It was May 2007 and I was in the middle of my first journalism-related internship, when I was asked to write a 600-or-so worder on the freedom of expression in the face of books being burnt and stuff. Naturally, conventional word limits are far too stifling for my requirements and so, I welcomed the idea of getting a few more words to play with. Long story short, the article was researched and typed out. It got printed. A good time was had by all.
Four or five days later, my boss at the time comes in with a hardcover book with a glossy dustjacket. Presumably it had to be reviewed. From afar I thought it was a graphic novel, due primarily to the fact that minus the black and white colouring of the dustjacket, the packaging resembled that of The Killing Joke. The signs looked good since I’d just written a piece on graphic novels a week ago. Arriving at the area where I was designated a seat, my boss hands it over with a smirk that turns into a grin and finally erupts in a raucous belly-laugh. What the hell? I didn’t really pay much attention to her reaction as i reached for the book.
She said she’d read a bit of it and it was hysterical. Hysterically bad that is. So it’s not a graphic novel then, given that I’m yet to read a truly BAD graphic novel. My mild sense of disappointment was then brushed aside by my curiosity to see what the hell that book was about. So, without reading the title of the book fully, I turned a few pages and began browsing through it.
Two pages in...
Four/five days after my book burning article...
I realised that this was the book that should’ve been burned. Maybe it would have shut the little cretin up. You hear me, Aditya? I’m talking about your poorly slapped together selection of “poetry” in three languages called My Thoughts in White and Black (I can’t find a link for it anywhere). That’s supposed to be the title of the book, by the way. Sounds a whole lot more like the title of an uninspired blog. The Marathi poems, I will concede, read quite well. All seven of them. The rest of the tripe comprises Hindi poems that read like they were taken from a primary school textbook. Don’t even get me started on the “Once I saw a cat; It was very fat; Because it ate a rat; Then it went and shat” type rhymes you’ve put down.
But I gotta hand it to you. Getting Granddaddy to have it published was a masterstroke. It actually looks like a credible book. What did he do to get such a high quality printing job? Did he send his goons to threaten the publisher? What happened after it was published? Did he threaten the publisher against ever publishing anything in any language other than Marathi? What about threatening a nationwide strike if any North Indian ever read it? I could go on forever, but the sad thing is it’s only a mild exaggeration of that whole family’s twisted way of thinking.
Now I know you’re going to ask me this, so you might as well get it out of the way now. That book was released over three years ago. So why am I ranting now? Well I’ll tell you why. Many reasons. Inertia primarily. But today happens to be the day that Aditya’s illustrious (cough cough) grandpa is going to declare him as their political party’s youth wing’s leader. (It’s amazing. These are the same geniuses who give shit to the Congress and call it a dynastic party)
Just a week and a half or so ago, the Shiv Sena’s scion (that would be Aditya, of course) saw fit to burn copies of a book that is part of the Bachelor of Arts syllabus at the University of Mumbai. The book, for those of you who don’t know is Such a Long Journey (which was also made into a film some 10-11 years ago. Anyway, the book is set in 1971 and does critique the politics of the time. Also for some more trivia, it’s written by Pastry’s uncle (Who is probably going to see some spiralling sales now. You know how well banned books sell).
Anyway, Aditya has his goons burn it and then gets the University’s spineless vice-chancellor to ban it from the syllabus. Straight away. Banned. None of the usual “we’ll consider it”. Just BOOM! Banned. It’s amazing how the bureaucracy is at its most effective at the most inappropriate times. That’s Bureau-CRAZY!!!! Roll your eyes as much as you want. I’ll wait.
Done? Okay. So the funniest part of this whole saga is that young Aditya hasn’t even read the book. Take a moment to laugh it up. He claims that people told him that it sullied the name of his family and party. WHAT’S LEFT TO SULLY, SON? Your party is a group of thugs, bullies and saffron supremacists. Most recently, ol’ Grampa Thackeray tried to shut down a reality TV show because it had two Pakistanis in it. He said and I quote, “We can’t let this green poison into our country.” Nicely done, Sir.
So as I was asking earlier, what is it you are trying to protect, Aditya? Your party sucks. I’m sure your mother is a wonderful person, but I’m afraid I can’t say the same about your granddad or your dad. I’d add your uncle to this list, but I’m quite happy that he could very well be that catalyst to destroy your archaic and backward Sena. You have a chance to be great. Hone those skills. Get back to writing. Put out a book on the back of the quality of your writing and not who your grandpa is. Don’t get sucked into this xenophobic, communal cesspool of hate that’s been in your family for so many years.
All I can do is to encourage you to break out!
Note: I doubt you’ll pay any heed to my advice, but what the hell? It was my duty to tell you. Now I’m gonna exercise my right to wait patiently and watch as your Sena and its “legacy” slowly burns to the ground like Ravana will later this evening. Happy Dussehra!
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Saturday, October 9, 2010
ReMatriculated
It’s been over a decade (more than 11 years even) since I first saw a film called The Matrix during its third or fourth week in cinemas. For curiosity sake more than anything, really. I didn’t know cyberpunk from skapunk, it’s safe to say. Back then, people who had seen it, all back and said, “Oh, you have to watch it!”. Hmmm. Next, I’d obviously ask what it was about. Far too often have people told me that I simply had to watch some film and I did. It was only after I’d actually spent my time, money and patience on the film that I wished that someone had had the decency to actually tell me what it was about.
I won’t bore you with the entire Hall of Shame. Only the top five.
5) Rudaali
4) The Bounty Hunter
3) Daisies
2) Freddy Got Fingered
1) Close-Up
There’s probably some others that’ll come to me in the dead of the night, but for now I would have to say that’s my top five for this category. With this quintet of films and its ilk, I just wish someone had actually shared with me a rough idea of what the film was about before I decided to part with my time, money and patience.
With The Matrix, all I got from people were these extremely pointless responses like “Dude, it’s trippy” and “That’s a mind fuck” and tonnes more such vacuous descriptions. Of course then you had the real geniuses — those masters of description — whose response to my question was to lean back, look like their eyes were following an imaginary fly all over the room, flay their arms outwards and move extremely slowly to avoid said fly. There were quite a few of them who did that. (God bless IMDB. I no longer rely on fools for a plot summary.) The only thing that came anywhere close to the same neighbourhood as a real answer was a simple curt “It’s about human batteries”. I see... errr.. what? And that was where the curiosity stemmed from, because if you recall the promos and trailers around that period, they were equally vague. Intentionally so.
As I went into the cinema hall, I was sure it would end up being just a snazzy action film that people wanted to read too much into. It would be one of those things that people would want to sit “interpreting”, when all they were doing is creating something in their own head. (Requiem for a Dream is a good example of this phenomenon. It’s a superbly edited and shot film, I won’t deny that. But at the end of the day, there is very little that’s open to interpretation. It’s all sitting there in front of you.)
The little shot of the Warner Bros. studio and the Village Roadshow logos were bathed in a lovely colour of green and their texture looked odd too. Like it was in binary code or something. Fancy. The Heart o’ the City hotel. And then soon after came that unmistakeably calm yet ominous voice with some unique intonation, topped off with a lovely sophisticated and lyrical lilt (which over the next decade would turn its owner into a superstar).
“Lieutenant, you were given strict orders...”
And the lieutenant clearly tired of all the redtape and hierarchy in the system, fires off a crack about not wanting any of that “juris-my-dick-tion crap”. And besides, he’s already sent some two more units of the city’s finest to apprehend the suspect.
“No Lieutenant, your men are already dead...”
How did he know? Because he was Agent fuckin’ Smith. He knew everything. I’m going to have to do a tribute post one of these days about Hugo Weaving. I’ll call it From violent bowling to violent vendettas. I love it.
Anywho, I was really getting into this film. It was slowly making sense. It was coming together piece by piece. Keanu Reeves’ stoic (when I’m feeling less charitable, I’ll say wooden) acting worked perfectly with his role. Lawrence Fishburne was reinvented as people across the world forgot all about Cowboy Curtis. Joe Pantoliano never disappoints. Ever. And an androgynously pretty Carrie Anne-Moss paved the way for the tough-as-nails but head-over-heels-in-love female character in cinema (something Megan Fox failled at miserably in Transformers 2).
