That Man Smith

Will: Hey, you know what, you ain't got to do nothing, Uncle Phil. You know, ain't like I'm still five years old, you know? Ain't like I'm gonna be sitting every night asking my mom 'when's daddy coming home?' You know? Who needs him? Hey, he wasn't there to teach me how to shoot my first basket, but I learned it, didn't I? And I got pretty damn good at it too, didn't I, Uncle Phil?
Uncle Phil: Yeah, you did.
Will: Got to do my first date without him, right? I learned how to ride, I learned how to shave, I learned how to fight without him. I had *fourteen* great birthdays without him; he never even sent me a damn card. The hell with him! [pause]
Will: I didn't need him then, I won't need him now.
Uncle Phil: Will...
Will: No, you know what, Uncle Phil? I'm gonna get through college without him, I'm gonna get a great job without him, I'm gonna marry me a beautiful honey and I'm having a whole bunch of kids. I'm gonna be a better father than he ever was. And I sure as hell don't need him for that, 'cause there ain't a damn thing he can teach me about how to love my kids! [long pause; he's crying] How come he don't want me, man?

Most of the readers that frequent this website would be correct if they recognised this as a mere splinter of an excerpt from an episode of the fantastic show, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, (which everybody must have seen at some point or the other). More than just a little snippet from the world of Will, Carlton, Uncle Phil, Hilary, Geoffrey et al, this little segment encapsulated Willard Smith's pedigree as an actor (to that point at least). Sure, he could be the "funny guy" and cause people to have crippling chest problems (a theory that Luke and Garf will definitely corroborate) with the sheer hilarity of his antics and timing. But this little vignette had nothing to do with his comic timing or facial flexibility. To me, it had a lot more to do with his versatility, in that he could make you cry seconds after having you in fits of laughter.

Over the years he acted in some films and critics unkindly branded him as a one-trick pony, claiming at times that he would often project himself as far bigger than the movie itself. It is speculated that it is for this very reason that he didn't get to be Neo in The Matrix. In retrospect, it's probably best that Keanu Reeves got that role. Regardless, Smith took on a variety of films, playing different types of characters and yet, the criticism continued. It is only after The Pursuit of Happyness (arguably) that I believe he began to amass critical acclaim.

Shocking, non?

After all, this man was able to pull off roles with a plethora of co-actors, human and non-human and still generate some ridiculously top-notch chemistry with them all. The list is truly mind-boggling:

- With a DJ, a fat man and a short man
- With an accomplished actor like Gene Hackman
- With a skilled comedian like Jeff Goldblum
- With the computer generated robot, Sonny
- With a child
- And now most recently, with a dog

It is the latter that forms the basis for this particular piece, after a rather long-winded diatribe. Even by my lofty standards *chortle chortle*. I saw the film I am Legend today and to be honest, all I had heard about the film was that a number of people I know wanted to see it and it was about the last man on Earth, it was supposed to be quite good and that it had that man Smith in it. That's all. This morning I read a savagely cynical review and on a whim, perhaps even goaded by the review, I decided to go and watch it for myself.

Directed by Francis Lawrence of Constantine fame and screenplayed (if such a verb doesn't indeed exist and if it doesn't, then I'm MAKING it exist) by the brilliant Akiva Goldsman... Not too bad so far. The Richard Matheson-authored book by the same name has been adapted to film four times in the past, I'm told and the latest was supposed to be in 2002 with Micheal Bay directing it. Instead, he chose to make Bad Boys II. Prior to this, Ridley Scott was expected to direct the film starring Arnold, but it went over-budget.

Enter Mr Smith.

The film can be described as a slow-burner, if and only if you feel compelled to classify and pigeon-hole everything. The scale is nothing short of epic, with what seems like most of Manhattan at the director's mercy for filming purposes. What really shines isn't the special FX or the aforementioned grandeur of scale. While being competent, it isn't even the plot that shines. Consistent with the subject of this post, it's Will Smith who lays down a devastatingly touching portrayal of a scientist/army colonel, who battles the loss of human companionship, security and even sanity to find a cure for this cannibal/zombie virus hoo-ha. That's what really shines.

One of the best things about the film I found (surprising, considering my love for post-apocalyptic universes in sci-fi stories) was the fact that most of the film is set on beautiful sunny days in a completely empty city. I have never seen that aspect used in any film to this date.

NOTE: To all nitpickers and those with too much time on their hands and an innate urge to try and make a point (irrespective of whether or not it is accurate), I'm sure there've been films in the past that used this idea. However, I've never seen it in any film I've seen before. Ya dig?

Over the course of the one and half or so hours, I found my favourite scenes to be the ones that had the least to do with the actual story/plot. These are the scenes where he depicts his own character growth as the film progresses. From a dinner table scene with his dog to the "I like Shrek" scene later on in the film, these are the gems that really shine brightest in the gleaming box of jewels that is I am Legend.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that it is highly unlikely that one will ever see Will Smith in an overly arty or "intellectual" (note the sarcasm) flick. And maybe his films aren't everyone's cup of tea (enjoy your new-wave French cinema, by all means do). But in terms of satisfying films that leave you walking out of the cinema with a thought in your head, a smile on your face and perhaps even new catchphrases on your lips, you can't beat the man's work. Empathy with the character being portrayed and trying to relate to him has never been a problem with Smith's films. Now it's got to the point where it's nigh on impossible not to relate to his characters. You'd have to be really really really detached to do so. And where's the fun in that?

Disco Sucks, Fuck Everything

What's the point of going on?
Overlooked for the overrated
But we wont hear that talk
Frustration, frustration is all we get
You might think we're finished
We haven't started yet.
Because there's more far more to know
Because our voices must say more
Because these words come from the soul.
This is not a mission
This is not a fucking game.
A burning desire from deep inside
The will, the drive, to keep pushing on.
No matter what may come
No matter what may come.
Hollow trends
Shallow lives
They drag you down.
They try to drag you down
They'll drag you down.
For every hurdle cleared, two takes its place.
For every level reached, they raise the stakes.
What is our inspiration? What is our drive?
To chose our destiny and be in control of our lives.
This is not an image, This is our lives.
This is our inspiration, this is our lives
This is not an image, This is our lives.
This is our inspiration, this is our lives

These would be the lyrics to the song Disco Sucks, Fuck Everything by Sick of it All, a band I greatly admire and respect and the picture depicts guitarist Pete Koller in full flight during what was no doubt a rabid show with singer Lou Koller half in shot. I know for a fact that my man, JB will appreciate this reference (JB being Jonjo; being revealed as I don't really enjoy dealing in any abbreviation for a name except my own and of course, AJG) . Our second set of lyrics comes from the seminal (in my opinion at least; to hell with the doubters) ska-punk band Goldfinger:

What happened to dignity
Did it go away again?
Just like a worn out trend?
Will I still defend emotions?
What happened to honesty?
I don't see it on the Top Ten
I only see it in what has been
Cuz' I still defend devotion
Am I alone?
Don't wanna rest
I don't wanna breathe
When I wanna hear about life
Don't wanna hear a spokesman
I don't wanna test I want to believe
The Goddamn singer wrote the song
Don't wanna hear a spokesman
What happened to integrity I don't see it on MTV
All I see is choreography
And I'll never be a dancer
What happened to puberty?
Bad skin and insecurity?
And who the fuck is Felicity?
'Cuz I got problems of my own
Am I alone?

