Out of the blue, shocking news for me. Possibly not shocking, but definitely disrupting/disturbing. This kid I used to know a long time ago apparently died last week under mysterious circumstances. Scary stuff. I remember him ‘cos he squirted me good once, when I used to “know a long time ago” him. There we were, this little dude a coupla years younger and me… and there I was with two fistfuls of, well, two stupid water balloons and there he was with this big old gun, no, rifle. I needn’t spell out that he won. Stupid water balloons - once you’ve thrown them, whether or not you miss pathetically, you’re screwed. And when his gun was empty well and proper, he skipped off like it was nothing; but I didn’t forget that day of spray.
I’m glad I didn’t. Otherwise I would have had no reason to remember him at all.
Happy trails, dude.
I don’t deal with death very well; in fact I don’t deal with death at all. I know of quite a few people who have passed in the last few years; some family, some acquaintances, some known, some barely. But I don’t recall that I had much of a reaction to any of them, even while I was standing beside the open coffin, even when I dropped my handful of dirt. Pitiful.
I suppose I never actually learned how to react to death because I have been so shielded from it. Well, people death, anyway. I’ve buried budgies (and one parakeet) in the dead of night, though - pretty unpleasant business, that. More than a mild sense of remorse or a fleeting thought of a fleeting life, I cannot normally pour much emotion into it.
It’s really quite rude if you really think about it. Would I be satisfied if I died and a someone I knew didn’t care enough to wish that Superman would fly Superanticlockwise at Superspeed and turn back time so that Lois Lane would live again? I mean… so that I (not Lois) could live again?
People expect you to show, maybe even feel some grief, offer condolences, do the mopey, black tie and suit thing. And here I am, not. Pitiful.
In other news, you know who I like? Emma Roberts! (I do wish she’d stop saying ‘sleuthing’, though.) And MacGyver! And Herbert’s sister, Sara! Ok, I made that last one up; she doesn’t really have a brother named Herbert… or does she…??
And what the fuck is up with Calleigh Duquesne? What kind of messed up fucking world are we living in, where syllables are not spelled anything like the way they are pronounced?? Are we ALL SUPPOSED TO BE FRENCH??? George is getting upset!
In other other news, my barber disappeared. Very inconsiderate of him, actually… After my planning it out so I could enjoy the weekend without having to waste time getting my hair cut and then leaving work early Monday evening so I could first watch Jim and Pam get it together before heading off to Mr. B… he’s not there! His entire fricking shop just up and left… disappeared, I tell you! Really obnoxious chap, he is. Not only was my masterplan completely ruined, I’ll have to go a while with this awful hair before I can find a new someone to trim it for me.
And, what of our conversations? Did he conveniently forget the long and decidedly awkward silences while he snipped and I sniffed? The unnecessary nods of appreciation when our eyes accidentally met in the mirror. The abrupt bursts of chatter when I finally thought of something grown up enough to say out loud and the golden pauses that followed when I had said it all too soon? Where will he find those moments now??
The Ungrateful Man.
Foo Fighters – The Pretender
Miami Sound Machine – Conga
Everyone wants to be a badass, but if everyone is, no one will be. Just like everyone wants to be unique; at least everyone with a decent sense of self. But in trying so hard, half of the lot end up being ‘different’ in the same old way. And for those who don’t want to be different, well, they’ve already begun imitating somebody else in that case.
You only get to be different when YOU decide how you want to be, without the influence of external stimulus. Unfortunately, we do not have the luxury of being able to think for ourselves. In a world of microwave ‘gourmet’ meals and instant gratification, who has the time or energy to invent new and refreshing ways of expressing their originality? Instead, let’s do the next best smartest thing and be like that guy on TV who appears to be cool because he’s different. Then we’ll be different, just like he… uhh… is. Hooray, mission accomplished! Clueless monkeys.
If I seem like a complete mess, a total fuzzbrain or an isolated imbecile, it’s not an altogether inaccurate perception. But at least I know (or think) that it’s in my own way. If there is someone else who also thinks they are a complete mess, mediocre to extreme fuzzbrain or any kind of imbecile, feel free to be that way but just don’t copy me!