That’s the actors done. The story is phenomenal. Full stop. Let’s put it this way, the story and universe opened a door to a room for me. And that room is now one of the most important and vital rooms in my life — cyberpunk. I’d never have read William Gibson, Philip K. Dick, Greg Bear, Bruce Sterling or any other cyberpunk books had I not seen and been totally sold on The Matrix. There’s the unbeatable soundtrack that came out when I was just discovering acts like Rage Against The Machine, Rammstein etc. Then there’s obviously the action. More on this later.
Fast forward around just over three years and I was jumping around all over the place when I heard that they were going to put out not one, but two sequels in 2003. I went on the second day. Didn’t fancy going alone on Day 1 and going on Day 2 gave me the chance to meet Captain’s whacky European pals. I still recall the anguish I felt when they left that film at such an excruciatingly painful cliffhanger. Convincing Captain to sit through the credits was another task and a half. This was made more tedious by the fact that even the drivers for Keanu and Carrie seemed to have their own makeup artists and stunt coordinators. For what seemed like an eternity, these credits rolled and rolled and rolled until at last... the screen went black again. A teaser trailer for the final film in the series. Idiotically compelling “OHHHHH!!! DID YOU SEE THAT?” moments carried on into the night.
Later that year and on the day before the final chapter of the trilogy was released, LT, B and I couldn’t sleep and so we watched parts of The Matrix, Revolutions and what is probably one of the finest animé compilations out there, The Animatrix.
Around 10 hours later, as little Santi painted the sky in beautiful hues and enquired about whether she’d see Neo again, everything had come together full circle. All the loose ends had been tied and for the first time, the credits began rolling over an instrumental piece of music from the film’s score. The mood just seemed right. There wasn’t the “FUCK YEAH!!” adrenaline rush of the first one (complimented by Rage’s Wake Up). There wasn’t the “Ohhhh man, the final part is going to KILL!!!” of the second part (Rage again. Only this time it was Calm like a Bomb). There were vibes of completion, of closure and the melancholic finality of it all.
It’d be the first time in a while that a number of people I knew would be going to sleep at night, without flicking over ideas of what would eventually happen to Neo and the gang. There’d be no more heated marijuana-fuelled (seems like an oxymoron) discussions about what the final outcome would be, while one person would just sit quietly, nodding and rolling up. The bulletin boards would no longer speculate about storylines and be scattered with “exclusive” leaks.
Nostalgia trip over and long story short, I watched the trilogy over the past coupla days again after a long long time. Only this time, it was in High Definition. So all that action I was talking about earlier looked even more eye-popping. The blue tinges and hues (in Film 1) and the green tinges and hues (in Films 2 and 3) for one, REALLY stand out in HD. But, good graphics don’t mean good film (or video game even). That’s true.
Matrix Reloaded was a blip after the first film and Revolutions, while it certainly was better than the second film, just seemed to lack something. Something I couldn’t put my finger on and haven’t been able to, to this very day. But keep in mind that matching the original film’s quality would be nigh-on-impossible. Sure, you could throw in better (technology-wise) action sequences, but the perfect synergy between story and dialogue was something that I could never imagine the Wachowskis topping.
Think about it a second. Most of the dialogue is either very good or frickin’ superb. There’s only one crap line in it. Imagine that. 136 minute-long film. One crap line. You know the line I mean. Hehehe. No? Well it’s... nah... It’ll spoil the fun. So I’ll move on.
What I’m trying to say is that individually, the sequels aren’t as good as the original, but as a trilogy, it blew (and still blows) my mind. Someone once told me that the first film had the amazing ability to fill your intellect, whether it was the size of a thimble or a bucket. Truer words have yet to be uttered. And more than any of that, to me, The Matrix Trilogy was my trilogy. Everyone has a trilogy. For a tonne of people, it’s Star Wars (4,5,6). For some (I won’t be judgmental), it’s even Star Wars (1,2,3). Some swoon over the Lord of the Rings Trilogy and nowadays, even the Twilight Trilogy.
But, this was my trilogy and in HD, so much more so.
*puts on a pair of shades... looks left, then right, then upwards and flies off*
“whee.. whee.. whee.. whee.. whee.. whee.. COME ON!!!!”
I won’t bore you with the entire Hall of Shame. Only the top five.
5) Rudaali
4) The Bounty Hunter
3) Daisies
2) Freddy Got Fingered
1) Close-Up
There’s probably some others that’ll come to me in the dead of the night, but for now I would have to say that’s my top five for this category. With this quintet of films and its ilk, I just wish someone had actually shared with me a rough idea of what the film was about before I decided to part with my time, money and patience.
With The Matrix, all I got from people were these extremely pointless responses like “Dude, it’s trippy” and “That’s a mind fuck” and tonnes more such vacuous descriptions. Of course then you had the real geniuses — those masters of description — whose response to my question was to lean back, look like their eyes were following an imaginary fly all over the room, flay their arms outwards and move extremely slowly to avoid said fly. There were quite a few of them who did that. (God bless IMDB. I no longer rely on fools for a plot summary.) The only thing that came anywhere close to the same neighbourhood as a real answer was a simple curt “It’s about human batteries”. I see... errr.. what? And that was where the curiosity stemmed from, because if you recall the promos and trailers around that period, they were equally vague. Intentionally so.
As I went into the cinema hall, I was sure it would end up being just a snazzy action film that people wanted to read too much into. It would be one of those things that people would want to sit “interpreting”, when all they were doing is creating something in their own head. (Requiem for a Dream is a good example of this phenomenon. It’s a superbly edited and shot film, I won’t deny that. But at the end of the day, there is very little that’s open to interpretation. It’s all sitting there in front of you.)
The little shot of the Warner Bros. studio and the Village Roadshow logos were bathed in a lovely colour of green and their texture looked odd too. Like it was in binary code or something. Fancy. The Heart o’ the City hotel. And then soon after came that unmistakeably calm yet ominous voice with some unique intonation, topped off with a lovely sophisticated and lyrical lilt (which over the next decade would turn its owner into a superstar).
“Lieutenant, you were given strict orders...”
And the lieutenant clearly tired of all the redtape and hierarchy in the system, fires off a crack about not wanting any of that “juris-my-dick-tion crap”. And besides, he’s already sent some two more units of the city’s finest to apprehend the suspect.
“No Lieutenant, your men are already dead...”
How did he know? Because he was Agent fuckin’ Smith. He knew everything. I’m going to have to do a tribute post one of these days about Hugo Weaving. I’ll call it From violent bowling to violent vendettas. I love it.
Anywho, I was really getting into this film. It was slowly making sense. It was coming together piece by piece. Keanu Reeves’ stoic (when I’m feeling less charitable, I’ll say wooden) acting worked perfectly with his role. Lawrence Fishburne was reinvented as people across the world forgot all about Cowboy Curtis. Joe Pantoliano never disappoints. Ever. And an androgynously pretty Carrie Anne-Moss paved the way for the tough-as-nails but head-over-heels-in-love female character in cinema (something Megan Fox failled at miserably in Transformers 2).
That’s the actors done. The story is phenomenal. Full stop. Let’s put it this way, the story and universe opened a door to a room for me. And that room is now one of the most important and vital rooms in my life — cyberpunk. I’d never have read William Gibson, Philip K. Dick, Greg Bear, Bruce Sterling or any other cyberpunk books had I not seen and been totally sold on The Matrix. There’s the unbeatable soundtrack that came out when I was just discovering acts like Rage Against The Machine, Rammstein etc. Then there’s obviously the action. More on this later.
Fast forward around just over three years and I was jumping around all over the place when I heard that they were going to put out not one, but two sequels in 2003. I went on the second day. Didn’t fancy going alone on Day 1 and going on Day 2 gave me the chance to meet Captain’s whacky European pals. I still recall the anguish I felt when they left that film at such an excruciatingly painful cliffhanger. Convincing Captain to sit through the credits was another task and a half. This was made more tedious by the fact that even the drivers for Keanu and Carrie seemed to have their own makeup artists and stunt coordinators. For what seemed like an eternity, these credits rolled and rolled and rolled until at last... the screen went black again. A teaser trailer for the final film in the series. Idiotically compelling “OHHHHH!!! DID YOU SEE THAT?” moments carried on into the night.
