With the end of a fairly violent year and nearly the end of the first month of the year that we all hope doesn't suck as much as last year did, this seems as good a time as any to unveil the sequel to my last post, so here goes...
One of the major things I've learnt is that technology, economies, global markets, enlightenment, nobel prizes — none of that stuff matters, because at the end of the day, people are stupid. And "people", I don't mean a specific person, groups of people or nations; I am referring to the whole damn human race. It's almost as if the great creator in his/her infinite wisdom decided to bless the human race with the power of reason, insight, imagination and such-like, yet at the same time, decreed that the only way human beings would be able to survive is by being totally and utterly stupid.
The unending candlelit marches after the attacks on Mumbai are a prime example of this, because it is common knowledge that terrorists and troublemakers are deathly scared of melted candlewax. Right? Everyone knows that. I wonder if melted candlewax works on Raj Thackeray and his Massively Nitwitted Squad too. That would stop the random neanderthal outbursts and attacks on random citizens of the city.
Speaking of random attacks, here is Shekhar Kapur's blog entry about a similar act that took place just yesterday, where (possibly related) nitwits decided to take the role of moral police to a whole-new level and went into a pub and beat the living shit out of girls there. Again, because THAT is precisely what moral police are supposed to do. Right? The Thackerays unleash that ludicrous form of protest everytime something itches their collective backside in Maharashtra. So what's so odd about another state adopting the same "progressive" means for putting a point across?
Regardless, getting back to the point. This was heinous; an act of terror in itself (if you think about it) and yet, I don't see any misspelled placards and candles anywhere. Possibly because there's no cameras around?
And now I'm done talking about this...
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
The day the passed buck got stuck - Part I
Ten people.
I still marvel at the ridiculous notion of the figures.
Are ten people all you need to grab a city by its short and curlies for nearly three days?
The death toll continues to push ever closer to 200 (at the time of going to print) and God knows how many thousands suffered injuries. Beyond the figures themselves, the thought that something of this sort just occured over a week ago also seems far-fetched.
Did it really happen or was it some horrific drug-induced hallucination?
Did those rivers and in some cases, tides of innocent blood really flow like that?
Did we really get caught so unprepared and with our pants down?
Did some of the finest officers in the country really lay their lives down for our safety?
Ask and ask yourself again, but the answer doesn't change overnight. What transpired is not going to suddenly consign itself to that box of daydreams that seem so real that you have once in a while. Facts will remain facts.
We are at War
This war however,... it's not quite as simple to classify as a War on Terror©. That being said, fighting terror is one of the major parts of this war, I won't deny. It is said and written that it is not our job to judge people and thereby persecute them etc. etc. In this case however, by their actions, not only have these 10 men made animals of the wild look completely civilised, but also their actions are their own judgment. If they are seen as being unworthy to live and as a cancer to be wiped off this planet, then that is the fruit of their own actions and not any judgment I've passed.
But that's just a minor part of this diatribe. Enough's been said and written about these characters, so I won't go on about them. But I will look at what's important. The rebuilding process. Getting back up on our feet. Dusting ourselves off. Going back to school, college, work (more on this in a bit). Grabbing it with both hands and taking our lives back.
(Insert Bill Pullman's Independence Day speech here)
But I digress.
Resignations by politicians are not the answer and neither are calls for their replacement. Ok, so they overlooked something that could have saved lives. Ok, so maybe they were callous and ignored certain important facts. Ok, with gritted teeth I'll also accept that maybe they were lazy and fast asleep while 10 maniacs landed on the Mumbai coastline.
Does that mean that now we allow them to run away from it all?
Mrs Sonia Gandhi, if you can hear me, please reinstate the Union Home minister, the chief minister of Maharashtra and his deputy. Messers Patil, Deshmukh and Patil, you should be made to clean up this mess. Fix the mistakes you have made and don't abdicate your throne leaving the job to someone else.
Meanwhile, saffron-waving vultures just looking for a chance to push the ruling party over and seize the votebank, will continue to hover. Mr Advani, if you can't be supportive and helpful as an Indian, then don't do anything at all. Destabilising the Congress is of no use; they need to fix the mess they made. Why don't you go and write another book. This time, though, stick to just fiction and not fiction-masquerading-as-non-fiction, like your autobiography.
The war I was alluding to earlier is an all-encompassing one.
A war on apathy
A war on laziness
A war on callousness
A war on petty politics
A war on corruption
But that's not where it ends... Not by a long shot. Tune in for Chapter 2, where the shit really hits the fan...
I still marvel at the ridiculous notion of the figures.
Are ten people all you need to grab a city by its short and curlies for nearly three days?
The death toll continues to push ever closer to 200 (at the time of going to print) and God knows how many thousands suffered injuries. Beyond the figures themselves, the thought that something of this sort just occured over a week ago also seems far-fetched.
Did it really happen or was it some horrific drug-induced hallucination?
Did those rivers and in some cases, tides of innocent blood really flow like that?
Did we really get caught so unprepared and with our pants down?
Did some of the finest officers in the country really lay their lives down for our safety?
Ask and ask yourself again, but the answer doesn't change overnight. What transpired is not going to suddenly consign itself to that box of daydreams that seem so real that you have once in a while. Facts will remain facts.
We are at War
This war however,... it's not quite as simple to classify as a War on Terror©. That being said, fighting terror is one of the major parts of this war, I won't deny. It is said and written that it is not our job to judge people and thereby persecute them etc. etc. In this case however, by their actions, not only have these 10 men made animals of the wild look completely civilised, but also their actions are their own judgment. If they are seen as being unworthy to live and as a cancer to be wiped off this planet, then that is the fruit of their own actions and not any judgment I've passed.
But that's just a minor part of this diatribe. Enough's been said and written about these characters, so I won't go on about them. But I will look at what's important. The rebuilding process. Getting back up on our feet. Dusting ourselves off. Going back to school, college, work (more on this in a bit). Grabbing it with both hands and taking our lives back.
(Insert Bill Pullman's Independence Day speech here)
But I digress.
Resignations by politicians are not the answer and neither are calls for their replacement. Ok, so they overlooked something that could have saved lives. Ok, so maybe they were callous and ignored certain important facts. Ok, with gritted teeth I'll also accept that maybe they were lazy and fast asleep while 10 maniacs landed on the Mumbai coastline.
Does that mean that now we allow them to run away from it all?
Mrs Sonia Gandhi, if you can hear me, please reinstate the Union Home minister, the chief minister of Maharashtra and his deputy. Messers Patil, Deshmukh and Patil, you should be made to clean up this mess. Fix the mistakes you have made and don't abdicate your throne leaving the job to someone else.
Meanwhile, saffron-waving vultures just looking for a chance to push the ruling party over and seize the votebank, will continue to hover. Mr Advani, if you can't be supportive and helpful as an Indian, then don't do anything at all. Destabilising the Congress is of no use; they need to fix the mess they made. Why don't you go and write another book. This time, though, stick to just fiction and not fiction-masquerading-as-non-fiction, like your autobiography.
The war I was alluding to earlier is an all-encompassing one.
A war on apathy
A war on laziness
A war on callousness
A war on petty politics
A war on corruption
But that's not where it ends... Not by a long shot. Tune in for Chapter 2, where the shit really hits the fan...
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Diff'rent strokes for diff'rent folks
“Bombs rip through city”
“Serial blasts ravage town block”
“900 killed in massive explosion”
I have a theory about bombs. There’s neither any scientific backing for my theory, nor is there any evidence to back it up. There’s a to-scale model of the theory, but again, it isn’t especially conclusive or definitive. Here goes anyway...
My theory is that in the event of a bomb blast, it’s rarely ever the fire or the explosive energy that gets those in close proximity. Instead, I believe it’s the raw and primal shock of watching this ginormous ripping-at-the-seams of life just in front of one’s eyes. Of course, then there’s the sound and the eventual expulsion of energy that tears up everything in its path. But, they arrive much later. Way way after the shock.
The tiny to-scale model I was talking about has to do with trying to inflate a balloon. You blow into it and huff and puff. Your cheeks turn red and you’re out of breath. So you hold the end of the balloon tightly with your fingers and breathe in deeply. As you begin pumping this latest lungful of air into the balloon, it POPS!!!!
Your heart stands still for a second and you know that there is no way the popping balloon could have injured you in the least. Yet you flinch and jump. Shock.
Now back to bombs and in addition to shock, they inevitably create tragedy. Couple shock with tragedy and what you get is complete artistic fodder, journalistic fodder, terroristic (if the word doesn’t exist, it damn well should) fodder and many many other ‘stic’s of fodder.
Everyone loves a good tragedy — especially a tragedy replete with shock.
Some filmmaker will ‘capture the emotions’ of those whose lives have been torn apart by the tragedy and turn it into a heart-wrenching film that wins the maker of that exploitative movie a ton of accolades. While the victims get a nickel!
With a twiddle of some aspiring poet’s fingers around a pen, the tragedy is re-moulded, reconstructed and re-imagined amid a flowery smattering of clichés (Everyone loves a good cliché, too) and half-baked similes to once again earn the poet praise for the ‘sensitivity’ conveyed.
A journalist will be honoured for ‘pushing the envelope’ and bringing in a brilliant story, with amazing photographs and a screaming headline. “Man!! Our readership is going through the roof tomorrow,” says the editor congratulating the journalist, basking in all the glory.
Activists will scream, “We want Justice!” when you and I can hear their actual thoughts that cry out, “We want attention!!” For their humanitarian work, they lie in wait for their Nobel frickin’ Peace Prizes.
Fashionistas (as I believe they like being called) will unveil a new line of tragedy-wear. “It’s sombre and highly fashionable. You’ll have tear-filled eyes all over you” Can’t you just hear some overfed trout talking about a new boutique and saying that sentence?
But don’t get me wrong... Amid all of this, one perky and peppy woman, with apparently the entire Revlon factory on her face will be running her cute little ass around all over the place clutching a mic (I believe a ‘boom’ is the industry term) asking everyone related to and unrelated to the tragedy the same question... “Aapko kaisa mehsoos ho raha hai?” How do you feel? How do you feel exactly?
‘Care-ists’ (people desperate to show how much they care) will overdo it, ‘Stoic-ists’ (whose image of being unmoved by anything is more important) will underdo it. And then, some idiot will go and write himself a Candle in the Wind and rake in some more of that lovely fat-cash.
Oh speaking of idiots, finally a pseudo-anti-establishmentarian idiot will write a self-serving and smug piece on an obscurely named blog to show how said idiot is ‘above’ anything and everything.
And that is the way life works.
