Avaunt Afflatus Absurdus

Tener duende

2012-01-24T13:04:00.000-08:00

"Um, you know at our age and at our level of numbness it's hard to find good literature and appreciate it and get inspired."

Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, cunning cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.
But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.

--My friend, I want to trade
my horse for her house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for her blanket.
My friend, I come bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
--If it were possible, my boy,
I'd help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if that's possible,
with blankets of fine chambray.
Don't you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?
--Your white shirt has grown
thirsy dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees a
round the corners of your sash.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.

--Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balconies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.

Romance Sonambulo - Federico Garcia Lorca.

Happy New Year

2012-01-01T12:14:00.000-08:00

Baby, you are the reason cavemen started to chisel on the walls.

And to all those people who stray here from time to time, happy new year.

So yeah, drinks on me.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK I AM GOING TO HELL

2011-12-26T13:12:00.001-08:00

All the liquor, money and women aside, my mind has been cluster fucked by this. We are all going to hell.

You who live safe
In your warm houses,
You who find, returning in the evening,
Hot food and friendly faces:
Consider if this is a man
Who works in the mud,
Who does not know peace,
Who fights for a scrap of bread,
Who dies because of a yes or a no.
Consider if this is a woman
Without hair and without name,
With no more strength to remember,
Her eyes empty and her womb cold
Like a frog in winter.
Meditate that this came about.
I commend these words to you.
Carve them in your hearts,
At home, in the street,
Going to bed, rising;
Repeat them to your children.
Or may your house fall apart,
May illness impede you,
May your children turn their faces from you.

Primo Levi.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/If_This_Is_a_Man

Exuviae

2011-11-25T13:24:00.000-08:00

I don't know what I am any more, or what I'm doing
Now I'm on fire, now I'm freezing
Every woman makes me change colour,
Every woman makes my heart flutter.
Simply at the name of love, of delight
I am upset, and my heart beats faster
And I find myself talking of love
From a need I can't explain.

The Marriage of Figaro. Beaumarchais.

Diz no Hank Moody Shit!!

2011-10-20T17:34:00.000-07:00

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.


if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

So you want to be a writer - Charles Bukowski.

ps: I love Hank Moody.

Ostensible Observations

2011-09-14T14:44:00.000-07:00

So yeah, i got like three massive compliments in my official email today. Which is kind of a big deal for me cause it has been ages to hear a compliment. I had this anti-social fatigued phase going, where i am not seeing anyone and working too much with a stand-in manager whom i truly loathe. Not because he is bad but he is annoying as hell.

Narcissistic little girls we are after all. I am posting the comment which mattered and meant the most to me.
Customer's big shot managers come and go, girls are forever.

I am listening to two songs on repeat at the moment and here is what i think.
Superheavy - Miracle Worker.

There is Damian Marley in it. He is still very cool. I mean way cooler than anyone i've known or seen. So since he descended from Bob Marley's sperm, so Bob Marley's sperm was way cooler than i've known or seen. Imagine how much cool Bob Marley was. It's like cool within a cool. Inception where are you?
Joss Stone. I like her voice but lot of people have called her dumb cow. No wonder.
A.R. Rehman, Indian dude for diversity.
Dave Stewart. Don't let his drowsy heroin dosed looks fool ya. Check out his solo stuff and one to one collaborations with Mick Jagger.
Mick Jagger. OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG.
Mick Jagger's name rhymes with imba swagger. Deal with that.
Mick Jagger goes AWWWWWWWHHHH and i have ten mental orgasms, can't imagine what happens to ladies.
Mick Jagger still skinny as stick and sexy as hell.
"AWWWWWH There is nothing wrong with you that i can't fix---li come running with my bag of tricks" OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG---I am cured, brother, Hallelujah.
Mick Jagger's androgynous dance moves are sexier than anything i will ever do. Sigh.
Mick Jagger was a sex god in the 60s.If you became a sex god in 60s, then later sex goddish standards will hit such lows that you will be a sex god for eternity.
Mick Jagger, how special you are.
Mick Jagger is my 100 puppies, some friend suggested on facebook earlier that we should make a yard for 100 puppies and whoever is depressed goes and plays with them to feel better.

Nina Simone - Just in time. I would share the link but youtube live version's have terrible quality download from piratebay.

Black people made real music.
White people made "Repeat forever" option in media players. MP3 and digitally remastered LPs.
This talent-less lazy brown boy is very thankful and thinks he knows what heaven would be like.

Cruel Conflict

2011-09-11T13:33:00.000-07:00

"She is new at work. And you know despite of one’s relationship status, one is always looking for some fun at work. But damn, industrial capitalism and related nuisances of sexual discrimination and harassment have left very few stones unturned to make flirting at work almost non-existent. Damn the Man. So we got introduced very formally on her first day. And that was that.

Second day, I was late as usual and rushed in to stop the almost departed elevator. The doors opened and she was in there. Before entering I just froze in my tracks for a split second to see her there in all the morning glory in a dimly-lit-terrible-synch-music-playing elevator. She noted it and was struck by it.

Third day, when there were three passage ways on our floor, she chose the one which was by my side arm, ensuring that I engulf in her sweet perfumes.

Fourth day was the weekend so I didn’t see her.

Sixth day, she was wearing eye make-up. May be that eases eye-contact for women but makes it much difficult for guys. Especially for guys with astute and well-honed observation powers.

Seventh day, she changed her hair. And now since a guy has one chance to note that hair change, I told her in most casual tones, that it looks great.

Eighth day, she casually comes over to share cookies with my team.

Ninth day, we have morning coffee together.

Tenth day, we have lunch together.

Eleventh day, my best friend comes over and warns me about repercussions that involve seeing a girl at work.

Twelfth day, weekend again.

Fourteenth day, I act aloof and ignorant, being all mysterious.

Fifteenth day, she comes over and asks me about my weekend as I don’t look particularly pleased.

Sixteenth day, caught between asking her out and not.

Seventeenth day is tomorrow.

But she has smoothest skin I’ve ever seen in my life and when she laughs she looks so innocent through her up curved eye lashes that it makes me wonder if she ever had an evil thought in her life.

Here is to tomorrow and things here to unsaid, stories untold, passions unfelt, bodies untouched, novels unabridged, hopes unthreatened and longings unashamed."

PS: 9/11/01 is a personal landmark for yours truly. The first time in his life yours truly exchanged emails with a certain lady which was a very upscale exchange back in the day. It’s been 10 years, a decade and a life time and oh the things we have known since.Will do a feature script on that soon.

Goddess type woman singing about a date.

Weekend Wonders

2011-09-03T12:34:00.000-07:00

Things I want on weekend mornings :

Big breakfasts. Garden green Omelets with mint, corriandar, lots of tomatoes, sprinkle of onions and spring greens, bit of ginger and cheese. Like really green and fulfilling.

Cigarettes.

Being alone.

Feeling fresh and rejuvenated.

Pineapple juice.

Coffee.

Plenty of time and no rush.

Light workout.

Long shower.

Enough time and access to progress on The Cantos. Access to progress = The Cantos are full of mythological similes and foreign language idioms and many a times yours truly can’t understand many lines as much as he hates to admit that.

Sitting topless (once I have the six pack) on balcony smoking and having beers ogling at women in the street. Feeling the summer breeze and very bukowski-ish.

Now pleasures are simple enough. And there is no reason that any man should be denied of them.

Things that I usually have on weekend mornings which are utterly detestable.

Hangovers.