Later that year and on the day before the final chapter of the trilogy was released, LT, B and I couldn’t sleep and so we watched parts of The Matrix, Revolutions and what is probably one of the finest animé compilations out there, The Animatrix.
Around 10 hours later, as little Santi painted the sky in beautiful hues and enquired about whether she’d see Neo again, everything had come together full circle. All the loose ends had been tied and for the first time, the credits began rolling over an instrumental piece of music from the film’s score. The mood just seemed right. There wasn’t the “FUCK YEAH!!” adrenaline rush of the first one (complimented by Rage’s Wake Up). There wasn’t the “Ohhhh man, the final part is going to KILL!!!” of the second part (Rage again. Only this time it was Calm like a Bomb). There were vibes of completion, of closure and the melancholic finality of it all.
It’d be the first time in a while that a number of people I knew would be going to sleep at night, without flicking over ideas of what would eventually happen to Neo and the gang. There’d be no more heated marijuana-fuelled (seems like an oxymoron) discussions about what the final outcome would be, while one person would just sit quietly, nodding and rolling up. The bulletin boards would no longer speculate about storylines and be scattered with “exclusive” leaks.
Nostalgia trip over and long story short, I watched the trilogy over the past coupla days again after a long long time. Only this time, it was in High Definition. So all that action I was talking about earlier looked even more eye-popping. The blue tinges and hues (in Film 1) and the green tinges and hues (in Films 2 and 3) for one, REALLY stand out in HD. But, good graphics don’t mean good film (or video game even). That’s true.
Matrix Reloaded was a blip after the first film and Revolutions, while it certainly was better than the second film, just seemed to lack something. Something I couldn’t put my finger on and haven’t been able to, to this very day. But keep in mind that matching the original film’s quality would be nigh-on-impossible. Sure, you could throw in better (technology-wise) action sequences, but the perfect synergy between story and dialogue was something that I could never imagine the Wachowskis topping.
Think about it a second. Most of the dialogue is either very good or frickin’ superb. There’s only one crap line in it. Imagine that. 136 minute-long film. One crap line. You know the line I mean. Hehehe. No? Well it’s... nah... It’ll spoil the fun. So I’ll move on.
What I’m trying to say is that individually, the sequels aren’t as good as the original, but as a trilogy, it blew (and still blows) my mind. Someone once told me that the first film had the amazing ability to fill your intellect, whether it was the size of a thimble or a bucket. Truer words have yet to be uttered. And more than any of that, to me, The Matrix Trilogy was my trilogy. Everyone has a trilogy. For a tonne of people, it’s Star Wars (4,5,6). For some (I won’t be judgmental), it’s even Star Wars (1,2,3). Some swoon over the Lord of the Rings Trilogy and nowadays, even the Twilight Trilogy.
But, this was my trilogy and in HD, so much more so.
“whee.. whee.. whee.. whee.. whee.. whee..
Friday, October 8, 2010
How do you sleep at night?
I had set out intending to write a scathing and insanely vitriolic attack against a regional party in Maharashtra, but unique circumstances have compelled me to make my attempt at hitting out at a pan-national piece of shit. Any guesses? Come on... give it a shot (this one’s for all the Indians out there). Who is the biggest piece of shit you know, on television anyway? Who enjoys using the misery of others to his own gain and that of his television “news” channel (big hint there)?
I’ll cut to the chase. The person in question is Arnab Goswami.
To set the scene and despite Goswami and his channel’s assertions, Omar (in a speech before the state assembly on October 6) did not question the status of the heavily debated state of Jammu and Kashmir. What the J&K Chief Minister did in fact say in his speech, was that a solution needs to be found “that is fair to the three regions of the state (Indian Kashmir, Pakistan-Occupied Kashmir and what I imagine is No Man’s Land) and the neighbouring country”.
With me so far?
Okay. He added in a later statement (and this is the interesting part) that the state had never truly merged with India, but it had merely acceded to India. Sure enough, if you check the Instrument of Accession (Jammu and Kashmir) and I have, on October 26, 1947, Maharaja Hari Singh acceded to India, but not like Junagarh and Hyderabad that merged with India.
These are facts.
Put them together and what you have is the Chief Minister of J&K merely quoting his history lessons. Given the fact that opposition parties all across the world find absolutely any reason to rebuff or slam the ruling party, it was no surprise that BJP members protested and were up in arms. To its credit, the Congress stood by Omar (once in a while, they do something right). And here is where Goswami steps in. Trying to be sensationalist and grab eyeballs is great, but when you do that at the risk of national integrity, you are a traitor, Goswami. No two ways about it.
We’ve just come out of the Ayodhya verdict (see previous post) and this jerk sees fit to make a mountain of a molehill. His news channel carried this ticker all day about how Omar had “gone too far”. Wait a second. Was Omar some lapdog of yours whose gone and pissed on your lap, Goswami or did you just not have any other topics for a discussion show to do today? Then, in said discussion show, he assembles a posse of speakers (two of whom including Sajjad Lone were remotely sensible). There’s a BJP spokersperson who obviously lays into Omar.
What was interesting though was as the “discussion” progressed, Goswami’s problem with Omar’s speech evolved too. I’m not being cynical for the sake of it. I know exactly how much discussion Goswami actually does. There is no one on the planet who loves the sound of one’s own voice as he does. My former resident editor will testify to this fact. From having a problem with the “status” Omar supposedly conferred on the state, to him flip-flopping on his stand (again, with ropey evidence to put his case forward) to saying he was just trying to extend his political career, Goswami struggled to clutch at straws. I smiled.
But, unhampered by a lack of facts on his side, Goswami chose to keep repeating his opinions again and again, hoping (nay, praying) that someone would say, “Yes, you’re right. Have a biscuit.” But no biscuit was forthcoming. Meanwhile, his channel’s ticker continued to flash a message saying that if viewers objected to the content, they could lodge a complaint with the National Broadcasters Association and sure enough, the website was provided.
Upon visiting the website, you find out under the appropriate tab how one can go about complaining. And it reads as follows.
| A complaint must be made in writing, either in English or Hindi, and must include the following: |
|
In conclusion and on the off-chance that Goswami reads this diatribe I would love to have a talk with him. It’d be short. Extremely short. I’d marvel at the fact that he asks people the most obtuse questions and then ask him just how he sleeps at night. No, really... How does a person like that sleep? Perhaps he talks himself to sleep. Hyuk hyuk.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Growing pains
I haven’t written very much (hardly even a word) about the two most burning issues in India yet and it’s not been only due to laziness. I figured they’re getting enough attention from other sources, so why me bother? Right? Well, yes and no, it’s just that now the time seems right to offer comment. But first... the good news. No wait, the good news will have to wait a second. Let’s have the AWESOME news first.
Err... I’m actually lost for words. For the last few days I’ve used the most outlandish metaphors, similes and general statements to describe this news, and now I seem to have blown a literary fuse. I haven’t the words to embellish this outstandingly wonderful good news. I’m still reeling from it, y’see. Reeling from the fact that I haven’t been on a self-destructively fun holiday in a while, with the exception of monkeying around with LT, but that was more of a babysitting assignment (hyuk hyuk). So Bengaluru and New Delhi it is. January. To see The Prodigy. That is all...
Now onto the good news. The Commonwealth Games (to be referred to from this point as simply CWG) look like they’ll actually happen. Well, they bloody well should, given that today’s the opening ceremony. I know what you’re thinking. ’Twas only a matter of time till I too jumped on the CWG-bashing bandwagon? No. Be patient and read (and besides, I’m fighting a tight deadline, targetting wrapping this up before the ceremony starts, so I know how the CWG peeps feel).
