Focus

It wasn't pleasant outside, although, it was oddly satisfying to hear the rain thumping down on the window panes of his room. Focus is a fickle friend, who once angered, takes a long time to be appeased. He knows, somewhere at the back of his mind, that he occasionally wanders to while looking on at the torrent of little fat drops of water that lash against his window unceasingly, quite unnervingly looking like an army of little liquid soldiers committing hara kiri against the window pane in an unceasing effort to break the glass and expose him to the hoards of little water soldiers that wait outside, that he must focus. In fact, he isn't quite sure anymore what it is he is supposed to focus on. Is he supposed to focus for the the sake of focusing?  Does he have a purpose? Or is the purpose going to show itself only once he has learnt how to focus?

Why does anybody need to focus? One of the fifty people talking inside his brain asks suddenly? Now , no matter how many people are inside your brain, there is one among them who knows what it's all about. He is the rightful occupant of the abstract space inside the brain, and is sensible enough, but alas, there are too many voices to drown him out. So he starts to answer, because this is after all a valid question. Why on earth would anybody want to focus? After all, trying to focus when your brain doesn't want to , like trying to empty one's bowel when the bowel doesn't agree with being emptied at that moment, can be extremely uncomfortable. Anyone will try to undertake such an odious task only when one needs to, so it is important to understand why one needs to, So he starts to answer, making a certain amount of sense.

But then another question, this time, another of those fifty voices asks, who cares why one needs to? All that is important that we know that it is important, unless we actually believe that this nugget of knowledge that has been distilled from thousands of years of human experience is actually false? And that would be preposterous to think. There are certain notions that one should never entertain. There is usually a pattern to generate all these notions. Take any statement that you have heard from almost everybody, of the form "doing x is good for you". If it is something you have heard from everybody, then never entertain the notion that "doing x is bad for you". Hence even entertaining the notion that there is a way to possibly live happily without actually having to focus is a dangerous path to tread. It is a path that would undoubtedly culminate in a nudist colony. Smoking weed all day, and hugging trees. In a jungle. And nobody really wants that, concluded this voice.

The rightful owner of the brain might be sensible, but that doesn't necessarily translate to anything as long as his voice isn't strong. Only when his voice is strong enough to drown out the surrounding din emanating from the various confused little demons whose sole aim seems to be to increase the disorderliness of the thought process, does the owner of the brain in which all these abstract beings reside get anywhere. The rest of the body is like a zombie that the brain, being the sole proprietor of sentience among all the organs of the body, is the master of . The body does what the brain commands. So when controls in the main control room of the brain passes around randomly in a large set of voices, all but one of whom have any idea what is going on, the body behaves like a drunk. Well, not really, because the motor skills are mostly unaffected,  each muscle of the body mostly communicates with brain well enough to know that the next step that has been decided is in such and such direction, and hence muscle no.s 453 , 455, 467, 469 will execute complicated procedure code 389 which will result in the body making a net movement of one step in the predecided direction BUT, there is mostly no correlation between one step and the next. There is no coherence, unless when food or any other basic need is involved, when the spinal cord overrides the dysfunctional brain and executes a series of precisely calculated actions that culminates in fulfilling the basic need that forced it to come into action in the first place. So how does a man with a power struggle in his brain look like?

He looks like this : He looks out the window, the rain has stopped. Seems pleasant enough outside. Like some badly drawn caricature of a blood thirsty zombie with foul fluid oozing down his mouth, he rises from his chair, and with a mad lack of purpose in his eyes, walks out to get some fresh air.

Unstructured thoughts on structured writing

It is hard to get back to writing.Why did I give up writing? Maybe because I have nothing more to say? Probably not. I think it is more likely that I stopped writing here because writing here became a chore. Its always like that. You start doing something (referred to as "the thing" henceforth, at least in this paragraph, because using too many pronouns isn't polite) because its fun. You do it for a while, then perhaps you get better at it. After sometime , you notice that you have been doing the thing pretty regularly, and also, you seem to be improving at it. So you make a mental note, that you should keep doing the thing with the same frequency. Sooner or later, this resolution becomes a burden, because you no longer are doing the thing when you want to, you are doing it when your calender tells you its time to.

Of course, with writing, it is important to make sense. To have something to say. I have often wrote in the past when I had nothing to say. I think I read something about stream of consciousness writing, and I often tried to let my thoughts flow out on this blog. Except, that thoughts do not flow freely when you are trying to record them. I can imagine that someone somewhere would have painted a picture of a seated author bent over a piece of paper, and the painting would depict thoughts (which would perhaps be painted as a blueish haze) flowing straight from his head onto the paper through the pen and the hand holding the pen. But it doesn't quite work that way. Because writing must make sense, and thoughts don't in general. There is no structure to the stream of thoughts. It flits around from idea to idea to idea, unless you are trying to focus it on a particular idea (then again, people like me find it hard to shut out the noise even when we are trying to think of a specific thing).In fact, I am not even sure that at any given time the stream of thoughts is actually representable by the act of writing. What if you actually had a way of thinking undisturbed and actually recording your thoughts in a continuous fashion, as an external observer would if he could witness your thoughts. But say you were thinking of two things at the same time. True stream of consciousness writing would  be when the very word I am typing at a given instant exactly represents the thought passing through my brain at that instant. So if you had two thoughts passing through your brain simultaneously, you would have no way of completely representing your stream of thoughts at that moment. Of course, whether the brain can actually process two thoughts simultaneously is moot.

So I guess true stream of consciousness writing would be a cool thing, but I haven't quite figured out a way to record my undisturbed thoughts without disturbing them. Maybe I am too self conscious. I think that is why I believe that writing must have structure. Unstructured thoughts are dangerous. Cannot let them flow out for all to see. Cannot even let them flow out for me to see. But yes, it really helps if one knows what he wants to write about before sitting down to write. But if one has to write regularly, and has to know what he is going to be writing about each time he sits down to write, he must have views.

Yes. Views. This is why I stopped writing. I have no views. I have no views about most things. And most views I have about the very few things I deem worthy enough of my attention (so that I at least know enough about them to have views) are not views that can be made public. They are better kept as private views. Was I forming views all these years? Maybe. I have to think about it. Or maybe not. After all, this blog post wasn't really about anything when it started off, because I didn't have something I definitely wished to write about. But not having enough views (or at least, enough views that can be shared publicly) does make maintaining a regular blogging habit quite a chore. One cannot rely on rantings and ramblings to keep writing. One has to have stuff. material. views etc. Of course, once in a while, its fun to just write whatever comes to one's mind, whether it is a true representation of thoughts at that time, or merely a failed attempt. But can't do it regularly.

But there is a beautiful thing about writing, that is that writing invariably forces thoughts to converge onto a steady flow along a straight line. I have experienced this quite often, where I start writing a post about nothing in particular, and it leads to some conclusion, something definite, or if nothing, resolution to some vague half formed question in my brain. After all, that is why we are told the importance of writing while we study. It helps focus the beam of thoughts. Maybe I will write more often. Its fun, as long as I don't overdo it again. But of course, I am older. But then again, I am still me.

Little known facts about the fascinating lives of Pigs

It's 6 AM. Some people just had a good day.Some others just had a bad one . I am not sure what I just had, and if you made me give you an answer, I'd probably ask for some time to ruminate on this question, and then remember that the word "ruminates" has something to do with cows leisurely chewing their cuds, before searching "wiki cud", and opening (in parallel tabs) the wikipedia and the wiktionary links to "Cud". The first one would perhaps then lead to the wikipedia page on Ruminating animals themselves, (since reading about how regurgitation is central to the process of cudding (Is that even a word?) would almost definitely cause my feeble caffeine aided attempts (ahem..to make my daily conjugal visit to my beloved toilet seat a fruitful one) to end in failure, and perhaps even result in exactly the opposite effect (although, only in a manner of speaking), and I find that the result of my own regurgitations is often too runny to ruminate on) , in which I'd discover fascinating facts about how ruminations on whether or not a mammal ruminates play a central role in deciding whether the mammal in question is edible by a practitioner of one of the Abrahamic religions. The second would enlighten me to the fact that "Cud" is a noun, and that it is uncountable, so perhaps lexical constructions like "cows leisurely chewing their cudS" are only allowed as part of verse (which, as I may remind you, would by definition allow me Poetic License) .

Anyway. There are some among you who would smirk condescendingly at my indecision , because everybody really has good days and bad, but if you don't know which you just had, you probably just have trouble deciding, because you spend too much time reading wiki articles about things that have nothing to do with the things that need deciding. To such, I'd give a blank stare perhaps, punctuated with the occasional sniffle (I think sniffling is intimidating), to indicate to you that you are perhaps wrong, but I just can't be sure. Boy that'd confuse you, wouldn't it? There are others among you who'd say that you don't know what kind of a day you had at 6 AM, because, well, you haven't had the day yet. To such I'd give the blank stare, punctuated with a series of rapid blinks, to indicate to you that I define a day to be the period between two periods of sleep, and well, I haven't had any of that since yesterday morning.

Of course, there are some among you who'd tell me that nobody has good days and bad, people just have days. Some choose to say that they had a good day, some others choose to say that they had a bad one. To such, perhaps, I'd give a not so blank gaze, punctuated with a few comradely smiles, to indicate that you are a (wo?)man after my own heart. You see, we have the capacity to decide and categorize, but seldom enough information. Of course, you may choose to disagree with me, and frankly, I'd not really mind, because I am not sure if I am right. But then again, there are people I know who always seem to have good days (or, so their radiant smiles would seem to indicate), even if they just lost a leg, and there are others who have a perennially constipated look on their faces, (which would seem to suggest that even days on which they win jackpots are not really all that good).