Feeling tired.

Being half tipsy from the last night.

Have usually to go out for outdoor-sy activities with colleagues/friends/families with kids. (Kids are total whistle blowers on their parents. Has been entertaining at times)

Rushing through the shower.

SHAVING. Fuck.

Empty coffee or creamer jar.

Occasional guest. The morning after is rarely fun.

Dickhead lazy best friends popping in for my awesome omelets.

Cheap ass Nescafes.

No alcohol.

Newspapers. FUCK.

Phone calls from work.

Phone calls from family.

Friends messaging on gtalk.

Hangover wearing off at 3 PM when half of the day has been ruined.

More social activities.

Placating pissed off friends for not showing up at things.

No Books.

No music.

Self loathing.

Spilled alcohol on tables/counters.

Rubber smell. EWWWW.

Wish you a nice weekend, babies.

Reflections on a Rendezvous

2011-08-24T15:53:00.000-07:00

Dear skinny-tall-Girls with dreamy-watery-eyes and frilly-hair and picture-perfect-pouts and just the right-shoulder-width from suburban-towns that exist just outside massive metropolitans-who hit the metropolitan's downtown on weekend nights to get drunk and get off with gullible sweet boys such as your's truly and then toy with their emotions in following week and have absolutely one-night-standish to non-committal to summerflings attitude,

Party in your own pathetic towns, please.

Yours demurely,
Thoth.

PS: On second thoughts, you open up the entire week for lot of other people and are more than perfect arrangement provided you keep up your weekend promises no matter how uninteresting you prove to be during conversations.

PPS: Oh and another summer almost gone. September is probably the cruellest month. With lot of allergies and flus around and post summer lethargy in the air.

Huh Graduation

2011-08-04T07:14:00.000-07:00

http://www.funny-city.com/3203/

I just graduated again. After around a year and a half. Out in the open market. Feels......different.

Subverting Seduction

2011-07-29T05:38:00.000-07:00

So yea the art of seduction is most complicated and can’t be taught. Because like every other science there are no limits to it. It’s like an ocean on which ship sail softly and serenely and let’s say for instance, Ship A is out of grains and sees Ship B and beckons Ship B over to barter grains for another bounty. Wait, what this is nothing like seduction. If you think like that you will never get lucky, what is this mumble jumble about ships? Are you still thinking about it. Seduction involves people, not ships.

Anyway other day a friend was saying something that The Art of War is one of the most widely read classics. I seriously doubt that. This has nothing to do with our subject but this was just an opinion. But here is a short dialogue about seduction.

“This is good food.”

“It’s been ages that I had a nice dinner with prettier lady with a candle on the table in the soft summer evening breeze. “

“Ah! Quit it. I am not going to fall for such age old methods of seduction.”

“Oh! I am sorry; I forgot that it is 2011. So what will you fall for?”

“Hmm! I want a car wash scene, wash my car and let me see what you’ve got.”

“What? Are you crazy? I HAVE NEVER WASHED A CAR IN MY LIFE? THERE IS NO WAY. AND IN MOVIES WHY DO THEY WEAR SHREDDED JEANS SHORTS FOR CAR WASH SCENES. Can I um, do it in my soccer shorts? ”

That’s just about seduction.

My friend earlier today was taking about business ventures. Our business ventures usually involve funky, let me rephrase really funky ideas, such as underwear for men. For example, there have been a huge number of lingerie brands out there. A pair of some of these cost more than yours truly’s weekly wage. But there is not a single brand of fun briefs for guys. All there are those Jockeys and Ralph Lauren’s plain boring briefs and models with washboard abs. Yours truly wants to do something for the common man. You know mid twenties working class, with a bit of flab and love handles. And our brand name would be GUSUM. ( G and U’s (G and U being the initials of proprietors) Sexy Underwear for Men). We will be rich and living on an island and watching waves, drinking daiquiris, smoking cigars and designing underwear for men. Yea that will be the life.

My friend also suggested that we can open finally a lingerie store (for women, obviously) but considering mine and his spending habits and attitude towards women. This idea was quickly taken off the table. Reason being that we will lose our empire of GUSUM and go bankrupt in half a day. As our marketing strategy was going to be something like, “If a woman walks into our lingerie store, and we guess her size correctly, we will give her any pair, for free.”

Here is another reason, why Bukowski fucked my life.

tonight

"your poems about the girls will still be around

50 years from now when the girls are gone,"

my editor phones me.

dear editor:

the girls appear to be gone

already.

I know what you mean

but give me one truly alive woman

tonight

walking across the floor toward me

and you can have all the poems

the good ones

the bad ones

or any that I might write

after this one.

I know what you mean.

do you know what I mean?

Tonight – Charles Bukowski (From Love is a Dog from Hell. Amores Perros baby)

Lovely Lunatics

2011-07-25T22:31:00.000-07:00

She said out of pity for him, "I shall give you a kiss if you like," but though he once knew, he had long forgotten what kisses are, and he replied, "Thank you," and held out his hand, thinking she had offered to put something into it. This was a great shock to her, but she felt she could not explain without shaming him, so with charming delicacy she gave Peter a thimble which happened to be in her pocket, and pretended that it was a kiss.

Peter and Wendy - J. M. Barrie. (Same guy who wrote Peter Pan, can you believe that?)

“We met at a party around a month ago. Hardly through the formalities of introduction, she started flirting and I took to an instant liking of her. I am always willing to sacrifice ten honest sweet hot loyal boring women over one flirt; you know how I am wired. Plus flirts are always smarter than others and are emotionally stronger. Anyway our host took me aside and warned me about her. She told me that my new acquaintance is trouble and rather promiscuous. I didn’t show it to my friend but she was just pushing the hooks deeper neither did I told her that when it comes to that I am no saint myself. But silence is golden.

Anyway we danced, laughed and flirted. She kept grinding and teasing me. An hour or so later we were drunk to the point of being wasted off our faces and making out passionately. She told me to quit trying to eat her mouth. I was ready to leave with her, when her best friend/roommate fainted. Considering my track records, something had to give. Anyway I went home alone, drunk off my face, horny as hell and unsatisfied. I have never understood how can women just walk away from us in moments like this. I mean one moment they are swept off their feet and swooning and next moment she has to brush her teeth. Ah.

So I sent her a couple of texts, called her couple of times. But one thing or another we just couldn’t hook up. Couple of weeks passed. I didn’t contact her again. I met another girl. I almost forgot about her. After one month, I ran into her at another party. I was with another girl but that didn’t stop her from teasing me. Finally she was grinding against me again. I had enough manners to turn her down as i had a date. She asked me why didn’t I call. I told her she turned me down one too many times. She told me to meet up the next day for dinner and gave me an eternity long lecture on quitting smoking and how has she done it. My date watched us while I gazed at her lips and resisted the urges to kiss her again. She left, I left with my date, who wasn’t very happy about proceedings. Now this one gave me serious warnings about the flirt, I told her it was nothing. But despite of my skills, I don’t want to control my body language particularly when I am drunk. So the date left. I went home alone, once again drunk, horny, angry and feeling lonely. This had happened to me twice because of this girl. She had to be punished.