Obviously, the full length song entails a refrain of the chorus and stuff, but that shouldn't detract from the lyrics or the fact that this band was responsible in a huge way for setting me on my path to vegetarianism. RE: Show in Sheffield where they signed everything given to them, including copies of a CD containing their song Free Me to some horrific visuals of animals being slaughtered. But I digress...

What is it exactly that the two songs' lyrics have in common? Let me help you out; not a whole heap. Instead they refer more to my state of mind today when I went to someplace to which I don't belong, have never belonged and will never belong. These songs struck so many chords with me during my entire time at said place that I finally accepted one tiny thing — I am NOT averse to change, but change is something I will only allow myself to entertain IF I am ready. And as sure as I am that grass is green and sycophants are morons, I am sure that I am NOT ready to dance like a moron at a blooming ball of all things.

Being called a musical fascist is de rigeuer (regular readers will recognise my fondness for the phrase) for someone as horrifically possessive about his/her music and vehement about his/her love for it as I am. Sure, there are tons of people who can enjoy all sorts of music. I am not one of them and of this fact I am immensely proud. Certain circumstances beyond my control brought me to an avenue and arena where I could appreciate music that kicks me in the teeth and now, ten years on, I love it to death.

That fact and certain other realisations make me feel like an absolute moron for having inflicted this moronic ball upon myself. On a different, yet oddly related note, I bring this unashamedly pointless rant to a close by saying, "Just as every film comes to a close with its final flickering images; just as every song winds down and phases out with its last guitar whine and just as every trend dies a painful death with its purveyors branded as "so last year", so too is this the very end and the very last time." You know who you are.

The season of noise, malice and charity...

DISCLAIMER: I will probably be roasted mercilessly for this particular piece. It must be stated and clarified at this point that I am not against festivals. I am not particularly opposed to the historical or mythological reasoning behind them either. If you are easily offended or belong to the BJP, please turn away now.

Noise, has rarely bothered me. I've had most of the music to which I listen, described as "noise" by various parties. I don't particularly find the noise of traffic grating or tiresome. Noisy little babies on aircraft don't annoy me very much either. Hell, I can even put up with those blithering idiots in Yorks bellowing at the top of their lungs (like gladiators in a contest to ascertain once and for all who is the stupidest in the coliseum of idiocy), as if the slightest decrease in volume would trigger their immediate demise.

Crowds at a football game or cricket game or the audiences at metal shows, people goingclickety-clack with their pens or sucking on the end of them, folks yawning loudly or cracking their knuckles in my midst. None of this bothers me. This time of year, however, is one of those rare occasions when noise doesn't just bother me. It irritates me to the point of frothing at the mouth and spewing venomous insults at the men and women who brought those imbeciles into the world that are ruining my peace and tranquility with their noise. I refer, of course to fireworks.

It was the autumn of 1997 in Delhi-... well, I'm not sure it can be defined really as autumn, because in Delhi, it feels like there's only summer and a few months of winter. Anyway, I'll call it autumn, because it was then that I took the decision to not just stop "celebrating" anything with fireworks, but to sever my ties with them forever. Child labour practices, the toll on nature and the impact on general health and well-being drove me away from them.

Ever since, every Diwali, it seems to be a case of people trying to compete with one another (just as they do with weddings, birthday parties and such) to see who can be bigger, louder and perhaps, even more lavish in their "celebrations". The bottle-rockets are cool. At least, they look pretty. The anars or flowerpots as they are sometimes called, are pretty as well. Rammstein's pyrotechnic display — now that's good fireworking! But what is the point of those hydrogen bombs, cherry bombs or those infernal colossally long braided strings of flash bang crackers or ladis? Honestly, what part of Ram's homecoming to Ayodhya has anything to with being noisy?

TANGENT: The Simpsons were, as always absolutely right:
"Celebrate the independence of your nation by blowing up a small part of it," says a store clerk (not Apu) to Homer as he buys an M-320 firecracker in the episode titled "Summer of 4ft 2". Admittedly, Diwali has little to nothing to do with the independence of any nation, but you get the point of the reference. END TANGENT

Then, the government sets forth and the High Court passes some stupid order about no crackers after 10pm as it is detrimental to peace and quiet. As if to rub it in your face, you then have a police van patrolling the area, with some paandu hollering at the top of his lungs at 11pm urging the public to keep it down as they will be fined if they keep up with the noise. What about his noise through his crackling speaker? Finally, a representative for Mumbai Police has the audacity to throw figures around claiming x number of arrests. But how many of those were actually for disturbing the peace and how many were unrelated, possibly drunk and disorderly charges?

Therein lies the source of my malice this season.

On a different note: Shoaib Akhtar, Pakistan cricket's bad boy, as the media would have you believe, (and why? Because he whooped a wussy teammate's leg with a bat?) is going around India performing acts of philanthropy with children's charities. He went to meet the underprivileged, the differently-abled and now, he's talking of adoption. I don't know whether it's a PR stunt to clear up his image and project him differently or not. Frankly, I don't want to know. What I do know is that PR had little to nothing to do with the looks on this children's faces as he held them, played cricket with them or just talked to them. For all the talk of "Jung ke maidaan mein.." and L.O.C (Lions of Cricket, apparently) and what a "Ghamaasan Yudh" there was going to be when India and Pakistan "locked horns" on the cricket field, I've yet to see a happier little non-Pakistani kid in a Pakistan jersey than the one Mr Akhtar draped his jersey over. The kid proceeded to wear it and run around. Why, you may well ask, should that be so surprising? After all, you see a lot of Indian kids wearing England football shirts, Australian cricket shirts, South African rugby shirts. The writer of this article was even considering, at one point, buying a Togolese football jersey! But an Indian wearing a Pakistani team-shirt?
HEAVENS FORFEND (!)