I don't know. People say you are who you think you are. Maybe if you think you had a good day today, that's all that really matters. I can't think like that. I like to think I am like a pig. She told me yesterday that pigs can't turn up their heads to the sky, so they can never really see the sun and all. I don't know. If you asked a pig if it's day or night, it would feel the warmth of the sun, or the chill of its absence, it would see the ground around it burning bright, or see long shadows barely discernible in the dark. It might tell you, yeah, sure as hell, The sun is up. It might feel certain that the sun has set. But really. Can it decide without actually seeing the sun? Can it? There are hot nights and cool days, dark noons and bright moons. Right?

Jaded

I just realized that the crux of my blog, and indeed the crux of my life is that I am incredibly good at moping, and being of little use in any other constructive pursuit, I consider it an evolutionary joke that I have made it to nearly 24 years on earth, a place where only the enterprising are supposed to survive.
I just realized that almost all things I attempt in my life are so eminently mediocre that I sabotage all those attempts by not achieving my decidedly mediocre goals.
I just realized that I was thinking of writing a blog post about the etymology of the word "jaded", being amply jaded myself.
And yeah, I just realized that I don't actually know what jaded really means. So I looked it up. I had a vague idea that it means that it means something close to being exhausted. It does mean that, but apparently it also means being cynical due to surfeit. It also might also mean an Aerosmith song, not one of their finer works, but passable enough.

How suitable. In a way, it is true. In a literal, and a metaphorical sense. Being metaphorically overfed is a tad difficult, but not impossible. Its weird how many mediocre young people like myself have it so easy that they turn into disaffected disinterested bastards, grow beards, learn liberal buzzwords, read some Sartre, and stand on cold gray beaches staring at the cold blue ocean and smoke cigarettes. You see all these people, do me (yes literally) a favour. Get a bull whip and whip the lot of us into shape.

The privileged among us, and that includes me, and you, assuming I can actually get someone to read my blog, we have killed our demons. We don't have to fight or die, at any level. We are looking at more or less comfortable lives no matter what we do. The term "fucking up", which is used liberally among people of my age, has lost its relevance. You can't fuck up, and even if you can, the society around you will ensure that it doesn't show.

It seems to me that we live in the dystopian setting that Huxley and Orwell imagined over half a century back. What made these dystopias so abhorrent was the fact that there were all marked by the social wheel coming to a halt. The hierarchy set now is the hierarchy for all times to come. Social hierarchy is a complex thing. The only thing that is always true is the fact that it is dynamic at all times. It's like a living organism, writhing and twisting and turning forever and ever into new configurations. This is the natural way of things. Its always possible to fuck up, and survival is an issue no matter who you are. To challenge this natural way of things was mankind's greatest folly, and the fact that man actually not only challenged this but brought the metaphorical wheel to a grinding halt is simultaneously man's greatest triumph and defeat.

For now , we have challenged that last supreme unknown that we should have let be in the course of our long, arduous journey. We have brought about the downfall of the very foundation of our prosperity, the fact that endeavour has worth. No matter who you are, what you are, the course your life takes is in your hands. No more. No more, for fools that we are, we have killed the worth endeavour had.

The irony of the whole thing is , that this had to come to pass eventually. It is a design feature with all warm blooded animals, to try and ensure the well being of one's young. But man cannot stop thinking you see. After killing cholera and smiting the plague, he thought unto himself, what more can I do to ensure the well being of my brood? If he was placed well enough, Why, he thought, should my offspring not be assured of the same.

I realize now that my acute angst has suitably been vented to some degree in a constructive way that does not involve porn sites and deliberating if I should pay $14.99 to enjoy a year of watching overwrought girls with too much lipstick strip on their webcams. Since the aforementioned angst was what was channeling the Force and was making me act like a disgruntled Sith, I think I will have to finish some other time when I am suitably irked at "having wasted another day doing nothing but mope"

.....

I have never been a great fan of titles. They seem overtly grand , and eventually, empty and constricting. They force you to have a predecided notion of what you are about to do, which I find to be quite beyond me. I never seem to have an idea about what I'll be thinking about ten minutes later. Which is weird, because I would think that if you ask yourself the question "What will I be thinking of ten minutes from now", there is a good chance that you will be thinking about how you could predict the answer to such a question ten minutes from the time when you asked yourself that question.

I can say though, that inspite of what I think, this certainly isnt what happens with me. Ive often tried to carry out this gedanken. When I was a kid, I used to think that say suppose you ask yourself, what'll I be thinking ten minutes from now, and you start thinking about an answer to this question/ how you can predict the answer to such a question, then you will be trapped in this thought stream for eternity. Say suppose you ask yourself this question. One of two things happen. Either, you make a prediction in ten minutes, and then wait to see if your prediction is true. But by virtue of the fat that you have asked yourself this question, ten minutes from the time when you ask yourself this question, your brain will be thinking about "measuring" your thought, but then the brain isnt thinking what you thought it would be thinking, but rather it is thinking about how to measure whatever thought crosses it :O. So you repeat the experiment :P over and over and over again.

The other possibility is, that you say to yourself, that i'll keep at how to find an answer to questions of this kind , no matter how long it takes. So you know at the outset what you will be thinking of ten minutes from now. But the trouble is, that you do not "see" yourself thinking 10 minutes from now. You are too busy thinking about how to predict what you will be thinking about in ten minutes. So you have no way to confirm that you really were thinking about what you really thought you would be thinking about in ten minutes. Say suppose that after many, many years, you come up with an answer that makes sense :P then, again as soon as you try to confirm your theory, you run into the situation in the previous paragraph. So your theory fails

So. What will you be thinking about in ten minutes :P?

Of pain and other things

Pain is over hyped. Plain and Simple. Now I can almost visualize a set of people, which we shall henceforth refer to as the set of reader's of this blog, (whose cardinality, it is suspected, is zero) but anyhow, let us for a moment assume that the cardinality of this set is not zero, then I can understand that there'll be quite a few hands raised from within that set, and I have a feeling those hands will have been raised to know what I mean by that statement.

Right. So what DO I mean by that statement? You see, in the past week alone, I have seen a talkshow hosting a man who has written about "Those ugly facts meat companies dont want you to know", read an article about another man who has written about "Humane slaughtering of poultry", and finally, the real kicker, seen a flier about an auction of "Meat from Humanely slaughtered cows" or something of that sort.

Now before I snigger out very loudly, or kick my foot extremely hard against the wall, or do both at the same time, I want to make it clear that I DO understand what makes people try to be "Humane" to animals they are about to eat. You see, people (ahem) believe that there is nothing worse than inflicting pain unto another living organism, and conversely, the worse that a living organism could feel is when it is experiencing pain. Here pain is defined (for the most part) as physical pain. ie, to a specific set of things that could happen to your physical person, your brain reacts in a certain way (which is precisely what this feeling of pain is), and the biological imperative for this is that it is supposed to warn you of some sort of danger that your physical person is facing, or to draw your attention to some part of your body that needs immediate attention.

Now people who advocate humane (painless) slaughtering of edible(I can see some people having a heartattack at this point) animals do it based on the premise that "since the animal has to die, why subject it to pain". Translated to language we can understand, it reads as "Why let the organism know that it is facing mortal danger when it isnt the kind of danger it can protect itself from"?

Right. Now let me portray another situation here. The way we defined pain, as something that lets you know if you are in physical danger, we can define "Emotional Duress", or Emotional pain as the knowledge that you are about to experience physical pain. So an example of a state of emotional duress is when you know that you are about to be shot in the next 10 minutes. And let us assume for the sake of argument that your death is essential for the human population (let us say that you are a known terrorist, or a mass murderer), just as the death of farm animals is essential for the human population (as a source of protein). Then someone comes along and says, "right, just shoot him, but dont tell him that he is about to be shot, because this is not the kind of danger he can protect himself from" (let us assume that there are a 100 AK-47's trained on you, so the chance you have of saving yourself in this situation is as small as the chance the chicken has of suddenly flying away before being cut) .

I dont see any justification (of the moral kind) of a statement like that. Since you have to die, what difference does it make if you know that you are about to die? This situation is ridiculous, and i think the staunchest supporters of Humane slaughtering of (edible) animals will agree with me. And I think the analysis holds for the other system as well. Its just an arbitrary line drawn in the sand. Tomorrow somebody could come up and say "Look, animals have equal rights. So since they cant eat you, you shouldnt be able to eat them". So I find people clamouring for humane-ity pretty gay (in the Southpark sense).

Bring me my meat squealing.thats the way its supposed to be. yargh

Of Pee and other things

So there I was, chopping up a goat named !..chix^ (because chopping up goats IS a healthy pastime that usually culminates in an appetizing bowl of mutton rogan josh) when I suddenly got an impulse to pee into the dustbin situated right next to a certain somebody's room. Now I recognize that something doesntr smell quite right in my pee, but still, it's MY pee eh? I am gifting my pee to somebody, and i will be sans my pee for like he next two hours. Why, I'd say its a grand gesture. Now you'll say it's a nice gift, but a tad messy. But then what isnt. I give somebody a watch, they suddenly know what time it is. All the fucking time. Do you know what thats like? Like, its 8:15 and you have a class at 8. And you are awake. Now just because I presented you a watch, you have to feel like crap for another 40 minutes, and crappier for the rest of the day. Or i could gift you a hen. Man. Thats one hell of a messy thing. Imagine finding egg shaped eggs inside you favourite underwear. Thatd be a nighmare. Andif you grew tired of the hen and tried to chop it up, why tatd be messy. Chicken blood is sticky and gooey. Not at all like goats. Goat blood is the most divine drink found on planet earth, but thats for some other time.

So my undying love for this certain someone gave me this sudden urge right. so I go to this fellow's room. I proceed to sit in front of his comp and start playing his guitar. This fellow, with all possible modes of entertainment sealed off, gets bored and drifts off into a slumber. I sense that now is the time, and proceed to pee in his dustbin, because any good gift should come as a surprise right.

