And at the 18th hour . . .

KFCee-lo's cynicism softened and tear ducts flushed.


Allow me to introduce Korean crack cocaine in human form. These four are actors in a korean drama series called "My Girl." The guy with the constipated look on the left is a hotel heir, a paris hilton without pretense. The girl with the homemade beauty pageant sash is the only daughter of a gambling father and both gentlemen in the picture's love interest. The other girl plays a professional tennis player and is a jealous ex-girlfriend of the constipated one. The scenes of her playing tennis were freakin' hilarious. And the gentleman on the right in the black suit is a svelte gothic chris angel type without the magic but with a lot more money.


These two are the two main characters and I think a more appropriate picture somehow. Snow was a recurring theme because the girl had no idea when she was born and she had designated every day that it snowed as her birthday (princess complex alert). When the story was developing, I immediately saw it as classic Jane Austen - Pride and Prejudice. Rich upper class boy; poor lower class girl and extreme angst and exasperation with each other until they realized how much they cared for each other.

Sorta mirrored my relationship with the series. Very cynical from the tennis scenes to the plot twists to all of their o.s. (obvious sang-gah-pull) to the lighting, until the story reached the tipping point . The point in which snow globes and coming back from the brink of death in a minute and the ridiculous coincidences suddenly seem fathomable. To get to this state you have to become basically brainwashed. Took me 16-17 hours over the span of a few days before I cracked and shed a tear over the impending death of the hotel founder. He subsequently recovered (damn you gramps for playing with me like that)and then I was placed in another chokehold as the guy finally grew a pair and professed his love at which point the girl cries and bemoans their class difference. So korean. Class difference gets me everytime. It's the socialist in me.


Now that I've snapped back to reality, here's how I see them. They are in matching long-sleeved white shirts, sitting shoulder to shoulder, in cheesy eighties glamour shot poses, with red rectangular happy faces on their chest. I envision them waiting at LAX (in the same poses) for their korean-american cousin(me)to pick them up. We somehow get lost on the way home. We end up in Mexico, and discover a long-lost aunt selling fish tacos and harboring some sort of salacious family secret. Give me 18 hours and I'll have hardened mexican ranch hands crying into their mezcal.