That was such an empty statement because there are so many clueless people searching for an identity out there, that we are all in pretty much the same boat. Clueless, not because they want to be or don’t know any better; clueless because their lives have drifted to where they are no longer fully in control. There is hardly any value in anything much anymore and most people who are supposedly happy probably only think they are happy because they think they have the things they have been told they need to be happy. Now there's something you can tell your friends!
But it’s not as if that is going to stop anyone from being ‘happy’ at the first chance they get.
As someone said very recently, in an unexpectedly entertaining movie, “It’s not the age, it’s the mileage!” Time is still the greatest thief, as one already knows, but it is also a boon that not very many of us make the best use of. You may say that you are out of time, but up to that moment, all you had was time! A few minutes more when you badly want it and suddenly time is a bringer of joy. It’s hard to be angry at a frustration that often reverses its role without needing any prompting. In another form, it is a grocery list item to be given, taken and bartered, but still having the same effects as its nascent occurrences.
So, although it remains a creeping assassin, I’m always grateful for the gift of time and those who give it. That girl might know.
Damien Rice – The Blower’s Daughter
Coldplay – Warning Sign
Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch – Good Vibrations
Many choose to say that “people are basically good” and bad people are the result of bad circumstances. I say people are fundamentally assholes.
Just assholes who behave themselves most of the time, because it’s what is expected if they don’t want anyone else to be an asshole right back at them. Why do you think it’s easier to be a dick than it is to be well mannered as the Earl of Warwickshire? And power/responsibility brings it out slowly so you can’t feel it emerging; by the time you know it’s out, you don’t see the difference anymore. I have dealt with hundreds of people who would have all liked to tell me to go fuck myself. It’s true and I wouldn’t have blamed them. But they didn’t. These days I barely stop short of telling people to go screw themselves and their brothers at the slightest cause of irritation.
When I first saw it, I thought I was going through an “asshole phase” like a number of behavioural “phases” I’ve seen over the last 2 years, but now the sum of all those phases includes a more than adequate helping of that addictive product called “Prick”. It’s already hard enough for people to not dislike me at first meeting, so here I go further confounding things for myself.
In less than a month, life has gotten a lot more complicated than I would have expected. Surprises have hit me in the face and I’m not in any kind of position from where I can reasonably well decipher the consequences of either rolling with them or going against the flow. It’s probably just life as everyone knows it, but I’ve never been found especially resourceful at that sort of thing. Typical.
I’ve complained plenty about the state of our country, our traffic, our close mindedness, our religion-mania, our cinema and our people. While this gives me ample conversational fodder, it also presents me with an annoying conundrum to contemplate.
The easy to choose option is escape; move away to a place that actually offers me everything I ask for and grow old in contentedness. But neither side achieves anything real in the end.
The second choice is to stay and believe that we will eventually grow up. A large part of this belief is about modifying the definition of what is acceptable and setting expectations with a realistic upper limit in mind. Recognition of progress is another wheel on the carriage. I need to appreciate what I do have before I begin to want what I don’t have.
Presently, the so called cream of the social crop operates almost completely in the English language, setting the apparent benchmark for the rest of us to define our level of cool. It’s probably because I have been so influenced within the walls of an English establishment, rarely having to use another tongue, but rather than trying to belong among hip company, I make an effort to be acceptable to proper Hindi speakers. I mayn’t have seemed like much of a patriotic bastard thus far, or for that matter, ever, but the national language has a je ne sais quoi that quite appeals to me. It gifts you a permanent sense of identity. I have cribbed about the tendency of Indians to clump together wherever they have settled in foreign countries, but I would rather be tagged an Indian abroad, than just another coloured foreigner.
Plus there’s nothing like the look of a white dude wondering what the fuck’s going on when you switch over to the language of home.
For now, I’d rather drive on the left side of the road. For now, I’d rather miss the blonde with the cute ass. For now, I’d rather watch a cultural re-emergence.
But that doesn’t mean I’m setting down my martini.