What i had forgotten is that this fellow routinely pours beer into his dustbin and drinks it. He says drinking from the bottle stirs up his arachno(?)phobia and claustrophobia. I understand the claustrophobia part, but i never quite figured out the arachnophobia. I mean, are beer bottles made from molten spider? I have to check that out from wikipedia. anyway. This guy wakes up, and gets extremely pleased at finding a pungent fluid in his dustbin. Now this guy thanks me right? and i am like very happy that he likes my gift. I DO NOT at this point know that he thinks its beer. So I have this smug look on my face, andthen suddenly , this guy lifts the dustbin and drinks its contents. I am like stunned you know. before I can react hes finished it. Whats more, he LIKES it. He asks me what brand it is, before clutching his stomach and collapsing in an ungainly heap.

I am writing this from the hospital ward.

moral: Pee makes for a great gift, except when the intended recipient loves beer. Pee may be a great gift, but it's not a very healthy thing to ingest. In case your frind loves beer and you still want to gift your Pee to him, make sure you DO NOT pee in his preferred beer container

A lament

In another arduous episode of self analysis, I will attempt to analyse why I havent felt so bloggy over the last year or so. These rather sado-masochistic blogging habits being the chronologically prime reason, even if it is probably not the most immediately contributing reason, as it led to a severe fall in the readership of my blog, which in turn took away the compulsion factor, ( to be read as unwarranted policing at 2 AM by an equally insomniac member of your gtalk chat list as to why you havent written a blog post since your last one 3 days, 22 hours and 16 minutes ago), and lazy that I am, It probably effected the quantity and quality of my output adversely, and also should indicate to the (non?) existant reader that this sentence is still on, baby. Ok, now its over, so fucking what?

Oh yeah. Why I havent bloggy over the last one year. I suppose it has to be attributed to a combination of factors really, apping (yuck) being a big one, and I suppose the absence of marquez and cortez and joyce from my literary existence for a very long time would count as well, departure from "artist->album" mode towards "listen to 5 vids on youtube over and over and over again till you could draw the notes that both guitars are playing ambidextrously if only you knew how to draw the notes" mode would also contribute.

I s'pose getting old would count. The wide eyed days of yore are long gone where you still believed that the world was nice and fine and artist recommendations at 2AM would culminate in an 8 hour marathon till 10 that would see you getting well acquainted with 4 albums when you'd suddenly remember something and rush off without shitting to optics lab and sing Child in time at the top of your admittedly shrill voice, when in a suddern downflux of noxious post digestive fumes, you'd come to regret both the aforementioned: your singing and your NOt shitting, when a summary kick to your rear end would serve to blind the perprator in a further onrush of said fumes, and make you grateful for the sorts of defences nature has deviced for you to utilize against beasts who'd tear your creamy flesh into violated shreds :O

That was when I was bloggy. Life was so fresh and surprising. Life was full of discioveries, Life was exciting. That, and when I studied in class 9C . that was magical too. But i wasnt bloggy then, though my 24 page essays would indicate that the only thing that kept me from being bloggy was the fact that I had no fucking idea what blogging was. were. was.shit.

Damn man, I love magic. My life is so unmagical, because I have painstakingly endeavoured to opress my wild side, and I have endeavoured to govern my life by cold hard rationality, but being the medieval romantic i hve always been, have hopelessly but gallantly failed in said endeavour, and as a result find meself turned into this grotesque shadow of my former self. Bloated, literally, egoistically and emotionally, I face my doom, dark, final, inevitable.

So inspite of the deceptively frivolous tone, this blog post is a lament. Not only for my unblogginess, but also for those glorious days in my youth when the world, pale and shrivelled, lay listless at my feet, and I , its master, poked it with my glittering boot, sure that it would never eat me up, that I would never feel fallible, vulnerable, Sure that the day wouldnt arrive when i'd wonder what the fuck I am doing here, and boldly sit my arse down on this plastic chair, old and cracked now but brand new and a treat to said arse back then, and dazzle the (blogo)sphere with my amazingly,intricately and ultimately delightfully nonsensical blog posts.

The death of Isaac Vivian

Gleaming beads of perspiration glided elegantly down his forehead like errant pearls out on a mission to obscure his vision. Vision. He thought. A matter of utmost importance. Vision is always of utmost importance, but especially so when an Ogre twice your height and thrice your weight is doing his utmost to smash your skull to smithereens with a red ball with 160 grams packed into a diameter of a little more than seven centimeters. Small, Heavy, and in this case, Fast enough to tear a hole straight through the middle of a man's heart. What hope had a man, He thought, had he not his vision. The lord be praised.

But his vision was being obscured. It was like being inside a Sauna in his grilled Helmet. A steady stream of putrid smelling sweat slowly glided down his eyelids, making tiny beads on his eyelashes. He batted his eyelashes painfully, a vague thought now entering his mind : He had to raise his helmet and reach inside to wipe the sweat off his eyes with his Red hankerchief after each of the last four balls he had faced in his innings that was now five balls old. And as if that wasnt enough, he always had a deep distaste for helmets , specially for the grilled variety that was doing rounds at the moment.

The bowler, if that creature running up to bowl can be called that, being an occupation that can be occupied by solely human beings, and Our protagonist had serious doubts about that, his mullet angrily bouncing behind his bulbous head, while his face , dominated by a moustache so ample that it would have left WG Grace licking his lips in envy, was presently contorted into a fierce grimace as he steamed in from nearly a mile away to hurl the cherry down at what our Hero felt must be pretty close to Two Hundred Miles per hour.

Suddenly, overcome by a sudden instinct, our Hero held up a hand. The raging bull of a bowler, having been interrupted near the climax of his charge, scowled and threw an awful tantrum. Promises of heavenly deliverance were promptly uttered to our Hero, who in turn , unstrapped his Helmet, quite oblivious to what was happenning around him, and hurled it to the ground in disgust. Never would he allow, ever, ever again, his vision to be obscured by inessential human contraptions again. He had to test if he was worth the name he was given at birth. He would know today if he was worthy to have as his idol The unquestioned reigning god of the race of batsmen.

The bowler, oblivious of his opponent's grand designs, reared like a bull in heat. He ran in faster than Michael Johnson, leaping elegantly like a gazelle (for truely, his leap was the only part of his action that was truely elegant), and proceeded to hurl a yorker at six hundred miles an hour. So naturally, when it soared high over Mid on and landed 40 rows back into the stands, all he could do was to blink idiotically. Of all possible outcomes, this was least expected. And turning back, he found that he had been injured before being insulted as he stared at the right hand of the umpire, which was presently outstretched horizontal to the ground, as if signalling something deeper about the bowler than the fact that he had just bowled a no ball.

Yes, thought our Hero. He was worthy of his name. He hadnt been christened Isaac Vivian for nothing. He was one with his idol. He had the swagger, and now he played without a Helmet AND disdainfully flicked hard working fast bowlers over mid on for furious sixes. What joy. He was free.

The dear old bowler, this sudden turn of fate making him look now more like a grumpy old father of three, trudged back to the top of his runup. His runup, now looking ragged, bore him to the part where he Leapt, which, now, with his aura of invincibility lifted, looked like a pig on a trampoline. The ball he proceeded to bowl was in itself very ordinary to say the very least. Our Hero, now endowed with SuperVision, free from all human contraptions and sweat and all other things that had distracted, knew the moment the ball had been delivered what to do with it. But keen not to overdo it, he punched it off his backfoot to point.

Alas. for he had punched it straight to the greatest fielder on earth. He thought he had hit it to the left of point, not noticing amidst all the excitement that he had moved a tad after the last ball. He swooped on the ball like an eagle and threw it towards the non strikers end. he wasnt going to make it.His only hope was to dive in so that he could take the throw ( which was quite low) on his body. that is the only option he has. Yes, he must put in a dive. The thought filled his brain so fast that there was little to distinguish it from an innate instinct, aimed at the overriding need to protect ones wicket. the thought made him fly from midpitch towards the non strikers end. Onlookers later recalled in awe that he never dived, he flew. But where was the ball? The stumps are intact.

He is saved. saved. the thought fills his head like the black plague. Slwoly, inexorably, before it all turns black.

Isaac Vivian lay past the stumps, his face bearing a serene smile. He had saved his wicket .The ball had hit his head. Blood streamed down his face, taking nearly the same trajectory that the sweat had taken a while back. The church bell struck three, its sonorous sound ringing through the stadium, shocked into silence, but father time stood still. Isaac Vivian was dead.