A brilliant social commentator I was fortunate enough to know, who’d just barely dipped her little toes into the waters inhabited by Noam Chomsky, Vir Sanghvi, Walter Cronkite and Teesta Setalvad (which would make for a very odd swimming pool, I know), would probably not agree with me. Instead, she’d probably hear out my side, nodding intently all the while, before proceeding to pick my viewpoint apart with all the precision of an eagle de-fleshing a mouse’s tiny ribcage. And my theory would lie in pieces while my learning would have grown. And she’d still have found time to talk about “how scary yet fascinating this whole Al Qaeda stuff is”.
There isn’t anything to say that hasn’t been said a million times before. Nevertheless...
It’s been an honour, pal.
Fly safe.
And I will see you on the other side.
“Serial blasts ravage town block”
“900 killed in massive explosion”
I have a theory about bombs. There’s neither any scientific backing for my theory, nor is there any evidence to back it up. There’s a to-scale model of the theory, but again, it isn’t especially conclusive or definitive. Here goes anyway...
My theory is that in the event of a bomb blast, it’s rarely ever the fire or the explosive energy that gets those in close proximity. Instead, I believe it’s the raw and primal shock of watching this ginormous ripping-at-the-seams of life just in front of one’s eyes. Of course, then there’s the sound and the eventual expulsion of energy that tears up everything in its path. But, they arrive much later. Way way after the shock.
The tiny to-scale model I was talking about has to do with trying to inflate a balloon. You blow into it and huff and puff. Your cheeks turn red and you’re out of breath. So you hold the end of the balloon tightly with your fingers and breathe in deeply. As you begin pumping this latest lungful of air into the balloon, it POPS!!!!
Your heart stands still for a second and you know that there is no way the popping balloon could have injured you in the least. Yet you flinch and jump. Shock.
Now back to bombs and in addition to shock, they inevitably create tragedy. Couple shock with tragedy and what you get is complete artistic fodder, journalistic fodder, terroristic (if the word doesn’t exist, it damn well should) fodder and many many other ‘stic’s of fodder.
Everyone loves a good tragedy — especially a tragedy replete with shock.
Some filmmaker will ‘capture the emotions’ of those whose lives have been torn apart by the tragedy and turn it into a heart-wrenching film that wins the maker of that exploitative movie a ton of accolades. While the victims get a nickel!
With a twiddle of some aspiring poet’s fingers around a pen, the tragedy is re-moulded, reconstructed and re-imagined amid a flowery smattering of clichés (Everyone loves a good cliché, too) and half-baked similes to once again earn the poet praise for the ‘sensitivity’ conveyed.
A journalist will be honoured for ‘pushing the envelope’ and bringing in a brilliant story, with amazing photographs and a screaming headline. “Man!! Our readership is going through the roof tomorrow,” says the editor congratulating the journalist, basking in all the glory.
Activists will scream, “We want Justice!” when you and I can hear their actual thoughts that cry out, “We want attention!!” For their humanitarian work, they lie in wait for their Nobel frickin’ Peace Prizes.
Fashionistas (as I believe they like being called) will unveil a new line of tragedy-wear. “It’s sombre and highly fashionable. You’ll have tear-filled eyes all over you” Can’t you just hear some overfed trout talking about a new boutique and saying that sentence?
But don’t get me wrong... Amid all of this, one perky and peppy woman, with apparently the entire Revlon factory on her face will be running her cute little ass around all over the place clutching a mic (I believe a ‘boom’ is the industry term) asking everyone related to and unrelated to the tragedy the same question... “Aapko kaisa mehsoos ho raha hai?” How do you feel? How do you feel exactly?
‘Care-ists’ (people desperate to show how much they care) will overdo it, ‘Stoic-ists’ (whose image of being unmoved by anything is more important) will underdo it. And then, some idiot will go and write himself a Candle in the Wind and rake in some more of that lovely fat-cash.
Oh speaking of idiots, finally a pseudo-anti-establishmentarian idiot will write a self-serving and smug piece on an obscurely named blog to show how said idiot is ‘above’ anything and everything.
And that is the way life works.
A brilliant social commentator I was fortunate enough to know, who’d just barely dipped her little toes into the waters inhabited by Noam Chomsky, Vir Sanghvi, Walter Cronkite and Teesta Setalvad (which would make for a very odd swimming pool, I know), would probably not agree with me. Instead, she’d probably hear out my side, nodding intently all the while, before proceeding to pick my viewpoint apart with all the precision of an eagle de-fleshing a mouse’s tiny ribcage. And my theory would lie in pieces while my learning would have grown. And she’d still have found time to talk about “how scary yet fascinating this whole Al Qaeda stuff is”.
There isn’t anything to say that hasn’t been said a million times before. Nevertheless...
It’s been an honour, pal.
Fly safe.
And I will see you on the other side.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Has it really been so long?
Laydeeeez and Gentle-nerds...
This following communiqué will not delve into where I have been the last four (nearly) months. Neither will it say anything about the fact that reporting kicks ass or about the BMC, to whom I am yet to establish myself as a complete menace. It won't even talk about the fact that life imitates art and that by "art" I mean Scott Adams' Dilbert and that by "life" I mean my life and that the basis of this imitation is that an aspect of my job has me working for a micro-managing person who isn't too far removed from the pokey-haired boss Dilbert has.
No, this communiqué is one of rejoice.
Of grateful thanking.
Of hailing the Messiah.
Of faith in the cause.
October 2, 2008 will go down in history as a golden day for man, for it was the day we were all saved. Believers and disbelievers alike were shown the evil curse of smoking for what it really is, as it was banished from the country's landscape forever. Moist-eyed with pride and thankfulness, citizens applauded the saviour and lit candles and lamps and offered prayers to thank the Lord for sending this ethereal soul their way.
No longer will bluish grey swirls of aromatic smoke cloud man's vision, even in bars and clubs, so he can get back to what's really important. No more will his vision be clouded preventing him from getting a nice glance at some tasty cleavage or a particularly juicy ass. No longer will that horrible demon of "choice" be allowed to enter the mindset of man. The country is so much richer for having that beast slain.
Citizens with their candles expressed their admiration for the saviour and beseeched him to rid the world of other demons as well. They prayed for him to dispatch alcohol to the depths of hell. They pleaded with him to end the existence of heavy metal music forever. They begged of him to destroy all films that weren't Rated U (Or G in some countries); in fact, some went as far as to say destroy all cinema and seditious television programming like The Simpsons, South Park, Family Guy, WWE, 24 and so many other names that sent shivers down the spines of the citizens.
The saviour smiled, closed his eyes and nodded. "It shall be so," he said softly and added, "But first I must return to continue my war on that son of the Devil called 'choice'. I shall return soon." And with that he disappeared without the customary puff of smoke. Citizens cheered and clapped in adulation.
Thanks a whole whole lot, jackass!
This following communiqué will not delve into where I have been the last four (nearly) months. Neither will it say anything about the fact that reporting kicks ass or about the BMC, to whom I am yet to establish myself as a complete menace. It won't even talk about the fact that life imitates art and that by "art" I mean Scott Adams' Dilbert and that by "life" I mean my life and that the basis of this imitation is that an aspect of my job has me working for a micro-managing person who isn't too far removed from the pokey-haired boss Dilbert has.
No, this communiqué is one of rejoice.
Of grateful thanking.
Of hailing the Messiah.
Of faith in the cause.
October 2, 2008 will go down in history as a golden day for man, for it was the day we were all saved. Believers and disbelievers alike were shown the evil curse of smoking for what it really is, as it was banished from the country's landscape forever. Moist-eyed with pride and thankfulness, citizens applauded the saviour and lit candles and lamps and offered prayers to thank the Lord for sending this ethereal soul their way.
No longer will bluish grey swirls of aromatic smoke cloud man's vision, even in bars and clubs, so he can get back to what's really important. No more will his vision be clouded preventing him from getting a nice glance at some tasty cleavage or a particularly juicy ass. No longer will that horrible demon of "choice" be allowed to enter the mindset of man. The country is so much richer for having that beast slain.
Citizens with their candles expressed their admiration for the saviour and beseeched him to rid the world of other demons as well. They prayed for him to dispatch alcohol to the depths of hell. They pleaded with him to end the existence of heavy metal music forever. They begged of him to destroy all films that weren't Rated U (Or G in some countries); in fact, some went as far as to say destroy all cinema and seditious television programming like The Simpsons, South Park, Family Guy, WWE, 24 and so many other names that sent shivers down the spines of the citizens.
The saviour smiled, closed his eyes and nodded. "It shall be so," he said softly and added, "But first I must return to continue my war on that son of the Devil called 'choice'. I shall return soon." And with that he disappeared without the customary puff of smoke. Citizens cheered and clapped in adulation.
Thanks a whole whole lot, jackass!
Friday, June 20, 2008
Joy to the world, the bandwagon crashed!
I'll be honest. I've never been the world's biggest football fan. Ever.
Whether watching the sport, following it, knowing about its intricacies or playing it, it's always been no more than a bit of fun and entertainment. On the topic of actually playing the game; having my feet kicked out from under me and falling face-first in sludgy mud isn't exactly my idea of a good time.
That, isn't however to say that I don't find the sport exhilarating at times. That, also, isn't to say that I don't respect certain nuances of the game. And neither is it to say that I don't have a few teams that I particularly enjoy watching.
It is the last of these three that forms the basis for this particular post. And before you, gentle reader, sigh to yourself, wondering why you are consigning yourself to reading about me spew some claptrap about how much I love a certain team and melodramatically justifying why I identify with them and getting all sentimental about why they form my life blood, I'd like to clarify that this isn't what this post is about. However, you've got some nerve being so presumptuous as to assume that's what I was going to do. Remind me to slap you at some point.
Getting sidetracked again.
Anyway, this post is inspired by the fantastic Euro 2008 game last night, where a lacklustre Portuguese side were taken to the cleaners by an inspired and supercharged (I love that word) German machine. I was pleased by the result, partly because I'd like to see Germany win and Jens Lehmann get that victorious send-off he so craves, at the end of a fine career. Kinda like Imran Khan's send-off at the 1992 Cricket World Cup, where he triumphantly held aloft the trophy as his career came to a close.
The other reason I was pleased so so so much, was because the result appealed to my sadistic side. I cannot possibly count the sheer number of morons I have encountered who for whatever reason (glory-hunting, doing it because it makes them look "cool", because they're bored, because their friends are into it etc etc), believe that supporting Manchester United is the best thing to do. Fair enough, if you like the club, so be it. Each to their own.
My problem is with the hot-topic bandwagon jumpers who will probably possess a United jersey, a Detroit Red Wings jersey, an Australian cricket jersey, an LA Lakers vest (sense a trend?) and so on and so forth. Backing a side because they're winning. Whatever happened to backing the underdog, the no-hoper, the surprise package? (Big respect to Jonjo and his Derby County fixation) But stop. What do the Red Wings have to do with Germany's bruising of Portugal?
The fact of the matter is that most of these faux-United supporters automatically began to jump the Portuguese bandwagon, because, "Cristiano's so cute and he's such a good player... I hope he scores lots of touchdowns!!" (too cynical? maybe). It thrilled me to bits to see their maroon and green bandwagon crash into a masterfully engineered German machine and fall to bits.