On Sunday, I took her out. We went to a restaurant of her choice, food was not good. She had a pretty laugh, I liked her. She flirted with me as usual, I made her laugh as much as I could. She liked it. She talked, I listened. When she hesitated, I pulled stories out. It was the usual story. Betrayed in love, pushed around by parents, lost faith in religions and god. Finally after graduating in business and working couple of years in a major financier player, she broke free. And started working as a marketing consultant in a magazine. Now she was the editor of a fashion magazine. I have always trusted my gut in liking people and now I was sure that from the start I wasn’t wrong. She drove to drop me. There was lightning on the horizon and I told her that I miss summer rain of my country. She told me its not going to rain. Anyway we parted on a low note, a mere handshake, saying that we will keep in touch. I was a bit disappointed that I am off the game.

Next day, in the evening I was sitting with my mates, drinking left over whiskey of weekend and playing our indoor cricket. It started to rain immediately which is quite a coincidence in this city. Soon I received her text. So something was working. After couple of text bounced, she told me she was in the neighborhood. I asked her for coffee. She came and we went out. This time she was more at home with me, laughing even more and opening up easily. I kept scratching her for secrets to know her. I had only heard about her stories of being easy. It came out that while she is known in my circle for one night stands, three days a week she volunteers at dog shelter, insane asylum and cancer support group for kids. I was dumbstruck. I have always liked this kind of insanity. I knew, whatever happens, whatever my friends say, she and I are going to be buddies.

She came to drop me, it was quite late. So there we were, in front of my door. She fidgeting with the radio. I asked her what did she think of me. She smiled and told me that she finds me a very strange person. I wasn’t surprised but asked her to shed more light on it. And she told me that when she meets a boy, she figures them out in less than five minutes, how much spine they’ve got, what they want from her but she is yet to figure out what I want from her. I told her the truth. I wanted nothing from her or anybody else. But I could use a kiss goodnight. She laughed and tease that she is, told me that this is no way to treat a lady by forcing her to kiss when she has taken the trouble of crossing half of the town to drop a guy besides, when we were making at the party I was so hard that she was afraid, I might swallow her tongue or lips. I didn’t tell her that I don’t treat girls I fancy like a lady, I treat her like a queen. I held her hand, then her face and kissed her. I kissed her very tenderly, sweetly. You know the type, which comes with the mellowness when all the bitterness has melted. We kept locked softly for a while, then she broke away and looked at the road. I could see it in her eyes, she hadn’t been kissed this tenderly for a very long time. I kissed her again. Then I asked her to come up, she told me she has work in the morning and has a long drive, she can’t. This girl wasn’t going to do it to me for a third time. I was furious.

I asked her again to come up. She refused. I kissed her again to convince her, this time harder. She was turned on, but she sighed resignedly and turned the engine on. I got out, angry. Standing at the curb like an idiot, asking her, can you really go. She drove off but as she did that, she put her hand out of the window and with her eyes fixed at me in the side view mirror. Then she kept driving with her hand held out of the window like she was trying to reach out to something. When a woman is with a man, she wants to be adored, charmed, spoiled and exploited. A man can’t fake that, even if he can, he can’t do it for long. I believe that women understand genuineness of emotions naturally and can’t escape them.

I watched her till the block ended, with her hand held out and as I watched her go like that, many things moved inside of me. And her beauty and her mad lifestyle just broke my heart, right there. She went out of sight; I lit up a cigarette and sat on the curb absentmindedly. Few minutes later, a car entered the alley; she had come back with a smile brighter than the headlights of her car.”

Amy Non-Alexandrian

2011-07-24T05:36:00.000-07:00

With words, with countenance, and with manners
I shall build an excellent panoply;
and in this way I shall face evil men
without having any fear or weakness.

They will want to harm me. But of those
who approach me none will know
where my wounds are, my vulnerable parts,
under all the lies that will cover me. --

Boastful words of Aemilianus Monae.
Did he ever build this panoply?
In any case, he did not wear it much.
He died in Sicily, at the age of twenty-seven.

Aemilianus Monae, Alexandrian, 628 - 655 A.D ----Constantine P. Cavafy.

Apparently a hell lot of people die at the tender age of 27. I have wished several times, that Buckley, Morrison, Hendrix, Buckley and Winehouse could've lived longer. They all made wonderful music and me someone who believes in good music.

Go listen to Love is a Losing Game right now.

Womanizer's Woes

2011-07-12T23:57:00.000-07:00

“Why does your dial list only consists of girl’s names and more so why are there prefixes of W or G with them?”

“W is for woman and G is for girls. This is so that I don’t forget which one is which.”

“Good lord! How do you distinguish between the two?”

“Well! Firstly there is always this age criterion. Anyone under 25 is a girl and over 25 is a woman.”

“Pray enlighten me what is secondly?”

“It’s the difference of attitude. You see, a woman looks into my eyes and sees what I want and then she encourages me. And I get more encouraged. A girl looks into my eyes and she sees what I want but she is confused about it and she believes she can make me want her rather than what I want. She thinks she can change me.”

“Well, these are pretty much universal definitions but the age thing. That’s discrimination.”

“All’s fair in love and war and subsequent incriminations.”

“True. In our dark lives, women are like sun and we are like sunflowers, bending and orienting the way the sun shines.”

“Must we get as much as sun as we desire. But then soon enough there are two suns in the sky. And the poor sunflowers are confused. They want to bathe in the light of both suns and get the photosynthesis going but ultimately have to turn to one. And soon enough again, there’s another sun or then the night descends and a new moon ascends.”

“And then the sun rises at dawn again, and we wake up with scars or love bites or lipstick marks or nail scratches or swollen toes that we stubbed in furniture and wonder what the fuck happened last night and why is the TV tuned to muted looney tunes channel .”

“This is good shit. How about putting in something about making the breakfast on ‘the morning after’?”

“Yea! Better write it down.”

“Be sure my brother that I will use it again.”

“You won’t remember my face in the morning.”

“I won’t. But I will remember what you said. Trust me. I have uncanny power of memorizing dialogues. Although I am sure that words will lose half their weight when I am sober again. Trick is to avoid truth as much as one can while sober and lie as little while drunk.”

“Sounds quite black.”

“That reminds me that I love black but not on women. Unless it is black sexy lingerie or a slutty black dress.”

“Have you heard of the song, lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her shirt off.”

“Yea, Panic at the disco.”

“I think the best reply to that would be that flirting is the most fun a boy can have without taking his wallet out.”

(Drunken conversation between two complete strangers while waiting for food at a bar at an airport at 4 am)

Where will this end.

Casual Acquaintances Need Our Advice

2011-07-12T23:55:00.000-07:00

(I wrote this around 14th or 16th May 2010. Never posted it here cause didn't have internet at home back then and addressee pissed me off about something. Found it couple of days ago in the backups. It is terribly drafted and i couldn't be bothered to modify. Putting it up here for the record).

Dear Casual Acquaintance at Work,

So yea past couple of weeks have been crazy you know. Cause I got to know you a little more. And knowing you a little more was a lot more crazy than I would’ve thought. But life is crazy and I am Crazy with a capital C. And you are not crazy; you are just like the first 20 degrees in the arc of the C of Crazy with capital C. So yea, you see what I mean.

Anyway don’t even get me started on the subject of relationships and how two people make a special bond and decide to spend the rest of their lives together forever. Through thick and thin, bread and butter, rain and sunshine, china and melamine, heaven and hell, sharing soaps and shower gel, and all. But I don’t want to delve in that realm because I can paint some dreary pictures. One thing I’d still say is, either everybody is special or there is nobody special. By which I actually mean is that, all I am saying is that in any given space or time, (well not particularly space, I mean here on any city on earth, like a good city, like ours and by time I mean, like time, evening or 8 PM, maybe Friday), there is a mind boggling number of very adorable and very desirable young women out there. They just happen to slip by unnoticed or just don’t invite us to their sinful soirees. But yea its happening, MAN, just like global warming.