Uniqueness theorem

In this day and age where mediocrity is cherished, paradoxically, we are supposed to rejoice that we are unique. Notice, we are not supposed to rejoice IF we are unique, rather, THAT we are unique. Fags, Child Molesters, Tree huggers, anti war campaigners, global warming activists, people who participate in walks for a cause, all worthlessly mediocre individuals on face of this earth find something unique in themselves. But leave that. That is a complaint that might well hold solely in my frame of reference. Now by hypothesis, I am assuming that "uniqueness" is good. And then , again, by hypothesis , we have seen that it can more or less be assumed that everyone can be "unique". And the fact that man screams his lungs out proclaiming his virtues SOLELY to gain acceptance of his fellow man is almost axiomatic. So pray tell me, if everybody were to participate in aforementioned screaming out of lungs over his/her supposedly "unique" virtues, they are still all alike by axiom. Ha. Proved by contradiction that all people who claim they are unique are members of one large set of people who deserve to be disembowelled and thrown into a sarlacc pit. :O

In other noos, I seem to listened to bullet with butterfly wings 100 times without listening to any other song. And I sincerely hope India loses by an innings and 109 runs. I might finally be losing "it". Note: By "it" I mean the unique set of characteristics I possess that I should have screamed my lungs out about while I had the chance. Yay

February 12, 2009 2:57PM

His life was rotting in the supposed rut he was stuck in. Only that he knew that the magnitude of whatever he was stuck in hardly made it justifiable to refer to it as a rut. It wasnt a rut, it was total decadence, stemming from years of stasis, years of almost religious adherence to the cult of self destruction. Of course, he had been wronged. It would be unfair to say that he wasnt. He was indeed sinned against. And he was bitter. But as he also realized that day, being wronged and being in the wrong are not mutually exclusive states. This realization had brought over him a sense of calm. A sense of calm coated with a veneer of bitterness. The greeks were wrong in believing that distress stems from discomfort, physical, or mental. No. Distress stems from a sense of helplesness, which in turn arises from a profound ignorance of why what is happening is happening. So certainly, this realization cooled his heart

Which, if you really thought hard about it, is extremely bizarre. Here he was, the bitter metallic taste of failure rankling and festering in his mouth. And yet, he (with his poker face) was not indulging in hurling obsceneties at who he knew fate had favoured this time, but rather contemplating. Its funny to imagine that if we all followed a forced contemplation program, that is, if we force ourselves to look inwards everytime we feel we are about to explode in the flames of fury that seems ours by right, the world would be a simpler place. I wouldnt say the cliched "happier" place, but certainly simpler. He of course, in this moment of self evaluation, was completely aware of this. He knew that by not giving in to the boiling froth of rage building up inside him, he was breaking down things for himself, making his options simpler. He also knew that a simpler world is not necessarily a happier world, and had he never experienced mirthlessness, he would never appreciate joy.

So he was, as we would colloquially say, sad, but okay. Sorrow is not one of the seven deadly sins, unlike anger, because we cannot help feeling sorry for ourselves some of the times. He had this theory about the seven deadly sins, that all seven were things that one had to "give in to". So was rage. Often criminals convicted and proven guilty of crimes provoked by anger would say something along the lines of "But your honour, I couldnt help it". That in my humble opinion is a load of horse faeces. One can always help it. As, we must mention, our hero was so admirably doing.

Which again, we must note, is quite remarkable given the fact that anger management wasnt one of his fortes. In fact, he had spent most of his life pandering to his vilest and basest of passions. Which is why, he understood, he found himself today in this predicament. And given this new found understanding, he wasnt about to start doing it again. He understood the topology of the problem. It was what topologists colloquially call a vicious circle. Staying on the colloquial, he also knew that it was commonly believed that there is no way out of a vicious circle. However a passing interest in the subject had led him to encounter as a fact that his situation wasnt inextricably bad. There was a way out, albeit excessively convoluted. But if he started now, maybe he still ccould fix it.

And so he proceeds to bed, knowing that if he were keen enough on it, the situation could indeed be fixed. There is a glimmer, but it is very faint, and a hint of smile on his lips, mirroring that glimmer. He knows he can get himself out of this dark grave he has dug himself.

Although, we must ask ourselves (for hope is in vogue nowadays, so much that the author doubts it has much substance in it), Can he? Only time will tell.

Application blues

Now, I am hardly the racist I am made out to be, Why, I am probably the only Indian who showed genuine skepticism about the hypothesis that Andrew Symonds is a monkey. His ancestors were, but that is an entirely different matter altogether. Now , assuming the fact that i am in fact not a racist, one has to take seriously my claim that a certain green skinned race of people, (to whose stronghold I surreptitiously plan to defect to sometime this year, owing to their established monetary pre-eminence) are very dumb.

Especially the people who deal with our petitions (The details of which i'd rather not divulge, but which roughly speaking outline the plight of our existence in a poor third world country (as seen on tv, and the dvd of that movie, बस्ती का कुत्ता करोड़पति) . I mean, I would say I am a very good speaker of the language they supposedly speak, but after a few conversations with their finest, I am left in serious doubt. They simply seem unable to process compound sentences with connectives. You say "See, my point is that you have not recieved my scores to this, but you have recieved my scores to that, which is quite absurd considering I ordered the two together". And then, after a brief awkward gap of about 10 seconds, when you almost give up any hope of conveying your problems, and in the bigger picture, of making the transition from being an alpha in a third world country to being a gamma in The promised land (of the green people) , a raspy Green female voice suddenly crackles through your headphone (if you use skype) "Yeah, yeah, yeah yeah, I got that, you were saying your point is , I am sorry, what?", then you proceed to remove all connectives from whatever you said, and proceed to say something that makes no sense to you whatsoever, and miraculously, they understand.!!!, Of course, even that joy is shortlived when you discover that they mistook whatever you said (sans the connectives ) to be a complement to their mothers, but anyway, at least they understood something.

These Green people are a people with an affirmative mindset, (again, as seen on tv broadcasts of a certain dark green skinned guy's speeches, where the positive mindset was only too evident by the hoardes screaming "Yes we can". Nobody yet knows what they can, but hey, who cares). Speaking of this dark green gent, it also is evident that for so rich and prosperous a nation, the Promised Land seems remarkably short of change, but that is for another day, though i 'd like to say that not having change is a precarious situation indeed, and it leads to you opening accounts with all varieties of fruit stalls, chaat wallahs, etc etc. But yeah, coming back to what i was saying, these people are extremely positive, often mindbogglingly so. For example, they start every sentence with at least 4 "yeah"'s. Now this, I have observed, often has a very uplifting effect. Although, I must also add that what follows is seldom uplifting, but a little positivity never hurt anyone, eh?

There was this one time, when I called up ETS (which is this agency incharge of importing the brawniest of the third world young and ambitious to allow them to be employed in the excellently morally emancipating fields of working in coal mines and cleaning the green people's latrines). The conversation went something like this
"I see sir, your scores were not sent because when you ordered them, they were not available"
Then I, flummoxed and awed by the sheer weight of intellect at the other end of the line, proceeded to say something like "But your website says that if I do that, you will wait till my scores ARE available", to which the answer was something like "I see sir, your scores were not sent because when you ordered them, they were not available". Now, underestimating third world people is a very common mistake, which I proved immediately by retorting, "Then how is it that you sent the scores to half the places I wanted you to send them to, and not to the other half", and the reply was again, believe it or not "I see sir, your scores were not sent because when you ordered them, they were not available". I was about to hang up, nearly in tears, and at the same time, marvelling at the sheer genius of placing an automatic answering machine with a pre-recorded message to deal with offensive calls. Wonderful, amazing, I want to be one of them. Maybe I'll get some brilliant ideas if that came to pass. I seriously would have died believing that had the headphone not suddenly crackled back into life and said "Sir, i think I know what the problem is ", and proceeded to recount to me how her mother dealt with a bout of acute acne by mixing toadstool with toad.

It was these isolated events, that, on a more sombre note, made me realize that maybe the reason for the green-ness (the type that comes from prosperity) of The Green People and the green-ness (the type that comes from envy) of others is the fact they are so lacking in something, which I cannot quite pinpoint, that they dont waste precious time writing a blog post full of witticisms, and utilize it instead in drinking and spawning, which, it must be realized, is the key to prosperity. of course, there is enough drinking and spawning in third world countries, but the catch is that its not co-ordinated optimally. Co-ordination of drinking and spawning is a science, which we do not understand, because we use too many logical connectives in our sentences.

The green people mastered it. That is why they have so many greenbacks.
sigh...

I have no fucking idea what this is :-o

Ok. First of all, I have no fucking idea what this is all about, but you probably already got that from the title of this post. To cut a long story short, I "set out" to blog, and after sitting around for about an hour (with the odd porn clip thrown in) I suddenly remembered (dramatically of course, with appropriate Hitchcock style music playin in the background) that I have many unfinished unpublished posts, which I could publish. This one seems to be from three years back (:-o), and after reading it, it doth seem that I was (very) gay about three years back. However, that is besides the point. I have no fucking idea how I conceived this story would unfold. In fact, had I suffered head trauma and had my memory of the last three years wiped out, I can state with some certainty that one of two things would happen.

a) I would blame it on one my my currently gay friends who still can wield the ugly blade of flowery prose
b) I would actually know what the fuck I was thinking when i was writing this story, and hence probably know how this story was supposed to have ended

Reader must note that I do not quite know if memory wipeout reverts me to the state I was in three years ago, or leaves my state invariant and just erases my memory. But anyway. Help would be appreciated..
So here goes :

" It was a cold , damp, and oppressively still night. The air was thick with the sweet smell of death, as if death herself had descended on this barren wasteland ", He began. He had planned this for days. He hadnt written a blog entry for over a month.He had planned that he would write one starting exactly this way for days, in fact a week to this day to be precise, or "utterly precise" as he liked to say.He was happy, not to mention. He was, as we decent folk would say, " a nice, dumb bloke" . He had an utterly maladroitly irritatingly unsettling habit of listening to the same song over and over and over again. He was, for instance playing "Zombies" for the fifth time today, and considering that the day was just two hours and sixteen minutes old, well, ladies and gentlemen, you have quite an achievement here. Anyway, back to his blog entry.
.
"Nina glanced about herself furtively. She was a pale, a ghastly pale, and if she were to see herself in the state that she found herself , much to her own utter befuddlement , she would surely have a heartattack. It was beyond comprehension, at least beyond her comprehension. "
.
" She was normal, as normal and unremarkable as a mass produced Japanese car. Till this moment that is, when even she could discern that her life had suddenly taken a totally inexplicable, but all pervading change . She was never overtly intellegent, in fact it would be fair to say that she had never said an intellegent thing in her life , but then she had never said a dumb thing in her life either.But she was intellegent enough to know there was something the matter with her. She was a sweet little spoilt girl. She knew that her mother was obnoxiously rich , and that she had absolutely nothing to worry about. Her father of course, was a Son Of a Bitch (and she had a fair idea of that too, though she never bothered to ask him to establish the authenticity of the aforesaid assertion). She had a , shall we say, a "life" , as is the fad to have nowadays . Why, There she was, just four hours ago it seemed, indulging in lascivious talk over luscious food with men as stupid as she herself was, and maybe as rich. She had gone back home from the party, content with life and whatever else she could content with, and had gone to sleep, happy with life, with the smile that this guy had flashed her, with the way that guy had looked at her. In short, she was a dumb , sweet bitch whose sole aim in life was to get laid by a handsome guy who had enough brains to help her from losing all her money."
.
"Anyway,she had come back home, and being utterly exhausted from doing nothing, had gone straight to sleep. And then the next thing she could remember was that she had woken up on the cold bench in that park by the pond that her mother had forbidden her to play in as a child, on the pretext that it was where poor children played. In truth, however, it was a sense of dread that the park evoked in her , a strange and inexplicably eerie sense of dread , that prevented her from letting her daughter venture into that park. She could not explain it, and being a superstitous woman, did not make any attempts to, and simply forbade her daughter to play there. So her daughter never did. "
.
"Her first reaction was one of utter shock, as it should be when the subject is not clinically insane, which she definitely wasnt.She had sat there with her mouth hanging like those ridiculous cartoons, for a good fifteen minutes or so. In fact it would be fair to say that if IT had happened in those fifteen minutes, she would definitely have died of the shock.