I don’t get all these commercial advertisements and movies that show people lying in bed with just their feet sticking out from under the covers. Who the fuck sleeps like that?? When I’m in bed I like to make sure my feet are firmly tucked in beneath the covers, regardless of how well the rest of me is covered. What the fuck is the point of using the covers if you’re going to have cold feet all the while? Unless it’s hot… and in that case you wouldn’t need the covers anyway! Morons.
Pearl Jam – Yellow Ledbetter
“You give me the most gorgeous sleep that I’ve ever had
And when it’s really bad I guess, it’s not that bad.” – Underneath It All
I’m miserable. It isn’t really any surprise, but I’ve suddenly begun to feel it hard. All the years of barely caring about most of the people I’ve known have finally come to fruition now that I have no one left beside me. I feel more alone than ever but I cannot bring myself to keep returning to old company; the change was always inevitable. From my point of view, this is just me being honest. If I can’t take the company, I would rather not fake it either.
After a whirlwind year during which things only kept looking better, in keeping with all universal laws of gravitation, conservation and order, the post-climactic decline has begun. The answer, the solution to stem the descent, lies in my own hands, within tightly clenched fists. Like with a sleeping infant, the fingers need to be pried open gently but with sufficient intent to let out the light. It’s just harder to open the fingers when they’re your own and something inside you is constantly labouring to keep them shut. Stories of inspiration provide momentary succour but eventually wash off as they would off the feathers of a mallard. Instead, recent months have seen the rise of new demons, self-imposed solitude, unhealthy eating and a blatant drop in work efficiency and the very desire to excel. I know where I am heading because I have already lived there and a second visit is most undesirable. The return journey this time will undoubtedly be much harder.
Memories of stagnant relationships and decaying friendships are a few of the many destructive components that make a disturbed mind. Discord between the heart and brain doesn’t help either. Even if I know what I have to do to stand back up, the willpower to make it so is conspicuous in its absence. Sloth is a cancerous vice awaiting a challenger. At a time like this, although I wouldn’t admit it under interrogation, I need a hand that will point me in the right direction and training wheels to keep me from falling while I get back on the path. I need a goal. I need to find a little humility and start working again. The recent high has left me literally high up on a horse so that my focus has been replaced by complaisance and maybe even a contempt for what helped me get this far. Ungrateful and now ashamed. I need all those things that one can recommend… I need a hobby, I need sport, I need motivation, I need to be decisive, I need to re-assess my priorities, I need a breath of fresh air, I need to get away from it all, I need a new perspective.
I need to go out and get hammered.
I need a companion.
When the time comes to choose between what is right and what is easy… I can’t complete the sentence exactly because of what the first part states. I know what the right answer should be, but at the same time I can see that it is not what I’m doing these days so choosing the right answer will not be short of hypocrisy.
Speaking of time, Time is the greatest thief ever. It comes and goes without sound or warning but claims what it wants at will. No amount of safeguard will be enough; this thief cannot be seen, cannot be stopped and what it takes can never be regained. That however, does not stop my reminiscing of the age when matters were simple. When innocence was a virtue to be treasured. When demons only existed under beds and in fairy tales, easily banished by the flick of a light switch.
I don’t generally display much affection for children, but looking at them takes me back to when I was so wide eyed, wild haired and ever chasing the elusive “something shiny”. If I knew right then what I know now, those days would have been so much more precious while I spent them. But, as I once heard a seemingly wise lady say, while walking in the Petrified Forest, “You always tend to look back in retrospect”. I could have died laughing.
Madonna – Take A Bow
Metallica – Enter Sandman
I’ve missed most of the Formula One season so far this year due to unforeseen circumstances, as most often are, so I’m only just starting to catch up. The one sport I actually follow with more than my eyes is the one that, unfortunately, draws a huge wannabe posse around here… dumbasses cheering for the red just to be in esteemed company. Tifosi, my ass. Motorsport is not soccer or tennis or any of those other games which are comprehensible to the everyday moron.