The reality of the situation is that while the enduring image of these games, to me at least, should have been the awestruck faces of little kids watching a 100-metre race or some long (or high) jump action or the pole vault event or anything for that matter. My theory is that the more kids who find themselves more enamoured by a long-ass fibreglass pole than a wooden bat, the better our nation’s level of athletics will be. But I digress. If the kids don’t turn up, then I’d have hoped that the enduring image would have been the victory dance or celebrations of a new star. Someone who’d just broken a long-standing record. Someone who’d picked up a stack of medals.
All my scepticism and cynicism aside, I never thought it would be that image. You know the one I mean. Maybe I believed that somewhere, at some point, the authorities would actually get serious about more than lining their own pockets. It’s possible. You’d have thought that they would have considered the potential for embarrassment in front of the whole effin’ world. Maybe? The thought had crossed my mind. That’s when it hit me. Kalmadi’s corruption is not something I wish to discuss (although you have to wonder how Rs 70,000 crore or 700 billion could be so shamelessly pilfered) but it’s glaringly obvious why the CWG village was in such a squalid state.
The sports authorities in this country have always treated our athletes like shit. There’s no way of sugar coating it. Unless they’re cricketers or someone who’s (despite the shitty facilities and management) gone and won a medal somewhere — then there’ll be loads of fawning and photo opportunities. But for the majority of athletes, they’re horribly ill-treated and so, Kalmadi probably thought, “Hey, athletes are athletes. Who’s gonna notice if I pocket the money meant for them and let them slum it out. Besides it’s only 14 days. Fuck ’em.”
No Mr Kalmadi, fuck you. Corruption is one thing. Stupidity and arrogance is quite another. Claiming that these Games would be bigger and better than the Beijing Olympics is the single most moronic thing you could have ever thought of. Never mind the fact that you actually said it. And also, when you’re in the wrong, accept it. Don’t act so Goddamn brazen. Please.
Getting back to the international humiliation aspect, a lot of people are upset at the sort of outspoken criticism that India has been receiving from all quarters. Some are even questioning why the world hates India. The first thing to do is not cry and feel sorry for ourselves. Instead, use it as a reality check. Yes, the organising committee really screwed up. The government did drop the ball on this one. A lot of people made us, Indians look extremely stupid (Like the dumbass who said foreign standards and our standards of hygiene are different. WTF?). And finally, the brilliantly understanding cricket board decided to schedule an India-Australia series at the same bloody time.
But if we are to harbour dreams of rising out of this Third World Country status and being taken seriously as a world power, scrutiny and indeed, criticism is inevitable. It’s been around forever. Remember Prince Phillip in all his princely majesty looking at a fuse box that was faulty and proclaiming, “Oh I do say Lizzie, this fuse box looks like it was put together by an Indian. Narf narf narf.” To which, I’m told the Queen replied, “What have I told you, Phillip? You call me Queen.”
In fact, it’ll be worse than ever when the world sees we’re trying to assert ourselves. The criticism will go from “Oh, you’re so filthy” to “Your momma” type insults. Being so thin-skinned and crying about it isn’t the way to go. And sure, our momentum has been hit by this fiasco. But that’s alright. There’s still time. And usually, the really malicious insults have a way of coming back to bite people in the ass.
Slight detour: I was on a Prodigy bulletin board the other day, when I saw a thread about the upcoming India tour and in one of the entries, some user whose avatar picture depicted some sort of eagle in the foreground with the St. George’s Cross in the backdrop. He had written something along the lines of “Are the lads sure they want to go there? What if the stage collapses like? Heh heh”. Not very nice, but okay. On Saturday, a burst water pipe causes part of the ceiling of the visitors’ changing room at Sunderland’s Stadium of Light to come crashing down, leaving Manchester United homeless. Karma? Maybe. That’s why I’m not going to tempt a Karmic bite in the ass by saying something like “Stadium of Shite”.
Also, a shitty build-up doesn’t necessarily mean crappy Games, right? They could end up being quite good actually. India could get a massive haul of medals. Some new stars could be born. Who knows? And now that the CWG is hours from getting underway, I plan to put my support behind it. There’ll be enough digging around and heads rolling after they’re done, anyway. I just hope the right heads roll and not some scapegoats.
Speaking of scapegoats, God, who has often been blamed for so much bloodshed, animosity and bigotry in this country I call my home, probably breathed a sigh of relief this Thursday. Not for the sakes of our livers though (it was the first of three back-to-back dry days), but because the nation finally showed a bit of maturity. It hinted that maybe it’s citizens are growing up. Maybe there’s more than black and white (or in this case, saffron and green). Yes, the Ayodhya verdict where the land was split three-ways, was a little controversial, but it was brilliant to see most people saying, “Yeah alright then. It’s the fairest decision.”
Sure, the petitioners are going to appeal to the Supreme Court, but that’s what a democracy is about. Go for it. Appeal. HOWZZAT!!! (Poor taste, I know). But answer me this: how many people were killed in communal riots after the verdict? Zero. Despite the fact that the media in its overzealous reportage seemed like it was almost goading people to fight (and one newscaster actually looked dismayed at announcing that there was no violence), no one took to arms. I liked that. It filled me with hope. A feeling that despite the fact that there are still creases in our system, the ironing process has begun.
And after the CWG, we’ll suddenly wake up and realise something. Two things. Who the fuck cares about the Commonwealth anymore and why the crikey-fuck are we trying to preserve the history of colonialism?!?
Err... I’m actually lost for words. For the last few days I’ve used the most outlandish metaphors, similes and general statements to describe this news, and now I seem to have blown a literary fuse. I haven’t the words to embellish this outstandingly wonderful good news. I’m still reeling from it, y’see. Reeling from the fact that I haven’t been on a self-destructively fun holiday in a while, with the exception of monkeying around with LT, but that was more of a babysitting assignment (hyuk hyuk). So Bengaluru and New Delhi it is. January. To see The Prodigy. That is all...
Now onto the good news. The Commonwealth Games (to be referred to from this point as simply CWG) look like they’ll actually happen. Well, they bloody well should, given that today’s the opening ceremony. I know what you’re thinking. ’Twas only a matter of time till I too jumped on the CWG-bashing bandwagon? No. Be patient and read (and besides, I’m fighting a tight deadline, targetting wrapping this up before the ceremony starts, so I know how the CWG peeps feel).
The reality of the situation is that while the enduring image of these games, to me at least, should have been the awestruck faces of little kids watching a 100-metre race or some long (or high) jump action or the pole vault event or anything for that matter. My theory is that the more kids who find themselves more enamoured by a long-ass fibreglass pole than a wooden bat, the better our nation’s level of athletics will be. But I digress. If the kids don’t turn up, then I’d have hoped that the enduring image would have been the victory dance or celebrations of a new star. Someone who’d just broken a long-standing record. Someone who’d picked up a stack of medals.
All my scepticism and cynicism aside, I never thought it would be that image. You know the one I mean. Maybe I believed that somewhere, at some point, the authorities would actually get serious about more than lining their own pockets. It’s possible. You’d have thought that they would have considered the potential for embarrassment in front of the whole effin’ world. Maybe? The thought had crossed my mind. That’s when it hit me. Kalmadi’s corruption is not something I wish to discuss (although you have to wonder how Rs 70,000 crore or 700 billion could be so shamelessly pilfered) but it’s glaringly obvious why the CWG village was in such a squalid state.
The sports authorities in this country have always treated our athletes like shit. There’s no way of sugar coating it. Unless they’re cricketers or someone who’s (despite the shitty facilities and management) gone and won a medal somewhere — then there’ll be loads of fawning and photo opportunities. But for the majority of athletes, they’re horribly ill-treated and so, Kalmadi probably thought, “Hey, athletes are athletes. Who’s gonna notice if I pocket the money meant for them and let them slum it out. Besides it’s only 14 days. Fuck ’em.”
No Mr Kalmadi, fuck you. Corruption is one thing. Stupidity and arrogance is quite another. Claiming that these Games would be bigger and better than the Beijing Olympics is the single most moronic thing you could have ever thought of. Never mind the fact that you actually said it. And also, when you’re in the wrong, accept it. Don’t act so Goddamn brazen. Please.