But don't worry. I'm not entirely stone-hearted. The bandwagoners will get over their pain and suffering. After all, they now have the opportunity to discard their old United jerseys, which don't go with the new jeans they picked up at (Insert trendy clothing outlet name here) and buy brand spanking new Real Madrid ones!! Cool huh?
Whether watching the sport, following it, knowing about its intricacies or playing it, it's always been no more than a bit of fun and entertainment. On the topic of actually playing the game; having my feet kicked out from under me and falling face-first in sludgy mud isn't exactly my idea of a good time.
That, isn't however to say that I don't find the sport exhilarating at times. That, also, isn't to say that I don't respect certain nuances of the game. And neither is it to say that I don't have a few teams that I particularly enjoy watching.
It is the last of these three that forms the basis for this particular post. And before you, gentle reader, sigh to yourself, wondering why you are consigning yourself to reading about me spew some claptrap about how much I love a certain team and melodramatically justifying why I identify with them and getting all sentimental about why they form my life blood, I'd like to clarify that this isn't what this post is about. However, you've got some nerve being so presumptuous as to assume that's what I was going to do. Remind me to slap you at some point.
Getting sidetracked again.
Anyway, this post is inspired by the fantastic Euro 2008 game last night, where a lacklustre Portuguese side were taken to the cleaners by an inspired and supercharged (I love that word) German machine. I was pleased by the result, partly because I'd like to see Germany win and Jens Lehmann get that victorious send-off he so craves, at the end of a fine career. Kinda like Imran Khan's send-off at the 1992 Cricket World Cup, where he triumphantly held aloft the trophy as his career came to a close.
The other reason I was pleased so so so much, was because the result appealed to my sadistic side. I cannot possibly count the sheer number of morons I have encountered who for whatever reason (glory-hunting, doing it because it makes them look "cool", because they're bored, because their friends are into it etc etc), believe that supporting Manchester United is the best thing to do. Fair enough, if you like the club, so be it. Each to their own.
My problem is with the hot-topic bandwagon jumpers who will probably possess a United jersey, a Detroit Red Wings jersey, an Australian cricket jersey, an LA Lakers vest (sense a trend?) and so on and so forth. Backing a side because they're winning. Whatever happened to backing the underdog, the no-hoper, the surprise package? (Big respect to Jonjo and his Derby County fixation) But stop. What do the Red Wings have to do with Germany's bruising of Portugal?
The fact of the matter is that most of these faux-United supporters automatically began to jump the Portuguese bandwagon, because, "Cristiano's so cute and he's such a good player... I hope he scores lots of touchdowns!!" (too cynical? maybe). It thrilled me to bits to see their maroon and green bandwagon crash into a masterfully engineered German machine and fall to bits.
But don't worry. I'm not entirely stone-hearted. The bandwagoners will get over their pain and suffering. After all, they now have the opportunity to discard their old United jerseys, which don't go with the new jeans they picked up at (Insert trendy clothing outlet name here) and buy brand spanking new Real Madrid ones!! Cool huh?
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Electric... Electric... Electric
So much for all that guff a few posts ago about traversing the unknown and unfamiliar, eh?
I'm nearly two weeks into my job and I've got to say — Familiarity effin' Rules!!
Back at the publication I worked with in the past (revelation of names could result in lawsuits or rather less extreme mirth-making at my expense or something), living large and in charge, minus the "in charge" part. As far as corporate hierarchy goes, I think I'm somewhere just above the guy who makes tea and glares at me if I ask him when it's gonna arrive and why it's taking so goddamn long.
Regardless, I'd believed (foolishly perhaps) that going back to the same publication as before, could lead to a stagnation of style, thought and self. Therefore, it would seem by that rationale, that working at a different place is the way to go. Right? Not quite, but partially correct.
Partially correct in that one would gain new exposure yada yada yada with new people and new ideologies... but wait! That only works if one's been at an organisation long enough to stagnate, which clearly wasn't the case with me and so nullifies this argument and finds me out trawling the streets for stories in my new job as a reporter. A real reporter and not just one who covers music shows, art exhibitions and plays (honest to God, plays!!). Scouring the administrative process for a little lead that could translate to a story is a lot more fun than I'd previously imagined or believed. But it's early days yet; everyone loves their job at the very very start.
I still didn't have the whole life-affirming, grab you by the nuts, take no guff from these swine, supercharged and electrified vibe. The little buzz inside or a tiny click that lets you know you're in the right place. Until, of course, Friday night with notorious miscreant Maavesh Kumar.
For the umpteenth time, I saw what is fast becoming one of my favourite bands in the world (good enough to break the top 5 soon), Pentagram live. And for the umpteenth time, they blew me away! It wasn't that it was a particularly great venue or that the Duke-Gonzo (in the absence of the regular Gonzo) act we tried to pull on the venue's owners was a great success or anything. Or even that as a member of the press, I got respect or anything. Far from it. In fact, that's another gripe for another time. The ol' "Why Broadcast Journalism and Journalists Suck Ass" debate. You are all invited to participate in the same.
It was the reminder that I can be a serious reporter dealing with serious issues and handle the fun stuff as well. Duality. Familiarity with the organisation led them to believe I could handle both and so here, I am going to see bands for free on one hand and hassling the administration and the authoritaah on the other.
Suddenly, the concept of being a working stiff doesn't suck so hard anymore!
I'm nearly two weeks into my job and I've got to say — Familiarity effin' Rules!!
Back at the publication I worked with in the past (revelation of names could result in lawsuits or rather less extreme mirth-making at my expense or something), living large and in charge, minus the "in charge" part. As far as corporate hierarchy goes, I think I'm somewhere just above the guy who makes tea and glares at me if I ask him when it's gonna arrive and why it's taking so goddamn long.
Regardless, I'd believed (foolishly perhaps) that going back to the same publication as before, could lead to a stagnation of style, thought and self. Therefore, it would seem by that rationale, that working at a different place is the way to go. Right? Not quite, but partially correct.
Partially correct in that one would gain new exposure yada yada yada with new people and new ideologies... but wait! That only works if one's been at an organisation long enough to stagnate, which clearly wasn't the case with me and so nullifies this argument and finds me out trawling the streets for stories in my new job as a reporter. A real reporter and not just one who covers music shows, art exhibitions and plays (honest to God, plays!!). Scouring the administrative process for a little lead that could translate to a story is a lot more fun than I'd previously imagined or believed. But it's early days yet; everyone loves their job at the very very start.
I still didn't have the whole life-affirming, grab you by the nuts, take no guff from these swine, supercharged and electrified vibe. The little buzz inside or a tiny click that lets you know you're in the right place. Until, of course, Friday night with notorious miscreant Maavesh Kumar.
For the umpteenth time, I saw what is fast becoming one of my favourite bands in the world (good enough to break the top 5 soon), Pentagram live. And for the umpteenth time, they blew me away! It wasn't that it was a particularly great venue or that the Duke-Gonzo (in the absence of the regular Gonzo) act we tried to pull on the venue's owners was a great success or anything. Or even that as a member of the press, I got respect or anything. Far from it. In fact, that's another gripe for another time. The ol' "Why Broadcast Journalism and Journalists Suck Ass" debate. You are all invited to participate in the same.
It was the reminder that I can be a serious reporter dealing with serious issues and handle the fun stuff as well. Duality. Familiarity with the organisation led them to believe I could handle both and so here, I am going to see bands for free on one hand and hassling the administration and the authoritaah on the other.
Suddenly, the concept of being a working stiff doesn't suck so hard anymore!
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Enough is Enough!!!
If it wasn't bad enough that this great nation is already in thrall to the sport of cricket...
My sentence tapers off at this point as I furrow my brow in a vain attempt to work out just how many times these words have slipped out of my mouth in the past few months... weeks... days? Anyway, it goes without saying that you stand a greater chance of seeing Cristiano Ronaldo sign up with Mohun Bagan AC for the princely sum of Rs 24, than you do of seeing any other sport ever flourishing in this country, under this present state of sports hegemony (or is 'monopoly' a a better and more appropriate word to use in this scenario — Yes, I'm aware they mean 2 different things). Nevertheless, the fantastic, brilliant, action-packed, dazzling, glamorous, spell-binding (I can't remember any of the other adjectives used repeatedly by SET MAX's 'glorious' commentary team) spectacle that was the IPL was a welcome distraction from the usual claptrap on TV today.
The cricket was for the most part, of excellent quality, the matches were fun, the hoop-la and shenanigans were amusing (albeit, mildly so) and such like. Now it's over, and everybody involved (except the consumers who paid through their noses for tickets and were forced to stand in a rundown stadium, with minimal to no amenities) finds their wallets far heavier than they were only a few weeks ago.
But like all things good or bad, the IPL too must and did come to an end.
What refuses to come to an end however, is the abject shit that still flows through the airwaves and is being marketed as 'cricket-related programming'. I'm not going to go into just how abysmal the presentation of the IPL was; with shitty commentators — the man with the tiniest dictionary in the world, that probably runs a page and a half before wrapping up and dying, Mr Arun Lal and the man with 6 catchphrases to suit all occasions with a penchant for referring to Sri Lankan players by their first names, Mr Ranjit Fernando — a pathetic presentation team with geniuses like Shonali Nagrani and Lekha Washington (what a name) who still believe that preening and gushing with profound stupidity and asking deep questions like "So... that was an amazing performance, no?" is what sports presentation is all about — innumerable invasions of advertising — Someone needs to hunt down and slap the taste out of the mouth of that stoopid Havell's electrical switches kid whose hair is all Static-X-like and standing up because he was electrocuted — and non-stop visuals of Preity Zinta jumping around whooping and screaming like a moron while Ness Wadia stood in the background sadly and silently contemplating (I can only presume) the answer to the question, "Why Lord why? Why do you play this trick on me?"
Phew! And just when you thought it was all gone, the shitty excuse for 'cricket-related programming' rears its ugly head once more! This time, it's in the form of a new television show, described by the biggest Indian news web-portal (could I be any more specific?) as follows:
"Cricket Tadka Marke as the name suggest (sic) would dish out the sport with a dash of spice. This show focuses on crazy fans, gossip about cricketers, fun trivia and other happenings in the world of cricket. The Cricket-Bollywood connection would be exposed here."
So... where do I begin?
I happened to watch a bit of this travesty today for want of anything else on television while I was tying my shoelaces. The devastatingly asinine nature of the show made me sit up and watch a few minutes more in mortified paralysis. The basic premise of this piece of televisual excreta is some dumb-ass called Archana Vijaya (apparently, she won some beauty contest a few years ago) being forced down the consumers throat as eye candy, rambling inanely about stuff no one really cares about.
Going back to how the show was described...