Anyway so yea, you know how I digress when I talk and beat around the bush a lot. (Which is an actual idiom and not a euphemism for you know what). So yea past weeks, I personally found them disturbing, certain terms of your engagement. Firstly and foremostly you know what. And I am just not going to mention it. Secondly that the girl is VERY smart and doesn’t wish to go to college. I’d just leave that to you too, just to give you a sleepless night. But it’s not about her.

It’s about you. Well, don’t ever tell anyone that you plan to have four children and then give them reasons as to why four. Because one kid will be lonely and will get messed because of solitude, two kids will just team up against you (WHOAT?) and three is just an ODD number (and you don’t like odd numbers) and four is the first (fuckin’) even number after three. Plus as you said, the number of children you’re going to raise is partly dependent upon your spouse (as SHE has bear to them and its called BEARING them for a reason).

And don’t ever dare describing certain postures adopted during copulation to ME or ANYBODY. D’ya fuckin’ hear me. ANYBODY. We all know them, they have been around ever since Adam and Eve and trust me Adam and Eve were here a very very long time ago. And surprisingly you don’t believe much in religions and you are protecting your fiance’s picture from the evil eye. A little naively superstitious some would say. On the plus side, if you tell this to the lady in question here, she’ll think that this is the most romantic thing possible on the face of the earth and will be like, totally on to you. Women, a little less endowed in the head, aren’t they.

Well then, you don’t need even need that hair gel and hair cut that you have been obsessing about for so long now. Despite of my repeated repeatings, you are more capable of being a success with women (need I say woman, now) than I have ever been. And I have had a fair share of luck, on a day or two. And since you are reading this, do you know how few people read this, do you think it’s random that you get to read what I wrote. And be it four or two or octuplets (whichever is the word for having 8 babies at a time) you will be great, (just don’t wish them all to become programmers) and like I said before you will always be favorite with them ladies. I don’t lie man. So yea, there’s lucky girl you’ve got there and not the other way around.

Anyway, sorry for being so mean to you in past few days. I’ve been low I know, plus Oma really helps. But you know what you’ve been acting weird with us. And do you know why, cause you’re bloody in love now. So yea here’s to you two, and a prayer to see you both cruise through the solace, serenity and the promised sanctuaries.

All the best.

Yours Vehemently,
Thoth.

PS: You fuckin’ share this, and I’ll fuckin’ fuck you up so bad, that you’ll fuckin’ wish that you never fuckin’ knew me.
PPS: Much love.
PPPS: I have some interesting ideas about your future evenings. We shall discuss soon.

Fuck-Buddies has been around since Vanilla Sky i think

2011-06-28T03:20:00.000-07:00

"And what do you think you are going to call this relationship?"

"I have always fancied the name Victor a lot."

Got dumped. Humor is so under appreciated. And your quote of the week and strong is.

"They have perfect eyelashes, they have unscratched legs without varicose veins, they have shoes with soles as thin as pancakes; they have hands white and smooth as peeled potatoes and when you smell their smell, it fills you with a God-forsaken longing."

John Berger- Lilac and Flag

BRB

Pale Fire Stale Desire

2011-04-19T08:09:00.000-07:00

Yo negroz. Whuss happening yo. Yo i'm lyk really busy. I got some great stories. Like for the party we threw for 28 girls last weekend. What i did that party. My 2 new best friends. Strip Secret Sharing game that i invented the week before. My new love the Ballantine's orignal etc etc.
But i have no time and internet at home.
And i am trying to steal my best friend's girl. Only because i have never done that before in my life. Plus he is not very serious about her. My friend is richer, fitter and healthier than me, and i have given him a head start of two dates.
The girl likes good movies, him, his money and an occasional book.
He doesn't stand a chance.

Meanwhile, i was confused over something and re-opened my bible. Here are some of most favorite passages from ma bibly.

"Sybil, throughout our high-school days I knew

Your loveliness, but fell in love with you

During an outing of the senior class

To New Wye Falls. We luncheoned on damp grass.

Our teacher of geology discussed

The cataract. Its roar and rainbow dust

Made the tame park romantic. I reclined

In April's haze immediately behind

Your slender back and watched your neat small head

Bend to one side. One palm with fingers spread,

Between a star of trillium and a stone,

Pressed on the turf. A little phalange bone

Kept twitching. Then you turned and offered me

A thimbleful of bright metallic tea.

Your profile has not changed. The glistening teeth

Biting the careful lip; the shade beneath

The eye from the long lashes; the peach down

Rimming the cheekbone; the dark silky brown

Of hair brushed up from temple and from nape;

The very naked neck; the Persian shape

Of nose and eyebrow, you have kept it all -

And on still nights we hear the waterfall.

Come and be worshiped, come and be caressed,

My dark Vanessa, crimson-barred, my blest

My Admirable butterfly! Explain

How could you, in the gloam of Lilac Lane,

Have let uncouth, hysterical John Shade

Blubber your face, and ear, and shoulder blade?

We have been married forty years. At least

Four thousand times your pillow has been creased

By our two heads. Four hundred thousand times

The tall clock with the hoarse Westminster chimes

Has marked our common hour. How many more

Free calendars shall grace the kitchen door?"

Pale Fire - Vladimir Nabokov. The greatest genius ever.

R.I.P Elizabeth

2011-03-23T07:42:00.000-07:00

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Giant and Cleopetra. All time favorites.
Richard Burton too.
Anyway, one of the most beautiful women ever.

Image from Selvedge Yard. Wish i had HQ pictures of her from Cleopetra.

Happy Valentine's Day

2011-02-13T13:20:00.000-08:00

i like my body when it is with your body
It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,
and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again kiss,
i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh. . . .
And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me
you so quite new
e. e. cummings

It's the best day of the year. And i apologize to all the people i've hurt this year. And girls i love you all. One or two more than others. A lot more. And i never stuck around but it will always be "I have been faithful to thee Cynara" kinda thing.

PS: I know so many cheesy love songs from all eras. You have no idea.
Even Bon Jovi's. But the theme of the post is sort of "Back then i was so young i was faith."

Tidy Timing

2011-02-01T10:50:00.000-08:00

"Walk tall, kick ass… love music, and never forget you come from a long line of truth seekers, lovers, and warriors."

Hunter S. Thompson

Hindering Happenings

2011-01-15T15:49:00.000-08:00

Play this before starting to read this.

~~So she is like probably the saddest chick i've ever met~~. I wrote and crossed that because almost i've every chick i've known was so sad deep down that it was freaky. I mean, any woman in need of love is a pretty sorry state of affairs. As insensitive as it sounds, but it's the truth. And truth shall prevail. Most un-interesting. Few years back she would've been very interesting. But now she comes off as another numb girl from Alfie, probably. After a couple of weeks, she has told me that she likes archery and horse riding and feels like an utter failure (quite a combination in this day). And doesn't know what she wants from her life. Has nothing figured out. The world has failed her and soul is nobler than body. Food means nothing and paying the bills and working for love is what the world is. But then i joke about this or that and her eyes light up. And must i confess, that is quite a sight, them there black and blue doleful enemies of the heart. Hopeful. Ah. And the grace of her when she is holding her forehead with her finger tips, elbows on the table, leaning forward towards me. I am pretty sure, that from a distance she would look like an arrow, ready to be shot. At me.