Getting back to the international humiliation aspect, a lot of people are upset at the sort of outspoken criticism that India has been receiving from all quarters. Some are even questioning why the world hates India. The first thing to do is not cry and feel sorry for ourselves. Instead, use it as a reality check. Yes, the organising committee really screwed up. The government did drop the ball on this one. A lot of people made us, Indians look extremely stupid (Like the dumbass who said foreign standards and our standards of hygiene are different. WTF?). And finally, the brilliantly understanding cricket board decided to schedule an India-Australia series at the same bloody time.
But if we are to harbour dreams of rising out of this Third World Country status and being taken seriously as a world power, scrutiny and indeed, criticism is inevitable. It’s been around forever. Remember Prince Phillip in all his princely majesty looking at a fuse box that was faulty and proclaiming, “Oh I do say Lizzie, this fuse box looks like it was put together by an Indian. Narf narf narf.” To which, I’m told the Queen replied, “What have I told you, Phillip? You call me Queen.”
In fact, it’ll be worse than ever when the world sees we’re trying to assert ourselves. The criticism will go from “Oh, you’re so filthy” to “Your momma” type insults. Being so thin-skinned and crying about it isn’t the way to go. And sure, our momentum has been hit by this fiasco. But that’s alright. There’s still time. And usually, the really malicious insults have a way of coming back to bite people in the ass.
Slight detour: I was on a Prodigy bulletin board the other day, when I saw a thread about the upcoming India tour and in one of the entries, some user whose avatar picture depicted some sort of eagle in the foreground with the St. George’s Cross in the backdrop. He had written something along the lines of “Are the lads sure they want to go there? What if the stage collapses like? Heh heh”. Not very nice, but okay. On Saturday, a burst water pipe causes part of the ceiling of the visitors’ changing room at Sunderland’s Stadium of Light to come crashing down, leaving Manchester United homeless. Karma? Maybe. That’s why I’m not going to tempt a Karmic bite in the ass by saying something like “Stadium of Shite”.
Also, a shitty build-up doesn’t necessarily mean crappy Games, right? They could end up being quite good actually. India could get a massive haul of medals. Some new stars could be born. Who knows? And now that the CWG is hours from getting underway, I plan to put my support behind it. There’ll be enough digging around and heads rolling after they’re done, anyway. I just hope the right heads roll and not some scapegoats.
Speaking of scapegoats, God, who has often been blamed for so much bloodshed, animosity and bigotry in this country I call my home, probably breathed a sigh of relief this Thursday. Not for the sakes of our livers though (it was the first of three back-to-back dry days), but because the nation finally showed a bit of maturity. It hinted that maybe it’s citizens are growing up. Maybe there’s more than black and white (or in this case, saffron and green). Yes, the Ayodhya verdict where the land was split three-ways, was a little controversial, but it was brilliant to see most people saying, “Yeah alright then. It’s the fairest decision.”
Sure, the petitioners are going to appeal to the Supreme Court, but that’s what a democracy is about. Go for it. Appeal. HOWZZAT!!! (Poor taste, I know). But answer me this: how many people were killed in communal riots after the verdict? Zero. Despite the fact that the media in its overzealous reportage seemed like it was almost goading people to fight (and one newscaster actually looked dismayed at announcing that there was no violence), no one took to arms. I liked that. It filled me with hope. A feeling that despite the fact that there are still creases in our system, the ironing process has begun.
And after the CWG, we’ll suddenly wake up and realise something. Two things. Who the fuck cares about the Commonwealth anymore and why the crikey-fuck are we trying to preserve the history of colonialism?!?
Thursday, September 23, 2010
System Reboot
doof doof doof doof doof
thish thish thish
doof doof
Check 1, 2... Check...
ffsssshhhhhhhhhh *a smoke machine belches out a thick cloud forming a near-opaque mist*
It’s that tingly few seconds after the last support act of the evening has wrapped up. The drumkit’s been replaced, but you can’t see it because of that curtain. Sure, you can hear the mammoth sound the drumkit makes during a simple soundcheck, but you can’t see a thing, save for a tiny bit of smoke slipping out from below the curtain. If the weight of expectation, impatience and curiosity could be transformed into a physical object, it would most likely bring the curtain down to the ground and with it, smash the stage in half. Which is fair, considering this is the first show of a whole new tour, in support of a whole new album.
“I hear they’ve changed the musical style completely,” you hear one voice pipe up. A deeper voice rebuffs, “Yeah, but it’s not all that drastic a change... I hear”. Hmmm... That’s neither here not there. “The band’s changed its ideology though for this album. They’re less shrill about their viewpoints and more refined when it comes to putting them across,” squeaks a little voice. Is that a good thing? If it ain’t broke, why fix it?
You ask yourself questions, knowing full well that you don’t have the answers. But the answers are only a matter of a few seconds away. “What have they changed for this tour? Have they changed costumes, stage placements or props? Are there some new band members? Has the old guard been replaced? Will they still do that extremely childish-but-fun thing where an effigy of some idiot is set aflame on stage at every show?” Each second drags on and on and on...
Until the curtain rises...
Pompous? Perhaps
Self-aggrandising? Slightly
Overly indulgent? Possibly
Typical View from Beneath? You betcha!
Welcome to VfB version 5.0. Or Vv5-... no wait a minute!! VvV, if you REALLY wanna be cool (that is frickin’ awesome, if I do say so myself — Ed). It’s the first design revamp in over two years and I think it’s pretty cool. How the content will differ after this four-month hiatus, remains to be seen. In fact, that’s for you, the VfB Massiv’ (formerly known simply as the VfBers) to tell me. And now, on with the show.
Given that there’s a glut of terribly bitter bile waiting to be spilled, let’s kick off this new era on a positive note. In the time since my last communiqué, I managed to acquire an absolute beast of a computer. *Leans forward and kisses the starship-looking mofo of a black and white CPU* Oh. A speck of dust. Best get rid of that. There we go. So as I was saying, I finally have a machine capable of playing every single PC game available today (not counting old ones with backward compatibility issues *sniff* Full Throttle) and I decided to make the most of playing a tonne of different games. FPS, RPG, RTS and all the other little abbreviations you can think of. I binged like there was no tomorrow.
But just like a womaniser, who after years and years of fucking all sorts of women gets that little moment of clarity, that epiphany if you will and goes back and knocks on the door of his one true love, I too had my epiphany. So the womaniser goes and knocks on his one true love’s door. Most often, she’ll let him in and agree to talk. Or they talk on the porch. It’s all good. Mushy shit follows and they end up in each others’ arms, slobbering all over the other and marvel at the fact that their bodies still fit so snugly together like jigsaw puzzle pieces.
And then there’s those times when the one true love introduces our womaniser to her husband, who introduces himself with a finger-crushing shake of the hand. Obviously, he has a solid well-paying job and no vices whatsoever, as our womaniser nervously thumbs the top of a hastily ripped open pack of cigarettes in his pocket. If that wasn’t a big enough kick in the crotch of our womaniser, this guy who just happens to be in good physical shape, is a devoted husband, a doting father and a generous and gentle lover (the womaniser can only assume). The best part comes when the one true love politely requests our womaniser to leave, because the family needs to pack and head to the airport as their perfect little child enters the room to politely say that he has completed his homework for the week and the next and then jumps into his father’s arms. The perfect husband and father has, after all, planned a vacation in Galapagos Islands. As you do.
In a related scenario, the womaniser knocks on the door and finds that his one true love is dead. Okay, that’s not quite as funny, but you get my point. Fortunately for me, my one true love was neither dead nor in the arms of some guy with a laptop who was going to take it the Galapagos Islands.
In fact, my one true love had gone and gotten herself an almost complete makeover. The proud owner of what can only be compared to a body sculpted by angels, one true love hadn’t lost a shred of the intelligence and wit that I’d fallen in love with so many summers ago. Gorgeous, smart as ever and so understanding (no backward compatibility issues here). Sigh. Thank you for coming back into my life, Monkey Island.
