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.

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...

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.

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.

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...

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!!!

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.