"Dish out the sport with a dash of spice"? OK, I haven't seen that yet. Next.
"Crazy fans"? Perhaps not crazy, but idiotic, certainly. Can't say I consider Archana much of a fan though.
Moving on. "Fun trivia"? If lines like "I bet you didn't know that Bangladesh has its own film industry!" coupled with a faux-shocked expression, constitute fun trivia, then... well I don't know exactly but the world would be a terrible place to inhabit.
"Other happenings in the world of cricket"? Forget about other happenings; how about ANY happenings in the world of cricket and not happenings in the lives of the weird little creatures that live in the skull of whatever jackass conceptualised and created this show?
And this next part is my personal favourite... "The Cricket-Bollywood connection would be exposed here" Shock! Horror!! Awe!!! The only reason there is any connection of that sort is because of the kind of money-grubbing muppets who create some connection to add "a dash of spice" to a sport that really could do without all of that. Add some of that spice to football or hockey or even invest more in the tennis circuit. You gotta love the way it says "will be exposed here"; a phrase that's really more at home when saying, "At the conclusion of this part of the experiment, you will have yourself an acid and a base. The relationship between the acid and the base will be exposed here."
Now, add all this nonsense, if you will, to the fact that the show's "jokes" are actually quite offensive. I'm guessing some hick of a producer sat down in his air-conditioned cabin, sipping some tea with loud slurping noises, clutching a pack of Goa or Manikchand in the other hand for a post-tea treat and laid this down on his team.
Hick: So... what's the gossip? What's new?
Team Rep: Well Sir, the cricket team is in Bangladesh now.
Hick: Oh yeah!! *slurp* That's that there place where they done talk funny like... with they stoopid accent and missed pronounc-ation.
Team Rep: err...
Hick: Yes yes! Find some random piece of ass.. you know, so that the average Indian male will watch the show, give her a low-cut top and i'll write you a script tonight
Team Rep: Are you sur-...
Hick: Now where's my Manikchand?!
I'm not kidding. They actually mocked the Bangla accent in the first part of the show. Now take this vicious cocktail and add in a dash of the worst scripting since Gigli led Pastry to contemplate suicide and you have Cricket Tadka Marke all sussed out. I am certain NEO hired some former classmates of mine. I just know it. I could recognise that "style" of writing a script anywhere. Lines like, "What's up, guys? .........So..... *pause*..... India is playing a tri series in Bangladesh..... *pause*.... Isn't that rocking?......... Yeah......... Bangladesh is India's neighbour...... *pause*...... It's right next door!...... Isn't that unbelievable?" sound like they've come right out of the play-books of certain people I've had the distinct honour of knowing in the past 3 years. That's not a rude slap-down or me being mean, by the way. It's an honest observation.
An honest observation like the fact that watching that dumb show has probably caused the IQ of every single person who watched that show to drop by 3 or 4 points, at the very least. May God have mercy on our souls.
P.S. — A humble plea to Archana Vijaya, Shonali Nagrani, Lekha Washington, Arun Lal and Ranjit Fernando: PLEASE FIND A NEW JOB!!! I'll be happy to forward your CV's to everyone I possibly can, but please get the F off my TV screen.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
"Don't take any guff from these swine"
The Indian Premier League drew to an epic close this Sunday in a high-octane and tension charged finalé with the mighty Rajasthan Royals pipping the gutsy Chennai Super Kings. As good a match as it was, it did lay one thing to rest as far as I'm concerned (after I was forced to eat my words) — Twenty over cricket is here to stay. I won't go as far as to doff my hat to the almighty Rupee (at least in cricketing terms, it is almighty), but well done, BCCI. You once again showed how crappy infrastructure, shitty production values, infinite advertising and dumb-ass presenters and commentators are nothing compared to the sheer will-power, gusto, enthusiasm and energy of the common Indian cricket lover.
With that out of the way, I'd like to segue right to the thrust of this here post. Yes Paste, it most certainly is a blatant steal from Hunter S Thompson, but it's also the theme of my latest diatribe.
How many roads... asked Bobby D at some point when in his drug-addled stupor, he made a tiny iota of sense. The real question, dear reader, isn't about roads walked down or cannon balls or ermm... what else did he sing about? Anyway, the real question has more to do with one's own self-respect. How many times must you keep being slapped down, insulted, spat on (literally or figuratively), deceived, tricked, stabbed in the back or bitched about until you throw down those gauntlets and think, "Right, that's it... This means WAR!!"?
Now, I've dealt with facetious, insincere and spiteful people before and more often than not, I've laughed it off. I've probably been called every insult under the Sun, from the M-F stuff through racially-fueled stuff to some downright bizarre stuff like a word that begins with a J that is usually used to describe childish behaviour. But, as mentioned earlier, more often than not, I've laughed it off. But, then it reaches a point, when you actually see these lovely (!) people getting a rush from making you their patsy, from using you as their magnet for spite and from using you as a punching bag to dissipate their own insecurities. It wouldn't be so bad if these people were inconsequential piss-ants (maybe it's time they were relegated to that category), but these are people you knew, could relate to and even considered calling "friends". Yeeesh!!! And still... you continue to take it with a pinch of salt.
A long talk with a dear friend revealed to me said friend's absolute refusal to take the vengeful path and chart out (and execute) a plan to get back at those aforementioned lovely (!) people. Which, it should be added isn't necessarily a bad thing if being Gandhian or living life the Dr Martin Luther King Jr. way is your thing. So, you go along with it... for a while, until...
Until that pounding and serrated blood music begins blasting its way through your system. Yanking your stomach from where it sits comfortably under your diaphragm and out your throat with that bitter and nasty bile ebbing and flowing forth unchallenged.
Disenfranchisement.
Resentment.
Red Mist.
The 'Roy Keane Syndrome'.
"Listen you fuzzy little shithead. I've been F'd around in my time by a fairly good cross-section of mean-tempered, ill-mannered and nefariously nasty people... And now... it's MY turn. So fuck you, Sir/Madam/child... I'm in charge"
A bit of paraphrasing here or there never hurt, but hopefully, the gist of it isn't lost on you, dear reader. The fuzzy little shithead, as has probably already been guessed, is a summation of and metaphor for all those people ranging from the plastic smilers to the air-kissers to those that insincerely spout "I love you"s at anyone they see to every other facetious bastard who dared to mess with you. And that paraphrased line is an ode to all of them.
Because tomorrow is a new day.
I start a new job.
I pick new fights.
I gots me a cool new colour scheme.
Not to mention, a funky new game and a kerraaayyyy-zeee new pet.
And the fuzzy little shithead needs to find a new hobby.
My cards are firmly in my hand.
I raise.
With that out of the way, I'd like to segue right to the thrust of this here post. Yes Paste, it most certainly is a blatant steal from Hunter S Thompson, but it's also the theme of my latest diatribe.
How many roads... asked Bobby D at some point when in his drug-addled stupor, he made a tiny iota of sense. The real question, dear reader, isn't about roads walked down or cannon balls or ermm... what else did he sing about? Anyway, the real question has more to do with one's own self-respect. How many times must you keep being slapped down, insulted, spat on (literally or figuratively), deceived, tricked, stabbed in the back or bitched about until you throw down those gauntlets and think, "Right, that's it... This means WAR!!"?
Now, I've dealt with facetious, insincere and spiteful people before and more often than not, I've laughed it off. I've probably been called every insult under the Sun, from the M-F stuff through racially-fueled stuff to some downright bizarre stuff like a word that begins with a J that is usually used to describe childish behaviour. But, as mentioned earlier, more often than not, I've laughed it off. But, then it reaches a point, when you actually see these lovely (!) people getting a rush from making you their patsy, from using you as their magnet for spite and from using you as a punching bag to dissipate their own insecurities. It wouldn't be so bad if these people were inconsequential piss-ants (maybe it's time they were relegated to that category), but these are people you knew, could relate to and even considered calling "friends". Yeeesh!!! And still... you continue to take it with a pinch of salt.
A long talk with a dear friend revealed to me said friend's absolute refusal to take the vengeful path and chart out (and execute) a plan to get back at those aforementioned lovely (!) people. Which, it should be added isn't necessarily a bad thing if being Gandhian or living life the Dr Martin Luther King Jr. way is your thing. So, you go along with it... for a while, until...
Until that pounding and serrated blood music begins blasting its way through your system. Yanking your stomach from where it sits comfortably under your diaphragm and out your throat with that bitter and nasty bile ebbing and flowing forth unchallenged.
Disenfranchisement.
Resentment.
Red Mist.
The 'Roy Keane Syndrome'.
"Listen you fuzzy little shithead. I've been F'd around in my time by a fairly good cross-section of mean-tempered, ill-mannered and nefariously nasty people... And now... it's MY turn. So fuck you, Sir/Madam/child... I'm in charge"
A bit of paraphrasing here or there never hurt, but hopefully, the gist of it isn't lost on you, dear reader. The fuzzy little shithead, as has probably already been guessed, is a summation of and metaphor for all those people ranging from the plastic smilers to the air-kissers to those that insincerely spout "I love you"s at anyone they see to every other facetious bastard who dared to mess with you. And that paraphrased line is an ode to all of them.
Because tomorrow is a new day.
I start a new job.
I pick new fights.
I gots me a cool new colour scheme.
Not to mention, a funky new game and a kerraaayyyy-zeee new pet.
And the fuzzy little shithead needs to find a new hobby.
My cards are firmly in my hand.
I raise.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Still jarring and jarringly still
And the hunt fruitlessly continues...
The job hunt, that is. Torn between not wanting to be a graduate in the art of selling myself short and thereby being a trainee and between morons who after days of saying one thing, turn around and claim that their office is full, I find myself rather jobless. Undercurrents that alternate between self-pity, scorn, disappointment and grief are often beaten into submission by my unashamed optimism (it could be delusional, but I like it).
"Learn to enjoy losing," says a voice in my head — a very familiar voice that later tells me not to take any guff from these magazine swine.
Learn to enjoy losing.
Learn to enjoy losing?
Seems paradoxical, non? Especially in this society of ours with its ever-growing numbers, its ever-tightening and suffocating competition and its ever-increasing tendency to throw humourless, witless and frankly idiotic people in your path, just to make life that little bit harder for you. A society where winning is everything. Losing or failure is not an option. I'm rather familiar with those last two concepts. I like to believe they build character.
"Who wants to build character? I want to be made, paid and laid!!" some may cry. They have my deepest sympathy. Knowing that you are capable of taking a body blow and then, doubling over, spitting out a nasty cocktail of blood, saliva and fragmented teeth, breaking bones, maybe even falling down on your face AND YET, standing back up and saying, "Shoot me again. I ain't dead yet." That's character.
At this point, I feel it's very necessary to apologise for that shocking musical reference to the travesty that was Shoot me again..., which appeared on a catastrophe of an album that was St. Anger.