Never mind the philanthropy, never mind the PR, never mind Togo. The image of that kid makes it seem like the holiday season to me and brings a smile to my face. A smile that blowing up half my eardrum and about 3 square feet of land, in a plume of noxious, sulphur-tinged smoke never could.

Pictures courtesy:
Wikipedia

Rise up! Rise up!! SEPULNATION!!!

After what seemed like a wait that spanned all eternity, — considering the April 1 gig at MMRDA, Mumbai didn't come to fruition — here it was!

SEPULTURA IN BANGALORE!!!
November 3, 2007

This is not the detailed blow-by-blow account of the show, although that will be posted on a different blog soon and will be linked via this website. Worry not! This is more of a pictorial summary of the show and its periphery.

Firstly, how in God's name did I get there? See that bad boy on the right? That was my ticket into the show and into the absolute front, beyond the barrier and among the security guards, support band members, band crews and my arch nemesis-turned-nice guy of the tour there, Andre, as represented pictorially below. This was basically the go-to-guy for any and ALL matters pertaining to Sepultura.
So, this ends a large chunk of the written part of this account. Be assured that you haven't heard the last on this topic from me, for there are tons of stories, not just from the show, but from the two days in Bangalore, that must be told, stupid as they were.




For now though, enjoy ze photos!

Ominous clouds overhead. We're in for some rain, chaps!

The changing face of Andreas Kisser



Derrick Green unleashes another gut-rumbling growl


Sepultura's banging rhythm section. Paulo Jr. above and our good buddy, Jean Dolabella below.

Setlist complete with the plectrum thrown very kindly at yours truly by Paulo Jr.


"Thank you, Goodnight!"

PTM

It comes along every few months and each time, its effects seem to be growingly crippling. This is the fifth time I have encountered this syndrome (because technically the fourth time and fifth time were squashed into one). The syndrome I refer to is what I like to call Post-TwentyFour-Melancholy or just PTM for short. Some of you will doubtless be screaming, "Yeah? Well why isn't it called PTFM?!" The answer to that is dual-fold but fairly simple. First of all, it's my abbreviation and I'll make it the way I want and secondly, it's much catchier. Season six of Fox's amazing TV show 24 drew to a close for me last week after I marathoned all twenty four episodes in about two and a half days.

For the uninitiated, 24 is a television show starring Kiefer Sutherland, Mary Lynn Rajskub, James Morrison among a smörgåsbord of ever-changing cast members (thanks to death and all that). Each season revolves around one day, with twenty four episodes that each depict one hour of the day. The whole thing is set in real-time, complete with snazzy editing, multi-screen action as well as a nifty little clock.

Aside from all that, the program itself depicts some crazy situations, all centred around Los Angeles, it must be mentioned and some remarkably cool lines and ways of getting around problematic situations. The twists and turns of every one of the six convoluted stories depicted so far, have been unpredictable and at times, shocking, creating some seriously rivetting television. Sure, a large amount of the stuff depicted therein is fairly improbable and implausible. The violence is doled out in extreme quantities and at times, to greatly exaggerated and grotesque levels. Plotholes are rife throughout the show and some idiots will take a certain sense of pride in pointing these out, no matter how obvious they may be, just to show how cool and non-conformist they are and perhaps in their feeble minds, even ABOVE 24 and its makers they are.

Right there is where the beauty of this show lies. In its sheer ability to entertain you, if you are willing to suspend disbelief or your own predilections, the series is unparalleled and unsurpassed and will probably be for a long long time to come.

That being said, it's obvious not everyone will be able to relate to the show. Hell, at times, even I can't relate to it. But to me it represents that immersion into a different reality and state of being that has been matched to this point only by Hideo Kojima's seminal game Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty and Haruki Murakami's Kafka by the Shore. The point is, when something can immerse you in its essence so much as to debilitate you entirely, leaving you numb and walking around senseless, it ceases to be a film, game or a book anymore. It becomes incredibly hard to pinpoint just what it is that was powerful enough to leave you so depressed once it's gone.

The saddest part is that that feeling can never be replicated, no matter how many times you read, play or watch that which left you so numb. Not sure where I'm going with this, but yeah...

Patriot Games

After all the hoop-la of *that* bus ride and the teeming legions that thronged the sides of the roads that the open top vehicle drove through. After all the televisual, printed and real-time imagery of the saffron, white and green to which we were subjected for as long as that Twenty20 tournament lasted and a few days after. After enduring random blasts of that infernal Chak de India song, newscasters going ga-ga about random things to do with Indian cricket, money being hurled here and there for "bringing honour to India", mastheads of newspapers being splattered with the tricolour and so on and so forth. After all that overtly cheap showiness, I find me asking myself, "Is THIS what constitutes patriotism?" Is coming together during cricket matches and high-fiving strangers when the Indian team gets a wicket, patriotism? (Note: The Australian demolition machine seems to have put paid to a large amount of the showiness, that's for sure) Interestingly, I also find myself wondering where this patriotism disappears when the team is whomped by another.

Moving away from the construct of "patriotism" in sport, where is this patriotism when pushing and shoving people to get into public transport, when selling second grade goods to fellow Indians, when neglecting roads that need repair, schools that need establishing and pretty much any basic civic duty that needs to be carried out and isn't, time and time again? Where is this patriotism and love for one's country at that point?

Where does all the gusto of the pledge I was made to (and am certain a number of others were too) memorise in school, go?

"India is my country. All Indians are my brothers and sisters. (Sisters?! A glance at any daily newspaper will say more than I ever could about *that* little irony)

I love my country. I am proud of its rich and varied culture. I shall always strive to be worthy of it. (This part never fails to make me crack up — how exactly are we striving to be in any way worthy of it?)

