song is better – Cube’s track or Dr. Dre’s “The Day the Niggaz Took Over,” from The Chronic. Sooo important. Changing the world, one stupid blog post at a time.

For me, it’s kind of a tough call. They both have eerie, unsettling samples and soundbites and lyrics that convey the anger and the tumult of the LA riots; Dre focuses on a recap of what your average riotin’-ass dude was doing during the riots (you know, stealing and stuff) while Cube not only raps about that stuff but includes some fantasies about what he would like to do to the four cops who were acquitted. Tough call for me –– what do you think? I think Stoney McStoneyrock, aka Oliver Stone, would go for Dre since he used that haunting intro sample during that one part of Natural Born Killers when the prison riot is really poppin’ off, and it pretty much makes the movie. Yes, that one use of that one track in that one scene pretty much makes the movie. That’s what I said. Please consult Ligma Sagbatch if you disagree. Ok, and the choral music when the cops are whaling on Woody after he and Juliette surrender at the Drug Mart, and the camera slowly pulls back and upward. That too, that’s all of it.

Now that I’ve listened to both songs in succession, though, I’ma have to go with Dre. Cube’s cop-rape fantasies are a little too corny, and I really like the audio clips of news reports from the riots that contribute to the desperate, chaotic feel of Dre’s track. Of course, Cube wins on sheer volume of hot tracks. But in this contest, I’m going with tha mothafuckin’ docta.

Ron and Danny – go rent Big Fish. Check out the part when Ewan McGregor is talking to Danny DeVito the morning after DeVito’s character turned into a werewolf. He’s sitting on a log with a sheet or something wrapped around his waist. You would not believe how much he looks like a world-weary Ron Jeremy on the set of some porn movie. Swear to God, he’s the spitting image. It’s really funny. There has got to be some picture out there of Ron that would make an excellent comparison to a screen shot from Big Fish. I don't do that sort of crap, though.

That’s it. I know, that last one was short. Stay tuned for a recap of my insane night in Kowloon. If I ever get my laptop back.

Chucky