Quick quickie

Damn this time-flying nonsense!
I haven't had time to put together a decent post, but if I don't say something, the month is going to go by without me having said anything! And that hasn't happened in a VERY long time. So I'm not about to break that chain. I may not have much, but I do have my respectability.

So anyway, here I am, not really saying anything yet, but having already said enough.

Time to go. Until next time...


No songs this time. Wha...?????

'06, Out.

Measure of a Man

Defining moments are few and far between during a single lifetime. It’s nice to have them because they do exactly what they say: define you at a point in your life. They give you a sense of security, an important thing in a world which is becoming increasingly insecure. And I’m not talking about security in the sense of safety; I mean security in the sense of self.

I’m 23. One would say I’m not that old. But I feel it and I don’t know why. Although, I don’t recall an event that defined the metamorphosis from adolescent to adult, the moment when I became a man. It can neither be planned nor created, it just happens and you know right then. Of course, circumstances are such that I hardly remember much anyway, but I think this would be one thing I’d remember not to forget. Becoming a man is about taking charge of your world and accepting the responsibilities that come with it. It comes in different forms for different people: the first big investment, a fishing trip with dad, marriage, seeing someone close in deep shit and realizing it could have been you, your new baby, or wanting one and planning for it. Some would prefer less complex experiences like a virginal sexual experience or lighting up/downing one for the first time.
I think I’m a man, but I have no proof for myself. The shaving, the backaches, the hair loss, the evolving view of women, none of these is a certifiable indicator of a degree of manliness.

Many people probably get through their life without having had such a defining moment and never feeling the need for one. But I need it. It’s not a matter of insecurity; I just want to know that when the time comes for me to take up something big, I will not hesitate. I have had very few challenges in my life up to now and this has left me devoid of crunch-time-performance experience.

On the other hand, there’s this.

Childhood is on the other side of the coin. I look back over 20 odd years and there’s not very much that stands out. There was no adventure, there was no journey of self discovery, there was no innocence lost and there were no surprises. It often makes me wonder what I missed out on. Of course I will never know and there’s no way of ever finding out.
This is made even more depressing by the fact that we are living in the age of the undo. No matter how bad you muck up, you can always undo, re-format, or simply use the backup disk. Having got used to that you tend to expect the same out of life, which only leaves you disappointed.

George Bernard Shaw hit it on the head: Youth is a wonderful thing. What a crime to waste it on children.

Stupid kids.


Watch The Goonies!

Green Day – When I Come Around
Eric Carmen – Hungry Eyes

Avenging Avengers

It’s late in the afternoon
I’m wondering what clothes to wear
I don’t need no make up
I like my unkempt hair

Saturday and I realize a bit too late that I'm too late for work.
That darn Lily Allen.
So here I am, at my desk, not working, in my bedroom slippers. Not that I mind too much. And they’re cool, nay, sexy slippers too. They’re Ralph Lauren slippers! I don’t know if Ralph has ever launched a line of bedroom slippers, but if he ever did, they’d look exactly like mine.
They’re sleek and black and fit me perfectly and I’ve had them for around two years now. No, that’s not too long to keep a pair of slippers, especially when Ralph Lauren is wanting them. And they’re shiny too, with that hand gesture popularized by Churchill and Nixon, right on the top for all the world to see.

You say you want a pair just like these? Well you can’t have them. ‘Cos I have the one and only. The others were all destroyed in a fire at a Polish warehouse and the production firm has since decided to stop manufacturing this model in commemoration of the highly skilled immigrant workers who didn’t survive the blaze.
Hmm, I wonder if there’s a Schindler out there somewhere…

So there. These are lucky survivors and you can’t have them. Good Day, Sir.
I said Good Day!



I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger… Ooh la la, ooh la la, la la yeah.


Wyclef Jean ft. Claudette Ortiz – Dance Like This
Fallout Boy – Dance, Dance

And in case you were thinking it, NO, these picks were not VMA influenced.

Criminally Crimson

Indian advertising campaigns have lately reached a new low. As if girls making randy sounds at a watch or tittering over an unremarkably average small car wasn’t inane enough, Pepsi, yes, none of the [insert giant cola brand name here] crap this time around, have come up with a new ad slogan that just hit everything else out of the park. The blue billion is coming. Detestable cretins.
As if it isn’t bad enough that this country has more than a billion mouths to feed… imbeciles want to publicize it. I’m pretty sure dysenteric circus elephants could have painted patterns more sensible than making light of your own country’s population crisis for commercial purposes on national television.

Try and imagine the blue billion… coming. One thousand thousand thousand sweaty, belching, swearing, mostly blue collar South Asians moving as one. Almost brings a tear to the eye, doesn’t it? Run Forrest, ruuun!

Now, I’m not ashamed of my country. I am however, ashamed of the way its people are fond of behaving. For example, too many Indians think they ought not to be Indian, which is a great loss to the nation. If they put the same determination into making a living in the land which fed them at birth as they do in trying to escape to foreign shores, my head would hang much less lower and not without good reason. India will forever be tagged a “Developing Nation”, as long as the majority of its population doesn’t realize that it needs to be contributing something to the country instead of feeling cheated out of a birthright. This is why we continue to advance at the speed of dark, while the rest of the “Developed” world surges forward with every passing day. Congratulations. Blue billion my ass.

Hold on there Free Willy, don’t look at me just yet. I’m presently counted among the thinking-but-not-acting slobs who have too much to say but not enough to show for it. Wait till I’m good and dying and if I haven’t done anything worth a mention by then, you can point those curvy index digits at me and loudly proclaim “Hypocrite”. But for now, I’m proud to work for a company founded by smart, enterprising Indians, in India, that has graduated to an international base and Market Leader status.

I don’t remember who it was, but I once heard someone say (I’m honestly hoping it wasn’t just David Blaine) that life isn’t worth living if you haven’t found something worth dying for. It’s a cool thought but simultaneously scary because not everyone has identified their worthy goal by the time they first read this weighty statement. And that’s depressing.

I’ve actually always been searching but can’t admit to having found it. Close sometimes, but never right there and definitely not worth dying for. It’s unfair really, that supposedly, unless your life is centered on one particularly spectacular goal, you could be deemed a waste of perfectly potent sperm. The altruists would tell you they’d devote themselves to family or friends or some other unwarranted sentimental crap like that. The social screamers would always claim to have something worth dying over… some human/animal rights cause, environmental cause, political cause or some other bullshit that the average shmuck doesn’t give a flying fuck about. So let’s tone it down a bit. Maybe you don’t quite have to die. How about moderate-to-severe wounding? (Hospital time means time away from work!) No?

But really, I would like to have that thing which involves me completely while drawing on my talents, however imperceptible they may be; my refuge from the asphyxiation of enforced conformity and a hidden fountain of indulgent intoxication. I’ll have to write that one up as a knight’s quest, to be undertaken when I’ve grown woefully weary of worldly endeavours.

People have many opinions about the force that turns the earth, but I haven’t yet heard this one and I’m pretty sure it has been largely ignored. Penis envy. Yup.

Penis envy doesn’t necessarily have to about a penis, but it is still about the size. Money makes the world go round, love makes the world go round… yeah ok, but take this into consideration too. If penises were never envied, so many millions of men wouldn’t suffer from low self esteem, leaving psychiatrists virtually jobless. Unemployment is better than listening to women whine the entire day.

I remember my school days; the time when I would be insecure about guys who were taller than me or who had bigger feet than me, meaning almost everyone. To top it off, family genes gifted me with unusually small palms, so I really had no physical field on which to compete with those bastards. Pretty sucky times, sizewise.

Competition has got to be one of the strongest factors driving every single human being. The biggest package always wins. How else would you be motivated enough to work at getting better? If there was no penis envy, you wouldn’t have the skyscrapers and super towers that bejewel the skylines of the world’s richest cities, each of which was built in an effort to out-do a similar effort by somebody else. You wouldn’t have limousines and you wouldn’t have Big Macs. And you wouldn’t have the slimmest cell phones or the tiniest palmtop computers. Works both ways, this size thing.

You gotta face it eventually, things don’t quite work the way Tex Avery made them out to be; Droopy doesn’t really slay the dragon and ride off with the hot dame while the Big Bad Wolf sulks in the corner.

So the next time someone has to tell you “Don’t worry, size doesn’t matter!” be ashamed. Be very ashamed.