I know where is this going. Simple hellos leading to stealthy kisses around dark bends. Hours on phone. Same routines and yawns. Sneaky spots that make you feel whole and gratified. (I was winking to the screen as i typed that.)

I sometimes wish that girls could for once, take the route of shock and awe, that they so expect. Seriously, we get tired every now and then. Being so politically correct in our patient wooing, despite of being so horny all the time. I mean i don't expect lingeries or anything but give me something. Show me some love, women.

Shades are also now an obsession with me. Obsessions, ah, i love obsessions.

So other than that, i am regretting not getting the contact details of a girl that i met like two weeks ago. At a concert. That would've been such a cool story, we met at a concert. I even tried finding her on facebook, without knowing her name. Yea. I know that's sad. But the fact i even remember over a span of two weeks now, is even sadder.

I guess we all make mistakes, and i only believe in learning anything by doing the wrong thing. The hard way. The Man way. But my favorite mistake is ineffable. They talk about it and how it carries them through and through but for me it has always meant "having roses and never apologizing to anyone."

And i am sexting some girl, i met four days ago. She loves it.

And probably this is THE rock-bottom.

Here's to a new year. A good year (hopefully). And wishing you all a very happy new year. I am fourteen days late. But can you do anything about that, can you now?

PS: This is what i meant when i mentioned mistakes.

Man's Manifesto

2010-12-29T00:42:00.000-08:00

So yeah. Like i am a man and i have a manifesto. And i know my readers are like massively curious about what does a man's manifesto sounds like or reads like. And i know my readers have right now are being perturbed by some serious questions about the nature of the manifesto and some readers will be worried about the grammar and punctuation of the manifesto and some readers will be wondering whether this manifesto is in bullet format or in a paragraph. So inquisitive readers, this Manifesto is in bullet format because lists are cool and as for grammar, let yours truly assure you that this Manifesto was .

A real Man is preferably a Man. Duh.
Who da man? Real Man's a man.
Briefs.
No wife beaters ever.
A real man should be able to do more than 20 pull ups.
Cooks real good.
Can make a girl laugh anytime. Cause if you are able to make her laugh, then you know how much that is worth.
Can stand a liter of vodka.
Can do more than 50 pushups.
Not afraid to dance. And it's all in the hips baby.
Flirts real good. I mean Real Good.
Is a gore-tex shoes fan.
good at it.
has a job. ROFL.
digs world music.
Digs all sorts of people.
Knows people when he sees people.
doesn't regret about the chick he was hitting on last night and then leaves without finding her name or asking her name.

DAMN IT. Be a man. Don't let that magic go.

Manic Muse-ic

2010-11-26T13:04:00.000-08:00

FTW=For the weekend FTW=for the win

Some music for your weekend. Will be back with some ideas shortly, once i return to a definitive and predictive sleep pattern and associated normal brain functionality.

Heard this one at the new italian restaurant opened in town. Food didn't matter anymore.

And go dancing for fuck sake. It's good for body and soul.

2010-11-21T13:59:00.000-08:00

Before leaving he said to me that " I sometimes wish I wasn't this strong".
ROFL.

Things we lose in the fires

2010-10-05T13:20:00.000-07:00

"There are no conditions of life to which a man cannot get accustomed, especially if he sees them accepted by everyone around him." Tolstoy.

Things we lost in the fire is the name of a really really boring indie movie that i watched some 4 years ago but regurgitated it from memory lately. So yea i like people with a drive. For example two of my best friends can sing along to many Justin Bieber songs and one to Imran Khan. If you don't know who he is, trust me you are lucky.

And Remembrance of things past is the name of a book by Proust. By Jove, none knows. Memoirs, Music, Madness, Moonlight, Martinis and Music again.

"Now how did we get here again?"

Unusually Uninspired

2010-09-07T02:34:00.000-07:00

I miss alcohol and not giving a fuck about so many things and so many people, a lot. It is also kinda hard to find hotties to flirt with considering where i live, work and workout currently.

Moonshine Magnums

2010-08-25T12:28:00.000-07:00

Moonshine was on almost every American hobbyist blog i follow few days back. Here's my contribution. CatPower has pawned me. Read this.

Bad Blood, Bitter Birth

2010-08-01T13:54:00.000-07:00

" From my ancestors the Gauls I have pale blue eyes, a narrow brain, and awkwardness in competition. I think my clothes are as barbaric as theirs. But I don't butter my hair.

From them, I inherit: idolatry, and love of sacrelige; - oh! all sorts of vice, anger, lechery, - terrific stuff, lechery; - lying, above all, and laziness.

I have a horror of all trades and crafts. Bosses and workers, all of them peasants, and common. The hand that holds the pen is as good as the one that holds the plow. - What a century for hands! - I'll never learn to use my hands. And then, domesticity goes too far. The propriety of beggary shames me. Criminals are as disgusting as men without balls: I'm intact, and I don't care.

I will come back with limbs of iron, with dark skin, and madness in my eyes: in this mask, they will think I belong to a strong race. I will have gold: I will be brutal and indolent. Women nurse these ferocious invalids come back from the tropics. I will become involved in politics. Saved.

Now I am accursed, I detest my native land. The best thing is a drunken sleep, stretched out on some strip of shore."

Arthur Rimbaud's Bad Blood.

Death N Dance..

2010-07-11T13:16:00.000-07:00

Dear Death Time Calculator of Facebook,
Get your grammar right. You're fantastically close to be too true.

Yours Sexiest-Man-Alive-ly,
Thoth.

So we dance..
Alors on d… (X3)

Qui dit étude dit travail,
Qui dit taf te dit les thunes,
Qui dit argent dit dépenses,
Qui dit crédit dit créance,
Qui dit dette te dit huissier,
Oui dit assis dans la merde.
Qui dit Amour dit les gosses,
Dit toujours et dit divorce.
Qui dit proches te dis deuils car les problèmes ne viennent pas seul.
Qui dit crise te dis monde dit famine dit tiers- monde.
Qui dit fatigue dit réveille encore sourd de la veille,
Alors on sort pour oublier tous les problèmes.
Alors on danse… (X9)
Et la tu t'dis que c'est fini car pire que ça ce serait la mort.
Qu'en tu crois enfin que tu t'en sors quand y en a plus et ben y en a encore!
Ecstasy dis problème les problèmes ou bien la musique.
Ca t'prends les trips ca te prends la tête et puis tu prie pour que ça s'arrête.
Mais c'est ton corps c’est pas le ciel alors tu t’bouche plus les oreilles.
Et là tu cries encore plus fort et ca persiste...
Alors on chante
Lalalalalala, Lalalalalala,
Alors on chante
Lalalalalala, Lalalalalala

Alors on chante (x2)
Et puis seulement quand c’est fini, alors on danse.
Alors on danse (x7)
Et ben y en a encore (X5)

So we dance (x3)
He who say study, says work
He who says money, says expenses
He who says credit says credit
He who says debt tells you to go usher
Yes, tells you to sit down in the sh*t
He who says love, says kids,
Says always and says divorce

He who says close tells you of sadness because the problems do not come one by one
He who says crisis says to you the world, says third-world
He who says fatigue says wake again ignorant of it
On we go, forgetting all of these problems

And so we dance (x9)
And you tell yourself that this is as far as it will go because any worse would be death
And you believe in the end that you are finished with it, but there is more to come still! Ecstasy says problem, the problems or the music.
This takes you for the ride, it grabs you by the head, and you pray for it to stop
But this is your body, this isn't heaven, so you speak more than you listen
And you cry out even louder as it persists

So we sing
Lalalalalala, Lalalalalala,
So we sing
Lalalalalala, Lalalalalala

So we sing (x2) And then only when this is over, so we dance And so we dance (x7) And it still goes on

PS: Basier-Moi..Three more stories and i am done..M-E-R-D-E!!!