But my point is that I'm in an unknown and alien situation. The warm coziness of being a student and everything that goes with it is gone. I'd rather go through a few months of hell in this unfamiliar and unknown situation now and discover how much resilience I'm capable of mustering up. Then again, I could end up wilting, crying myself into a stupor or self-destructing (Psychologically, I mean!! Suicide is for the weak). All in all, pretty interesting times to be living in.
So why then, am I blanketed by this irreverent indifference? Why then do things still jar violently in me from time-to-time, while everything around me is so jarringly still?
The job hunt, that is. Torn between not wanting to be a graduate in the art of selling myself short and thereby being a trainee and between morons who after days of saying one thing, turn around and claim that their office is full, I find myself rather jobless. Undercurrents that alternate between self-pity, scorn, disappointment and grief are often beaten into submission by my unashamed optimism (it could be delusional, but I like it).
"Learn to enjoy losing," says a voice in my head — a very familiar voice that later tells me not to take any guff from these magazine swine.
Learn to enjoy losing.
Learn to enjoy losing?
Seems paradoxical, non? Especially in this society of ours with its ever-growing numbers, its ever-tightening and suffocating competition and its ever-increasing tendency to throw humourless, witless and frankly idiotic people in your path, just to make life that little bit harder for you. A society where winning is everything. Losing or failure is not an option. I'm rather familiar with those last two concepts. I like to believe they build character.
"Who wants to build character? I want to be made, paid and laid!!" some may cry. They have my deepest sympathy. Knowing that you are capable of taking a body blow and then, doubling over, spitting out a nasty cocktail of blood, saliva and fragmented teeth, breaking bones, maybe even falling down on your face AND YET, standing back up and saying, "Shoot me again. I ain't dead yet." That's character.
At this point, I feel it's very necessary to apologise for that shocking musical reference to the travesty that was Shoot me again..., which appeared on a catastrophe of an album that was St. Anger.
But my point is that I'm in an unknown and alien situation. The warm coziness of being a student and everything that goes with it is gone. I'd rather go through a few months of hell in this unfamiliar and unknown situation now and discover how much resilience I'm capable of mustering up. Then again, I could end up wilting, crying myself into a stupor or self-destructing (Psychologically, I mean!! Suicide is for the weak). All in all, pretty interesting times to be living in.
So why then, am I blanketed by this irreverent indifference? Why then do things still jar violently in me from time-to-time, while everything around me is so jarringly still?
Monday, May 12, 2008
Have you ever had the feeling...
... that you want to punch the ceiling?
So you step out of your house, you can't take it anymore
In your quest for absolution
There is only one solution...
Kicking pigeons in the park!!
The excellent lyrics of [spunge] aside, this frame of thought has passed through my brain on numerous occasions over the past few days. Talks about aliens secretly entering our plane of existence are a mere instance when those feelings subside. But the rest of the time, the urge for extreme violence aimed at my ceiling enter my head with alarming regularity.
And then, something as unexpectedly weird, yet unexpectedly pleasant as herding goats comes along and I find myself cackling like I used to in the Team 163 era. Oh those cackles... As rare as those cackles are, my feelings of being sane find themselves being even rarer. I need a neural shake-up... I need to be thrown against the wall, like Karl Urban (Reaper in the film Doom) was, by The Rock... I need some sort of electrifying slap that wakes me up. Clinging onto some place in my mind where I thought I used to live (until eviction) isn't very me.
They say that support from those around you helps. And 'they' may well be right. But for now, what really gets my engines pumping and gets me striving for that bigger score is the scornful and defiant apathy of certain people around me. This factor is one of the driving forces that I love to rely on to really light a fire under my ass and get me all rabid for action.
So, to those people, I invite your scornful defiance. Nothing drives me like you guys! Mucho thanks and tons of appreciation to you. While I may not see you lot again, you certainly will see me — maybe just my name — as you hold open your favourite publications. I will be there. As you turn the pages. I will be there. As you throw it on the floor, wishing your name was mentioned. I will be there.
I am destined to be there.
So you step out of your house, you can't take it anymore
In your quest for absolution
There is only one solution...
Kicking pigeons in the park!!
The excellent lyrics of [spunge] aside, this frame of thought has passed through my brain on numerous occasions over the past few days. Talks about aliens secretly entering our plane of existence are a mere instance when those feelings subside. But the rest of the time, the urge for extreme violence aimed at my ceiling enter my head with alarming regularity.
And then, something as unexpectedly weird, yet unexpectedly pleasant as herding goats comes along and I find myself cackling like I used to in the Team 163 era. Oh those cackles... As rare as those cackles are, my feelings of being sane find themselves being even rarer. I need a neural shake-up... I need to be thrown against the wall, like Karl Urban (Reaper in the film Doom) was, by The Rock... I need some sort of electrifying slap that wakes me up. Clinging onto some place in my mind where I thought I used to live (until eviction) isn't very me.
They say that support from those around you helps. And 'they' may well be right. But for now, what really gets my engines pumping and gets me striving for that bigger score is the scornful and defiant apathy of certain people around me. This factor is one of the driving forces that I love to rely on to really light a fire under my ass and get me all rabid for action.
So, to those people, I invite your scornful defiance. Nothing drives me like you guys! Mucho thanks and tons of appreciation to you. While I may not see you lot again, you certainly will see me — maybe just my name — as you hold open your favourite publications. I will be there. As you turn the pages. I will be there. As you throw it on the floor, wishing your name was mentioned. I will be there.
I am destined to be there.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Liberation and psychological chemotherapy
Forty-odd days I'd waited for this and now, some six or seven hours after, I'm still bathed in that same wonderful liberated glow. This life truly teaches all sorts of lessons in the oddest possible way.
Like a cancer victim, struggling with that wretched tumour. The doctors walk in and pitifully shake their heads and scratch something into their clipboard-backed notepads. Well-wishers and relatives waltz in to "cheer the patient up" when all they end up doing is showering said patient with sympathy. No one really gets the feeling of being afflicted with cancer like the patient does...
And then, one day, he stands up and rips that tumour right out and hurls it into the garbage disposal furnace where it belongs. He then stretches and roars a mighty roar, as if to tell the world, "I'm back!!! Take your best shot at me!!!" Tearing off all the IV tubes and syringes, heart-monitor cables and dialysis chords, he struts out of the ward. Flipping off the doctors and nurses as he makes his way out of the hospital and into the street, the former patient is bathed in the glow of wondrous liberation. He laughs in the face of misery and death as calls are made to all those aforementioned well-wishers to request them to keep their sympathy to themselves.
"The infection has been removed... The soul of this machine has improved," says the now recuperated former patient as he quotes some Fear Factory. Gazing up at the sun as it dips behind a sky-scraper, he smiles because the worst is over. A little more rest and then the world is his oyster once again.
And the most glorious thing of all is that the patient-no-more fought it all by his lonesome, without any need for chemotherapy. The chemotherapy that gave him the strength to rip out his cancer was his own will - his own desire and his own self-respect that told him that he would no longer be a slave to this parasite. Of course, the scars will remain. But they shall for evermore serve as a reminder of this tumour and that cancers are to be fought, but some battle injuries will remain. "Wear them as a badge of honour and you will be fine, my son."
Oblivion. That is the location to which the cancerous tumour is now consigned.
Bliss. That is what the former patient and now potential world conqueror experiences.
This truly is a wondrous life, with its weird, yet oddly profound teachings...
Like a cancer victim, struggling with that wretched tumour. The doctors walk in and pitifully shake their heads and scratch something into their clipboard-backed notepads. Well-wishers and relatives waltz in to "cheer the patient up" when all they end up doing is showering said patient with sympathy. No one really gets the feeling of being afflicted with cancer like the patient does...
And then, one day, he stands up and rips that tumour right out and hurls it into the garbage disposal furnace where it belongs. He then stretches and roars a mighty roar, as if to tell the world, "I'm back!!! Take your best shot at me!!!" Tearing off all the IV tubes and syringes, heart-monitor cables and dialysis chords, he struts out of the ward. Flipping off the doctors and nurses as he makes his way out of the hospital and into the street, the former patient is bathed in the glow of wondrous liberation. He laughs in the face of misery and death as calls are made to all those aforementioned well-wishers to request them to keep their sympathy to themselves.
"The infection has been removed... The soul of this machine has improved," says the now recuperated former patient as he quotes some Fear Factory. Gazing up at the sun as it dips behind a sky-scraper, he smiles because the worst is over. A little more rest and then the world is his oyster once again.
And the most glorious thing of all is that the patient-no-more fought it all by his lonesome, without any need for chemotherapy. The chemotherapy that gave him the strength to rip out his cancer was his own will - his own desire and his own self-respect that told him that he would no longer be a slave to this parasite. Of course, the scars will remain. But they shall for evermore serve as a reminder of this tumour and that cancers are to be fought, but some battle injuries will remain. "Wear them as a badge of honour and you will be fine, my son."
Oblivion. That is the location to which the cancerous tumour is now consigned.
Bliss. That is what the former patient and now potential world conqueror experiences.
This truly is a wondrous life, with its weird, yet oddly profound teachings...
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Festivities and the re-emergence of glass
Almost two weeks ago and after much will-they won't-they (in my mind at least), Rock in India finally descended on these shores. Headlined by the arguably past-it Megadeth and the more rabid than ever Machine Head, the show, as expected did not disappoint... in the least. More pictures than just these, may be viewed here.
The show's immense success (in my opinion and this will be discussed later) could largely be attributed to two factors. The
first would have to be Machine Head's undisputed power, majesty, brutality and utter and complete pwnage (there you go Pastry, something for you *chortle*). The second and more surprising (for me at least) of the two factors is the fact that with a couple of exceptions (neither of which need to be named), all the Indian bands really came to the party.
This, it should be noted, is no small feat considering the magnitude of odds stacked against them. First off, the stage being occupied by the international acts was humongous compared to the one being used for the seven home bands.
Secondly, the apathetic attitude of a significant number of audience 
members meant that they stood around or sat in the heat, right in front of the large stage from afternoon or so, in the hope of being right at the front for the international bands. While it could be argued that it's not everyday that one gets to see Megadeth and Machine Head, it was very easy to get right up front even if you weren't sitting at the front from the beginning. Anyway, it was their loss. I'm not complaining. The pictures above depict the stark difference of scale between the two stages. Anyway, despite bands like Motherjane appealing to the "main stage crowd" to come on over or at least, sing along, they sat in their own bliss in front of the main stage and ruminated on the show they may or may not see.
Which is all the better for people like me who got the slap-in-the-face of a lifetime (5 time recurring slaps notwithstanding) and were ripped, torn and shredded by the sheer brilliance of bands like Prestorika (thrash as it should be played), Junkyard Groove (difficult to pigeon-hole, but brilliant as a jazz/funk/rock quartet), Motherjane (mindblowing INDIAN rock/metal; just listen to the song Mindstreets), Millenium (ripping sounds of old school metal) and Pentagram ('nuff said). Pentagram are an established act, Millenium have been churning out their sounds for over two decades. Regardless, this quintet of bands destroyed any preconceptions that the Indian bands were merely spectators at a showcase of two international acts.