For over a year now, I’ve been talking about virtually everything, with the exception of religion, politics and my family; three topics I’ve been careful not to stray into because they are respectively A: too vast to cover and might just involve more mindless drivel than actual sense, 2: uninteresting, leaving me under-opinionated because of said disinterest and 3: unfair to the folks at home.

Although I have actually written stuff which did pertain to one or more of these subjects, they never got past my pre-posting review and were thus dropped. They’re still lying around somewhere, so maybe if I change my mind I’ll take a shot at putting them up. Possible, but not probable.

Take a walk on the wild side, baby

but don’t forget to pack your raincoat, trekking boots, insect repellant, Swiss army knife, vitamin pills…

Green Day – Jesus of Suburbia

Justin Timberlake – Sexy Back (I know it’s cheap to jump onto the popularity bandwagon, but in my defense, I didn’t really jump onto it, more like I booked an early ticket)

Nevermind The Bollocks!

Sometimes I don’t have witty things to say (surprising, isn’t it?) and these are the times when I like to say random things. And that’s funny! No? It’s gotta be! The randomness of a statement contributes heavily to its humour quotient. Vectoresque, the two components of any statement are first, its intelligence and second, its relevance to the current subject. Simply adding the two together does not give you the funnitude of the quote. It’s a much more complex relationship between the two and each is worthless without the other. And yes, I already know “funnitude” is not a word, but I have the right. Or “rights”, whatever. Deal with it.

“This morning I found the longest hair on my body!” Insert this as a follow up to anything anyone has ever said to you and then imagine their next words. Very low intelligence component and unless you’re in the habit of having interesting conversations with your barber, the statement does not even possess relevance.
And for those taking notes on icebreakers for their next party, Get Out, this is not a class.
Sheer absurdity is stimulating. Intellectually, that is. It’s not all that easy to be absurd. Words don’t jump out of your mouth unless there has been thought behind them, so the depth of absurdity that you scrape is inversely proportional to the thought that contributed to its creation. It’s easy to ask a question or give an answer or pass your opinion, but not easy to suddenly change direction to a tangent. There are always three directions to any response: the right one, the wrong one (which is the opposite of the right one; and now don’t tell me the opposite of right is actually left) and the irrelevant one.

Before you go any further, a word of caution. The things you have read here so far and everything you will continue to read for the next two or so minutes, will test your ability to explore how far you will let yourself go before walking hurriedly back to what is generally accepted as normal/not-crazy, while looking over your shoulder at the strange place you almost stepped into. And if you already think this is just some try-too-hard, pseudo-intellectual crap, then I must shake your hand. Exit this way. (Insert here: some sort of text symbol for a raised finger that comes after the index one)

By irrelevant I don’t mean answering a request to know the time with “Red”. That’s just stupid and/or insane. By irrelevant, I’m referring to a point that lies as far as possible from an expected response and at the same time, not totally opposite to it. The locus of these irrelevant points would form the circumference of a circle which is perpendicular to the circular plane on whose outer edges the best acceptable response and its opposite lie, with the centers of the two circular shapes coinciding at the exact same point. Thus, every irrelevant point is always equidistant from the two known extremes.

Having just read all that you may think that I’ve really spent some time thinking about the whole thing. On the other hand, you may think that I’ve either dropped anchor at the line between genius and insanity or allowed someone less talented than myself to do a post for me. But I will not consider the other hand. The truth is that it was all on the fly. In the time that it took me to type these last few sentences, I had the whole geometric view mapped out in my head. Exactly how absurd? This is the right kind of absurdity, not talking about goldfish bobbing for apples. Spouting randomly incoherent shit just because your brain is running dry doesn’t qualify.
Anyway, if you’ve understood one iota of what I’ve been going on about, many congratulations to you. It’s hard to find someone who will appreciate or even accept the creatively abnormal (creatively abnormal != lunatic pissing on his neighbour’s front door) without scoffing at its non-conformity with easily-understandable rules.

All through this post, I’ve pranced about in the realm of strange and not-normally-thought-about, uneasy abnormality, leaping through varying degrees of the awkward and absurd and now we’re back where we started from, shuffling into line behind that other guy who also lost his shoe while trying to fish his keys out of an overflowing storm drain.

Most people tend to dismiss any and all straying from the norm as incorrectness. If only they would take a little time to appreciate what they do not understand or at least try to understand what they cannot appreciate, I’d feel a whole lot better. And that’s bound to make all of you just so damn happy!



Michael Bublé – Home
Crowded House – Fall At Your Feet

Smoky Breakfast Cereal

The more I listen to music, the more I diversify my tastes, digging deeper through the strata of time and tunes and the more I try and take it everywhere with me, the more I realize my dependence on the thing. I’m sure it’s not normal in some way that is properly abnormal. I don’t know if it’s still just me enjoying the entertainment or if it’s reached a level where it has become my protective cocoon, god and crystal ball all in one.

I see ordinary people everyday, doing ordinary things and going about their ordinary business. What drives them? Is it the work? Friends? Lovers? Family? Money? Or is there something else that can drive you to go about your life without feeling the crushing weight of monotony and habit on your shoulders? I have no idea about this. Maybe it’s the same with everybody and maybe it isn’t. During school years, studies were the only thing that mattered. Anyway, those were small years and I was still a small person, so they can be neglected. The next few years were only about friends and losing them, before the tryst with song began. Now I can hardly remember what my life was like without music on my mind. One would think I’m some sort of musician by the way that I’m going on about all this, but I must urge you to believe that I can no more play a musical instrument than Vin Diesel can do a quarter mile in 10 seconds. And he can’t!

It’s more than frightening to think that although I often speak about how free I am, not tied down by the normal social restrictions that seem to bind most, I am being manipulated. By the music. My very attitude, my rules to live by, the kind of people that I’m attracted to; I would like to think that these have all been choices born of a free mind, but they haven’t. It’s like a vivid, never ending advertisement in my head with plenty of booze and a blonde in a bikini licking whipped cream off herself… in a boat. Buy the friggin’ boat!!! And I’m constantly buying it.

Without music, what have I got left? Blank, white, black… whatever you want to call the endless void. Life is pretty darn empty when the only things that take up your un-sleeping time are work and computer games (Women? Hah! Unreliable notion). But I do see a lot of people who live with that… and less. Which brings me back to my original point: How do they do it? How do you live through your days with your only driving force being the will to get along in the world?
There comes a time when you simply have to grow up and you need to get your kicks from everyday life, instead of depending on drink and heavy metal.
I haven’t reached that time yet, I think, so for now I will just have to be content knowing that I’m secretly not as much in control as I’d like to be.


I’ve watched E! interviews just like anybody reading this post may have too, where every interviewee tries to be cute and/or witty and sometimes both. I don’t mind that people want to interview them, that’s forgivable, heck you can come and interview me and I wouldn’t complain much. But then they have to go and say something asinine like “I had a blast right through the filming!” Now why would they do that?! Are they trying to rub in the fact that they’re getting paid in wagons for nothing more than controlling their facial contortions? I didn’t buy a ticket to see you have fun asshole! That’s what I’m here for! Now let’s see some good old fashioned, hard acting… injuries on the set, strenuous workouts to get in shape, doing your own stunts. That’s what I paid to see, not some pussified bastard cavorting and giggling with the leading lady who by the way used a body double in scenes which required her to stand up on the back of a speeding motorcycle.
If you’re not going to inspire us with a show of dedication to your work, who else will we look to?
Earning merely a fraction of what you get isn’t nearly enough motivation y’know.

Three unwritten laws of the Indian road:
1. If there is a one way street, traffic will go the wrong way.
2. No matter how broken, no matter how choked, no matter how narrow a road is, it can always get worse.
3. If you give way to a lady, you’ll have to give way to the three men who squeeze in after her too.

There are many who will read this and go, “Well, duh!” To them I say, “Yes, but I posted it on my site first, so you just keep walking, bitch!”

Zooey Deschanel is my new favourite cute thing. More than my new mp3 player even.

Fairytale. Not.

I know the premise of this one might sound really pathetic, but I’m thinking maybe it’s something a guy could relate to at least one time in his life.


She’s so warm, in my arms
I’ve never felt this feeling
And she touches my heart
I feel the old wounds healing.
We’ll walk, hand in hand
Along the moonlit miles
Her face is always in shadow
But I still can hear her smile

All along the moonlit mile
I still can hear her smile.