Autobiographical Analogies

2010-07-11T12:42:00.000-07:00

Sorts poorly translated original here

I was born in 1902 (slightly later)

I never once went back to my birthplace (Half check. Technically haven’t been to that town since 1989)

I don't like to turn back (Check. Oh yeah! )

at three I served as a pasha's grandson in Aleppo (No. Born to an un-illustrious family of losers)

at nineteen as a student at Moscow Communist University (Check)

at forty-nine I was back in Moscow as the Tcheka Party's guest (Let’s see)

and I've been a poet since I was fourteen (Check)

some people know all about plants some about fish

I know separation (Check)

some people know the names of the stars by heart

I recite absences (Check)

I've slept in prisons and in grand hotels (Prisons? Technically we are all just prisoners here of our own device, so yeah Check)

I've known hunger even a hunger strike (Fuck yeah! Check)

and there's almost no food

I haven't tasted (Fuck yeah! Check)

at thirty they wanted to hang me (Close)

at forty-eight to give me the Peace Prize (Uncheck)

which they did

at thirty-six I covered four square meters of concrete in half a year (Check)

at fifty-nine I flew from Prague to Havana in eighteen hours (Check)

I never saw Lenin I stood watch at his coffin in '24 (missed it due to time continuum technicalities)

in '61 the tomb I visit is his books (2003! Check)

they tried to tear me away from my party (Partaaaayyyyyy on!!!Check)

it didn't work (Fuck yeah! Check)

nor was I crushed under the falling idols (You can bet your sweet tush! Check)

in '51 I sailed with a young friend into the teeth of death (Not really but it’s on)

in '52 I spent four months flat on my back with a broken heart (2005! Check)

waiting to die (check)

I was jealous of the women I loved (Who isn't! Check)

I didn't envy Charlie Chaplin one bit (Check)

I deceived my women (Yesh!Wink! Check)

I never talked behind my friends' backs (Check)

I drank but not every day (Check and have not since 14^th March 2010)

I earned my bread money honestly

what happiness (Fuck yeah! Check)

out of embarrassment for others I lied (Check)

I lied so as not to hurt someone else (Check)

but I also lied for no reason at all (Check)

I've ridden in trains planes and cars (From first class Chardonnay bottles to hitch hiking on tractors to all sorts of third world local transport. Check)

most people don't get the chance (Check)

I went to opera (Check)

most people haven't even heard of the opera (Check)

and since '21 I haven't gone to the places most people visit

mosques churches temples synagogues sorcerers (2007! Check)

but I've had my coffee grounds read (No, not into occult)

my writings are published in thirty or forty languages (Uncheck)

in my

Turkey

in my Turkish they're banned (Uncheck)

cancer hasn't caught up with me yet (Check)

and nothing says it will (Check)

I'll never be a prime minister or anything like that (Check)

and I wouldn't want such a life (Check)

nor did I go to war (Check)

or burrow in bomb shelters in the bottom of the night (Check)

and I never had to take to the road under diving planes (Check)

but I fell in love at almost sixty

in short comrades

even if today in Berlin I'm croaking of grief

I can say I've lived like a human being (Check)

and who knows

how much longer I'll live (Check)

what else will happen to me (Check)

Double Da Damage

2010-07-07T11:51:00.000-07:00

I promise to be nicer to people from Monday. And i think it's Wednesday today. So got four days.

As a good will gesture, i'll share two good songs. If they don't make you, dear visitor, feel better, then know nothing ever will. Better kill yourself right now.

PS: It will never be the same without Fruscinate, Flea rules. When Kiedes is singing/rapping/speaking you can actually hear him spit saliva on the microphone.

PPS: I only listen to RHCP in summers, their lyrics suck i agree. But the voice is the experience yo.

PPPS: I was bit jokin' about being nicer to people. Well not a bit, the whole thing i mean. But whatevz yo.

Perspective Platitudes

2010-06-27T14:06:00.000-07:00

hen she woke up she was lying on her side. She turned on her stomach, lying face down as if trying to melt into the warm comfort of her bed. Winsomely she opened her eyes and glanced at the wall clock. It was 10:35 AM. It was as if it had happened before many times, a strange déjà vu the clocks can give you when your mind is blank. She thought. Both of her arms were under her stomach. She kept one arm folded under her mid riff and stretched the other out. And then folded it and with her hand she touched her cheeks and glided her fingers onto her chin and then neck. Lying still on her stomach, she felt her Adam’s apple and super-sternal knob and traced the veins on her neck. She felt up her jugular and ran her finger along it up and down and closed her eyes.

She started to imagine the day outside. It was warm, sunny, breezy and splendid. On a day like this one doesn’t wake up, one is either born or reborn. It had rained last evening hence rendering the skies bluer and more radiant than ever. And the sun, it was as if the sun had decided to shine all his glorious benevolence out in this particular day. And the breeze was gentle, coming in uniform periodic waves at the curtains of her room. Zephyrs intruding and just giving the tapestry a gentle push in a waltz and then leaning backwards. And she felt drawn to feel wholesome in her morning glory and post well rested blank mindedness.

Idly she opened one eye at time and then closed it and then opened the other and then closed it to amuse herself. And she then said to herself a new word each time, she practiced a move in this winking game of hers. For example, she would open her left ey and think of the first word that came to her mind, and the words were all sweet that sprang up. Such as tranquility and then she’d say serenity, and then calm. And the words kept coming like repose, rested, placid, and harmonious; yes the world does seem harmonious on such days. And as her mind awoke from this picturesque sleep, the words seem to change and thoughts began to wander. Abnegation, I lie here away from the world in absolute abnegation of everything but the coziness of this bed here, with my thoughts. And she twirled in the sheets. And said to herself, I am absent from the world today as she used to play truant on her classes in the academy just a few years ago. The academy, yes. Things have changed much since. And him. There was undeniable madness in his every way. And the way he talked and rambled and the kiosks and the smoke and the laughter. Laughter was everywhere back then. All days seemed like today back then. Or perhaps on this particular day, looking back at all those days seems peculiarly bright. There must be an interconnection somewhere, she thought. And the song, dreams, music and laughter, it is the life we’re after. And him. Annoying, intemperate and whimsical. And he was funny. And lord he was incorrigible. How shamelessly he flirted with that ancient librarian. And when I’d get angry with him and he’d just roll his eyes and tell me that the poor soul is too good and won’t cheat on her husband. Good God! always mocking me as easily as he could breathe. And when we were coming down from the mountains at night from my hometown, and it was a black dark night. And hundreds of lights were shimmering on the mountains chalets and down in the valley. It seemed as if the sky was not above but it was down below in the valley full of yellow stars and more redolent with life. I asked him to stop the car and said to myself that oh how beautiful was it, it was heavenly and divine. And in reply, he explained to me how electricity lights up bulbs. And I laughed so hard, that empty downhill road was echoing with my laughter.