After this bruising set-up provided by our home bands, Machine Head stepped in and blew my head away. Even my good friend Sandy Quest couldn't contain his sheer admiration for the power exuded by Robb Flynn and the boys as they tore Bangalore apart with a brutal eight-track set. It's interesting because a normal MH show would be a showcase of heavy stuff, fun stuff, sing-along stuff, downer stuff and the works. This show seemed to be devised in a way that would obliterate any spinal columns or bones of other types in its midst. Belting out seventy five thousand tonne heavy songs, one after the other, (only to be interspersed by the ethereal Descend the Shades of Night) it seemed that their agenda was to fill up the emergency wards in all of Bangalore's hospitals. Kudos must go to the band for the way they entertained the crowd in between pulverising them with their tunes. The onstage banter in lieu of an extra song or so would not have been missed by the crowd. Of course, Megadeth came on next, flat as flat can be; devoid of any real enthusiasm, energy or electricity. I say 'electricity', because even the Gods decided that Machine Head were getting a rough deal playing second fiddle to the band Kerrang! magazine described in a review for an album as "the patchiest band in the world". Seemingly in a rush to catch the first flight out of India, they rushed through their set and went through the motions with all the usual solos (bum notes notwithstanding), platitudes ("We will be back, Bangalore!") and crowd-involving behaviour (turning a mic towards the crowd to get them to sing). That really is all that needs to be said about the disappointing end to the show.
People on online fora and blogs however will crow about what an "experience" it was to see their "heroes" (Mustaine, Broderick and the other two?) in the flesh and how it brought tears to their eyes. Good for them! I'm glad they demand so little of the music they claim to love. As for others, they cried about how crappy the sound was, how desi the Indian bands sounded, how Pentagram sucked, how Prestorika should never have been there, how Megadeth weren't done justice by the fact that their volume was turned down after Machine Head and how India isn't a rock/metal nation. Despite all this nonsense, music was the winner. Guys and gals like me and Sandy respectively got to see bands we'd never normally see and we loved it! That was a festival. Walking around, checking out merchandise (I refer to t-shirts, key-chains, CDs and such-like; I am not sexist), closely scrutinising the food on sale, checking out bands one wouldn't normally listen to, striking up conversations with random idiots and running into people one met at the Sepultura show in Bangalore (Nov 07).
Of course, it isn't my place to tell people to have an opinion that matches mine. Everyone is entitled to their own. Even the people who sat at the stage who I branded victims of a colonial hang-over are entitled to believe what they wish to and do as they please (as long as it's legal, natch). The same logic applies for the self-righteous mobs rising up to decry Indian males in light of Scarlett Keeling's tragic death in Goa.
Crucify me, if you will, for saying 'death' and not 'brutal rape and murder'. The circumstances surrounding her demise don't change the fact that she passed away; in other words, it was in fact, her death. So, I would invite all pedantics to go and jump off the nearest multi-storey building. It sickens me when unrealistic morons try to play the "Firangis mess around with the culture of this country and get their comeuppance" card. The real point here, is that there are most definitely a number of sickos in this country; a majority of who are men. For instance, some peon was arrested yesterday for molesting a four year old girl. Honestly! It takes a person with real mental deficiencies as a human being (if I am now accused of being prejudiced towards the differently abled, I would invite those accusers too to jump off the nearest multi-storey building), to stoop to that level.
The police in Goa appear to be hiding some important and fundamental truths and if they, in fact, are doing so, they should be taken to task. There are no two ways about that. My contention, however, and the "re-emergence of glass" part (a reference to those with glass stomachs, whose heads are so far up their own rectum that basic vision is impossible sans a clear viewing window of glass) pertains to the way Indian males are being blamed for all this. Sweeping statements like "all Indian men are sexually deprived and yada yada yada" serve no purpose. But stop! I'm by no means exonerating a minority (yet one that makes itself notorious by its sickness) of men who indulge in the most heinous antics known to man. The jackasses who molest women on trains, lech at random tourists and go to the extent of raping innocent children are not being spoken for here.
I am trying to speak for the average Indian male. The one who respects women as human beings who are just like him. The one who has grown with strong female role models around him. The one who treats women as his equals and superiors whom he must compete with on a level playing field, in order to get somewhere in life. The one who has been brought up with 'Respect' as one of his major values. And to me, that final point, is the most poignant. It's all well and good in Indian society to claim that women are subordinate to men and that they must just go along with whatever the man says. That sort of attitude breeds mothers and fathers who reinforce this misplaced 'male mentality' as NDTV's presenters, newspaper columnists and random upstarts would like you, gentle reader, to believe is rampant throughout this nation of ours.
When talking about parenting, it is crucial also to talk about Fiona "Warrior for Justice" McKeown's role. What kind of parent allows her fifteen year old — allow me to repeat that — fifteen year old daughter to frolic around by herself in a place like Goa? You may as well send her to Las Vegas or Blackpool or Manila or something. The drugs, alcohol and debauchery part is secondary to that point. Claiming to be a 'gypsy' is inconsequential to that point. You give birth to a child; you damn well better raise, nurture and take care of it. That's my belief anyway. I eagerly await criticisms of these theories I propound, especially from 'bleeding heart liberals' as South Park so succinctly puts it.
The show's immense success (in my opinion and this will be discussed later) could largely be attributed to two factors. The
first would have to be Machine Head's undisputed power, majesty, brutality and utter and complete pwnage (there you go Pastry, something for you *chortle*). The second and more surprising (for me at least) of the two factors is the fact that with a couple of exceptions (neither of which need to be named), all the Indian bands really came to the party.This, it should be noted, is no small feat considering the magnitude of odds stacked against them. First off, the stage being occupied by the international acts was humongous compared to the one being used for the seven home bands.
Secondly, the apathetic attitude of a significant number of audience 
members meant that they stood around or sat in the heat, right in front of the large stage from afternoon or so, in the hope of being right at the front for the international bands. While it could be argued that it's not everyday that one gets to see Megadeth and Machine Head, it was very easy to get right up front even if you weren't sitting at the front from the beginning. Anyway, it was their loss. I'm not complaining. The pictures above depict the stark difference of scale between the two stages. Anyway, despite bands like Motherjane appealing to the "main stage crowd" to come on over or at least, sing along, they sat in their own bliss in front of the main stage and ruminated on the show they may or may not see.Which is all the better for people like me who got the slap-in-the-face of a lifetime (5 time recurring slaps notwithstanding) and were ripped, torn and shredded by the sheer brilliance of bands like Prestorika (thrash as it should be played), Junkyard Groove (difficult to pigeon-hole, but brilliant as a jazz/funk/rock quartet), Motherjane (mindblowing INDIAN rock/metal; just listen to the song Mindstreets), Millenium (ripping sounds of old school metal) and Pentagram ('nuff said). Pentagram are an established act, Millenium have been churning out their sounds for over two decades. Regardless, this quintet of bands destroyed any preconceptions that the Indian bands were merely spectators at a showcase of two international acts.
After this bruising set-up provided by our home bands, Machine Head stepped in and blew my head away. Even my good friend Sandy Quest couldn't contain his sheer admiration for the power exuded by Robb Flynn and the boys as they tore Bangalore apart with a brutal eight-track set. It's interesting because a normal MH show would be a showcase of heavy stuff, fun stuff, sing-along stuff, downer stuff and the works. This show seemed to be devised in a way that would obliterate any spinal columns or bones of other types in its midst. Belting out seventy five thousand tonne heavy songs, one after the other, (only to be interspersed by the ethereal Descend the Shades of Night) it seemed that their agenda was to fill up the emergency wards in all of Bangalore's hospitals. Kudos must go to the band for the way they entertained the crowd in between pulverising them with their tunes. The onstage banter in lieu of an extra song or so would not have been missed by the crowd. Of course, Megadeth came on next, flat as flat can be; devoid of any real enthusiasm, energy or electricity. I say 'electricity', because even the Gods decided that Machine Head were getting a rough deal playing second fiddle to the band Kerrang! magazine described in a review for an album as "the patchiest band in the world". Seemingly in a rush to catch the first flight out of India, they rushed through their set and went through the motions with all the usual solos (bum notes notwithstanding), platitudes ("We will be back, Bangalore!") and crowd-involving behaviour (turning a mic towards the crowd to get them to sing). That really is all that needs to be said about the disappointing end to the show.
People on online fora and blogs however will crow about what an "experience" it was to see their "heroes" (Mustaine, Broderick and the other two?) in the flesh and how it brought tears to their eyes. Good for them! I'm glad they demand so little of the music they claim to love. As for others, they cried about how crappy the sound was, how desi the Indian bands sounded, how Pentagram sucked, how Prestorika should never have been there, how Megadeth weren't done justice by the fact that their volume was turned down after Machine Head and how India isn't a rock/metal nation. Despite all this nonsense, music was the winner. Guys and gals like me and Sandy respectively got to see bands we'd never normally see and we loved it! That was a festival. Walking around, checking out merchandise (I refer to t-shirts, key-chains, CDs and such-like; I am not sexist), closely scrutinising the food on sale, checking out bands one wouldn't normally listen to, striking up conversations with random idiots and running into people one met at the Sepultura show in Bangalore (Nov 07).
Of course, it isn't my place to tell people to have an opinion that matches mine. Everyone is entitled to their own. Even the people who sat at the stage who I branded victims of a colonial hang-over are entitled to believe what they wish to and do as they please (as long as it's legal, natch). The same logic applies for the self-righteous mobs rising up to decry Indian males in light of Scarlett Keeling's tragic death in Goa.
Crucify me, if you will, for saying 'death' and not 'brutal rape and murder'. The circumstances surrounding her demise don't change the fact that she passed away; in other words, it was in fact, her death. So, I would invite all pedantics to go and jump off the nearest multi-storey building. It sickens me when unrealistic morons try to play the "Firangis mess around with the culture of this country and get their comeuppance" card. The real point here, is that there are most definitely a number of sickos in this country; a majority of who are men. For instance, some peon was arrested yesterday for molesting a four year old girl. Honestly! It takes a person with real mental deficiencies as a human being (if I am now accused of being prejudiced towards the differently abled, I would invite those accusers too to jump off the nearest multi-storey building), to stoop to that level.
The police in Goa appear to be hiding some important and fundamental truths and if they, in fact, are doing so, they should be taken to task. There are no two ways about that. My contention, however, and the "re-emergence of glass" part (a reference to those with glass stomachs, whose heads are so far up their own rectum that basic vision is impossible sans a clear viewing window of glass) pertains to the way Indian males are being blamed for all this. Sweeping statements like "all Indian men are sexually deprived and yada yada yada" serve no purpose. But stop! I'm by no means exonerating a minority (yet one that makes itself notorious by its sickness) of men who indulge in the most heinous antics known to man. The jackasses who molest women on trains, lech at random tourists and go to the extent of raping innocent children are not being spoken for here.