Tell me now if I’m in love
Or is this just a foolish dream?
Does she enter my world
Only when I make-believe?
But I can’t stop thinking about her

She’s so pretty, she seems
To glow in the candle light
And her laugh in my ear says
What’s on her mind tonight oh oh
Now she leans, deep into me
I feel her breath on my skin
Then she looks into my eyes
And I see her fire within

She breathes on my skin
And strokes the fire within.

I’m broken down on a road
I was never meant to be, on
I’m in love with a girl
And she’s only real to me
But I can’t stop thinking about her
No, I can’t stop thinking about her


She was more than a tease
Yes, she brought me to my knees
Never learned to read the signs
I’m a victim of my mind
‘Cos I can’t stop thinking about her.

She’s so perfect, she felt so right
But I’m so tired of thinking about her again tonight.

Tell me now if I’m in love
Or is this just a foolish dream?
Does she enter my world
Only when I make-believe?

Broken down on a road
It was never meant to be
I’m in love with a girl
And she’s only real to me
But I can’t stop thinking about her
No, I can’t stop thinking about her



Fountains of Wayne - Stacy's Mom
The Police - Roxanne

Crash

Sly little thing… July thought she could just slip away without seeing anything new from me? Whatta bitch.

Well, it’s July, (actually it’s almost August) a month I dislike even more than December. July brings the beginning of another year for me, but thankfully, another year less from the magic number in the big book. And now I’m 23. So what? Plenty of people are.
I honestly don’t get the whole ‘celebrate your Birthday’ thing. What’s to celebrate? You popped out from a person some years ago, causing said person great anguish for multiple hours. After that you were a burden of puke and other much less pretty bodily expulsions for a couple of years until you actually began to eat. Then you became a financial burden, pushing away the thought of a hot new car to drive through the midlife crisis. And after putting your folks through at least these many years, you want to celebrate? Are you out of your freakin’ mind???
Of course I know that people have opinions, of course I know that these are my own views on birthdays, which are not necessarily subscribed to by others and I respect that fact. Hence, I’m happy for anyone who’s got reason to be happy about his or her own Birthday. If that’s the way you want to think about it, then that’s how I’ll play the game, just for the day. And now, before I get carried into another boringsome tirade, the end.

I saw Crash the other day, you know, the movie that won the award(s) for whatever. And I was pretty happy. Not happy after watching the movie, happy that I was able to watch it. Obviously I didn’t know if this was a realistic depiction of the current racial relations situation in the world (read USofA) but I thought it was pretty darned good as a work of fiction at least. There was no clear central character, no clearly defined good, no lush sets, no fast cars, no fast women, no single defining moment and no outstanding moral. It just was. And like everyday life, in the end there’s always change. For better or for worse.
Two scenes really had me going for a bit though. First, the one where the would-be-carjackers walk out of the diner and Chris complains that he wasn’t served any coffee that he hadn’t ordered and never wanted anyway and refused to tip the waitress because he assumed that she had assumed that they wouldn’t tip because they were black, although the coffee was the reason he didn’t tip. That makes a lot of sense when I read it. You can try to figure it out if you haven’t watched the movie yet.
The second was Sandra Bullock talking to her friend on the phone. This really hit me so here’s the main portion:

I just thought that I would wake up today and I would feel better, you know?
But I was still mad. And I realized... I realized that it had nothing to do with my car being stolen.

I wake up like this every morning!

I am angry all the time, and I don't know why.

I wish I could have said this was just another line from just another movie. But it wasn’t. It may be, but not to me. To me it is my reality. Every day runs a similar route until I find myself going through the same door once again. It becomes so that I am angry all the time. I could say that even the little annoyances add up, but that’s not an acceptable reason. And I don’t know why.


Have I mentioned how much I do not like the rain? If I haven’t then I just have. This rain has an uncanny ability to begin as soon as I decide to leave the house. It is completely unfuckingbelievable how it can start pouring in just a few moments after I leave the dryness of my home.
This year I decided to go prepared so I bought myself no, not a body condom… a rain-proof suit. Of course it’s not sane to wear the hot pants all the time (Not hot-pants... hot as in they don’t breathe!) so I need to carry around an extra bag, a mild annoyance compared to having to sit in an air conditioned room with wet pants. So, having bought it, for 2 weeks I carried it everywhere I went without ever needing to wear it. The day it finally rained at an inopportune time and I pulled on the protection, it stopped raining within minutes of my stepping out the door. Since then I have only carried the jacket. Of course it only rains hard and long enough to soak me in moments and as soon as the jacket is on there isn’t a drop in sight. You may argue that I should wear the jacket at all times, but you see, that would prevent me from proving my point!
Some may call it coincidence, bad luck, or even ordinary precipitation and although I’m sorely tempted to call it a conspiracy, I’m more level headed than that: seeing as how the rain is so apparently brought forth by my presence, if there is a Rain God, surely it is I!


This was never meant to be made public, but seems like it would fit in properly here, so, out of the archives comes my little poem.

I don’t like rain
I always get
Wet
I don’t like rain

I don’t like rain
So de-press-ing
Ann-oy-ing
I don’t like rain

I don’t like rain
Water proofing
The roofing
I don’t like rain

I don’t like rain
I hate the muck
Fuck!
I don’t like rain

I don’t like rain
End the monsoon
Soon
I don’t like rain


Roy Orbison and k.d. lang – Crying Over You
Creed – With Arms Wide Open

Morons

Now that I’ve been blogging for close to a year, I know that I hate blogs. All blogs are blogged by egomaniacal pricks. From now on, this is NOT a blog. This WAS never a blog. This will never BE a blog. What the hell?! Everybody wants to “document” something or the other about their miserable little lives… it’s so fucking annoying. Stop wasting web space and my time! Visit any given blog on any given day and you’ll be bombarded by a barrage of links to other shitheads who blog and link too. Or if not links to other blogs it’ll be links to web articles from where the blogger has pilfered his/her/its information/shit. If only stupid bloggers (is there any other kind?) would stop “documenting” their shitty ideas and lives, people like me wouldn’t have to tell them to shut the hell up! Today I happened across a blog all about Google. Of course, the world never knows enough about “Google”, so now we all have to depend on this dipshit to drop us the hottest scoops about “Google”.
Gimme a break. Get a life.
Another thing… what’s with the grammar? Don’t they fucking teach grammar in primary school?? The worst thing about stumbling into a blog like you stumble into dog crap is not just that it’s a blog and I hate blogs, but people spell like shit. Take the easiest thing: you are. Is that too difficult to type? Okay, we’ll try you’re. Nope, not yet good enough, lets just go with your. That just saved you two characters and is perfect spelling: Great job Dumbass! Only if you completely ignore the existence of something called a possessive pronoun!! I wish blogs were people so I could now smack the look of incredulity right off their stupid faces!

And what is with these allergies? Seems like every kid is born and labeled with some sort of disorder before being released to its parents. Nut allergy? Lactose intolerance?! The only allergy I know is an allergy to bullshit and the only intolerance I know is intolerance towards egotistical pricks who write crap on shitty blogs. NUT allergy??? Dyslexia, ADD, what else are they going to introduce? Damn, at this rate we may as well put up a giant neon sign that says “Invaders welcome, this planet occupied by distracted, illiterate, intolerant weaklings.” Hypochondriacs, YOU can kiss my ass.
Enough of this bullshit. Having to deal with bullshit is making me feel like punching someone in the crotch.

If you ultimately realize that I’ve been talking about you all along and you’re thinking of a riposte, knock yourself out, Dummy. But before you waste any of those precious brain cells, get this: Nothing I’ve said here doesn’t make a whole lotta sense. So time to suck it and acknowledge what’s now become a lifestyle choice for you. Losing.


Songs for the week? It’s the same week, Jackass! See yesterday’s post.

Fuck Football, Screw Soccer

I’m in love with this beautiful game!!! Don’t be daft, of course I’m not! Piss off yer fucking wankers!!
Well it’s the season apparently, so as you can see, I’ve made honourable mention of the flavour of the month, right in my title. Ok, so it not all that honourable, but at least it’s a mention… I’ve even been considerate in case you happen to be across the Atlantic: Soccer!