Cheesy poofs

Adulthood sucks. I mean this whole concept of having to be up till 3 at night because you can, and if you dont you are "still in school" and all that crap sucks ass. Just think of it. This is specially true of people who try to be up till 3 by watching tv series with 20 minute epsiodes. watching amovie is a good way to stay up till 3, but then i dont know what happened to my movie habit. Movies just switched off once i started watching tv series. I think its the sheer repetetiveness ofthe whole damn process that gets to me. the only thing i seem to be doing all the time is selecting a new file to play, with 20 minutes of rest in between, as if selecting said file to play in unsaid avi player were analogous to wanking. everything else is analogous to what logically seems the most plausible candidate for it to be analogous to.

No. night time is to be meant fer sleep and nothing else. in fact, we should go to sleep as soon as it gets dark, which is around 6 PM these days, and wake up when its bright and sunny again, because, well, waking up before its bright and sunny during holidays sucks. and is reserved fer parents only. because they have to till the land fer me to have enough money to support my drug habit. And day time should be tastefully occupied by watching educational pornography, eating light dainty morsels pleasant on the tongue and to our respective humours, and in between, get some reading done while lazing around like a big anaconda in a bigger bathtub filled to the brim with lukewarm water.

Of course, i could envision grander ways to spend my waking hours, but come on. i am a pragmatist. I cant just dream about lazing around in a big soft bed filled with the fur from persian cats and the choicest handpicked cunts. It just aint possible. but ye, what i described in the last paragraph is. In fact, I just realized, this is what brainless american blonde daughters of millionaires (BaBeDOM) do. except the porn maybe. But then again, who knows? Maybe what they say about BaBeDOM is true.

true? time to bru some hot strong coffee, poppy. The reference to Cheesy Poofs was a red herring, indirectly advertising Cheesy Poofs based on the (assumed and obvious) premise that Cheesy poofs make you insane, and (assumed and obvious) premise that insanity is the beast thing. Topmost top thing. 10/10 makes a perfect ten.

Ooh, and I almost forgot amidst all the scatological literary equivalents. Happy Yulemas. Find a mistletoe, find a hot chick, and do the needful.
Merry Christmas

•Prostitute /ˈprɒstɪˌtut, -ˌtyut/ –verb : to put to any base or unworthy use : "to prostitute one's talents"

Every blogger needs material. He (pardon for gender bias from reader assumed) has to look around for things to blog about. Bloggers who religiously follow this golden law of blogging never run out of readers, all their blog posts have lots of comments, and lots of readers. Whereas bloggers who dont, who write convoluted shite like this very piece of shite you are wasting your time by reading, dont get readers. It is as simple as that. And since, inspite of all assertions to the contrary, Blogging is an activity that is analogous to baring your torso, this is sometimes a disquieting fact of life. Of course, as long as we are in this metaphorical (or, isn't it simile-cal?) realm, we might as well warn the reader of abstaining from any such blatant act of exhibistionism and, well, nakedness, if his fat intake is anything close to my fat intake. The ladies might not be so tolerant then.

But disquietude apart, I think I have unwittingly conditioned myself to the art for art's sake motto. Except when it is about Sourav Ganguly, who I consider an artist in his own right, and am instantly subjected to a million jokes and a billion sneers. But , thats another subject I wish not to dwell on in this post. A dear friend of mine has made a habit of writing about the hottest current topic, and right now, you can guess what it is. Now, I love and respect him deeply (in a purely platonic and heterosexual way, I should add), and this disclaimer has nothing to do with the fact that I am going to forcibly make him read this post in about half an hour, but I consider this some form of prostitution. I consider blogging a very high form of art, the boundless potential waiting at each moment at the footsteps of any blogger is immensely mindboggling. You can write whatever flows from your brain, flowing through your heart (a hypothesis that is widely disputed), and finally moving your fingers in a gentle dance across that discotheque called "The Keyboard". If there is any degree of truth in what I just said, I would think it follows naturally that you should not restrict the area of this metaphorical dance floor by placing at each moment political agendas on the floor.
Keep the dance floor free of garbage, and twirl your heart out.

Notwithstanding that rhetoric, I would still say that sometimes, as a blogger (albeit one who isn't particularly up to date in anything other than Cricket) , it is hard to resist to the temptation of taking the "hottest road" . After all, it is insane to write about blogging ideals at a time when Mumbai is burning, Live, 24 x 7 on NDTV. True that I didnt hear the bomb blasts, and the only hint of genuine, but repressed distress I sensed was in a friend from Mumbai who has spent the last three days watching CNN and BBC videos and laughing insanely and nervously while engaging in this activity, yet maintaining admirable calm in a situation in which I would have visibly panicked, still, as a blogger, maybe solely as a blogger, I have felt several times over the last three days that I ought to vicariously benefit from the plight of Mumbai as have so many Media people, and fellow bloggers from what, viewed dispassionately, is top quality blog fodder.

But till now, I have successfully resisted. Maybe I am old fashioned. But worry not, I am well on my way to modernity. By the time I am 80, I'll be as big a cunt as the rest of you.

Adieu Dada

I have always been a fierce fan of Dada. Fierce is indeed the word, for readers who might be smirking at my choice of the word. For ask anyone in class 12 B, batch of 04, Seth Anand Ram Jaipuria School, Kanpur, I once fought off an entire class of 50 in a heated debate over him on one of those not so infrequent occasions when our English teacher decided that English is better taught by letting people speak, rather than making them read. Over the years, the evolution of my own personality has mirrored that of Dada. That is probably why I am surprised that I actually feel this urge to write, on his last day in international cricket, to give an account of sorts, of what it meant to be his fan.

Being a fan of Sourav Chandidas Ganguly is at once the most gratifying and the most infuriating of experiences. People who were never would never understand what it is like. To really root for someone with your heart and soul, To be not just insanely happy when he scored a hundred or took a wicket or took a catch or even, ran a single (which, I must admit, he wasnt particularly good at), but to think what you'd give up, if it made any difference, to make him score another 50, hit another 6, caress another ball with silken grace past point. I still remember that when I was 14, before every match I used to imagine him scoring a hundred, I used to play out every ball in my mind. To his penultimate day in international cricket (and I am 22 now, and NOT a certifiable maniac), I never lost this habit. I used to conjure up from the depths of my brain fantastically grand images of brilliance, yes-he-can-ness, of sheer Dadagiri, and frankly, to me, it seems a lot more than 18000 runs and 38 centuries. For I have seen him score a hundred more, in my waking hours and in my dreams.

That is what being a Dada fan means. It was never part time, for me or the million others like me who rooted day in and day out for this man. It was an emotional bond, there was no room for the cleaner emotions if you were his fan. There was no dispassionate, unbiased, rational justification that made us such. He was never Sachin. He was never meant to be. You did not love him because he made so many runs that you'd hate yourself if you didnt. You just loved him, unconditionally. A slump longer than the Great Depression, statements that often were more indiscreet than Paris Hilton , controversies left and controversies right, it didnt matter. Once you were a fan, you just were a fan, and goddamn proud of him, no matter what he did. Such were the chords he touched in your heart.

Being a Dada fan was hard. For whenever he reached the brink of statistical greatness, he somehow contrived (or so we believed) to throw it all away in a maddenning flash of insanity. It meant that anytime you could teased by a whole bloodthirsty gang of classmates baying for his (and your) blood. But being a Dada fan was fun too. It was more fun than anything else. Because you got to see that incredulous, sheepish look on all those who doubted him, so many times. In hindsight, I think he rather enjoyed that. Adversity brought out true greatness in him, whereas calm collection of accolades never appealed to him. To him, it lacked that aroma of medieval adventure that his heart forever craved for.

In many ways, his life was a drama. Played out over a lifetime. There had to be a twist in the tail. and a twist in the tail of the twist. Ad infinitum. He enjoyed making people notice him. For you never could be unbiased about him. Sourav Chandidas Ganguly. You either loved him, or you hated him. You could not NOT care about him. A nation went silent when Sachin got out, but as far as Dada was concerned, the nation was never silent. You were always screaming. You'd either be heaping him with the most hyperbolic accolades and adjectives, or you'd be adorning him with the choicest obscenities. there was no middle ground.

That was what being a Dada fan really meant. For in some perverse way, even his bloodthirtiest detractors were his fans. He was like the Sith. For you could hate a Sith with all your passion and energy, and even that would turn you into a Sith. That was the power of Dada. The intensity of the passion he evoked in you. And that, I believe, is what you'll miss the next time you tune in to watch India play.