I am trying to speak for the average Indian male. The one who respects women as human beings who are just like him. The one who has grown with strong female role models around him. The one who treats women as his equals and superiors whom he must compete with on a level playing field, in order to get somewhere in life. The one who has been brought up with 'Respect' as one of his major values. And to me, that final point, is the most poignant. It's all well and good in Indian society to claim that women are subordinate to men and that they must just go along with whatever the man says. That sort of attitude breeds mothers and fathers who reinforce this misplaced 'male mentality' as NDTV's presenters, newspaper columnists and random upstarts would like you, gentle reader, to believe is rampant throughout this nation of ours.
When talking about parenting, it is crucial also to talk about Fiona "Warrior for Justice" McKeown's role. What kind of parent allows her fifteen year old — allow me to repeat that — fifteen year old daughter to frolic around by herself in a place like Goa? You may as well send her to Las Vegas or Blackpool or Manila or something. The drugs, alcohol and debauchery part is secondary to that point. Claiming to be a 'gypsy' is inconsequential to that point. You give birth to a child; you damn well better raise, nurture and take care of it. That's my belief anyway. I eagerly await criticisms of these theories I propound, especially from 'bleeding heart liberals' as South Park so succinctly puts it.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Inertia
The American writer and editor (Thank you, Wikipedia) Dorothea Brande once said,
All that is necessary to break the spell of inertia and frustration is this:
Act as if it were impossible to fail.
That is the talisman, the formula, the command of right about face which turns us from failure to success.
This week one has been wholly consumed by the process of writing what could well become one's very first book ever. One must reiterate — could become; One doesn't claim that it won't and one sure as hell will not say that it will. But somewhere along the way, the process of writing, of putting down thoughts and attempting to weave them into a meandering plot, while adhering to the style in which one tends to most flourish (Thank you Harry/Luke), while attempting to meet a ridiculous deadline, does tend to suck the fun out of it all.
At face value, it's not all that much. It's a story of a person indulging in some travel and assorted stupidity. But then, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas could also have been described by an utter philistine as being just that. The deeper essence of this book one finds oneself slaving over is the culmination of three years of weird and wonderful experiences, understandings (new word alert, one thinks) and learnings. All that stuff condensed into one story! Amazing, one likes to think of it as being.
However, what this does is to bring the stark reality of 2008 nearer one's face, in that it's time to climb out of the groove and do new things, find a new routine (as someone very recently said in her blog), discover new people and places even. The warm and loving grasp of inertia is one of the hardest things to fight. Moreso, when one is surrounded by persons who are actively doing so, in terms of plotting the course for their next phase of their life: whether that be career-wise, location-wise or as is the case with certain sick-ass rat bastards, planning their next conquests... probably (one finds it beneath oneself to elaborate).
Taking stock of one's priorities, goals and ambitions is a simple enough process. Actually moving oneself to do something is quite another... As one is discovering... very slowly... and finding it bloody effing hard to act like it were impossible for one to fail.
And yes, one realises one has been using the word 'one' a lot on this particular post. One just wanted to speak like the Queen of England for a change. One likes doing that once in a while.
All that is necessary to break the spell of inertia and frustration is this:
Act as if it were impossible to fail.
That is the talisman, the formula, the command of right about face which turns us from failure to success.
This week one has been wholly consumed by the process of writing what could well become one's very first book ever. One must reiterate — could become; One doesn't claim that it won't and one sure as hell will not say that it will. But somewhere along the way, the process of writing, of putting down thoughts and attempting to weave them into a meandering plot, while adhering to the style in which one tends to most flourish (Thank you Harry/Luke), while attempting to meet a ridiculous deadline, does tend to suck the fun out of it all.
At face value, it's not all that much. It's a story of a person indulging in some travel and assorted stupidity. But then, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas could also have been described by an utter philistine as being just that. The deeper essence of this book one finds oneself slaving over is the culmination of three years of weird and wonderful experiences, understandings (new word alert, one thinks) and learnings. All that stuff condensed into one story! Amazing, one likes to think of it as being.
However, what this does is to bring the stark reality of 2008 nearer one's face, in that it's time to climb out of the groove and do new things, find a new routine (as someone very recently said in her blog), discover new people and places even. The warm and loving grasp of inertia is one of the hardest things to fight. Moreso, when one is surrounded by persons who are actively doing so, in terms of plotting the course for their next phase of their life: whether that be career-wise, location-wise or as is the case with certain sick-ass rat bastards, planning their next conquests... probably (one finds it beneath oneself to elaborate).
Taking stock of one's priorities, goals and ambitions is a simple enough process. Actually moving oneself to do something is quite another... As one is discovering... very slowly... and finding it bloody effing hard to act like it were impossible for one to fail.
And yes, one realises one has been using the word 'one' a lot on this particular post. One just wanted to speak like the Queen of England for a change. One likes doing that once in a while.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Popping grapes and snapping rubber bands
The grape was squeezed hard, alright... Squeezed until it popped and squirted its purple juices everywhere. Note: I'm talking about the purple grapes here and not the light green variety, referred to in some parts of the world as "White Grapes".
All along, as the grape was being squeezed, the elastic band was being stretched and relaxed, stretched some more and then relaxed and even twanged from time-to-time. It got to the point where the incessant twanging and stretching got way too much and finally caused it to snap. The circular loop of the elastic band was reduced to a strand of elastic material.
It wasn't so much that the grape suffered its fate as a result of the actions on the hand on it. Other conditions — climactic, social and otherwise — conspired to push the hand around, bump it into walls, step on it, kick it and cause other harm to it (3 occurrences of "other" in this sentence. Woo Hoo!!). Through thick and thin, the little grape survived until finally, its resistance broke under the vice-like grip of the hand.
Meanwhile, the elastic band was being pulled in all directions by all sorts of people — big, small, young and old — to a point where it began thinking to itself, "Well hold on a second, this isn't what I bargained for." Did it snap under its own desire to end its existence as a loop or was it external circumstances that caused it? Who knows?
More importantly, who cares? Grapes are fragile and it goes without saying that sooner or later, they will be crushed. As for elastic bands, well they're not exactly the most resilient of objects known to man and are bound to snap at some point. Bloody good thing too, considering the impact they can cause when they are propelled carelessly at somebody's eye. At the end of it all, is it really worth an entire post at View from Beneath — normally known for its... less meandering and pointless, shall we say, content — to discuss the fate of two inanimate objects? Course not, I hear you say.
Try telling that to the grape and the elastic band...
All along, as the grape was being squeezed, the elastic band was being stretched and relaxed, stretched some more and then relaxed and even twanged from time-to-time. It got to the point where the incessant twanging and stretching got way too much and finally caused it to snap. The circular loop of the elastic band was reduced to a strand of elastic material.
It wasn't so much that the grape suffered its fate as a result of the actions on the hand on it. Other conditions — climactic, social and otherwise — conspired to push the hand around, bump it into walls, step on it, kick it and cause other harm to it (3 occurrences of "other" in this sentence. Woo Hoo!!). Through thick and thin, the little grape survived until finally, its resistance broke under the vice-like grip of the hand.
Meanwhile, the elastic band was being pulled in all directions by all sorts of people — big, small, young and old — to a point where it began thinking to itself, "Well hold on a second, this isn't what I bargained for." Did it snap under its own desire to end its existence as a loop or was it external circumstances that caused it? Who knows?
More importantly, who cares? Grapes are fragile and it goes without saying that sooner or later, they will be crushed. As for elastic bands, well they're not exactly the most resilient of objects known to man and are bound to snap at some point. Bloody good thing too, considering the impact they can cause when they are propelled carelessly at somebody's eye. At the end of it all, is it really worth an entire post at View from Beneath — normally known for its... less meandering and pointless, shall we say, content — to discuss the fate of two inanimate objects? Course not, I hear you say.
Try telling that to the grape and the elastic band...
Monday, January 7, 2008
A Question of Sport?
Andrew Symonds is an Australian cricketer with 923 Test match runs and 4671 One Day International runs (at the time of going to press). He is an incredibly proficient fielder and a useful bowler at the best of times. He is most definitely not a monkey! That is a fact and one that needs to be made known once and for all.
Wikipedia, everyone's favourite resource for random gubbins, defines a monkey as a member of
the grouping known as simian primates yada yada yada... We know monkeys as those cute little furry animals we see in zoos, in films and if you're not of the evolutionist school of thought, then please forgive me, but as our distant ancestors. The point is that they are these ultra cute little critters who do their own thing and amuse us in the process. They are known to mimic the behaviour of other animals, including humans and that is where the idea of "being a monkey" comes from. From mimicking others. Monkeys are also known to be fairly silly (albeit cute and cuddly) creatures and so, calling one another a monkey implies that one feels the other is being silly.
This specimen (Oh I'm so sorry. Is "specimen" a racist term too, now?) on the left — you can't miss it... you REALLY can't — on the other hand, is anything but cute and furry. Furthermore, anyone who chooses to cuddle this vile creation probably deserves a yeast infection. A bit harsh, perhaps. But unjustified, certainly not!! After all, how else is one to address a manipulative person who enjoys projecting oneself as a victim for nothing more than sports-related advantage. (Editor's Note: Roy, Symmo or whatever it is you are called these days, you sicken me! Have some shame!)
The second cricket Test match between India and Australia was a hard fought match, the way Tests are supposed to be played. There were to's and fro's of fortune until a five ball burst at the absolute fag-end of the match that took the last three Indian wickets (including that of Ishant Sharma, a 19 year old from Delhi who has shown nothing but heart since being thrust into the hotseat as India's second opening bowler). As a viewer whose emotions are no longer determined by the result of a cricket match involving India, it appeared to be a fine demonstration of sport at its finest, or so it seemed.
Blatant umpiring biases (Bucknor, it's time to retire and spend your remaining days sipping rum on the island and convincing yourself that you were a good umpire) and unsporting captains driving decisions their way (Ponting, you are a disgrace) aside, the match was brilliant. Two evenly matched sides locking horns in a legendary game of tug-of-war, each attempting to wrest the advantage from each other in gladiatorial fashion. As a sports fan, you really cannot ask for more.