I shall love and respect my parents, teachers and elders. (Meh. It COULD happen)

To my country and my people I pledge my devotion. (Loosely worded sentence that helps no one in any way whatsoever. I could be devoted to violence and carnage and could pledge the delivery of that to my country and its people. In other news, Gujarat elections are just around the corner)

I solemnly pledge to work with dedication to preserve and strengthen the freedom and integrity of the nation. (Gujarat. 'Nuff said)

I further affirm that I shall never resort to violence and that all differences and disputes relating to religion, language, region or other political or economic grievances should be settled by peaceful and constitutional means. (Aaaaand with an unprecedented, hat-trick of references... that's right, it's Gujarat again! If this were Neo Sports, we'd cut to an ad break just as I said "that's right")

In their well being and prosperity alone lies my happiness. (And the Easter Bunny will be participating in a Hungry Hungry Hippos Showdown with Santa Claus, a leprechaun and Shaft... John Shaft at the Wankhede stadium on October 19. All ticket proceeds will be donated to charity by Niranjan Shah)"

Amid all this, have any of us actually examined the concept of patriotism? "Love and devotion to one's country" is a great definition and answer to give a school teacher at the age of 5 and receive a round of applause from the class. But what is it, really?

Looking at it very very objectively, doesn't it seem like a bit of a stupid concept that one patriotism requires one's love and devotion for a land one was born in with no choice whatsoever? It's not like one had any means of selection in terms of which country to be born in and which people one would have to refer to as one's brothers and sisters. So by virtue of pure dumb luck, I was born in a country home to a pluralistic society, without any prescribed religion or way to live (minus the "don't be homosexual" which Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code states, but the Fundamental Right of Life and Liberty under Article 21 of the Indian Constitution contradicts). Call it freedom. Call it tolerance. Call it secularism . Call it whatever the hell you want, but it’s the bedrock on which this nation was founded and from which we stray at our peril. It’s what has defined us as Indians and no flag-waving, chest-beating nonsense will act as a substitute for.

As far as something one has no direct control over goes, patriotism seems to me, to be a very personal concept. I can choose not to be patriotic, just as easily as I can choose not to. If I complied with the former, I could very happily put up with "anti-national" and "desh-drohi" jibes from people, if I knew inside that I did not believe in the country or what it stood for. Similarly, I could choose to be "patriotic" and brandish my face paint, my flag and my appropriate headgear every time a sports event came along, as a number of those people with the "desh-drohi" remarks do, I suspect. OR, I could choose to be patriotic (not the lack of inverted commas here) and actually live according to the tenets laid down by the constitution and in essence, be a good person, thereby, be a good Indian.

Exhausting as this diatribe was to put down and I'm sure will have been to read (read: Moid), it is nowhere near as exhausting as it was to watch the absolute unashamed exploitation of little children on the altar of "patriotism" on the blog of a ermm... person some of us have had recent interactions with. Children, barely 4 or 5, being made to sing "patriotic songs" and being exalted as being brave for being Kashmiri and singing that. You think those kids even had a clue as to what they were singing? I refuse to endorse such exploitation and will not be linking that travesty. Although you are most welcome to look it up yourself. (Hint: Numerous hints as to the blogger's identity are liberally strewn all over this page).

To bring this sporadic, free-form and fairly stream-of-conscious spray of words to a close, I'm not sure what level of patriotism I find myself on, if any. But I do know this — patriotism to me does not represent bringing Pakistan down at any opportunity or getting all worked up when Narendra Modi is denied a US Visa.

Pictures courtesy:
Kwik Essential
Benjamin's Worldview
Worth 1000

What Steady Eddie says and more...

Steady Eddie says a lot.
It matters not whether you pay attention to him or not.
He just harps on and on about the virtues of consistency, moderation and steadiness.
Maybe he has a point — who's to say he doesn't?

At the end of the day, Steady Eddie, aside from being an Australian comedian and a stupid looking toy truck, is only a device I'm using to illustrate a point. He's merely a pleasant and happy enough mascot working for an evil corporation (in this case, my blog and NOT the good people at Disney), if you will. But I digress... Steady Eddie feels, as he mentioned earlier, that consistency and steadiness are man's (or woman's — Eddie's no misogynist) best friends.

I find it hard to disagree with him. For the exclamation point on this theory, I only have to look as far as the jingoistic celebrations after the Indian cricket team returned from their triumphant campaign at the ICC World Twenty20 Championships (or whatever the bureaucrats like to call it to avoid calling it a "World Cup"). I need not go into the details of the five-hour open-top bus ride, the hordes that thronged for a glimpse of their "all-conquering heroes", the insane hold-ups in traffic that Dhoni later expressed immense pride about achieving and the ridiculous demonstration of political hob-nobbing executed by Sharad Pawar and his buddies to curry favour with the masses.

But wait, that wasn't all. The board and individual state governments lavished tax-payer money all over the winners, showering them with cash, cars, property, the works! This after threats of cutting their pay after a lousy World Cup... Honestly, these guys should write a book on parenting. How to beat the living daylights out of your kids when they screw up and buy them a Rolex after performing one good deed by the BCCI! Hell, I'd buy a copy of it. Still, that's not all bad, considering the fact that renowned (erm... honestly insert own word here — communal instigator, mass manipulator or just a simple cocktail of expletives; take your pick) Narendra Modi was humbled into giving Irfan Pathan and his brother Yusuf some sort of a monetary gift. So, all's well right?

Well, not entirely. Look at the braying idiots who danced alongside the bus and spared no opportunity to yell out, "Chak de India" (more on that later). These very idiots were the same fickle minded oafs who burnt effigies after the World Cup campaign in the West Indies earlier this year. They were the same ones talking about how the whole team should be sacked. They were the same morons lining up to burn down the houses of people whose only fault was being outclassed, outperformed and outdone in a game. That's right, a game. So they were defeated, big deal. I'm sure they were plenty disappointed themselves without having to face the misplaced wrath of millions of fools vicariously living their lives and ambitions through the fortunes of a sports team. That may seem harsh, but if you look at it really objectively, it really is that way.

As for Chak de India; a fun movie, no doubt about it — the "misfit team with a disgraced coach" Mighty Ducks construct meets socio-cultural differences a la Saturday Night Lights meets the phenomenon of match-fixing like Mean Machine or The Longest Yard meets the fish-out-of-water antics of Cool Runnings. Mesmerisingly confusing, non? Anyway, the film is about hockey and women's hockey to be more precise and heralds the coming of age of a team of prima donnas, recluses, violent apes and many more as they take on the world in a sport that is being smothered into remission by cricket. The film takes some brilliantly scathing potshots at cricket and this nation's obsession with it. Marvellous stuff! What is silly is that the film chose to promote itself via the India-England cricket series. What is ridiculous is the fact that the title track from this film blasted throughout the aforementioned Twenty20 series (and the Ind-Eng one) whenever the Indian team did something applause-worthy. But what is downright idiotic is the way the song has arguably turned into India's official sports (read: cricket) anthem. The film is about bringing another sport to life and this is how these idiots use it? (Editor's Note: "Use" is very apt in this context) Not only does the original message of the film get downplayed, but the BCCI unwittingly (and now I am convinced they have no wits, only sackloads of money) uses a film with a message like this for their jingoistic "cricket spirit".