PNA-L N5230 A

I must admit in a somewhat sheepish (?) fashion that my catty (???) lifestyle affords me little time for lavish luscious activities (also describable with other adjectives starting with the letter L) like blaaging. But I have had 9 months unbroken of one post every month, and so I must do my utmost to keep up this Dog-gone dogmatic and otherworldily doggerelly tradition of using words that pay their homage to India's most common animals (ye , sheep too, their tribe has increased, thanks to abou ben adhem) in mindbogglingly shitty pieces of e-floating-junk

Anyway...last antaragni is ober....as various individuals have in varying degrees digressed to realize: the end is near....somebody tore my dear checked shirt in ze glyder concert...guess headbanging/gers shouldnt be checked/chequed/chequered..whatever... some fat fellow with long curly hair who , as our esteemed zunily put it, is from KQA but is a tam, arseducked us in the...lets see... yea..last 4 rounds of a 6 round MELA quiz....this Mela having nothing to do with the dusty places you and your sister accompanied your grandmother to to buy balloons and baboons and other boons and banes when you were two...

Enough Pooing around. I run the danger of being referred to as Dash the Pooh. or Poof. your choice. Any information about the individual/agilent network analyser bearing the birth mark mentioned in this post title would be most welcome, and would be rewarded with an MNS free trip to Bombay...

and presumably, you might want to settle there. Yeah. right

oo...and KKR's manager started off on aquestion about eratosthenes' sieve...and in 15 seconds, it became eroticawhatevershite's sleeve...now the funny thing is ...he got the erableh part right throughout...its just that sieve became sleeve became siege, when he was running thru the questions again...

primes are in PEEEEE... yipeeee yay yipeeee yay yipeeee yipeeee yay

The fall

A throbbing, a painless inanimate mechanical throbbing engulfs my entire being, threatening to erase the last links I retain with what I once was. I am a coin now,an old coin, worn down to a smooth polish with criss crossing lines across my face, with a silhouette that you will notice only if you peer hard enough. Maybe if you ran your forefinger on me, not too hard, but softly enough that you would feel something if there were something to be felt, maybe then, you'd sense an almost imperceptible undulation , as you would on a mound of earth flattened by a bulldozer.

I wont bore you with how I remember the time when I had a lot more than you see now, when I was a hearty lad with a cheery disposition. I do remember that time, or maybe I dont. It doesnt matter. It was a long time ago. Or at least seems that way. I am not sure any longer,not sure when it started. And in a sense, that seems just about right, this freedom from aspirations, this state of anonymity, where you'll hardly notice me unless you were to accidentally tread on me. I am aware that I still retain some worth to other individuals. I still have, as I understand, certain uses, though not for myself.

Sometimes I think that my situation is not beyond repair. Well, repair in a manner of speaking, as I dont really mind the way things are now. Age has gradually brought me the understanding that its all futile anyway. But sometimes I do catch myself thinking that maybe my reverting to who I was is not totally impossible. After all, I do sometimes make vague attempts to communicate, deep inside I do seem to be half aware that something is amiss, something is askew in the road I took. But then, I find myself gently melting away into a state of suspended animation, life coming to a crawling pace before halting, and I, laying there as if paralysed with mouth agape, stare lifelessly through glistening eyes, while image after image in an endless stream of images is branded,searing hot, into the back of my brain.

There will come a time when it can take no more. Then suddenly, the stream would have to turn back, as bullets turn back from the body of some cheap comic book caped hero. I am vaguely aware that I must prevent that from happening . The Doctor said so. Not that it matters, but this light really blinds me. I must close my eyes. Now. I must close my eyes now.

But I really dont know how.How?
I really dont know..

Alimentary, my dear Mace

In light of recent rather unmentionable events , I abandon whatever I might have said about any metaphysical shite. Henceforth, all such past happenstances (which babylon tells me means "chance occurence", though I am seriously in doubt about the chance aspect of the whole sordid affair) will be recalled or brought forth only by those who believe in Rebirth.

Right, having cleared that out of the way, what can take the place of Metaphysics as my Chief Useless Pursuit?Well, for one, we could try answering why anybody, even a Jedi Knight, would be named "Mace". I wonder what kind of a kid "Mace" would have been. I , for one, certainly wouldnt prefer having him in my class, and though George Lucas does his best to assure me "Mace" lived a long time ago, in a galaxy far away, I shall forever have the creeps. Why, I just checked the current Phd students of some 45 universities, and I was rather relieved to note that none of them had a Mace enrolled.Yet, that is.

I wonder if Mace can be used as a verb. Like "Club". Then maybe Lucas got his name wrong. Maybe he really was called Mace Window, a name that expresses a sentiment that I am all too familiar with,and yet I would not switch to Linux for my life. There is a certain perverted joy to be extracted from paying for things that can be replaced by better alternatives that are free of cost.

Imagine if english language spelt "elementary" as "alimentary", and "alimentary" as "alimentary" too. And then, Imagine a situation where Dr. Watson is replaced by Dr. Mace. I am very sure that the phrase "Alimentary, My dear Mace" repeated 125 times a day would go a long way in alleviating our deplorable state.

Talking of english language, I dont really know what ancient texts George Lucas delved into to give us this wonderful double trilogy, not to mention a whole "Star wars expanded universe", but its fascinating to note that English language has survived unchanged since that time , which as He makes a point of mentioning , was indeed a Long long Time ago, in a galaxy far far away. I wonder what happened to the curious language of wookies, which, though sounds like a donkey in agony, was undoubtedly one as rich in expressive power as Fortran. Lost in Translation I expect. Of course, Star wars loyalists should try to reconstruct the Wookie language from Han Solo's responses.

This is indeed a time consuming, and , might I add, ricly rewarding task, that might address the problem we first stated in Paragraph 2. I have already devoted my life to it, and have already started decoding the Wookie code. For example, "Grunk Grunk" means "Cant you come here to hold the welding arc while I try to locate the contact points?" , whereas "Anh Anhhunk" means "Luke will come to save us". But a lot of work needs to be done for us to truely understand the full range of emotions Wookies were capable of expressing. Who needs Metaphysics, eh?

low budget angst

I am fucking bored and it must be somebody's fault.i got like a million things to do and yet I wanna have notrhing to do with any of them. I must do stuff. I know that. I read cartoon strips and I suddenly wanna be witty when I have numbers in my brain..I am playing tennis whn this *&$%^$ reminds me of jake sledghammer and i want a new diversion so to speak when i am doing fine with one. i am online on gtalk the whole fucking day, and all i do is watch youtube videos . i even comment on those fucking videos m descendoing to thw depths of crackmonkey74 and bloodleechnoob456 . punctuations and correctness of form no longer appeal to me. I am fucking out of this. all this savagery and debauchery and whatever othger ery can cross ur mind has to be somebosy's fucking fault.i cant evem read THAt paper, and i have 2 more dys to read it. i ant read a fucking book, and i cant watch a ficking movie..all this is somebody's fault.it fucking has to be. in trhe morning class my mind gose sexsexsexsexsexsexJenna Jamesonsexsexsexsex... and when i am watching porn, i think shit, i never ealized that the boundary coondition is THAt important. Icant even watch porn. I have an attention span of a fucking 5 year old, and all this has to be somebiody's fault. and to top it all, anythink anybody says, my mind goes, "what a fucking privk, i understand his parent scouldnt afford a good education, but did they afford any"? all this must be somevbody's fault. go away
seriosuly
go away
i fucking hate all of you

The Essence of Celluloid

I am sick and tired of people who watch movies and then they'll say, "Ok, that guy jumped from a cliff, onto the ledge underneath, thats believable. He misses that ledge, thats believable too. But then he lands on a tree, and then it so happens that there is a cave opening in front of that tree. Now hows that possible?"

I am sick and tired of such people. Its not that I am saying "look dude, its a movie, just watch whatever they show, and if you cant keep shut, just take off and go and dig yourself a hole". Though let it not be mistaken, I would say that if I could.

But there's a deeper reason in my humble opinion than "its just a movie" If a person jumps from a cliff to escape whatever predicament he finds himself in, there are hundreds of possibilities of how the next few seconds will pass. At the point when he takes off, he can pass through any point on his way down, there is always a finite possibility. But if he went straight on, would you care to make a movie about that? Would you tell a story that goes like "He jumped from the cliff, and fell straight on down, and smashed to smithereens on the hard rocks below, and then slowly the vultures swooped down one by one, and the wolves started howling. Next morning, they found just the bones"

Poetic maybe,but not a story worth telling. No, Out of those hundreds of possibilities, the one that seems the most outlandish, is the one thats worth telling, Its outlandish , so its worth telling.
There is this new practice among film makers to make movies about "nothing"
no climax, no nothing, just plain life taking its least action path, no deviations, just plain , anticlimactic as life alone can be, no shocks, and then the titles come up, and people say " oh thats it? what a great art film"

Now with all due respect to these "filmmakers", they miss the whole point of telling stories, of making movies. A movie is a temporary suspension from reality. I dont need to watch a movie to know what'll happen 99 times out of hundred. I see it everyday. Artistic license is not a freedom, its a constraint that all artists have to obey in order to earn the right to be called artists. Otherwise there is no difference between art and pornography. If there were cameras 2000 years ago, then I am sure Jesus would be considerably less popular than hes now. People dont want reality. People want a representation of reality, reality seen through bottle, distorted pleasantly out of shape. That is the essence of a good story

So my advice to all cynics who manage to find something wrong with every movie, go out onto the streets, maybe you'll enjoy what you see out there

My Encounter with Shri x 24

Last week, I was pleasantly surprised when I boarded the train to find a man who had a striking resemblance to Param Poojya (Shri X 24) . Having regularly followed broadcasts of his lectures on how Potato sales have been affected positively since biologists have come up with new ways to produce smaller, starch free potatoes, and on how the left nostril is the one that should be used in inspiration when ingesting the aforementioned vegetable, I was positively thrilled at the distinct possibility of my companion actually turning out to be the Peerless Param Poojya (Shri X 24).