You know what they should televise? Wrestling for the elderly. That would make for good TV! Just because they aren’t as young as you or I, doesn’t mean that they can’t be part of one of the finer viewing experiences available on broadcast television. Really! Check it out.

Llllets get ready to grrrumbuhhhlllll!! ‘Evening Ladies and Gents, this is Bucky Tooth and welcome to The Sunset Old Folks’ Home. We’ve got one helluva slobberknocker lined up for ya! Oops, can we cut that bit out? I don’t want Jim Ross climbing up my ass for lifting his lines! Our main event, in fact our only even tonight is the deathmatch between Old McJoe and Viagraman. Tensions are raised and it’s reported to be the culmination of a longstanding feud between these two that began yesterday afternoon. Apparently McJoe cut in front of Viagraman in the jelly line. And when Viagraman finally reached the head, they had no more grape. Now everybody knows Viagraman loves grape! To add insult to injury, Old McJoe was later seen sharing his jelly with Viagraman’s nurse. Viagraman has since sworn revenge and it’s been an intense day of staredowns and fist clenching, all building up to this very moment!
It looks like we’re ready to go, but before we start, let’s get some background info on our superstars. Old McJoe is 67, and has a history of neckbreaking. That would probably explain why he always wears a brace. Some of the ladies around here seemed to think it was a sports accessory. To me, that looks like a weakness that Viagraman won’t hesitate to exploit. McJoe grew up in the mean streets and his affection for tattoos is well displayed all over his chest. Can you believe he draws those back on everyday after his bath?! Very impressive, considering the weak neck and the fact that he’s looking at it upside down all the while… McJoe will be cheered on by his folks at ringside. There go his three grandchildren, kicking in the snack machine. Viagraman is not so lucky, he has seven of them. Even at 69, he’s well known for his dirty tricks, often stooping below the belt. His nurse can confirm that well; she follows him with a bedpan for two hours after meals. This guy spent 11 years in the army, so he’s pretty tough, you can be sure of that! All those years of cooking military meals really toughens a man. You can see it in his face. McJoe must look like nothing more than a potato to him. An inky potato in a neck brace.
The gents climb into the ring, assisted by their nurses. Damn, Viagraman’s corner is smoking from that hot piece of ass! I can see why he’d want to be a Viagra-man!! The referee checks them out for foreign objects and they move to the centre of the ring for a customary shake of hands. Why am I cursed with crappy fucking keyboards?!! This is a beautiful aspect of the violent sport, the competitors taking time out to show respect for their opponent even though they’re gonna be pounding on each other a minute later. Whoah and look at that, McJoe really isn’t wasting any time, he’s got Viagraman in a wrist lock already! So much for respect, ladies and gentlemen! The bell rings and Viagraman is responding to the pressure being applied by Old McJoe as we see McJoe beginning to grimace as well. The referee has been reduced to a spectator here because this is a perfectly legal move; all he can do is watch as these… hardened veterans squeeze the life out of each other…’s hands. Looks like we’re gonna need the medics down here after this one!
It’s been a minute of wrinkly hand wringing now and the sweat is beginning to pour off these guys. There goes the referee to get a chilled beverage. Nothing left for him to do here. And speaking of pouring, McJoe is beginning to drip more ink than sweat! That tattoo is almost gone; all that’s left of the detailed crocodile are his nostrils. And will you take a look at those nurses! The bouncing bazoombas!! Forget the oldies, I want some of that action! They’re cheering for their wards from the ringside, as they put their bodies on the line to sort out their differences. Some may talk about the “exuberance of youth” but I’ll tell you, there’s nothing un-exuberant about these sixty-somethings… and with that both the contestants drop to the mat: it looks like McJoe is having a stroke and the old bastard has fallen over Viagraman! Viagraman is trying to get up but McJoe is dead weight. The referee is back in action finally and I don’t believe this, he’s started a count! Viagraman is desperately trying to get to his feet but the quivering McJoe is keeping him down. We’re up to five now and the nurses are looking awful anxious there. Come here nursie baby, Papa’s got a brand new bag… Seven, the medics are rushing down to the ring but they can’t get in till the count is up. Nine, Viagraman is actually trying to hoist the inky pensioner into a fireman’s lift but he’s too heavy for a potato peeler. TEN and we’re done! The bell rings, it’s all over, no one wins! The feud is still alive and well but I can’t say the same of the feuders. The medical personnel lug the sexagenarians out of the ring while the nurses flutter around them. Oh there’re gonna be some sore backs tonight. And I’m not talking about the old dudes!
Well, this has been a matchup for the ages Ladies and Gentlemen, the hottest face-off at The Sunset since Granny Gumboots took on Big Mama Cash in the battle for underwear priviledges. Brrr… if you don’t know how that one turned out, the less said the better! So as we leave The Sunset with fond memories of the evening and the solid effort put in by our competitors let’s not forget that we’ll be back next week for the Chairs, Walkers and Canes match and you surely don’t wanna miss that! Signing out for now, this is Bucky Tooth, off to watch them defibrillating my father beside the ring.


Motorhead – Line In The Sand
Motorhead – The Game: This is the first time any track has made it onto my chart for a second week… so, it’s a first second! Mr. Kilmister, you’re a lucky dude. But I’ve been listening to these two before leaving for work everyday and now even at work! So they gotta be up here.
The Rasmus – Guilty
The Sex Pistols – Johnny B. Goode/Roadrunner : Very few proper lyrics, Johnny at his Rotten best!

Devoid

I go on and on about myself and my meandering musings. Day after day and post after post; filled with intertwining redundancies, judgmental opinions and the occasional self loathing comment, but carrying eternally unending attitude. One might even go so far as to presume that I am conceited. But I do think. I do think beyond myself.
I make no pretense of being socially conscious or whatever you want to call those people who voluntarily visit villages in Ethiopia or some other dark corner of the earth and return carrying videos brimming with living, walking, talking horrors. Or even those who spare change for the guy without legs who sits outside the hardware store. I am not one of those. (Just for the record, he was not in a war or anything like that)

A lot of people, if asked “So, if you could live your life again what would you change about it?” would stare into space for a few seconds while they think they’re thinking or want you to think that they’re thinking, then grin back at you and say “Nothing!” I’d probably be tempted to do the same too. Yeah, walking down the street on a Saturday evening, painted faces all around and I’m wondering how the girl ahead could have such a perfect ass. Life is sweet.
But what about the guy who can’t walk and admire beautiful booty because he’s too busy collecting coins outside the hardware store? Oh and did I mention he can’t walk? What about the guy, nay people, who don’t know what I’m saying, who have never read my blog… who cannot access a computer… who don’t know a computer… who couldn’t use a computer because they have no electricity… who couldn’t read this because they cannot read… who never learned to read because they were more occupied with trying to get a single meal in a day or perhaps even three…?
I don’t know.
For those of you who didn’t use the answer illustrated above, what will it be? “I would start investing earlier.” “I wouldn’t get married!” “I’d get that managerial degree…” “I’d leave this damn country before I reached thirty!” Don’t even get me started with the comparisons here.

Who knows? Who cares? Of course everyone cares when the topic comes up at a dinner party with loudmouthed uncles who like to stand in the center of the living room and gesticulate with gusto in front of all the aunties. But once the drinks are done and dinner has gone past dessert and everyone has driven home in semi-stupors, who among them still care? Nobody. And I don’t blame them. Why would you think of a far removed world, when yours is spinning just fine?
I don’t either. The only time I’ve thought of the legless fellow was when I wrote this. Twenty minutes later I don’t think he was on my mind anymore (phew!) And unless you belong to the small class of people I mentioned in my opening paragraph, you’re the same as me. But that’s okay; I’m not judging you… today.

I dislike the hedonism and overstated extravagance that often tends to follow large accumulations of capital. I hate when a sense of gratitude does not come with the package.
Sure, I understand that when you’re disassociated from certain aspects of the world its hard to think of them, let alone imagine the circumstances. Disassociated even though paths intersect at any given busy traffic junction, I might add. Ask the children who sell those colouring books.
I’m not asking for anything from you. I don’t run a charity nor do I subscribe to any. In fact, if you ask me, there’s a Charity Fatigue Syndrome going around. There are so many of them for so many reasons nowadays that people are beginning to give even less of a shit than they did before. I’ve said what I wanted to and now I can’t find a closing line. (I was going to write a song today!) So I’m just going to stop here.
If you were able to read this then you already have enough reasons to be grateful. So whichever God you pray to, thank him in sincerity that you’re not one of those who will be re-forgotten once everyone who reads this post is done reading.