Steady Eddie, therefore, recommends a lighter touch.
With overly extravagant adulation comes borderline (or in some cases, real) psychotic criticism. Steer clear of both and find some middle ground. Let the boys enjoy and savour their (that's right, THEIR) win and provide constructive criticism when they lose, in a forum conducive to discussion and debate and not a witch hunt (which means, Bishen Singh Bedi can count himself out).

But Eddie's not done yet... Alongside a call for greater discretion, moderation and restraint from the board, politicians and "fans" (yeah, fans of a "W" in the result column and not a team), he almost forgot to mention the need for consistency and steadiness from the main actors in this, the theatre of cricket — the players themselves.

Far too often these days do we witness the ugliness of a bowler gesticulating, mouthing off and generally going way over the top with his on-field antics. Certainly, a bit of fiery aggression is always healthy, but when it turns into a spectacle — whether crude, unsportsmanlike or just plain immature — and overshadows the game, it turns into a problem. A problem like the one we're witnessing at the moment with a few players in the Indian team, including but not restricted to Shanthakumaran Sreesanth and Harbhajan Singh. Both bowlers have snarled, glared and indulged in various amounts of posturing with little to no gain in this current series against Australia (so far anyway). Truth be told, they've been overtly aggressive ever since they started playing in the team. Sreesanth's already felt the burn of fines and warnings from match referees during a number of series. As for his effectiveness, it's clear that his accuracy and abilities are being undermined by his shenanigans. Whether or not he can bring out his A-game in this series remains to be seen. But what is certain, is that if Mr Sreesanth fails to incorporate Steady Eddie's views on moderation and restraint, we can look forward to seeing him warming the bench a whole lot, as he serves his match bans.

More on aggression and its practitioners in the next post...

Pictures courtesy:
The Hindu
www.cricbuzz.com

End-game Bliss and the power of Machine Head

What, I ask you, gentle readers, do the following concepts have in common?

• The winning runs being completed after Sachin slaps the ball through the covers off the last ball of a tight match and scampers up and down the pitch.
• The appearance of the black screen and credits sequence at the end of James Cameron's Titanic.
• A quick glance at one's academic exam results that reveal that one didn't do as badly as one initially thought.
• The sigh that one emits as one relieves oneself after sprinting out of the bus, into one's building, up the stairs, into one's home and then, the bathroom after holding it in for ever so long.

The answer (in my book, at least) is the notion of End-game Bliss. Relief. "Oh my sweet Lord, it's finally over". I experienced that earlier today and not because of any of the reasons above, it must be added. It has more to do with the conclusion of something pointless I found myself trapped in.
Essentially, I am a born-optimist. I've always been optimistic in my outlook to life, whether to do with interpersonal relationships, the weather or even about a film being good/better than the reviews suggest.

This week I found my optimism smashed to bits about a tiny and rather inconsequential matter that I thought reason held the answer to. Reason is and always has been touted as man's greatest gift and one that seemingly makes him smarter and better off than all other organisms. Bigotry, narcissism and narrow-mindedness brings man back down to the levels (or perhaps lower than that) of other organisms. But, back to it. Reason failed this time around. It's like Navroze Behramfram (aka Living Legend) always said: "No product appeals to all consumers".

So it isn't a big deal really, more so because I'm relieved that it's all finally over. But what was it that really really pushed that sigh of relief out of me? An acquaintance I had the misfortune of making recently established his intent to finally leave me alone in the following message:

"It would be better if you have a control over your language . It has run amock like your mind has.
Life is much about discipline....
Good Bye .... Have peace.....This is my last visit to this Blog....the blog whose author have Zero knowledge about a subject but would still care to be a master in that .
You did not deserve my time ...."

I certainly didn't deserve the time and energy you lavished upon me — all those beautiful comments, messages, tips, nuggets of advice and miscellaneous information. I really am flattered, touched and tickled that you saw fit to spend your precious time heaping all this upon me (would have rather that you didn't, but it's alright), when it's abundantly clear that you have so much earth-shaking work to be doing. *Sigh*

Right! Now that that's out of the way, let's move on to more important things...
Like Machine Head! I am not referring to the Deep Purple album here, although that's good as well, but the Robb Flynn-fronted, Adam Duce-bassed, Dave McClain-drummed and Phil Demmel-lead guitared band from Oakland, California. Six albums later — each replete with its own unique sound and vibe, it must be added — the band are finally getting their due as one of the most respected in their field.

And why not, blasting The Blackening, Through the Ashes of Empires and Burn My Eyes — or albums 6, 5 and 1 for simplicity sake — from my phones and into my ears all weekend, I rediscovered that propulsion effect their music has on me. In that, it literally propels me skyward, by enhancing whatever emotion I'm feeling at the time, be it agony, rage, ambivalence, unfettered joy, glee and indeed, every other entity on the spectrum of emotions.

There's just something about certain pieces of music, artistes or bands that do so much to a person, from sending a chill up one's spine to comforting one when one is down in the dumps. Heartbreak, stress and uncertainty become a thing of the past when that song (or artiste/band) is on and all is well with the world. For me, it's Machine Head who head the list of the few that can do that to me, with the vocals (that range from soothing to downright visceral), the drumming (tectonic plate-shift inducing), the guitars (silky smooth and piercingly quick coupled with slow meaty chugging) and the ever-present rumbling bass.

And it's listening to Machine Head after one of those mentally-exhausting experiences I mentioned above that sends the relief through my system, flooding it with wholesome goodness, contributing to my End-game Bliss.

An open letter to one Mr Pawan

In light of the fact that a certain person has decided to take on my response to his/her buddy's self-righteous claims with some more bull-honkey , I am compelled to respond with this polite letter.

Dear Mr Pawan

After baiting that notoriously self-obsessed little man or little woman (some Louisa May Alcott there for you) that is little indian, I finally got a response, from you, one of his cronies, no doubt (Or maybe little Indian is you and in fact, called Pawan, in which case, a warm View from Beneath hello to you, Pawan).