And in mornings, when I’d see him and tell him that it is such a beautiful day. He would bend his eyebrows forward to assume an artificial air of seriousness and annoyance and tell me that today was the worst day of his week. As he woke up and when he was all dressed up he found that his socks drawer was all empty. And he had no clean socks and no one can imagine how disturbing state of mind can that lead one into. And each day he had a new excuse, from not having breakfast to not having a cigarette to smoke first thing in the morning. Oh he was incorrigible.

He was, she thought, and he is no more. And she felt her neck again; it was stiff now. She ran her finger along her jugular and it was beating in bursts. And smooth ebb of the veins on her neck had disappeared. Maybe he is right now in some other place, telling somebody that this morning he woke up only to discover there is no milk for his morning tea which has ruined his mood. She felt the knot in her throat thickening and decided that it was enough now. She quickly rose from her bed and busied herself as the day had begun and there was no time to squander.

Tyrannical Temptations a.k.a Evil Urges but with alliterative effects

2010-06-21T12:11:00.000-07:00

So like every one I know is like awesomely awfully supremely busy. They don’t have time to hangout, workout or anything out. Sometimes I think it’s the pressure of growing up; other times I feel it’s the pressure of growing old. And people just don’t have time anymore. They are so busy that it makes my bi-celled brain hurt, like seriously hurt, hurt. I mean everyone I know is just out there, getting their cars fixed, buying gas at stations, driving to work, driving to home from work, installing softwares on their computers, taking backups of their phones, having lunch, backing up outlook PSTs, finding the right phone applications, changing their profile pictures on facebook, reading newspapers (ROFL), discussing soccer, watching their favorite tv shows, playing addicting flash games and admiring the genius of icore processors. On more personal level, my brother is so busy watching soccer and waiting for his busted knee to heal which he busted by jogging only one kilometer, my manager is busy trying to hide his screen so that nobody catches him playing stick cricket (google it, if you don’t know), my x-manager is asking me the names of his team members, my team lead is busy asking me how to install softwares (apparently there are more managers and TLs on my floor than us plebs), STL (spiritual team lead, enough said) is flashing his new DSLR on bees, Noob is like reading books on his iPad and god knows who is filling the iPad with every known music simulation software (piano, drums, fruityloops and guitar and still counting), Noobest is just too busy playing hard to get to the girls at his work, soccer is what all my friends are talking about (On a slightly related note, they say that Rugby is a hooligan’s game played by gentlemen and Soccer is a gentlemen’s game played by hooligans. Enough of role playing games, says I. Go play Warcraft or something or play cricket which is a gentlemen’s game, played by gentlemen. And in soccer what I don’t get is, that a pushing and shoving is ok, but tackle is a bloody yellow card. Why don’t you guys just box? Seriously soccer is to yours truly, what maths is to ladies.), me and a friend at work just keep repeating Eddie Izzard’s jokes between us, and the world is busy in not getting the jokes, people who were expected to return in summers are busy in not returning, people who were supposed to leave in summers are way too bloody engaged in staying, my filthy rich billionaire (sarcasm) is busy in planning and tempting me to a vacation in Barcelona (after Rio De Janeiro, Kiev and of course Amsterdam), I mean everything is bloody mess, there is a chaos, dogs are eating dogs everywhere and everybody is kinda giving “Son of Man has no place to rest his head” vibes.

On the contrary yours truly is relaxed as ever. Tediously tried yours truly to follow the ways of worldly wise ways, but alas in vain. Yours truly has time on his side that never ends, no matter how much he spends. During the weekdays, yours truly counts forward the days till Wednesday which is the 3^rd day and then counts backwards the weekdays as Thursday the second last day and Friday the last as if to speed up and to kill sometime. And then comes the weekend, when yours truly is most busy of all days. Lying in bed all day long, getting up only to eat only if he has been awake for thirty minutes in bed and gets tempted.

Yes tempted you heard yours truly say to Chekhov’s writings. Chekhov was a foul beast full and boasting of temptous writings. Sample can be read here.

"During the first year of imprisonment, the lawyer, as far as it was possible to judge from his short notes, suffered terribly from loneliness and boredom. From his wing day and night came the sound of the piano. He rejected wine and tobacco. " Wine," he wrote, " excites desires, and desires are the chief foes of a prisoner ; besides, nothing is more boring than to drink good wine alone," and tobacco spoils the air in his room. During the first year the lawyer was sent books of a light character ; novels with a complicated love interest, stories of crime and fantasy, comedies, and so on.

In the second year the piano was heard no longer and the lawyer asked only for classics. In the fifth year, music was heard again, and the prisoner asked for wine. Those who watched him said that during the whole of that year he was only eating, drinking, and lying on his bed. He yawned often and talked angrily to himself. Books he did not read. Sometimes at nights he would sit down to write. He would write for a long time and tear it all up in the morning. More than once he was heard to weep.

In the second half of the sixth year, the prisoner began zealously to study languages, philosophy, and history. He fell on these subjects so hungrily that the banker hardly had time to get books enough for him. In the space of four years about six hundred volumes were bought at his request. It was while that passion lasted that the banker received the following letter from the prisoner : " My dear gaoler, I am writing these lines in six languages. Show them to experts. Let them read them, if they do not find one single mistake, I beg you to give orders to have a gun fired off in the garden. By the noise I shall know that my efforts have not been in vain. The geniuses of all ages and countries speak in different languages ; but in them all burns the same flame. Oh, if you knew my heavenly happiness now that I can understand them ! " The prisoner's desire was fulfilled. Two shots were fired in the garden by the banker's order.

Later on, after the tenth year, the lawyer sat immovable before his table and read only the New Testament. The banker found it strange that a man who in four years had mastered six hundred erudite volumes, should have spent nearly a year in reading one book, easy to understand and by no means thick. The New Testament was then replaced by the history of religions and theology.

During the last two years of his confinement the prisoner read an extraordinary amount, quite haphazard. Now he would apply himself to the natural sciences, then would read Byron or Shakespeare. Notes used to come from him in which he asked to be sent at the same time a book on chemistry, a text-book of medicine, a novel, and some treatise on philosophy or theology."

The Bet by Anton Chekhov. Its on wikisource too.

Oh and through by mere chance and half intuition, yours truly discovered the difference between a woman and a bimbo. Since you too, mon conferer lecteur will be awesomely busy, i'd let this demonstration be your homework to find the answer to this given sphinxy riddle. Well in simpler words, in the given youtube embeddiments one song is by a woman, other by a bimbo or should i say chanson de la femme et chanson de la bimbo.

PS: Veronique is not a bimbo.

O God thanks for this life and bass guitars and jive music and cymbals and Gerald Pino and gorgeous women and for all other rudimentary bounties too

2010-06-07T12:06:00.001-07:00

Cleaving Clemency

2010-06-01T12:20:00.000-07:00

I, Tiresias, have foreseen and foresuffered....
No I is not such a good start to it all.
So you?
That'll do.
You ...
Even better!
You thought, when you were younger, that there were tangible thresholds, for all the abuse that you could endure.
Well yes.
I am sorry for all that.
So am i.
Is I a nice start now?
Oh that's as vicious as You have always been.
Hahahaha.
Hohohoho.
For the muse.
Le Muse.

Like truly sorry.
And i will never have again a moment of doubt.

Summer and Movies

2010-05-28T04:19:00.001-07:00

FTW

Promethean Procrastination

2010-05-25T13:12:00.000-07:00

Our sad little word thrives on it. Imagine if it did not exist. Just imagine the possibility. Everything getting done on time in the right place in the exact right order. No butterfly flapping its wings in china won't die of guilt like three years later that OMG i caused a damn hurricane in Georgia and them brothers got some Dvd players and flatscreens for free. On serious note, why the mathematicians of the world didn't laugh hysterically while pointing at the presenter of 'The Butterfly Effect' is inexplicable. Oh no wait, all the serious mathematicians died laughing it, well that's what happened, if you think rationally there's no other way around.