This series by the infinitely talented team at LucasArts, originally launched in 1990 (so you can imagine what the graphics must have been like). I played The Secret of Monkey Island at the start of 1999, if memory serves and I played the sequel soon after. I remember how I laughed at the dialogue and some of the inane things that happened. Even with those blocky as hell graphics, the changes of expression were noticeable and added so much (surprisingly) to the experience. The games and indeed the series, were essentially point ‘n’ click adventures. It was a crisp and compelling storyline laced with memorable characters that kids could get into, combined with the kind of wit and satire that would make adults chuckle, that made the Monkey Island franchise such a tour de force.
The series was responsible for getting me hooked onto other point ‘n’ click adventures and later, full-blown role playing games, where a story-driven narrative (as opposed to bang! bang! driven narrative) had me hooked. Kudos Bioware for Knights of the Old Republic (obviously), Mass Effect and the delectable Dragonage: Origins. These restored my faith in gaming in an age when (without a sliver of offence meant, I assure you) games like Manhunt, GTA: San Andreas, Bully, Rapelay (utterly disgusting concept) and their ilk were all out to garner controversy by alienating gamers rather than draw in new gamers and watch the community multiply.
Anyway, it all came back full circle when I got hold of the Special Editions of the two Monkey Island games I’d mentioned. Totally revamped graphics (with the option to switch back to the classic look at the touch of a single key) and smooth voice acting make it seem like a new game, but the humour and wit that drives the story forward is classic old-skool stuff. While I’m sure the idea that something related to Lucas was going to be involved in retouching up a classic (RE: All the belly-aching about Star Wars and Indiana Jones), must have sent alarm bells ringing across the world in the minds of all sorts of fanboys (big and small), it’s incredible that the game’s charm and beauty has been preserved, while dressing it up for the 21st Century.
Sigh.
Right, well, seeing as how I’ve just gone on and on and on with the good stuff, I’ll leave you to bask in the warm and tingly sentiment expressed so far. The unpleasantness shall commence in the next post.
(Note: To you lazy members of the VfB Massiv’ who seem content to read this stuff on Facebook, I urge you to actually see the new look VfB and tell me what you think.)
thish thish thish
doof doof
Check 1, 2... Check...
ffsssshhhhhhhhhh *a smoke machine belches out a thick cloud forming a near-opaque mist*
It’s that tingly few seconds after the last support act of the evening has wrapped up. The drumkit’s been replaced, but you can’t see it because of that curtain. Sure, you can hear the mammoth sound the drumkit makes during a simple soundcheck, but you can’t see a thing, save for a tiny bit of smoke slipping out from below the curtain. If the weight of expectation, impatience and curiosity could be transformed into a physical object, it would most likely bring the curtain down to the ground and with it, smash the stage in half. Which is fair, considering this is the first show of a whole new tour, in support of a whole new album.
“I hear they’ve changed the musical style completely,” you hear one voice pipe up. A deeper voice rebuffs, “Yeah, but it’s not all that drastic a change... I hear”. Hmmm... That’s neither here not there. “The band’s changed its ideology though for this album. They’re less shrill about their viewpoints and more refined when it comes to putting them across,” squeaks a little voice. Is that a good thing? If it ain’t broke, why fix it?
You ask yourself questions, knowing full well that you don’t have the answers. But the answers are only a matter of a few seconds away. “What have they changed for this tour? Have they changed costumes, stage placements or props? Are there some new band members? Has the old guard been replaced? Will they still do that extremely childish-but-fun thing where an effigy of some idiot is set aflame on stage at every show?” Each second drags on and on and on...
Until the curtain rises...
Pompous? Perhaps
Self-aggrandising? Slightly
Overly indulgent? Possibly
Typical View from Beneath? You betcha!
Welcome to VfB version 5.0. Or Vv5-... no wait a minute!! VvV, if you REALLY wanna be cool (that is frickin’ awesome, if I do say so myself — Ed). It’s the first design revamp in over two years and I think it’s pretty cool. How the content will differ after this four-month hiatus, remains to be seen. In fact, that’s for you, the VfB Massiv’ (formerly known simply as the VfBers) to tell me. And now, on with the show.
Given that there’s a glut of terribly bitter bile waiting to be spilled, let’s kick off this new era on a positive note. In the time since my last communiqué, I managed to acquire an absolute beast of a computer. *Leans forward and kisses the starship-looking mofo of a black and white CPU* Oh. A speck of dust. Best get rid of that. There we go. So as I was saying, I finally have a machine capable of playing every single PC game available today (not counting old ones with backward compatibility issues *sniff* Full Throttle) and I decided to make the most of playing a tonne of different games. FPS, RPG, RTS and all the other little abbreviations you can think of. I binged like there was no tomorrow.
But just like a womaniser, who after years and years of fucking all sorts of women gets that little moment of clarity, that epiphany if you will and goes back and knocks on the door of his one true love, I too had my epiphany. So the womaniser goes and knocks on his one true love’s door. Most often, she’ll let him in and agree to talk. Or they talk on the porch. It’s all good. Mushy shit follows and they end up in each others’ arms, slobbering all over the other and marvel at the fact that their bodies still fit so snugly together like jigsaw puzzle pieces.
And then there’s those times when the one true love introduces our womaniser to her husband, who introduces himself with a finger-crushing shake of the hand. Obviously, he has a solid well-paying job and no vices whatsoever, as our womaniser nervously thumbs the top of a hastily ripped open pack of cigarettes in his pocket. If that wasn’t a big enough kick in the crotch of our womaniser, this guy who just happens to be in good physical shape, is a devoted husband, a doting father and a generous and gentle lover (the womaniser can only assume). The best part comes when the one true love politely requests our womaniser to leave, because the family needs to pack and head to the airport as their perfect little child enters the room to politely say that he has completed his homework for the week and the next and then jumps into his father’s arms. The perfect husband and father has, after all, planned a vacation in Galapagos Islands. As you do.
In a related scenario, the womaniser knocks on the door and finds that his one true love is dead. Okay, that’s not quite as funny, but you get my point. Fortunately for me, my one true love was neither dead nor in the arms of some guy with a laptop who was going to take it the Galapagos Islands.
In fact, my one true love had gone and gotten herself an almost complete makeover. The proud owner of what can only be compared to a body sculpted by angels, one true love hadn’t lost a shred of the intelligence and wit that I’d fallen in love with so many summers ago. Gorgeous, smart as ever and so understanding (no backward compatibility issues here). Sigh. Thank you for coming back into my life, Monkey Island.
This series by the infinitely talented team at LucasArts, originally launched in 1990 (so you can imagine what the graphics must have been like). I played The Secret of Monkey Island at the start of 1999, if memory serves and I played the sequel soon after. I remember how I laughed at the dialogue and some of the inane things that happened. Even with those blocky as hell graphics, the changes of expression were noticeable and added so much (surprisingly) to the experience. The games and indeed the series, were essentially point ‘n’ click adventures. It was a crisp and compelling storyline laced with memorable characters that kids could get into, combined with the kind of wit and satire that would make adults chuckle, that made the Monkey Island franchise such a tour de force.
The series was responsible for getting me hooked onto other point ‘n’ click adventures and later, full-blown role playing games, where a story-driven narrative (as opposed to bang! bang! driven narrative) had me hooked. Kudos Bioware for Knights of the Old Republic (obviously), Mass Effect and the delectable Dragonage: Origins. These restored my faith in gaming in an age when (without a sliver of offence meant, I assure you) games like Manhunt, GTA: San Andreas, Bully, Rapelay (utterly disgusting concept) and their ilk were all out to garner controversy by alienating gamers rather than draw in new gamers and watch the community multiply.
Anyway, it all came back full circle when I got hold of the Special Editions of the two Monkey Island games I’d mentioned. Totally revamped graphics (with the option to switch back to the classic look at the touch of a single key) and smooth voice acting make it seem like a new game, but the humour and wit that drives the story forward is classic old-skool stuff. While I’m sure the idea that something related to Lucas was going to be involved in retouching up a classic (RE: All the belly-aching about Star Wars and Indiana Jones), must have sent alarm bells ringing across the world in the minds of all sorts of fanboys (big and small), it’s incredible that the game’s charm and beauty has been preserved, while dressing it up for the 21st Century.
Sigh.
Right, well, seeing as how I’ve just gone on and on and on with the good stuff, I’ll leave you to bask in the warm and tingly sentiment expressed so far. The unpleasantness shall commence in the next post.