As the first time visitor you no doubt are, allow me to familiarise you with how this place works. First of all, we don't work under any pretenses here — everything is done with a view to present ideas (new and old) in a different form. Getting under one's skin in a playful and jest-laden way is part and parcel of this particular blog and its author. But, at some point, the author would also like the readers of his blog to give a bit (teeny weeny bit) of thought to his ideas and views, ergo, to consider where he's coming from, no matter how right wing, elitist or plain authoritarian he may seem. Legitimising his quest is the fact that he offers mere opinions, not gospel truth and nor does he claim to.

Sidenote to non-Pawan persons: Please check the post titled Of self-righteousness and glass stomachs for a clearer understanding of why "Pawan" is so riled with the creator and preserver of this blog. Now, without further ado, here is his response:

Pawan said...

You confronting to "little Indian" in a way shows that you like to argue without anything to support your arguments. Since his post maybe against your ideology , you have gone ahead and ridculed him and also not proved anything .I hope you lear from Little Indian of how to present the facts,instead of Yellow Journalism

Pawan

www.thekashmir.wordpress.com

Now, I did say earlier that the aim was to get under everyone's skin in jest. There is, however an exception and that would be the self-righteous jackass (really hurts you when I call you that, doesn't it?) that is little indian. There is no jesting with someone as screwy as you — a creature who believes his research is the final word on all research and that all opinions that differ from his are baseless. Speaking of baseless, I'm yet to see any official evidence of his "facts". Yeah Pawan, where does he have anything to support his arguments? At least I have reason behind me. What does that moron have, minus pig-headed self-righteousness and atrocious grammar? Not that yours is anything spectacular either, Pawan. After all no one "confronts to" anyone else. You confront someone.

As for proving anything, that wasn't my point. Not all of us are here to convince ourselves that we've proved something and pat ourselves on the back about the fabulous job we've done. "Yeah! That'll show them! They'll never mess with me and my immaculate understanding again." Maybe that helps you sleep better at night, but some of us like to question and dig for answers, as opposed to buying second hand views from a second hand guy wearing second hand shoes (I can only assume).

Furthermore, Pawan, are you aware of what "yellow journalism" is? I didn't think you would be, so here goes... More than just a buzz-word that you and your "revolution-making" buddies love to employ (along with the word "propaganda", of course), it refers to sensationalist, jingoistic and scandal-mongering journalism. Where, in what I can only assume to be your infinite wisdom do you find any hint of jingoism, sensationalism or scandal-mongering in my post, Pawan? Or are you going to respond to that with another stream of gibberish along the lines of "The Indian media has you brainwashed, you are a victim of propaganda!!"? However, your gibberish will be very poorly worded, I'm sure. Here's something you should look up, though: Scientology. Their PR officers are just as idiotic as you when it comes to responding to people who express disagreement with their ways, just as I'm doing with your "holier than thou" claims.

Finally, onto my ideology, which "his post" allegedly went against. You're damn right it did! I believe in free speech. I believe in awakening. I believe a person can see something that can change his/her perspective. Unlike you and your little indian friend who believe that they came out of the womb with an encyclopedia on Kashmir. Obviously, you did. There's no point denying it. Some of us were born as normal babies, who grew to be normal human beings, with human tendencies to seek out information and adapt our responses accordingly. I believe I have wasted enough time ruminating on your anal-retentive blog and your moronic response.

My advice to you: Buy an English grammar text book and get a life!

Hugs and kisses,

Karan Pradhan

P.S. - Just thought that I'd let you know that I had a wee tête-à-tête with your hero, little indian and his take went as follows below. Oh yeah, so that you don't get confused, the red annotations are mine, Pawan:

To

Mr Karan Pradhan

As I have stated earlier,
I have the right to refuse to publish any comments on this issue.

I am NOT publishing yours. (oh, boo-hoo!)

You have a platform (that you call your “blog”) (and a damn good one at that; check out my cool tunes) where you make your feelings offensivly clear about any person who opposes your propaganda on Kashmir (last time I checked, I wasn't guilty of your deeds, so don't tag your failings onto me)

Instead of fouling (I believe it's "befouling" and it would be tough to do that after you've done such a great job of it yourself) my blogspage, please use your ownsite with whatever you wish to say; or anything against my writing There it will be better appreciated by your likeminded friends, the Pakistani sympathisers. Not on my site.

As I have said before,
I have full trust in my readers to decide for themselves
what is unbiased and true and what is propaganda.
(And as I have said before, you are a jackass)

Taking a monopoly apart — piece by piece

It was announced a couple of days ago that the Indian Cricket League (ICL to most news papers/channels) has so far garnered the support and participation of 44 domestic cricketers and about 7 (at last count) international "stars" for its first season. Lance Klusener and Nicky Boje (the very same Boje, who was sufficiently frightened of the Delhi Police to avoid the India tour a year or so ago) from South Africa, Inzamam-ul-Haq, Mohammad Yousuf, Imran Farhat and Abdul Razzaq from Pakistan and Trinidadian Brian Lara are the international players signed up so far. Kapil Dev, Madan Lal, Erapalli Prasanna, Tony Greig and Dean Jones are but a few of the star cast, who've been signed on as administrators for the ICL.

The season, originally expected to commence in October, will require at least another 40-odd players to get started, but it all still seems very uncertain. Kapil Dev, as is his wont, fired on all cylinders in the press conference, describing the domestic cricketers rounded up so far as the "cream of the country". If that wasn't enough, he went on to say that they were being courageous, by putting their future on the line (more on that later) and that he would back them to the end of his life — or at the very least, till the end of the ICL, one presumes. Naturally, as the spearhead of this new renegade faction, one would expect nothing less from the Haryana Hurricane.

Juxtaposing his words with the BCCI's threats (of banning all players from ANY competition organised by them or their constituents) really does bring about the realisation that for a number of these 44 domestic players, it really is a courageous call on their part. For the likes of Dinesh Mongia, Laxmi Ratan Shukla, Reetinder Sodhi and T. Kumaran, this is probably not all that huge a loss, considering the fact that it seems highly unlikely that they'll be re-entering the Indian team any time soon. However for Ambati Rayudu and Abhishek Jhunjhunwala (who almost single-handedly spearheaded Bengal's charge for the Ranji trophy last season), signing up with the ICL is akin to throwing away their chance at an India cap.