Air Supply – Goodbye
The Divinyls – I touch Myself

Golden Revolver

I’m 23!! Well not for a few more months, but still! I’m getting old… One day I’ll wake up and see the lines in my face and know that I’m 38. The next day I’m 52. And the next day I put a gun to my head. Its probably the same for everyone, all through your childhood you wish you were older. You’ll get to watch the movies you couldn’t before, you’re legally allowed to drink and drive although not simultaneously and definitely not in that specific order, you can get laid, well you could… and you can be the boss for a change. Again… you could.
But when you finally cross the whistlepost you wish you were a kid again. No, I don’t know what a fucking Whistlepost is… what’s a Wonderwall? So there.

But seriously, I’m so afraid of being old, I’d rather be dead. I know what my old age will bring with it… No hair by 35, Losing my memory, Losing my pants, Arthritis, Respiratory disorders, and possibly annoying grandchildren. Theeen it kills me. You don’t die of old age, you die because the damn thing craps so hard on you that you start waiting to meet your maker just so you can gripe about the whole sucky affair.
See, you start out in life all wrinkly and helpless and constantly wetting yourself. And you end that way too. The difference is that when you’re old, no matter how helpless you are, no one is willing to put a tit in your mouth!


These days there are three kinds of people. Those who live in the fast lane, those who wish they lived in the fast lane and those who don’t live in the fast lane because they hate the fast lane. And by fast lane, I mean keeping up with the times. I honestly don’t know which of these categories I belong to. Now there is hardly such a thing as a mistake. It’s like your computer. No matter how bad you screw up… you always have options. Whether it’s a restart or a re-format, you can always fix your cock ups with little or no consequences. I like that. But I also like simpler times. When you had to work for everything you earned. When there was no BPO industry. When how much you got out of something depended on how much you put into it. When everything wasn’t available on DVD. When teachers taught lessons. When The Internet was the internet. And when King Kong vs. Godzilla scared the crap out of me.

Where are we now? Over the last decade or so we’ve been hurtling across barriers faster than ever and now I don’t know where we can go from here. There aren’t many frontiers left to conquer. Unless they can send someone into yesterday and tell themselves to slow the hell down or we’re all gonna fall off the edge into deep, deep, deepness. But that’s all that remains to do… tinker with time and space. And I believe they’ve started to try already, accelerating electrons to faster than the speed of common photons, so they can see it arrive even before it’s left.
We’ve altered our own reality enough to the point where it’s often hard to tell what’s real and what isn’t. We’ve made and remade superheroes and monsters so believable that it wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary if they jumped right off movie screens. And we’ve converted books to tape. What literature? Google has replaced dictionaries, thesauri and encyclopaedias. And the once gigantic computer now fits neatly into a shirt pocket, adding to the fact that nowadays people give off more radio waves than bio-waves; a cyber population can’t be very far off.
I think that the true measure of a civilization is not its use of technology and the extent of it, but it’s rein on technology.

You know that we are living in a material world and I am a material girl. Uhh, boy.


Additions:
41. Apparently I’m a Male Chauvinist Pig.
42. I can still sing along to most of the Spice Girls’ songs.

Click here for the whole list.

Points to ponder:

> Did Scatman John want to be taken literally?
> Who scrapes Spiderman’s webs off the buildings?
> Why do we have Lips?
> Who is Richard Head?


DNA/Suzanne Vega – Tom’s Diner
Madonna – Material Girl

Rocket Sauce

There’s a new buzzword going around these parts these days. And they spake “Metrosexual” and it was good. Not good!! I’ve known of only two types of sexual orientations for as long as I can remember. Now it seems they’ve discovered a third. Maybe a fourth even – Retrosexual! At this rate coming out of the closet may have to take on more literal connotations.
Apparently, to be “Metro” you must fulfill 2 requirements:
1. Be Heterosexual
2. Wear Pink
And voila, you’re now hip, trendy and Metrosexual! (When I say Metrosexual, imagine a big thundering voice saying “Metrosexual”. It’s a cool effect.)

Pink socks – Metrosexual, pink shirt – Metrosexual, pink tie – Metrosexual, pink jacket – Wedding Singer. Ok except for the last one, pink has become the domain of girly girls and metro-males. Hmm… methinks metrosexual may be more of a euphemism! What is the deal with this labeling business? I don’t know if this is some globe-sweeping phenomenon but it seems more like a catchword the media cretins here have picked up off the airwaves and now they’re throwing it all over the place like there’s no tomorrow. Stupid fuckers. I like pink shirts. I think they’re really dressy and when worn with the right trousers make great event wear. But if I have to listen to some asshole telling me that pink is the new red and I’m really with it, then I’d rather stick with the blues, browns and anything-but-pinks.
I really don’t know why this label had to be introduced. Apparently metrosexuals are heterosexuals with a touch of the homo. What the fuck?? Kiss my ass you defining bastards. This area gets complicated enough as it is without idiots polluting it.
Actually I’ve always fancied myself as quite a liberal minded chap and this hetero/homo deal never really bothered me. I felt that people were unnecessarily uneasy about the situation. That was until I came face to face with the reality of homosexuality. It’s strange how detached you can be from an issue until it hits you in the face and you’re forced to deal with it. So when so-and-so decided to come out of the closet I started to feel the uneasiness that I was previously skeptical of. I don’t know. It’s not as though I wanted to feel that way but suddenly he was not so-and-so anymore. Turns out I’m not as open minded as I thought I was or want to be. I still have to learn to be less of a bigot.


Here’s a slightly off one.
Of all the ways of dying that I can imagine, the scariest and simultaneously the most peaceful that I can think of is falling down. Way down. My terrace is just four floors up, but I still go up there and think about jumping down. I’m not suicidal just dreamy. Altophobic that I am, I still fantasize about flying. Not in a plane. Sometimes I think the only reason I want to fly is just so I can plummet.
At no other time will you have as much control over the moment of your own death. Drowning is accompanied by the panic of not being able to breathe. Being shot doesn’t guarantee instant death. Putting the gun against your head only comes with the anguish of having to pull the trigger yourself. Stepping into heavy traffic gets you smashed to a pulp but still no guarantee of death. Now you jump off a high rise. All this may sound really cowardly, but that’s not the point right now.
The instant after you step off has got to be, ironically, the most insanely peaceful moment that mortal life can ever offer. Once you take the plunge, there’s no going back and the pavement rushes in to greet your head. Every single care that you’ve ever had vanishes immediately and nothing matters anymore. If you close your eyes, you could be flying. Save for the fact that you left your stomach a few storeys above you, you might as well be a bird. Unless you’re some kind of monk, your mind could possibly never be clearer than this moment.
Of course this is all speculation. And speculation that I’ll never put to the test. But it’s nice to know or at least think I know, that there is an ultimate peace… but it comes at the ultimate price.
I just want to let it be known right away that in no way do I condone suicide attempts, leaping off buildings or any other structures exceeding 10 ft. in height. So kids, don’t look for Nirvana at the tip top of buildings, I don’t know that it’s there.


Ace of Base – Cruel Summer

Rage against

I used to scoff at the so called “Angry young man” stereotype that was so popular in movies. But now I’m beginning to understand why the angry chap is more than just a stupid symbol of crass, unfettered youth. Anger doesn’t go away ever, it just subsides to somewhere below the surface. If you’re angry about something, you’ll probably be angry about it years later even. If you’re not then you’ve either forgotten or let it go in frustration. Which doesn’t mean that you wouldn’t be angry if it happened again… aha! So anger doesn’t disappear, you just choose to either ignore it or take action, each decision having its consequence. There’s big anger and little anger. There’s serious anger and there’s inconsequential anger. There’s an anger peak and an anger trough. Tempers may rise and anger may subside, but it remains a permanent fixture.

I am angry. It’s rarely blinding rage but it’s all of the little ones that add to the big ones to create a seething, foaming, explosive cauldron of hatred of the very humanity surrounding me and within me. Yes. By now you’ve figured it out too. Whoa. Who knew I was such an insane fucker! Yes. Insane? I don’t know. Go listen to some Simon and Garfunkel, asshole. That won’t make a difference but it should get you off my back at least.
Of course I’m angry. If you’re not angry you can’t be alive, jacko. Do you think your prehistoric parentage survived by not getting pissed every time that pesky smilodon tried to take a chunk outta their asses? But that’s not even relevant now.