But then, our man with the extended tongue in the picture above decides to grab some more advantage for his team by levelling charges of racism against the opposition. This, from the same team who are known for their abrasive and at times, downright childish ways on the field? 'Fraid so. The latest in that saga is that Harbhajan Singh has been banned for three test matches for his
racist ways. Shock! Horror! Is that really such a surprise? With Ponting, Hayden, Symonds (If only that beamer hurled at you by Waqar Younis at Jo'Burg in the 2003 Cricket World Cup in South Africa had cracked you between the eyes and forced some sense and decency into that vacuous head of yours. Is that racist too now?) and only the Lord knows how many other witnesses in tow testifying that "Harbhajan was racist to me ol' macka Symmo. Haydos, Punter and Pup 'eard 'im like a barbie in the middle of summer, mate". Sidestepping the fact that my impressions of Australian bumpkins are very very crap, was anyone really that surprised that this jackass on the right (popularly known as Mike Procter) would rule against Bhajji? I wasn't. Now, it turns out that the BCCI are appealing against the sentence.
Regardless, the important thing is that Kumble and the boys stick around and fight it out with or without Harbhajan in the team and attempt to salvage some lost pride. If for nothing else, then do it for the scorned Turbanator. It's time to step out of the mouldy old "Indian stereotype" and begin to whomp some ass! Go Team India!!!
Wikipedia, everyone's favourite resource for random gubbins, defines a monkey as a member of
the grouping known as simian primates yada yada yada... We know monkeys as those cute little furry animals we see in zoos, in films and if you're not of the evolutionist school of thought, then please forgive me, but as our distant ancestors. The point is that they are these ultra cute little critters who do their own thing and amuse us in the process. They are known to mimic the behaviour of other animals, including humans and that is where the idea of "being a monkey" comes from. From mimicking others. Monkeys are also known to be fairly silly (albeit cute and cuddly) creatures and so, calling one another a monkey implies that one feels the other is being silly.This specimen (Oh I'm so sorry. Is "specimen" a racist term too, now?) on the left — you can't miss it... you REALLY can't — on the other hand, is anything but cute and furry. Furthermore, anyone who chooses to cuddle this vile creation probably deserves a yeast infection. A bit harsh, perhaps. But unjustified, certainly not!! After all, how else is one to address a manipulative person who enjoys projecting oneself as a victim for nothing more than sports-related advantage. (Editor's Note: Roy, Symmo or whatever it is you are called these days, you sicken me! Have some shame!)The second cricket Test match between India and Australia was a hard fought match, the way Tests are supposed to be played. There were to's and fro's of fortune until a five ball burst at the absolute fag-end of the match that took the last three Indian wickets (including that of Ishant Sharma, a 19 year old from Delhi who has shown nothing but heart since being thrust into the hotseat as India's second opening bowler). As a viewer whose emotions are no longer determined by the result of a cricket match involving India, it appeared to be a fine demonstration of sport at its finest, or so it seemed.
Blatant umpiring biases (Bucknor, it's time to retire and spend your remaining days sipping rum on the island and convincing yourself that you were a good umpire) and unsporting captains driving decisions their way (Ponting, you are a disgrace) aside, the match was brilliant. Two evenly matched sides locking horns in a legendary game of tug-of-war, each attempting to wrest the advantage from each other in gladiatorial fashion. As a sports fan, you really cannot ask for more.
But then, our man with the extended tongue in the picture above decides to grab some more advantage for his team by levelling charges of racism against the opposition. This, from the same team who are known for their abrasive and at times, downright childish ways on the field? 'Fraid so. The latest in that saga is that Harbhajan Singh has been banned for three test matches for his
racist ways. Shock! Horror! Is that really such a surprise? With Ponting, Hayden, Symonds (If only that beamer hurled at you by Waqar Younis at Jo'Burg in the 2003 Cricket World Cup in South Africa had cracked you between the eyes and forced some sense and decency into that vacuous head of yours. Is that racist too now?) and only the Lord knows how many other witnesses in tow testifying that "Harbhajan was racist to me ol' macka Symmo. Haydos, Punter and Pup 'eard 'im like a barbie in the middle of summer, mate". Sidestepping the fact that my impressions of Australian bumpkins are very very crap, was anyone really that surprised that this jackass on the right (popularly known as Mike Procter) would rule against Bhajji? I wasn't. Now, it turns out that the BCCI are appealing against the sentence.Regardless, the important thing is that Kumble and the boys stick around and fight it out with or without Harbhajan in the team and attempt to salvage some lost pride. If for nothing else, then do it for the scorned Turbanator. It's time to step out of the mouldy old "Indian stereotype" and begin to whomp some ass! Go Team India!!!
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
What holiday season?
Whoo hoo!!! 2007 is over!!! Hello 2008!!! Everything's going to be so different now. People will love me, I'll make a heap of friends, women will throw themselves at me, the world will realise my genius and just how much better I am than everyone and John Shaft, Spiderman and Dr Watson will join me for a cup of coffee (!) Happy freakin' new year...
'Tis allegedly the season to be jolly they tell you.
Actually, nix that. 'Tell' is far too gentle. They scream this message of theirs at you from television sets, newspapers, advertising, shopping complexes etc. etc. Don't for a second be fooled into believing that the "they" I mention above refers to Christians, in any way, shape or form or the concept of Christmas.
I refer to those marketing tools that set about trying to turn the end of the year into some sort of commercialisation bonanza, where "Spend spend spend!" is the unequivocal order of the day. This red-suited OAP to the right has been reduced to no more than a symbol of the mass hysteria that grips the masses at the year's end. What was supposed to be a 4th Century saint who gave out gifts to the underprivileged (including, interestingly enough, the dowries for three sisters so they could get married and not turn to prostitution), is now someone who actually decides to be petty enough and decide who deserves a present and who doesn't.
And my ire isn't aimed only at them. Although this next phenomenon is seen all year round, it tends to rear its ugly head in the largest and ugliest possible way around this time of year. I am of course, describing the way the union between a man and a woman is executed. A wedding should essentially be about two people deciding to spend their lives together. What then, is the purpose of lavish and pointless sets (as in films, considering most wedding venues look like they've been ripped out of a film's set), stages and elaborate costumes? What is the purpose of spending four hours dressing up, only to sit and bitch about how someone else must have spent hours dressing up and still couldn't pull off the look? What is the purpose of bearing a plastic smile for hours on end as you meet people you've never met before and will never meet again (in all likelihood) as they queue up to congratulate you? Worse yet, on a day that's supposed to be the greatest day of your life, people and their families are stressed out beyond belief to make sure that everything is just right. There will be those who will undoubtedly believe in the grandeur and scale of it all, stating that a special occasion merits a special function and would even believe that all the heartburn is worth it in the end.
Why though? Why should a special occasion mean so much demonstration and posturing? Why can't it just be about spending that special day with those who are truly special to you and none else? Doing what is special to you and not what looks special from the outsider's point of view?
I hate to be a festo-phobe (another creation) or someone who hates all festivities, but in addition to lavish weddings, birthday celebrations, new year's celebrations and other times of the year that have been ruined by commercialisation really tick me off.
What was your achievement in terms of celebrating a birthday? Staying alive?
Do you celebrate and plan parties when April ends and May starts? Exactly. So why get so worked up about the end of December? And to those who claim that it's better because it's the end of the year, I say this: Doesn't January always follow December? Right. Similarly, to me, April is the last month of the year, because that's when colleges and schools end and stuff... Pardon the digression.
Like so many of my other posts, I've lost the point of what I was going to say and so I'll bring this to a close pretty sharpish. Before I do that, rather than use this time of year as an excuse for escapism and living in the false hope that everything will change, how about trying to see where you can make a difference to yourself and those around you in the next year WITHOUT it coming off like a half-baked new year's resolution. And this need not be only at the end of the year; How about at the end of every month? The end of every week? Or when you get home every night?
Note: Comments are as always, most welcome. But pointless remarks that have nothing to do with anything and come across as a mere exercise in self-promotion will be deleted or worse, will result in their writer being suffocated under layers of scorn. Yeah, not suffering fools is one of those ways in which I'm making a difference this year.
'Tis allegedly the season to be jolly they tell you.
Actually, nix that. 'Tell' is far too gentle. They scream this message of theirs at you from television sets, newspapers, advertising, shopping complexes etc. etc. Don't for a second be fooled into believing that the "they" I mention above refers to Christians, in any way, shape or form or the concept of Christmas.
I refer to those marketing tools that set about trying to turn the end of the year into some sort of commercialisation bonanza, where "Spend spend spend!" is the unequivocal order of the day. This red-suited OAP to the right has been reduced to no more than a symbol of the mass hysteria that grips the masses at the year's end. What was supposed to be a 4th Century saint who gave out gifts to the underprivileged (including, interestingly enough, the dowries for three sisters so they could get married and not turn to prostitution), is now someone who actually decides to be petty enough and decide who deserves a present and who doesn't.
And my ire isn't aimed only at them. Although this next phenomenon is seen all year round, it tends to rear its ugly head in the largest and ugliest possible way around this time of year. I am of course, describing the way the union between a man and a woman is executed. A wedding should essentially be about two people deciding to spend their lives together. What then, is the purpose of lavish and pointless sets (as in films, considering most wedding venues look like they've been ripped out of a film's set), stages and elaborate costumes? What is the purpose of spending four hours dressing up, only to sit and bitch about how someone else must have spent hours dressing up and still couldn't pull off the look? What is the purpose of bearing a plastic smile for hours on end as you meet people you've never met before and will never meet again (in all likelihood) as they queue up to congratulate you? Worse yet, on a day that's supposed to be the greatest day of your life, people and their families are stressed out beyond belief to make sure that everything is just right. There will be those who will undoubtedly believe in the grandeur and scale of it all, stating that a special occasion merits a special function and would even believe that all the heartburn is worth it in the end.
Why though? Why should a special occasion mean so much demonstration and posturing? Why can't it just be about spending that special day with those who are truly special to you and none else? Doing what is special to you and not what looks special from the outsider's point of view?
I hate to be a festo-phobe (another creation) or someone who hates all festivities, but in addition to lavish weddings, birthday celebrations, new year's celebrations and other times of the year that have been ruined by commercialisation really tick me off.
What was your achievement in terms of celebrating a birthday? Staying alive?
Do you celebrate and plan parties when April ends and May starts? Exactly. So why get so worked up about the end of December? And to those who claim that it's better because it's the end of the year, I say this: Doesn't January always follow December? Right. Similarly, to me, April is the last month of the year, because that's when colleges and schools end and stuff... Pardon the digression.
Like so many of my other posts, I've lost the point of what I was going to say and so I'll bring this to a close pretty sharpish. Before I do that, rather than use this time of year as an excuse for escapism and living in the false hope that everything will change, how about trying to see where you can make a difference to yourself and those around you in the next year WITHOUT it coming off like a half-baked new year's resolution. And this need not be only at the end of the year; How about at the end of every month? The end of every week? Or when you get home every night?
Note: Comments are as always, most welcome. But pointless remarks that have nothing to do with anything and come across as a mere exercise in self-promotion will be deleted or worse, will result in their writer being suffocated under layers of scorn. Yeah, not suffering fools is one of those ways in which I'm making a difference this year.
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