I could go on and on forever describing the posturing employed by the BCCI and the ICL, over the course of this entire saga, but that would defeat the purpose of this piece and that is to laud the ICL. Sure, it's a Zee-owned corporation looking to make some big bucks. But in a world where there are so many unscrupulous and I daresay easier ways of making money, it's truly admirable that they choose to take on the biggest fish of them all in its own pond. Let's face it, the BCCI is also out to make money and the last thing (I'm sure) they'd like to see is someone else getting a piece of the pie, no matter how thin the sliver may be. Additionally, what's wrong with an attempt to shake things up a bit and keep the infamously dinosaur-esque board on its toes? The ICL may be a complete failure, but look back at Kerry Packer's World Series Cricket — that could have gone either way but one can't deny the way it revolutionised sport.

While it appears as though the BCCI holds all the cards (stadia, sponsors, political leverage, ability to decide who plays for the country), the most important resource of all lies with the ICL — the players themselves. Four of the major Indian Ranji trophy teams have been severely depleted after losing over half a dozen of their best players each to the ICL. With the BCCI's hard stand on cutting ties with anyone associated with the ICL, it remains to be seen what the domestic rosters are going to look like, once more players sign up with Zee's ventures. All said and done, if there was ever a way to crack a monopoly, this appears to be it. Unfortunately, it increasingly seems as though the main casualty in this war is going to be Indian cricket.

Of self-righteousness and glass stomachs

Before I begin to scratch viciously at the latest irritant to cause me to itch, I would like to direct your attention to the following blog:
The Self Proclaimed Little Indian

Without the shadow of a doubt, the specimen involved in creating and putting up that collection of writing, seems to be doing a thorough job in keeping tabs on the latest news from Kashmir. Additionally, said specimen also seems intent on disseminating information and recommending other reading that visitors to his/her blog can explore. All good so far. There are a number of people — members of non-government organisations, journalists, veterinarians, lawyers etc etc. — who are similarly passionate about causes and do what they can to enlighten people.

And then there are those others — I will widen the net now so as to avoid making that pathetic little indian (no pun intended for that is the aforementioned specimen's moniker) the sole focus of my rant, because quite frankly, he/she doesn't deserve it. The world is packed to the rafters with self-righteous idiots whose heads are rammed so far up their own backside that they would require (and probably already possess) glass stomachs so as to be able to see the world.

What these glass tummies — yes, let's call them 'glass tummies' from this point on — fail to realise is that not everyone sprang out of the womb with full encyclopedic knowledge about everything that the glass tummies expect them to know. So for instance, glass tummy A who enjoys Jean Luc Goddard films expects the entire world to know everything about Goddard — right from the number of appearances he put into his own films to the name of the boy who brought water for Jean-Paul Belmondo on the sets of Breathless. Or take for instance, glass tummy B who runs a pretty little blog and expects everyone to know everything about Kashmir, to have spoken to everyone in Kashmir, to know all the stories of the dead and downtrodden of Kashmir and so on. Where did the process of learning and acquisition of knowledge go? What happened to the concept of an awakening?

This whole air of superiority, of "I know everything and you know squat — you should know everything or you're not worth my time" is not only sickening, but also greatly diminishes the value of their knowledge. Knowledge becomes more valuable when it is shared. It also undergoes a hell of a lot of sharpening, in terms of accuracy when it is subjected to scrutiny AFTER sharing it. So, to the glass tummies of the world, I say, keep your take on the 'knowledge' you claim to possess. No one wants it, especially if it's doled out by the likes of you.

Pleasantly enough, that's killed most of the ire that was percolating inside me and aimed at the glass tummies. All but one, that is. Mr/Miss little indian states on his/her blog that:
" To all bloggers
who disagree with my opinion on this issue,
please voice your opinion, your contradictions on your own blogspage.
Arguing on a comments section simply becomes lost from most readers view."

So basically, your blogspace is some sacred place, where your logic — as twisted, elitist and dicktatorial (typo?) it may seem, is gospel truth and may not be argued against or scrutinised. Symptom of a glass tummy, if I ever saw one. But, your privacy is your own personal choice and I respect that, which is why I dearly hope you can take the time to drag your self-consumed posterior to a new browser, thereby tearing yourself away from your beloved blog and read this.

Next up, said little indian goes on at one point to claim:

"No, I cannot have respect for anyone who can make such an important statement without a fair and balanced assessment or judgement of facts and the truth."
This statement is later followed up by some bull-honkey (God bless the Simpsons) about evidence and how he/she had all this evidence lined up.

What evidence are you talking about? There isn't a shred of evidence on your post, whether statistics or official reports or anything. And let's get one thing nice and clear, there is no fair and balanced assessment in the poppycock you are peddling — that's for damn sure!

My patience wears out and so I'll draw to a close now with this person's ridiculously paranoid and deluded ramblings about propaganda:
"What you write here proves the power of good propaganda. You will never see the truth, for you will never seek the truth you will only believe what you have been told to believe and will not independantly (sic) explore the facts and events of history to form an INFORMED OPINION."

Yes, Zach de la Rocha, preach on! Sadly, apart from sounding like lyrics from a Rage Against the Machine song, you sound like a Michael Moore-esque twit who thinks the whole world is out to wipe you out in your sleep. Why don't you take a cue from your own advice and create an informed opinion of your own, rather than continuing on your "Everything's so messed up! No one but me knows anything and only I understand their pain and it's all your fault" trip. Grow up.

And finally:
"I am sorry, on issues of importance of such severe magnitude, where thousands have been killed, or raped or ethnically cleansed, I do not let emotions cloud my judgement, and I will not even consider “…where the person is coming from, and where his or her emotions stem from"

You are right. I concede. The issue of Kashmir and the unimaginable atrocities being committed there are certainly worrisome. Human right's violations, human exploitation and violent brutality are rife there and in our present political climate (spanning 1947 to date) and for the foreseeable future, there IS no solution to the Kashmir issue. That is where I cease to agree with you. I'm not even going to bother going into your ludicrous "I do not let emotions cloud my judgement" remark or your immature inconsideration for where people are coming from. That's cool — your life, your prejudices.

I will however say this and it is upto you whether you wish to take the message or not:

There is no clear and objective information about the Kashmir region.

All info emanating from that area is encoded and sent out by some stakeholder in that region, whether an army official, a victimised resident, a "terrorist", a separatist, a person crying out for independence etc. The point is EVERYONE has their own biases and their own agendas, so there is no way one can claim to possess facts, unless one has actually been on all sides of the equation and looked at Kashmir from all the angles. So you see, little indian, perspective is of paramount importance. Knowing where everyone is coming from is vital to finding an answer to this situation. Crying about propaganda isn't the solution... jackass!

And you never will be!