I’m angry. Because of every person who comes to the door when I’m trying to get some sleep; angry because of every time the maid comes late when I’m in a hurry to go out; angry because of constant cable blackouts; angry because of dead hyperlinks; angry because of people who won’t just stay the hell away from me; angry because of bastards who can’t spell worth enough to save their momma’s virtue; angry because of people who ask unintelligent questions; angry because babies are unintelligible; angry because of roads from hell; angry because of the lack of fuckers in uniform upholding the rules that are the very basis of their jobs; angry because of cyclists: save for those who do it as a sport, the rest are unholy pests to mankind; angry because of jaywalking motherfuckers who stroll across the street any time their great grand daddy’s ghost tells them to; angry because it’s a crime to crush them; angry because of dumbasses who don’t know that high beam isn’t the only setting on their headlamp; angry because of the dicks who know it and use it continually; angry because of politicians who don’t give a fuck about soldiers dying for their country; angry because I have to watch Canadian seals being clubbed to death on the news; angry because most people never witness these sights; angry because we are so malevolent; angry because of too many charities; angry because in spite of too many charities there are 4 year old children begging at traffic lights; angry because no one gives enough of a shit to do something about it.
I’m angry because our country is underestimated; angry because it is rightly so; angry because of our ever growing population; angry because the fucking majority don’t know any better; angry because of illiteracy… horrible, crippling illiteracy; angry because the pricks who are Bollywood high folk insist on talking in English even though their pockets are being filled to speak in Hindi; angry because of good music being raped into conforming to modern tastes; angry because there are so few creators of noteworthy music and literature; angry because I haven’t done anything noteworthy; angry because I might never; angry because I’ve missed the time of my life; angry because as much as you give, somebody will always want more; angry because children learn cruelty; angry because of overzealous religious sentimentalists; angry because I lose myself without thinking; angry because I hate too many people without showing it; angry because I love; angry because I can’t meet my own expectations; angry because I’m fucking stumbling through life.

I’m angry because I want to be. I’m angry because cursing feels better than ignoring the annoyance. I’m angry because of everyone who thinks this is just another exasperating tirade.
I’m angry because I can’t do anything about it all and even if I could, wouldn’t.
I get it.

Self censorship? You’re a fucking moron. Fuck you, asshole. Too much? Simon and Garfunkel.



Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-- Dylan Thomas


Roy Orbison – Blue Bayou
A-Ha – Take On Me

Pimpin' stylez

Hip hop. I’m willing to bet there isn’t a civilized (and some not, even) country in the world which hasn’t been hit by the phenomenon. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if National Geographic ran a cover story on rapping pygmies!
“I’m a P-Y-G, you can call me Rick. Only 3 foot 9, I got a 10 foot dick!”
Catchy, you say?
Hip hop has steadily been gaining momentum for the last decade or so, growing from its basic rap roots, with countless posers infiltrating the bastion of artists like Dr. Dre, Salt ‘n Pepa and Snoop Dog. More recently, there have been more new hip hoppers than I can count. But the most amazing part I’ve found is that there have been more successes than there have been flashes in the pan, which would indicate that hip hop music has been something of a short cut to success. “Get Rich Or Die Trying” somebody said. “Somebody”.
That seems to be the prevalent attitude of most wannabe bad boys breaking out on the music scene. What about the music? Oh wait…this is hip hop. Somebody, please keep reminding me!

What has any of this got to do with me? Nothing really, other than I have to see it everywhere I go and know that it’s here to stay, no matter what I have to say.
What’s my problem? Why can’t I just live with it? Yeah sure, like the rest of the sheep. Sure the bling is attractive and the skimpily dressed girls obviously conjure up wild fantasies. But what has society come to when we reward the objectification of women and advocacy of irresponsible sexual behaviour, with zooming record sales?
There was a time when most everything that was bad in the world was blamed on rock and roll. Violence, teenage pregnancies, anti-socialism... Rock music always took the fall. And not a parent would have disagreed. Give me that time any day. I prefer the time when men acted like men and women fought for empowerment instead of dressing like sluts and “belonging” to their men, thus the pimp – hooker relationship that is being so freely advocated by people who are held up as idols. Rockstars had their share of women without having to strut around in music videos, followed by a bevy of semi nude skanks and “singing” to their fans about what Casanovas they were.
And if rock music could have been an instiller of violent behaviour, rap doesn’t exactly take a back seat. The cases of Tupac and Notorious BIG speak for themselves. But still, it’s projected as cool to walk the roads adorned with rings and chains, with pumped high tops, floating in the oversized sports gear of a winning basketball team and the butt of a hand gun protruding over your waistband. Now that’s hip! Or is it hop? I never know…

This isn’t an attack on the West; it’s a remark on how this so called culture seems to be eating away at the established cultures of the world. A de-evolution of sorts. Morals are diminishing to nothing more than a topic relegated to the classroom and Sunday school discussions. And there are very few vanguards of virtuosity left in the world. I don’t want to sound like a preacher because that’s the last thing I could ever be. I just want the world to not collapse on top of everything that it has built for itself over these nigh on countless years. Call me a prude, but I would never want my kid aspiring to be a “Pimp” or a “Ho”. And yet, kids/teens are huge consumers and, I’m guessing secretly, a major part of the target audience for the propaganda that is gripping every continent.
No doubt, awesomely talented performers do exist in this field. Dre, Tupac, Notorious BIG, Snoop Dog, Eminem, 50 Cent and the like have carved out massive names for themselves in the music industry, not by any luck. Irrespective of the lifestyle they portray, they are geniuses in their own right and do have my respect.

I don’t want hip hop to go away. No, I listen to it myself! It is fun after all. And everybody wants to envision a hedonistic lifestyle for themselves, where they can drive down the street in a blinged out Lowrider with their personal set of beauties in the back seat. But my world wouldn’t exactly come crashing down if I didn’t have those images in my head. All I’m wanting here is some form of human realization of the direction that we’re heading in. As it is, I’m already pretty sure that all those prophecies of inevitable doom are just waiting to be proven right and they’re being helped along by every technological advancement that we make. But what’s the point in living till the end of days if civilization itself breaks down?
Today I can still enjoy music that was created in the time before my parents even. I don’t think that 30 years down the line I will have much music of my own time to choose from.


Motorhead – The Game

I'm not going to use the clichéd "Sunday, Bloody Sunday" line

Why do people hate Mondays? I don’t exactly like it like I like strawberries, but I don’t not-like it either.
Is it because the weekend is over and you have to get back to work and you have to wait a whole five days before you can even think about putting your feet up?
If you ask me, the real culprit is Sunday. Who would you hate more, the annoying old man who bangs on the door to break up the house party or the one who helps you through your hangover the next morning? (And by “one” I don’t mean “annoying old man”)
Yeah… Sunday is a cranky old neighbour.

Sunday signals the end of the week, ergo the end of the weekend. Sunday is a harbinger of work to come. Sunday says, “Tomorrow is Monday, dude!” Sunday carries a sense of dread and foreboding, knowing what’s around the next corner.
Monday brings no dread or at least it shouldn’t, because all the dread would have been used up on friggin’ Sunday!
Monday doesn’t really say anything. Monday just is. As are Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. But Friday… ah, Fridays are always something special.

Sunday was always the day I hated most. As a schoolboy, Sunday was first and foremost, church day. Later in the day, Sunday was the day to take the clothes to be ironed. I had to skip down to the laundry guys’ place with a bundle of Dad’s shirts and trousers and sets of my school uniform. The laundry guys were right next door to this dude who always had an Alsatian running in and out his front door. So I had to time my walk in and out of the launderers so I always missed the great beast. As would be expected, it didn’t always work. I hated Sundays.
Sunday was also the day to catch up on homework. In school and for years after, Sunday remained the only day of the week “available” for completion of journals, readings for which were obtained by hook or by crook. Failing which, they were beautifully invented. Assignments due always reached fruition well past midnight on a Sunday, as did the realization of forgotten ones.
Although I have little or no experience of Sundays off in a professional sense, Sunday was always the day at work, which brought the most customer traffic with it, leading to extended hours and shorter breaks. Customer service is a bitch.
All in all, there was rarely a Sunday that served up peace of mind and freedom to lay back.