(Note: To you lazy members of the VfB Massiv’ who seem content to read this stuff on Facebook, I urge you to actually see the new look VfB and tell me what you think.)
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Human Salt
Usually, salt in one's wounds isn't the pleasantest of things. Salt, as you all well know, stings like a mad hornet in your ass if it enters a wound. Take for instance, the extremely common example of having a cut and finding sweat running into it. It stings. A lot (depending on the nature of the cut). Now in a far more painful and sadistic example, imagine a fistful of salt being rubbed into a gash in your flesh. That hurts like crazy, but fortunately, I've never had to experience it.
I can only imagine that it hurts like crazy.
Now, I haven't decided to hammer out this post to discuss the pain inflicted on your self by the salty injection into your blood. I'm looking at the obnoxiousness of it all. Salt in a wound is the equivalent of someone who barges into your home uninvited. Maybe you don't even know the person. But he/she storms in and proceeds to spend a few moments just barking at you about how screwed up your home and your life is. He/she will then spend the next few moments screaming at you about your faults and things that went wrong in your life. (Think about salt in your wound if you will. "Yes, I bloody know I've got a massive gash in my arm. I don't need to be reminded of it by you hurting me more, salt") The person will then swing into action with a tank of acid and throw it all over your home burning your possessions, your memories and your personal effects.
And for what? Just because he/she is salt.
And this salty individual won't tell you the obvious problems politely. Oh no, this person is hell-bent on screaming about everything. And it's not a pleasant scream either. He/she possesses the shrillest, most eardrum-ripping and piercing voice known. (That's why it stings so much more) Naturally, at the end of it all, you feel violated, angry and yearning to slap said person upside his/her head. Pushed enough as you would with salt, you usually end up wanting to introduce his/her lips to the barrel of a shotgun and tell him/her to pucker up.
This brings us very neatly to who I believe is The Human Salt... (I won't go as far as to say, Devil Incarnate). I have seen/met a number of people who irritate me. I'm sorry, but I'm a bit judgmental that way. A lot of people make me angry as hell, but very few people make me seethe as much as The Human Salt. A number of people have pointed out the obvious to me, made foolish arguments to me and expected me to buy them, given me idiotic rationale and excuses (like for instance claiming never to have heard of a CD that they were lent, when it went missing and suddenly appearing with it a few days later). Still, that doesn't so much as hold a candle to The Human Salt.
I remember being extremely irked by the loud, self-aggrandising pomp of this person during the lunch break of a Test match between India and Sri Lanka in the first half of the 2000s. My dad and I laughed about how irritating he was. Flash forward to today. He is the toast of a television channel, run by the most narcissistic man on television today. I'm not going to even discuss the horror and wholehearted practice of urinating on the face of journalism that this narcissist indulges in on a regular basis. I'd rather get onto blasting this specimen whose identity I'm sure you've guessed by now.
That's right, The Human Salt is none other than Boria Majumdar. Google him and see how many hate sites come up. The man is without the shadow of a doubt, the most irritating and obnoxious person on television today. (Just for the record, second place is in the safe hands of a rival news channel's number one reporter) Now I've heard tales of Majumdar's influence in sports circles and the wealth of knowledge that he is. So fuckin' what? I've met a lot of reporters who can squeeze a quote out of ANYONE related to their beat at any time of the day. I happen to work with a couple of such people, who also happen to be the humblest and least obnoxious people I know.
Wealth of knowledge? I'm a bloody wealth of knowledge... And there are numerous people I know who possess far more knowledge in their heads than I could ever imagine, who are gentle with its dissemination. Even when they know I'm wrong and they're right. I fail to see how yelling and screaming shrilly on television makes any point whatsoever. More so when you have someone on the next channel conveying the same point in a far more docile manner.
You have an exclusive, you say? You have an exclusive spot on my wall, is what I'd like to tell you. An exclusive shooting range devoted only to you. (I really hope you read this and scream on television about how you're getting death threats. I'd laugh my ass off, since this is anything but a death threat) It's a plea to you, Boria. Please stop hurting my ears with your high pitched high decibel tripe. And please stop burning my retinae with that smug "I smell my own farts and they smell like roses" look on your face.
Is that too much to ask? Stick to writing about the history of a bail or the first time in recorded history that someone ever threw a small spherical object at someone else. That way I don't have to feel like I'm going to need surgery everytime you feel the need to screech about something. I don't come and screech in your face, do I? I blog. You could try doing that. Maybe you have one. I wouldn't know since I want nothing to do with you.
Regardless, I guess what I'm trying to say is that the above is just an example of some of the range of painful emotions that i undergo when the thought of The Human Salt even enters my synapses. Seriously though, so the Indian team got knocked out on its collective ass in this T20 World Cup. They played like fools. Don't act like they owed you something, Boria. And get all shrill about it and rope in former players who will say whatever you want just to ensure that you shut the hell up.
I don't want to be mean to you, but I'm compelled to do so since you won't meet me halfway. You won't tone down your bullshit and so, neither will I. I'm sure you have your legion of "fans". Meet them, hang out with them. But for God's sake, get off the tube. By the way, BM, do you know your initials also stand for Bowel Movements. Intentional? Perhaps.
I'm done now. It's off my chest. I feel much happier. Especially since this was post number 100 on this here blog. Tooooot!
I can only imagine that it hurts like crazy.
Now, I haven't decided to hammer out this post to discuss the pain inflicted on your self by the salty injection into your blood. I'm looking at the obnoxiousness of it all. Salt in a wound is the equivalent of someone who barges into your home uninvited. Maybe you don't even know the person. But he/she storms in and proceeds to spend a few moments just barking at you about how screwed up your home and your life is. He/she will then spend the next few moments screaming at you about your faults and things that went wrong in your life. (Think about salt in your wound if you will. "Yes, I bloody know I've got a massive gash in my arm. I don't need to be reminded of it by you hurting me more, salt") The person will then swing into action with a tank of acid and throw it all over your home burning your possessions, your memories and your personal effects.
And for what? Just because he/she is salt.
And this salty individual won't tell you the obvious problems politely. Oh no, this person is hell-bent on screaming about everything. And it's not a pleasant scream either. He/she possesses the shrillest, most eardrum-ripping and piercing voice known. (That's why it stings so much more) Naturally, at the end of it all, you feel violated, angry and yearning to slap said person upside his/her head. Pushed enough as you would with salt, you usually end up wanting to introduce his/her lips to the barrel of a shotgun and tell him/her to pucker up.
This brings us very neatly to who I believe is The Human Salt... (I won't go as far as to say, Devil Incarnate). I have seen/met a number of people who irritate me. I'm sorry, but I'm a bit judgmental that way. A lot of people make me angry as hell, but very few people make me seethe as much as The Human Salt. A number of people have pointed out the obvious to me, made foolish arguments to me and expected me to buy them, given me idiotic rationale and excuses (like for instance claiming never to have heard of a CD that they were lent, when it went missing and suddenly appearing with it a few days later). Still, that doesn't so much as hold a candle to The Human Salt.
I remember being extremely irked by the loud, self-aggrandising pomp of this person during the lunch break of a Test match between India and Sri Lanka in the first half of the 2000s. My dad and I laughed about how irritating he was. Flash forward to today. He is the toast of a television channel, run by the most narcissistic man on television today. I'm not going to even discuss the horror and wholehearted practice of urinating on the face of journalism that this narcissist indulges in on a regular basis. I'd rather get onto blasting this specimen whose identity I'm sure you've guessed by now.
That's right, The Human Salt is none other than Boria Majumdar. Google him and see how many hate sites come up. The man is without the shadow of a doubt, the most irritating and obnoxious person on television today. (Just for the record, second place is in the safe hands of a rival news channel's number one reporter) Now I've heard tales of Majumdar's influence in sports circles and the wealth of knowledge that he is. So fuckin' what? I've met a lot of reporters who can squeeze a quote out of ANYONE related to their beat at any time of the day. I happen to work with a couple of such people, who also happen to be the humblest and least obnoxious people I know.
