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!

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.

"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.

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?

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.