There was, however, one thing about this man in sitting in front of me. The Param Poojya (Shri x 24) who appears regularly on National Television is usually clad in a Saffron (every Indian's favourite colour, if you didnt know) tracksuit, and wears brown chappals. This person, however , was clad in a pair of blue jeans (torn around his shins ), a T Shirt bearing a slogan of some sorts ( I think it said "Georgio Armani"). , and Reebok sneakers. I was a bit taken aback, and if any of you had been in my position, you probably would have faced the same consternation that I was faced with at that precise moment.

For here I was, alive and warmed up to the possibilty of spending time with India's foremost icon, one so noble that he thought of naught save potatoes, but at the same time, I was also aware that if I were to accost this man thinking that he was the aforementioned icon, and he turned out to be someone else, well then I'd be in an embarassing soup.

I shuffled around uncomfortably for a long time, thinking about whether or not I should talk to this man. I was especially suspicious of the slogan. What if he turned out to be one of those dangerous miscreants that we've been reading about in the papers of late who have been planting tomatoes in potato farms? What if the slogan T-shirt on his really said "Down with Potatoes " or something henious and heartless of that sort. Then I suddenly remembered (Yes, I am sure you all figured that out a long time ago, its just that I was too panic stricken to think as fast as Potato Eaters should be able to, according to Param Poojya (Shri X 24) ) that the Reverend M.O.P. had recently been on an advisory tour to Bacteria, Where he also happened to calm down two warring Central Ropean Tribes who had in the heat of battle spilled over into Bacteria , and perchance, they happened to be warring about The Potato Rich Lands that lay on the border separating their territories (One can only shudder at the thought of what could have happened if Param Poojya(Shri x 24) hadnt been visiting Bacteria at that moment).

This revelation briefly emboldened me. So he must have got this T- Shirt in Bacteria. But then, my tiny mind began to bubble with a million questions, the satisfactory resolution of almost all of which required an entity far greater than me, and I knew that well. What Was this slogan then?
Was it potato related, or Was Param Poojya (Shri x 24 ) about to embark on another crusade to revolutionize the way we looked at yet another aspect of our society? If so , did the Slogan contain a clue as to what He (x24) would grace next?

So these questions kept bubbling and issuing forth , for about an hour, and I kept repeatedly turning my head 270 degrees to alleviate some of my curiosity, and also to prevent my arteries from bursting from the admiration coursing through them (For by now, I was positive, That the Occupant of the seat opposite to me was None but He (x24)).So again, I did something that I thought immdiately afterwards that I would have Plenty of occasion to regret, but in Hindsight, it was the best thing I ever did.

For I blurted out (genuflecting ere this Great Occupant) "O Master of Potatoes Param Poojya (Shri x 24) Ji, What does that slogan on your tee shirt say?"

And He said ,

"O Son, I have been dying for someone to ask Me That. Undoubtedly, you have learnt Well, and have become a True Potato Eater. The Slogan on my Tee Shirt says (in Bacterian) "Georgio Armani", which , in your tongue, means that the man who cares for Potatoes more than Foreign Exchange, shall eventually inherit the Earth , and all forms of denominations used to effect the exchanges between countries in Times Past. Remember my words well, son. "

Tears of joy in my eyes,My soul Burst forth into a thousand tiny joyous smithereens. His logic was crystal. Seamless, smooth , transparent, the highest embodiment of the rules that join truths to make truths.

And I,insignificant for so long, was the chosen, blessed One.

Chat log with "The" Chachi

Well, I figured, what the hell, This is crap enough to be on my blog. Ergo, here we are, a rare glimpse into the inner workings of the minds of two utterly jobless gentlemen, one of whom, we are told , burst a capillary in his thumb trying to play his guitar.Sticklers for correct orthography, be warned. You may suffer a cardiac arrest in what follows


me: open sourse is like communism
source
ssgosh: yeah
10:47 PM
me: since there is no mmonety involved, well, everybody is a propaganda device
:DF
ssgosh: communism should ideally rule the world hmm
me: you are a commie bitch? :-X
ssgosh: yeah why?
me: Oo I believe that there should be a high and alow
ssgosh: hmm
10:48 PM
me: and i believe there IS ahigh and a low
ssgosh: what high low?
me: in this universe we live, the anisotropies are as important as the large scale homogeneity
ssgosh: hmm
10:49 PM
me: so trying to smoothen out the landscape is based on a fallacious assumption, that we can do that which is not provided for by nature
ssgosh: i feel that in the modern world, i should not need to fend for food
me: and that, my fiend, is impossible
oops friend
ssgosh: hehe
me: :D
ssgosh: i should get whatever's needed for living, and then be allowed to do whatever i wish
10:50 PM
me: ok if you say so but that takes away the incentive to be extraordinary
ssgosh: so instead of curbing individualism, i am supporting it, if you can see that
no
me: or in john nash's words to matter
10:51 PM
ssgosh: that takes away the incentive to work to have food
if, let's say, machines grow all the food, and no human being needs to work to survive, then everyone would be able to whatever they really want
10:52 PM
me: ok so you aint a commie
ssgosh: fuck all night with whores, or study cosmology or whatever
me: you are a socialist
ssgosh: hmm i dunno what i am i have my own ideas :D
me: no
10:53 PM
ssgosh: I am Karl Marx !!
me: actually, you are an idealist
ssgosh: bwahahahaah
me: :D]
ssgosh: bow under my supremacy !!!
hmm
me: \O/
ssgosh: idealist meaning sahi, u bowed
10:54 PM
me: :D see this isnt being a commie
being a commie means its a sin to wearn more than your neighbour
ssgosh: ah
me: its a sin to achieve more than your neighbour
you do nothing
10:55 PM
your state does it
ssgosh: in my world, there is no achievement...
me: you are a lifeless feelingless cog
ssgosh: state gives you food, and you do whatever pleases you
there's no pressure...no responsibilities
10:56 PM
you are free
me: have you read 1984?
ssgosh: no
me: that is a commie world
yours is an idealist world
ssgosh: hmm
ah
me: yours is a utopia
communism very soon degrades into a dystopia
10:57 PM
ssgosh: it's a utopia until humans need to work
once there are machines to do everything, it's no longer a utopia
after that, human beings would be able to concentrate on the important stuff
10:58 PM
me: why is it a utopia till humans have to work
ssgosh: everyone would have time to think, what is my value in this universe
me: you mean its NOT a utopia till humans work right?
10:59 PM
ssgosh: no...i meant that until humans need to work, my state isnt achievable, because again there would be pressure and responsibilities..
me: ok
ssgosh: some people would need to work to grow food
11:00 PM
whatever..
i mean
me: yeah gottit
ssgosh: for a majority of people, there should be options..
to do whatever they want to in the world
right now that's possible only for a few people who are rich
me: no
11:01 PM
a utopia is not a state of bliss for the majority
its a state of bliss for ALL
our world will eventually tend to that blemished version of a utopia
ssgosh: i am talking about an achievable state..
yeah
11:02 PM
me: but the pure, pristine utopia, boy, that is nigh impossible
ssgosh: a few peopl would still need to work, they'd be groomed, like, say, bees
me: yeah :D
ssgosh: i dont care about that, if most people get it, it's fine if some don't, tough luck :P
me: yeah
11:03 PM
so in todays world 90% are the have nots
not too bad eh?
ssgosh: hehe
me: but if someday, 1% are in a position o be opressed by 99% of the population
that'd be a sad day indeed
ssgosh: actually no, cuz there are emotions too...neccessity is not the only thing binding you...society is there too
me: the equlibrium exists because 10% oppresses 90%
11:04 PM
its like a mosquito sucking your blod
ssgosh: hmm
me: when it getas too annoying, you swat it
but if you were to suck the mosquito's blood
ssgosh: hehhe
me: why, there is nothing that the poor thing can do about it
ssgosh: heehe'
11:05 PM
he can fly away
me: the only way out of this is to have only suckers, but no suckees
in other words, nobody in a position to be oppressed
ssgosh: hmm
me: if that is impossible, then its much better to let things be the way they are
11:06 PM
ssgosh: dunno..that's none of my business anyway
me: ie, suckee is much larger than the sucker
ssgosh: as long as i get free pussies and good food and stuff to think about, i'm okay
me: I am putting this chat on my blog if you aint
ssgosh: hehe
me: :D
ssgosh: put that pussy stuff at the top :P
11:07 PM
me: :D hahahaha
11:08 PM
ssgosh: i mean, what more does one want for life, your basic needs and a goal
me: A glass of wine, a puff of weed
A comely lass, is all I need :D
ssgosh: hehe

The Master Whiner

Whining is an art. I can attest for that, for I am a master at it.I am the master of whiners. All these years, I have been good at lots of things , but what I have been best at , really, is whining about how I really am not good at them. People go as far as to ask me how I happen to be so good at something as complex as whining, whether I have tips for them on how to become better whiners, for really, one of the deepest and yet most scantly realized truths of the human condition is that the most preferred state of existence is one in which everything goes right with the individual, and yet he whines effectively about every aspect of his existence. But try as I may, I cant help them. For whining is not something you can acquire. Its not a skill. Its a freak mutation of the genes that only very special individuals are born with. You should see my parents try and whine. They sound happy even when they are at it.