Wealth of knowledge? I'm a bloody wealth of knowledge... And there are numerous people I know who possess far more knowledge in their heads than I could ever imagine, who are gentle with its dissemination. Even when they know I'm wrong and they're right. I fail to see how yelling and screaming shrilly on television makes any point whatsoever. More so when you have someone on the next channel conveying the same point in a far more docile manner.
You have an exclusive, you say? You have an exclusive spot on my wall, is what I'd like to tell you. An exclusive shooting range devoted only to you. (I really hope you read this and scream on television about how you're getting death threats. I'd laugh my ass off, since this is anything but a death threat) It's a plea to you, Boria. Please stop hurting my ears with your high pitched high decibel tripe. And please stop burning my retinae with that smug "I smell my own farts and they smell like roses" look on your face.
Is that too much to ask? Stick to writing about the history of a bail or the first time in recorded history that someone ever threw a small spherical object at someone else. That way I don't have to feel like I'm going to need surgery everytime you feel the need to screech about something. I don't come and screech in your face, do I? I blog. You could try doing that. Maybe you have one. I wouldn't know since I want nothing to do with you.
Regardless, I guess what I'm trying to say is that the above is just an example of some of the range of painful emotions that i undergo when the thought of The Human Salt even enters my synapses. Seriously though, so the Indian team got knocked out on its collective ass in this T20 World Cup. They played like fools. Don't act like they owed you something, Boria. And get all shrill about it and rope in former players who will say whatever you want just to ensure that you shut the hell up.
I don't want to be mean to you, but I'm compelled to do so since you won't meet me halfway. You won't tone down your bullshit and so, neither will I. I'm sure you have your legion of "fans". Meet them, hang out with them. But for God's sake, get off the tube. By the way, BM, do you know your initials also stand for Bowel Movements. Intentional? Perhaps.
I'm done now. It's off my chest. I feel much happier. Especially since this was post number 100 on this here blog. Tooooot!
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
SOS (Same ol’ Situation)
I write the next few words in the expectation that you, VfBers have read or at least watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy. If you have, then it’s brilliant, because you will actually get what I’m trying to say. If you haven’t then, you should. Why? A) You will read/watch/both a brilliant story about a fantasy universe and B) You will totally get what I’m about to rant about.
Nevertheless, here goes... The Ents, whose turf was invaded by Merry and Pippen — who hoped to rope them in for the war on orcs and Uruk-Hais — held a long board meeting. Hours later, Treebeard came to Merry and Pippen to inform them that the meeting had been held and they had decided that... Merry and Pippen were not orcs. That’s right! Fuck whether or not they would go to war. They decided that Merry and Pippen weren’t orcs.
Why is that relevant? Well, it’s relevant because that is exactly what our judicial system has coughed up. Now, frequent readers of this blog (that in my personal opinion, is a surefire thing to read and make yourself look busy at work) will know of my love for playing cricket. I was told that this year’s Media Cup was shifted because the Ajmal Aamir Qasab (26/11 terrorist) verdict would be delivered on May 3. So mediapersons would need to do a lot of work over the weekend. Fair enough.
May 3 came. And there I was, watching it all unfold on television with the jarring loudness of Times Now, the cluelessness of CNN-IBN, the indecisiveness of NDTV and the sheer moronic behaviour of India TV. Seventeen months after the horrific attacks and months (i think more than 12) since the trial began, the judge put down his judgment.
Qasab, he had said, was guilty.
What?
What in blue blazes?
We saw him kill civilians and policemen. We saw him hauled up from a car that him and his homie had hijacked. It was established that he was guilty! I thought the trial was to decide just how guilty he was. Maybe I’m naive that way, but honestly, what in blue blazes?!? I can’t say, “What the fuck?” because it’ll probably be seen as contempt of court. Seriously though, Mr Court McKenzie... What gives? He’s as guilty as guilty can be. We know that. Where’s the verdict.
Oh, that’s been postponed till Thursday. Tomorrow. Why?
Just say it, chief. “Hang the fucker!” Besides, it’s not like doing anything to that pawn is going to stop terror. Qasab was a barely educated fellow picked up and promised his share of virgins in heaven if he killed and maimed in India. Just yesterday, a Pakistani-origin fellow in New York was picked up for setting up a car bomb in New York City. Now, tell me that country isn’t the world’s biggest breeding ground for terror.
Sorry, I’ll return to what I was saying. Death penalty. Afzal Guru has been on death row for ages (for attacking Parliament). I havent’t even heard of a thread being brought near him, leave alone a noose. So, why should I believe Qasab will be hanged? Well, let’s say he was hanged. What would it prove? What point would it make? None! Killing brainwashed fools merely speeds up their martyrdom. And so, dear Mr Justice McKenzie, I implore you not to give him a quick exit tomorrow.
Make him suffer.
Subject him to being made to work as a slave at the residence of every person he and his cronies harmed.
Make him stand at the side of a road holding a garbage can all day.
Make him clean out our sewers.
Force him to be the guy that biological weapons are tested on... I mean cosmetics, hehehe
Freeze him in cryo and defrost him regularly so he can be tortured.
And then freeze him again for 10 years or so.
But for the love of all things sacred, don’t kill him... It’s too easy an exit.
Nevertheless, here goes... The Ents, whose turf was invaded by Merry and Pippen — who hoped to rope them in for the war on orcs and Uruk-Hais — held a long board meeting. Hours later, Treebeard came to Merry and Pippen to inform them that the meeting had been held and they had decided that... Merry and Pippen were not orcs. That’s right! Fuck whether or not they would go to war. They decided that Merry and Pippen weren’t orcs.
Why is that relevant? Well, it’s relevant because that is exactly what our judicial system has coughed up. Now, frequent readers of this blog (that in my personal opinion, is a surefire thing to read and make yourself look busy at work) will know of my love for playing cricket. I was told that this year’s Media Cup was shifted because the Ajmal Aamir Qasab (26/11 terrorist) verdict would be delivered on May 3. So mediapersons would need to do a lot of work over the weekend. Fair enough.
May 3 came. And there I was, watching it all unfold on television with the jarring loudness of Times Now, the cluelessness of CNN-IBN, the indecisiveness of NDTV and the sheer moronic behaviour of India TV. Seventeen months after the horrific attacks and months (i think more than 12) since the trial began, the judge put down his judgment.
Qasab, he had said, was guilty.
What?
What in blue blazes?
We saw him kill civilians and policemen. We saw him hauled up from a car that him and his homie had hijacked. It was established that he was guilty! I thought the trial was to decide just how guilty he was. Maybe I’m naive that way, but honestly, what in blue blazes?!? I can’t say, “What the fuck?” because it’ll probably be seen as contempt of court. Seriously though, Mr Court McKenzie... What gives? He’s as guilty as guilty can be. We know that. Where’s the verdict.
Oh, that’s been postponed till Thursday. Tomorrow. Why?
Just say it, chief. “Hang the fucker!” Besides, it’s not like doing anything to that pawn is going to stop terror. Qasab was a barely educated fellow picked up and promised his share of virgins in heaven if he killed and maimed in India. Just yesterday, a Pakistani-origin fellow in New York was picked up for setting up a car bomb in New York City. Now, tell me that country isn’t the world’s biggest breeding ground for terror.
Sorry, I’ll return to what I was saying. Death penalty. Afzal Guru has been on death row for ages (for attacking Parliament). I havent’t even heard of a thread being brought near him, leave alone a noose. So, why should I believe Qasab will be hanged? Well, let’s say he was hanged. What would it prove? What point would it make? None! Killing brainwashed fools merely speeds up their martyrdom. And so, dear Mr Justice McKenzie, I implore you not to give him a quick exit tomorrow.
Make him suffer.
Subject him to being made to work as a slave at the residence of every person he and his cronies harmed.
Make him stand at the side of a road holding a garbage can all day.
Make him clean out our sewers.
Force him to be the guy that biological weapons are tested on... I mean cosmetics, hehehe
Freeze him in cryo and defrost him regularly so he can be tortured.
And then freeze him again for 10 years or so.
But for the love of all things sacred, don’t kill him... It’s too easy an exit.
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