So, my inference is that all the bad press about Monday is just a case of mistaken identity. The blame is laid on the shoulders of a Monday only because it is the first day of a prospective tumultuous week, whose arrival was heralded by Sunday to begin with. Sunday is the one who says, “The honeymoon is over and that thing you’re looking into is the barrel of your new father-in-law’s new hunting rifle...” By the time Monday comes around, the firing has already begun and any day could be as bad as the next.

If you’re the suicidal kind who’ll impulsively slip a nasty note under the boss’ door after work on Friday, drink yourself silly that night, wake up in surprisingly good spirits on Saturday afternoon and find yourself in the mood to party till 4 a.m. Sunday morning, don’t worry. You’ll still have 20 hours of Sunday left to wallow in regret and worry about the shit you’re going to be in on Monday morning.
Stay with me now.
Which of these days would be the worst? To die a thousand deaths on a Sunday of anxiety, or survive the tantrums of a portly, megalomaniacal fifty-something on Monday?
Well, to each his own.

Listen to Vanessa Paradis’ Sunday Mondays.

“The sea was angry that day my friend, like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli.” – George Costanza on Seinfeld.

Urge Overkill – Girl, You’ll Be A Woman Soon
Pulp Fiction!! This song has been haunting me with the image of an OD-ing Uma Thurman.
Roy Orbison – I Drove All Night
I know last week I put in the Cyndi Lauper version, but I love the original! And that video… Jason Priestley and a young Jennifer Connelly; what more could you want?

Aaaand, because this song gets me more pumped than Guerrilla Radio or Song 2 ever could, I’m just gonna post the lyrics to Killing In The Name Of.
A cautionary notice for those of you who dislike explicit lyrics like you dislike two headed snakes, you may take a walk now.

Rage Against The Machine, like groups such as U2 and more recently, Greenday, use their music to covey their political sentiment, as can be plainly seen. Ok, enough talking.


Killing in the name of!
Some of those that were forces are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that burn crosses
Uggh!

Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of!

And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya

Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites

Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Uggh!

Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of!

And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya!

Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
Come on!

Yeah! Come on!

Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
[start the screaming, baby!]
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!

Motherfucker!
Uggh!

Cold cuts

Everyone has a secret companion even though they might not realize who it is. When you come home, you’re coming home to her, when you leave on vacation, you won’t go without saying goodbye to her. And how many times has she saved your life?
It’s almost reflexive, the number of times a day we stroll into the kitchen and open the refrigerator door. Hungry? Thirsty? Just plain bored? Check the fridge.

The refrigerator has always adapted to changing lifestyles, going from surprisingly useful invention to household necessity to that thing that holds the leftovers and beer and now hardly a ladder step above a non-entity, that we take for granted but could never get by without. Morning, noon and night, there’ll always be something for everyone in the fridge. All you have to do is look and she gives till it hurts. Ever notice that she never sleeps? How could she, with that damn light on in there?
Coming home from school, work, or whatever, you’ll give your significant other, if any, a peck on the cheek and then you gotta take a look in the fridge. Make a sandwich or take a swig out of a bottle (when no one else is looking) or simply pick up something to nibble while you’re parked in front of the tube. My choice used to be cheese or a sandwich or [insert Cola/fizzy drink brand name here]. Like I used to be a waist 32. Now I prefer grabbing a carrot or two to gnaw on. They’re really quite satisfying. All the munching you’ll ever want, some sweetness thrown in, without the accompanying calories.
You wouldn’t be afforded these conveniences by a washing machine or a stove or a dishwasher or a microwave or any other appliance that you might see fit to include in your domestic scheme of things, or scheme of domestic things even. (Snagglepuss anyone? I loved that pink dude…why did he look like the Pink Panther?)

I’ve always had and acknowledged a relationship with my fridge.
While in school the fridge top was my study table, even though there were plenty of other more inviting, well-lit table tops crying out their availability for book-resting. Don’t ask me why. It just was. I’ve spent many late nights and early mornings standing near that fridge, fiddling with the magnet thingies on its face while attempting some last minute cramming. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I wouldn’t fall asleep while standing and the fridge was the only thing that forced me to do just that. For that matter, I don’t suppose anyone else falls asleep standing up either, not counting some very strange human beings.
I’ve lived out of the fridge for more than a week when I’ve been on my own. There’s something disturbingly romantic about putting a casserole back into the fridge knowing that tomorrow at dinnertime you’ll be in front of the TV, still eating the same thing. Or maybe that’s just me.
I’ve had to share the same fridge with a gecko for a few days. Stupid thing got in one night when I opened the door to get a bottle of water. No way was I about to put my hand in and feel about for a twitching tail! So I just closed the door. I expected it to be ready to jump out when I next opened the door a few hours later. No such luck. What happened to its coldbloodedness, I’ll never know. I thought the dinosaurs died out for that very reason. Then why the fuck was there one terrorizing my leftover casserole? And not to mention, Me. I started leaving the fridge open for a few hours a day, hoping he’d be tempted out. Three days later the creepy coolly crawled out of the fridge as if he’d been cruising in Monte Carlo. I never knew the cursed things could strut!!
If I had a hammer…
I still have the same fridge; I don’t study by her anymore although I still look out for geckos trying to get in on the goods whenever I open the door. It’s a curse every house I’ve lived in has borne… Lizards.

The reflex has developed uninhibited though. Idle? Check the fridge. There’s always something in there to fill the time. This is an attribute that will probably contribute in a major way to rising obesity levels and could soon become a pre-natally imbibed response to…absolutely no stimulus at all…
For now and for always, the refrigerator will remain the silent, unappreciated partner in every kitchen, patiently stocking up, knowing you’ll want her eventually, waiting for the moment your hands will stroke her smooth handle, bringing her to life in all her splendour, her most private parts at your disposal, ever ready to satisfy. Take the first step in the right direction today, treat her to a turkey or two, maybe some ham, a roast chicken or even some gouda; you don’t need to wait for an occasion to show her she’s loved. And she’ll always return the kindness.
But don’t forget the carrots.


The job interview I’ve been hoping to get is finally scheduled for tomorrow and now suddenly I don’t give a shit anymore… Apathy sucks.

Valentine’s Day? Get a life! No, I’m not bitter.


Cyndi Lauper – I Drove All Night
The Cars – Drive

Hmmm... Drive, Drove... I just noticed it.

Sonofabitch

This time I’m all about absurdity…

Eeeeeeeeeeeeverybody wants to be famous...
Number one on the list is American Idol. Or any Idol for that matter, except that I didn’t watch any of the others. No doubt some good has come of it in the form of Kelly Clarkson, Carrie Underwood and Bo Bice, (I don’t like the other ones much) but all in all, it’s more like a freak show of talentless goofs setting themselves up for ridicule. I cannot believe the number of people lost in delusions…and the fact that their families are so supportive of it! Haven’t they heard them sing? Can’t they hear themselves sing?
Obviously, everybody can’t be so good and that’s fine, as long as they don’t force their merry singingness on the entire frickin’ world… I’m not saying I’ll do much better than them, but at least I have a gauge of my own abilities.
Waaaaiiit a minute…y’know what? Fuck you all…this is MY blog, so if I say I’m Frankie Sinatra, you’ll believe it, brother!
Back to my point, people, don’t screw up TV! I don’t wanna sit down to watch nuts who just aren’t good at it, try to sing. If I wanted to do that, I have friends who do it pro bono.