Funny story — "A guy walks up to me and asks 'What's Punk?'. So I kick over a garbage can and say 'That's punk!'. So he kicks over the garbage can and says 'That's Punk?', and I say 'No that's trendy!'". Yup, straight from the mouth of Billie Joe Armstrong and into my ears and out onto this hallowed cultural text or palimpsest, if you prefer.

I bet you're wondering what it is that's got me so riled up this time; enough to start off this latest post with an obscure story that has little to no relevance to anything apart from the fact that the Greenday of today are an absolutely turgid musical act, peddling consumer-oriented tripe like Boulevard of Broken Dreams. It beggars belief how a band that spat out such rabid albums as Kerplunk, Dookie and Nimrod could have degenerated into this horribly manufactured-sounding, made-for-radio, play-it-safe, eat-your-vitamins, say-your-prayers excuse for what once was a punk band.

Punk, you say? "As in black t-shirts and safety pins?", I hear some of you ask? And I answer, "no, pay attention!". That word scratched crudely across t-shirts worn by preppy and trendy girls with their Levi jeans, Prada or Louis Vuitton bags and odd hairstyles — all of which change with each passing season? They wouldn't know punk if it came up and bit them in the ass. Neither it would seem would a certain singer who mistakes punks for hippies!! Honestly, what self-respecting punk would have flowers in their hair?

But enough of what it isn't. What punk was — and I do mean it in the past tense because I honestly believe that punk is well and truly dead or on its last legs at the very least — was a movement, not a genre of music or a fashion statement. It stood for the anti-establishment, rebellion, wrecked-beyond-belief tape players belching out the sounds of The Clash or Sex Pistols and for once, standing dead in one's tracks with one's middle finger held high in the air to say, "No, I will not comply". Punk was never about drugs, alcohol, tattoos or torn clothes. For its part, punk certainly had its fair share of idiots who were hell-bent on ruining it for everyone else with violence, vandalism and wanton destruction. Very understandably, the scene had its detractors who branded everyone associated with the word punk as being hoodlums, louts, yobs yada yada yada. Who gives a crap? That was the romance of punk — You and me against the world, baby!

You think any of these trendy little pre-pubescent fools have a clue about that when they carefully spin the spinny thing on their iPods and press the middle button to start the whiny cribbings of Good Charlotte or Avril Lavigne and weep about how the world is so unfair, their friends don't like them and Mom and Dad just don't understand that homework sucks. That's why I said punk is dead or nearly there and from the looks of things, it ain't making a miraculous recovery anytime soon. As for the idiots who think they're punk, the less said the better.

Manufacturing ignorance

I don't always subscribe to the adage that a picture is worth a thousand words, but in this case, I'm forced to agree.

Look at it! It tells you everything you need to know about the lines and lines that are inevitably going to follow this rambling (as always) opening salvo (paragraph, to some of you). Today, the subject of my amusement/bemusement/wrath/scorn/hate isn't one that I decided to write about as a result of my own train of thought. My muse decided to work overtime today and mention the topic and like any journalist worth his salt, I snapped it up as a story idea. Cool, non? And now, without further ado, let's be getting on with the actual story.

Not a day goes by when I don't walk past some clown sporting a Ché Guevara t-shirt, whether the conventional red screen print — that seems to be most in vogue, what with the commie red — or some more elaborate designs and a collage of his images splattered all over a garden variety black t-shirt. It isn't so much that I'm opposed to Communism per se. For the record, however, I will add that I don't really think it's a feasible or viable system for governance in most of India; that's an opinion by the way. And for another record, if you like it so much, go to Kolkata.

Moving on, I'd like to reiterate that I don't really have a problem with Ernesto Guevara or his beliefs — a terrorist to some and a revolutionary to others. What I do have a problem with is ignorant idiots who'll buy t-shirts with his visage adorning them, without knowing a thing about him, let alone the fact that he was actually an Argentine or anything about his ideologies and beliefs. In fact, I'd be willing to wager that they probably think he's the frontman for Rage Against The Machine or something. I can imagine it now:

Halfwit: Yeah yeah man... me and my boyeez are down wid' da rage. We loves Cooper O' Sullivan
Fullwit: Who? Cooper O' wha-... What the hell?
Halfwit: Yeah, you know... this guy right here *points at his t-shirt and specifically at the communist star on Ché's beret* He's all about keepin' it real!
Fullwit: *finds his palm hurtling toward halfwit's face and loud slapping sound echoes*

The brunt of this trend of stupidity isn't borne solely by ol' Mr Guevara either. Rock and metal bands also find themselves on the receiving end of this nonsense. In fact, there's two rather amusing incidents to which I had the hilarious honour of being privy. The first revolves around this little boy who lived next door to me, who I happen to spot one day in a Slipknot t-shirt. I commented on it, wondering just what a kid that tiny could see in a band like Slipknot. He informed me with a grin that he just thought the t-shirt was cool and told his mom to buy it for him. Being as it was a kid, I thought nothing of it.

A few years later, a good pal of mine who shall be henceforth referred to as AJG comes across some meathead testosterone-fuelled nugget, sporting an Alice in Chains t-shirt at some gig (can't recall). So as is AJG's wont, he went to talk Alice in Chains with the gent. Said meathead has no idea what AJG's talking about, much less that a band called Alice in Chains happens to exist! He probably thought it was Cooper O' Sullivan too.

So what does this boil down to? Are these just the rants of an elitist, who expects people to know everything about what they wear? It could be argued that it isn't that important to know what's on your t-shirt as long as it's comfortable and looks good. And I could well argue that the maker of the previous argument is a grade-A moron (BURN!!). And this is where the manufacture of ignorance steps in to the picture. Chomsky spoke of consent being manufactured by governments and those in power. I speak of t-shirt printers that are laughing their way to the bank, selling a bunch of trendy/poser idiots their wares, covered with "cool stuff" all over them. They don't create t-shirt designs. They don't manufacture ignorance (the trendies do it themselves), they just exploit the lack of awareness possessed by halfwits (who it may be added, will do anything to "be cool") and what a fine job they do of it(!)

There's far too much to go into here - FCUK t-shirts, tops with CUBA lettered on them or the Union Jack emblazoned across them or even replica football jerseys for some team that the wearer has probably never even heard of. Ultimately, when one chooses what logo, phrase or image will be proudly splashed across one's torso, one accepts a certain attachment to and dare I say, responsibility for it. For instance, one can't walk around wearing a t-shirt with Hitler on it and claim not to know the implications of it. Everything has its implications and consequences. Even sporting cool logos.