I don’t have anything against women in sport, as long as they compete against women ONLY. As far as I’m concerned, they can either watch and be silent or participate, but only when other women are involved (Although it would be incredibly easy to get sucked into the whole “women drivers” embargo right here, I am restraining myself due to constraints of time and sensibility). None of that “equal rights” bullshit. Feminism is the sorriest excuse for a movement since mankind was invented. It only succeeds in accomplishing the geometric opposite of what its supposed goals are.
A woman shouldn’t be competing in or commenting on men’s sport on the same plane as a man unless she’s exceptionally good at it. I won’t name names, but there are a few women today who can do with this advice. A guy, on the other hand, can often get away with some pretty mediocre shit.
The only formula feminity (or femininity??) that I know of are the pit lane chicks that glossy up the photo shoots and shade the drivers while they wait on the starting straight. That’s the way it should be, eye candy and nothing more. But now ESPN has a woman sitting AND SPEAKING beside an accomplished driver, hosting the show on raceday. Paula… baby… stick to Friday releases and Billboard countdowns and leave the men’s stuff to the men who know their stuff.
At the same time, in a city where pedestrians and motorists alike believe that they own the roads, I’m the one who, instead of swerving to avoid a woman crossing the street, waits to lets her pass. A guy in her position wouldn’t get the time of day from me, though. It isn’t purposeful chivalrous intent, but more of habit. The part that I really enjoy is the somewhat embarrassed, somewhat confused, somewhat amused and totally surprised smile that almost always flashes across their lips immediately after.
It’s no secret that the earth is in deep shit. Or rather, deep shit is on the earth. We’ve polluted, crowded and stripped it so badly that we’ve run ourselves out of home. Moon property is going cheap on the realty market with a highly optimistic idea of beginning to murder it too, starting 2015 (Nevermind that we have only ever managed to get two dudes to scout the damn place; and that is debatable too, apparently). Fossil fuels are rapidly vanishing as a natural resource while the world continues to guzzle without a care. Global warming has always been around, as a mild curse word that came up in classrooms but not where it really mattered. These days it can even be heard around celebrities and social activists but still not where it will really make a difference.
I do NOT believe that one person can make a difference, anywhere. And nothing was ever solved by a concert. It takes a concerted effort by a competent government that pushes the populace in the right direction. Whatever happened to government sponsored initiative?
Although it’s a smart thing, it’s stupid to ask someone to plant a tree. Unless you have a yard or a farm or just generally like to squat on public property, that isn’t likely to happen. But if we cannot contribute towards the solution, we can at least reduce how much of a part of the problem we are. Economize on electrical usage. Walk. Recycle. They all roll off the tongue quite easily, no?
This silly country seems to be playing the little brother card so that we can sit idly by and let the big boys make or at least attempt to make the major effort to clean up. According to yet another imbecilic “study”, apparently our “public” has the highest level of “concern” about the environment in the world. But that's where it stops, ’cos those same concerned assholes continue to disrespect public property, drive over a five minute walk and have fifteen lamps on at a time in their homes.
And while everything is going down the toilet, petty struggle over nuclear deals goes on in the background… sure, EXACTLY what we need!
At this stage, it’s no more about fixing the problem, we can only try to prolong the inevitable by making sure that we don’t doom our immediate generations. The beginning of the end arrived a long time ago.
I’ve actually had a pretty damn good year after many attempts at it and with the two four coming up in a coupla days, I’m not all that unhappy for once.
The Smashing Pumpkins – 1979
Marcy Playground – Sex and Candy
Out of the blue, shocking news for me. Possibly not shocking, but definitely disrupting/disturbing. This kid I used to know a long time ago apparently died last week under mysterious circumstances. Scary stuff. I remember him ‘cos he squirted me good once, when I used to “know a long time ago” him. There we were, this little dude a coupla years younger and me… and there I was with two fistfuls of, well, two stupid water balloons and there he was with this big old gun, no, rifle. I needn’t spell out that he won. Stupid water balloons - once you’ve thrown them, whether or not you miss pathetically, you’re screwed. And when his gun was empty well and proper, he skipped off like it was nothing; but I didn’t forget that day of spray.