Whatever happened to Bon Jovi? When Bon Jovi lyrics start to sound like something I might come up with if I keep writing, that can’t be very good. For them or me. So what if we have the same initials? So what if they aren’t our real initials?
I’ve been a fan ever since I heard Crossroad. I know it’s cheap to become a bandwagon-hopper after hearing a Greatest Hits album, but I couldn’t help it. They were popular and I was netted.
Welcome to wherever you are? Gimme a break…what a rip off!! INXS just got cut.
Have a nice day? Crush? WTF? This sounds like commercial churn out Mr. Bongiovi…this ain’t nowhere near New Jersey or Keep the Faith. I respected you man…

Still keeping with the flow, the nasty interiors of the nation never fail to throw up something juicy to hold to ridicule. So, there’s this dude from some village who has to prove that he’s…hold your breath…ALIVE.
His family’s performed his last rites and now the guy, who IS alive by the way, is treated as a ghost by the entire village! Turns out the fellow had been in prison for a while and fell ill while serving sentence. He was moved to a hospital in another state and that’s all the family ever heard of him. Loving folks that they were, they quickly went ahead with his ceremonial last rites to ensure that he had a peaceful “afterlife”. Unfortunately for all concerned parties, Mr. Man recovered and returned to his village after completing his sentence.
Now he has no job, no cash, no family and apparently, no life. He’s been completely ostracized and he’s become the bogeyman to the village young ‘uns. Hmmm…apart from that last bit, poor dude pretty much got screwed.
If he has to regain an ounce of dignity, the Panchayat (village elders) wants proof of his non-death. And with no job or family member who will even deign to recognize him, that’s not about to happen. Who in their right minds would ever imagine such a situation anyway? Well, the good news for him is that if he jumped off a cliff, things would actually get better, since his afterlife is already taken care of.

I think that should do it for now. There’s absurd-aplenty left in the world but I’ll leave the cribbing for another day.


Johnny Cash – Folsom Prison Blues

Wonder Years

I’m posting twice in the same week this time. Its simple, I have nothing much to do with my time, at least for now. Lets hope I don’t show up again before next week.

I was watching TV the other day and I got to thinking. Its absurd how the most superficial idea of happiness next to breast enhancement and maybe the Playstation (game boxes, squares, cubes etc. inclusive) could be thought, thought provoking.
Just a small note before I proceed: I may label breast augmentation as superficial but it doesn’t mean that I’m not one to enjoy the vision of its bountiful results. Thank you.
Finally winding down to my point, I started thinking about the ironies of life. No, not the profundities that emerge from overzealous liquor consumption but the more everyday stuff.
The way I see it, being a kid/young adult is just as tough as being the parent of one. A good parent, that is. As a parent, your double-edged duty lies in the well being of your children. Guiding them, making the tough calls and coming to the rescue are all part of the job. On the other hand, experience is most often the best teacher. If parents don’t knowingly allow their kids to makes mistakes and take bad decisions, how will they know when their kids in turn have reached the point in their lives where they’re bound to trip over the folds in the rug? They want to be around to help them up. At the same time, simply allowing your kids to learn from their own mistakes sets a precedent for a long chain of what amounts to parental neglect.

Kids (and by kids I mean young adults too) always have two choices.
a. Listen to the folks. They’ve been around the block before, so it’s probably smart to take their opinions “under advisement”.
2. Don’t.
Do what you want, how you want and when you want to. Chances are, this will land you in many a stew, but hey, at least you’ll be the cook. You’ll learn eventually and time will see you much wiser but not without a fair share of event and mishap, which might have been less severe had you chosen option A.
It’s a decision kids everywhere are torn with. To obey or not to obey…that is the question! On the one hand, parents always have your best interests in mind. On the other, who doesn’t want to be a rebel?
I think, and I’m assuming here, that every kid at some point between the pre and post teen years develops into a rebel. It’s a phase that can either pass quickly or linger, even developing into a way of life, depending on the family background. I find it healthy in so much as it’s the first stop on the road of self-expression. I’d be seriously surprised if this were untrue.

In the end, things go round one way or another. Parents (and I still mean good parents) will always try to tell you what’s good for you, even when you’re forty. Kids will make their choice everyday, maintaining a fine line between good and bad, which can often become blurry. The choice won’t always be the same and the effects of these choices decide which kids grow up to emulate their parents, good and bad.
Everyday choices, sometimes they work out okay, sometimes they bite you in the ass…the best odds on life anyone will ever have is always fifty-fifty.


“Harry, I’ve reached the top!” – Marv the Sticky Bandit

If you’ve watched Home Alone 2, you’ll find this single line as hilarious as I did.

Perfect people

I’ve tried to compose after almost two months, how time has flown.
Anyway, I took some trouble here. This is supposed to be punk…don’t know if it’s turned out well enough.


Take a look in the mirror
You don’t like what it says,
And you’re always feeling ugly
Not like everybody else.
Saw a boy at the bakery
His eyes were shining blue,
And the girls next door’s a princess
So she doesn’t look at you.

Get up,
Get a clue
There’s more to life than high society,
Don’t give up
Too soon,
Don’t let your life just pass you quietly.

And everybody’s looking perfect
Girls pretty in pink and boys in blue, so cool,
They’ve all got different names yet they all look just the same,
But you don’t have to try so hard to be cool,
In a world of perfect people you’re still beautiful.

Your best friend is a winner
She’s always on the scene,
And she’s got all the boys
Soon she’ll be a beauty queen.
When you look in the mirror
You don’t like what you see,
But of all the pretty people
You’re still prettier to me.

Wake up,
You fool
There’s more to life than high society,
You’re not
A tool,
Just be yourself, no popstar wannabe.

And everybody’s looking perfect,
Girls pretty in pink and boys in blue, so cool
They’ve all got different names yet they all look just the same,
But you don’t have to try so hard to be cool,
In a world of perfect people you’re still beautiful.

Perfect bodies, perfect hair,
The things that make you stop and stare.
Perfect makeup for a perfect face
They’re way ahead in the perfect race,
But everything is not so easy…
So the girls choose perfect boys
To come play with their perfect toys,
And the boys want perfect girls
To run their fingers through their curls,
But everything is not so easy…

[interlude]

Wake up,
Get a clue
There’s more to life than high society,
You’re not
A fool,
Just be yourself, no popstar wannabe.

Yeah everybody’s so damn perfect,
Girls pretty in pink and boys in blue,
They’ve all got different names yet they’re all lookin’ the same,
But you don’t have to try so hard to be cool,
In a world of perfect people you’re still beautiful.


Led Zeppelin – Immigrant Song

Chew, chew

Y’know what I hate? When the press refers to Indian women as actors. There is a whole separate word for them, don’t they know???
Hollywood actresses are, of course, actresses. But talk about Ms. Rai and company and they all suddenly turn masculine. Is that some sort of equal-rights-for-women thing that the Indian press is so keen on? If that’s the case, what about women in other countries? Or are Indian women more equal than others?


Y’know what I hate? When people say “female species”. As Kenan would put it… Why???????????
Don’t they know? Don’t you know? There is no female species. There cannot be a female species!! There can be a female OF the species but NO female species. If there ever was a female species, how would they reproduce?
A male and a female make up a pair of the same species. If males and females were two different species nobody could make babies…
Tigers can mate with Lions to make Tigons and Ligers. They’re feline.
Horses can make it with Donkeys and Zebras to give birth to Mules and Zorses respectively. They’re equine.
See? You don’t get rabbits mounting house-cats (although I’ve seen one try!) because they don’t belong to the same species. A male rabbit needs a female of the same species to breed with. Grow a brain, people!

Go here for more stuff on cross breeds within the species.


Y’know what I like? The Rolling Stones’ Like A Rolling Stone video. They’ve covered Bob Dylan but it’s a job superbly done.
Apart from having Patricia Arquette, which alone is a reason for me to like it, they also have some great visual effects.
First, they have the 180-degree revolving camera thing. I don’t know what it’s called, but they have a semicircle of cameras set up around the subject and each camera captures one image, all simultaneously done. Then the frames are played sequentially, in the order in which the cameras were arranged for it to seem as if one camera has revolved around the subject, frozen in time. An awesome technique, also made use of by the National Geographic Channel to produce some stunning visuals.
Then they have they watery effect, by way of which, limb movements and changing backgrounds are smoothly blurred into each other to give the whole video a drunken stupor feel.
A classic Stones audio and video experience, which is pretty much what can always be expected from the dudes who’re never gone.
Catch it whenever you can.


Y’know what I hate? Public mentality. Actually, Indian public mentality. First, they look for every opportunity to pull down India’s most successful cricket captain, while he's being successful. Now, when he's truly struggling and fully aware of it, and been given the boot, the public want to see him given a fighting chance instead, to give the appearance that they are a fair public.
What is the sense in worshipping a man while still spitting in his face? When you're busy kissing his boots, if you wanna spit in his face...you gotta look up first. Try it to know.


Y’know what I hate? These ugly ass mothas! Just because they live at the bottom of the sea, it doesn’t mean they have an excuse to forget their makeup…

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Bananarama - Cruel Summer