I was chatting with a friend of mine, when I switched to Super whine mode about how the modern generation is so unfortunate as not to have to scope to really expand their minds, how we keep on learning things that others did to explain occurrences that others observed , and how had we not been so unlucky, a few hundred generations ago a few generations of couples could have had kids a couple of years before they actually had, and how it would have all accumulated, and we'd have been born 60 years ago. Then he, presumably bored by my whining (for people want to whine about their lives,but somebody else whining, now that isn't a pretty sight), said that he had to tune his guitar.

The funniest thing for me is that when these lesser mortals are around whiners, they keep providing them with whine fodder, thereby aggravating the situation they are so desperately trying to avert. They just keep saying things in order to stop the leaking whining , and slowly the leaking turns into a steady flow, then into a mini flood, and the takes the deluge route to an out an out natural catastrophe. You keep hearing about these hurricanes? You heard of the butterfly effect? Well if an 8 year old ever asks you how hurricanes start, you have your answer.

So anyway. This was whine fodder. Oh yeah baby. Primo. Then , much to the chagrin of my dearly beloved friend, I kept blathering on and on and on and on about how I always wanted to play the guitar, and how I am too lazy to actually go out and buy one, and how if I bought one, I'd almost immediately lose interest in it. I also vaguely remember whining about how I really really wanted my cosmology course to be one on GR. I have no idea how that came up. I guess I really let myself go that day.It swung from my inability to play a guitar to the cosmology course back to guitars, then onto some other things I'd rather not mention on a public forum.

Now get this. This guy is the politest guy I know.So I really really must have let myself go to make him tell me to stop whining. He could take it no longer. I had reached his breaking point, and then ladies and gentlemen , IT happened.

Now I swear this , I never know when I switch to whine mode. Its like this unstoppable power I have that I have no control over. Who knows what I could have achieved had I found a way to harness it. I'd beat Gandhi , who was , after all, a really really really good old nagging whiner (No Offence). So what followed, was, albeit unprecedented, totally unintentional. The next fifteen minutes was a haze. Fifteen long minutes on, I realized, that after my friends rebuke, I had been Whining, about how much I WHINE!!!! My friend had given up. He was just replying in hmms and ohs. I am sure he had tears in his eyes.If he didn't, He is Superman. I was whining about how much I whine! It was amazing, when I actually realized what I was doing, to hear myself rant on and on and on about how I always thought my personal relations are affected by my tendency to whine. It was strange and grotesque and fascinating at the same time, like one of those really ugly turtles they show on Discovery channel, and all the hosts always seem to have that weird disgusted look contorted into a smile, touching the turtle with he tips of their fingers, and yet, pretending to actually pet the turtle as if it was a furry pooch. You want to run as far away from the television as you can, and yet it draws you to it. Grotesque can be fascinating.

So, even if my statement seemed a tad preposterous to you when I started out, I am sure it seems more like an understatement now. I may be the only Man alive at this time who has actually whined about how much he whines when he is not drunk. I didn't consider women. They whine a lot less than men anyway. So please, allow me to refer to myself, as The Master. The next time somebody complains that you are whining too much, just say "I know the Master" . Trust me, the subject wont be broached again.

Les années terribles

And as I lay breathing in the Oozing pit,
My mind fixed on That festering Solenoid,
swimming in a pool of bluey golden pus,
My guts chewed in half by the Green Siberian,
That an hour ago did me the ultimate honour,
Slapping my cheekbones in two and two,
Blood flavoured Deep Pink Choclate,
Oh how sweetly she melts, how meltily sweet,
That shape shifting sorcerer, that once had
the temerity to be me, maybe only to,
Irk the Brown wine into rebelling against
The sweet walls of my tummy aches
Doggerel I am well versed at, Nay, Give me not that,
Thou hast lost thy soul To my Pet Pomeranian
A Sin that in its inanity baffles me to the worlds end,
Wherein The seeker, trenchant, sets out,
To be Cosmo Kramer.
Amen

Rock and Roll aint dead

I tried to keep myself from adding this one to the humungous pile of shite that has already piled up here. But Wolfmother did the trick. Now, unfortunately, I am in such an eloquently doggerelly mood that I can hold it back no longer.

So here goes. Hallelujah,for rock and roll is not dead. It has long been me belief that I should have been a creature of the 60's , my soul gyrating to impossibly quaint pieces of Hedonism given permanence by a generation of musicians endowed with special powers by he who rules supreme in Heaven, if there be such a place. I so decried today's "music" with the hatred of a thousand suns, a million kegs of vitriol overturning in my heart everytime I heard what passes as Music today. Gone were the good ol' days when you had people waiting in anticipation for Zeppelin or Floyd's next subtle bit of insanity. Gone were the good ol' days when a Tommy vinyl record was the highest you could go in terms of earthly possessions. The music was so powerful back in those mystical times that it shaped a whole generation.

But alas. Man decided that he no longer wanted to be led, shaped by music. He lost what made him human. The wise say that the downslide started some four centuries ago with the industrial revolution, but thats too far back for us to lament. We can lament what we have been bereft of recently, and there arose a creed of lamenters, who continuously lamented what they percieved the slow and excruciating death that Music was being put through. It made them sad, and exacerbated their own travails. I am not even talking of what the masses swear by, as the masses are arses. My sympathies with you if you think that Jay-Z makes music. I'll gouge out your eyeballs if I ever meet you. What really hurt was what passed off as music of the thinking man. You must pardon if I have insinuated something against you and if you own my arse in any way I may or may not know of, but if I have offended you, then look at thy visage in mirror thine, and thou wilt see naught but a donkey. Anyway. The section of the society that was once catered to by a Musical industry that had a delectable menu ranging from Page to Clapton now lapped up cacophonous sequences of frequency modulations produced from millions of dollars worth of instruments that were naught but soulless creations by soul less men. People started swearing by increasingly disharmonious objects being passed off as music, and the Industry started taking the easy way out and producing and distributing what they too knew, deep within , was no more music than produced by banging tin cans against each other.

I should add "Most" to that statement probably. There was always a subterrenean presence of those amongst us who refused to be polluted, and drew their daily dose from old dusty records of that long gone golden age. They held strong, and battled hard, even when their cause seemed lost. They still drank only from the fast drying pond of Rock and Roll, once so luxuriant and abundant that such a predicament would have seemed impossible. They didnt lose faith even when people started referring to lesser arts by the moniker rock and roll. Suddenly everybody was a rockstar. The masses , who anyways always thought Rock and Roll was all about the Drugs and Sex, wholeheartedly hailed poseurs with Cocaine habits and licentious intentions as the flag bearers of rock and roll, and since supposed defining attributes of Rock and roll required significantly less talent , everybody became a rockstar. MTV made things worse than any record company with ulterior motives could have, and the weak were brainwashed.

But we held strong. To be fair, there have always been flashes of occasional brilliance to support our ingeniously stated hypothesis stated above so many times that I feel no need to write it down again. But the past week has opened my eyes, and I feel vindicated, as I am sure do many like me. First I heard Jet, and then Wolfmother. Jet had me jumping up and down like an overexcited bunny on a deathrow screaming that Rock and Roll aint dead, and Wolfmother actually had me teary eyed . Even the lizard on the wall was teary eyed, although it might have been that awful smelling bug it ate when I was playing Wolfmother. But anyway. These people have grown up on Manna, and they produce accordingly, speaking of higher truths lesser mortals cannot dream of. They are not exactly Jim Morisson yet, but give them time, they'll ripen. That both bands are Australian says tons about which way the nation is going. They arent the best Cricket team for nothing you know.

And before I begin yet another excursion into the Silver City , I'll say it once again
Rock and Roll is back!!!
Amen

Dot

Now I fully understand the fact that its inappropriate to start a sentence with the word "now", and especially so if that sentence happens to be the first sentence of a body of text. But I just did, partly because I cannot figure out a way to get past more than 15 levels of The Desktop Tower Defence, (which I must endorse on account of its being an addictive flash game that isnt actually as stupid as Stick Cricket, in which my career run rate is above 22, or Stickfootball, where I make Thierry Henry score four goals for me about thrice a day), and partly because I realized that my blog posts have actually been aspiring to be sensible for the last year or so.I use the word "aspiring" , but in case my reader (may his tribe increase) (Oh gosh! I forgot, I used that line quite a few times in my blog already) is that literal, I must point out that a Blog Post is fundamentally incapable of Aspiring, It not being human. Heck, a blog post is not even living.

So,whoever's reading is obviously wondering (shame on it/him/her if it/he/she is not) ," Oh wait, the claim that this blog post is about nothing at all is flawed, for it does seem that the Esteemed Author (note the upper case) is trying to point out that his blog posts have been aspiring to appear to have a reason, and is maybe resenting the fact, on account of his firm belief that the world is governed by disorder, not harmony".

blah blah

Except that I never really made that claim. I merely said what the reader must have been thinking at that point of time. Or wait, maybe thats what I wanted my audience to be thinking at that point of time, so I subliminally triggered this chain of thought in his/her/its mind. The evil,evil me.Plotting and Scheming Sequences of Thought . And considering that Thought often translates to action, I might just have won myself an election in Bihar. Oh ! you didnt get that Bihar one did ya. I can tell dude. Oh you did, What did you say? Oh, should have known. References to Disorder gave it away didnt it? Not as smart as I think I am, am I?

Oh. that was a slip. You see, (well , somebody sees, so you might as well see) This Post had a reason after all. You see, I had planned to subliminally advertise Bihar, thereby induced you to move there, and then when I had induced a sufficient fraction of my fan base to populate Bihar and spawned in Bihar, so that my people would pouplate Bihar in vast numbers, I would have moved to Bihar, contested elections, eaten some fodder, and spent the rest of my days comfortably curled up in an airconditioned cell in Tihar, sucking at Dusseris, and life would be just beautiful.

And how that one slip of tongue trashed that whole Great Indian Dream. Its just not right. Nothing really ever is.