Procrastination, it is pro, is crass, involves tea (lots of it, and cardamom flavors are definitely favored) and nation. Nation, no shit. It has a nation in it, no wonder that word has such an omnipresent ring to it. Procrastination is what our dear wonderful world thrives on. Mark my word. Next time you say "Oh well! when was the last time world wasn't falling apart" try connecting the dots. Nabokov did this phonetics thing with Lo Li Ta. She was Lo plain Lo et all. Try it with some other words and the share your findings. Abandonment is an interesting choice too. A band on meant. A ban don meant. The phonemes are wicked, the meanings wicked-er.

I have been putting off some things for a while. One involved a phone call to an old friend. It was totally worth it.

I hereby, solemnly vow under influence of no chemical, other than tobacco, adrenaline and testosterone, to do the following things during this week.
1. Take care of my finances.
2. Take care of my finances.
3. To not talk about fightclub.
4. Cut short on the Jamaican accent.
5. See a doctor.
6. Apply for a credit card.
7. Get a fuckin' internet connection. Seriously.
8. Haircut. Extremely optional.
9. A ~~shave~~.
10. The books. Fuckin' books. To buy more or finish the last ones, is the question.
11. Start doing something scientific, like as in learning the tables of 30s.
12. Apothecary. (No wait i am putting it here, as it sounds extraordinarily kick-ass.)

Twelve things and its already Wednesday. Whom am i kidding.

Sneakers Sneer

2010-05-21T05:56:00.000-07:00

"look yo all voyeurs and peepers

yo wake up every morn bit more bleaker

yo ai iz da light and delight keeper

cause i'ma wear my dem pink sneaker

to work yo"

*utter disbelief*
Yea i am that comfortable with my sexuality.
Ooooh Kaaayyyyyy!! Can i take a picture. Cause they are so bright that my eyes kinda hurt just by looking at them.
Sure, only if you promise to not like, kinda, you know post em around on the internet.
Thought you were okay and comfortable with your, um homosexuality.
I am around you but not around everybody.

Dear readers, even the gayest guys on the planet, including Harvey Milk, Justin Beiber, Neil Patrick Harris, George Michale, Elton John and anybody gay enough (I just realized i dunno a lotta famous gay guys) would think twice about wearing these shoes to work.
Noob on the contrary, is pulling it off in style yo.
I wanna donate pictures to Sartorialist.

James JOYce’s Joyousnes

2010-05-19T12:34:00.000-07:00

“His own image to a man with that queer thing genius is the standard of

all experience, material and moral. Such an appeal will touch him. The

images of other males of his blood will repel him. He will see in them

grotesque attempts of nature to foretell or to repeat himself.”

Ulysses-James Joyce.

The enigmatic first stream of consciousness or wait wasn’t it Chekov who philandered with that wench earlier. But damn the Ruskies, they are too big and strong and their dances have much better impact than Men’s Health’s quintessential quadriceps routines, to have any fathomable emotions. The question however remains, unanswered and thus the answer undictated.

Yours truly, hates streams of consciouness-es for it brings forth nothing but incoherent ramblings. A disease very common to undergrads as most of you readers, who have held the higher motives of studies and finer aspirations through their college years and oh-so-making-all-them-dreams-come-true, might have noticed. Yours truly was never short on such sort of artists, nay writers who’d rely on modern euphemism of rap music and Thus Spake Zarathustra thus creating horrendous amalgamations of two genres, which has lead to strong evidence of (their) insecurities and lack of imagination. Seriously Nietchzche?

Remember that first trick of being a tricky dude is morbidity. Manic depression has given us wonderful works of art. Ironically depressive dudes are usually much better at satire than their healthier contemporaries, nay comrades. The lights have burnt themselves out every night, but names have lived and dreams have interwoven a heaven in themselves across earth every dusk, every dawn.

However, with current circumspectivity let us go then you and I, to James JOYce. James Joyce, an Irishman with glaucoma and circular pince-nez tried to write the greatest novel in English, thus gambling with his nation’s repute as drunk, violent, barbaric, village idiot, elves and elks (ROFL! Seriously?),all that whiskey brews (DAMN!) with the Celtic spirit and stake-ing himself as the greatest writer of English prose. Would you O inquisitive reader like to know, how did he pulled off that shit? If you have a knack of forming a priori conclusions through preamble, then must yours truly spell it out for you? Three words, stream of consciousness(-es).

On slightly unrelated note, Ireland has city names like Cork, Dublin and looks like a medicated shampoo bottle. No wonder despite the name, beverages are the country’s main export.

For sake of brevity and hip-ness, here onwards, James Joyce will be addressed as JJ. So JJ was a short little man who liked to hunt his preys in brothels and bookstores. And later would visit a priest to confess both of his cardinal sins and then for flagellance would write all about during wee-hours of the night. Not worrying about his glaucoma and weakened eye-sight at all. Cause the dude was just plain crazy yo. Anyway his major writing credits can be wiki-ed easily.

JJ had a thing for mythology too. Hence he wrote Ulysses among other things.

Sample clippings.

“--He is, Stephen said. The boy of act one is the mature man of act five.

All in all. In _Cymbeline,_ in _Othello_ he is bawd and cuckold. He acts

and is acted on. Lover of an ideal or a perversion, like Jose he

kills the real Carmen. His unremitting intellect is the hornmad Iago

ceaselessly willing that the moor in him shall suffer.

--Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuck Mulligan clucked lewdly. O word of fear!

Dark dome received, reverbed.

--And what a character is Iago! undaunted John Eglinton exclaimed. When

all is said Dumas _fils_ (or is it Dumas _père?)_ is right. After God

Shakespeare has created most.

--Man delights him not nor woman neither, Stephen said. He returns after

a life of absence to that spot of earth where he was born, where he has

always been, man and boy, a silent witness and there, his journey of

life ended, he plants his mulberrytree in the earth. Then dies. The

motion is ended. Gravediggers bury Hamlet _(père?)_ and Hamlet _fils._

A king and a prince at last in death, with incidental music. And, what

though murdered and betrayed, bewept by all frail tender hearts for,

Dane or Dubliner, sorrow for the dead is the only husband from whom

they refuse to be divorced. If you like the epilogue look long on it:

prosperous Prospero, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of

love, and nuncle Richie, the bad man taken off by poetic justice to the

place where the bad niggers go. Strong curtain. He found in the world

without as actual what was in his world within as possible. Maeterlinck

says: _If Socrates leave his house today he will find the sage seated

on his doorstep. If Judas go forth tonight it is to Judas his steps

will tend._ Every life is many days, day after day. We walk through

ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives,

widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves. The playwright

who wrote the folio of this world and wrote it badly (He gave us light

first and the sun two days later), the lord of things as they are whom

the most Roman of catholics call _dio boia_, hangman god, is doubtless

all in all in all of us, ostler and butcher, and would be bawd and

cuckold too but that in the economy of heaven, foretold by Hamlet, there

are no more marriages, glorified man, an androgynous angel, being a wife

unto himself.

_--Eureka!_ Buck Mulligan cried. _Eureka!_

Suddenly happied he jumped up and reached in a stride John Eglinton's

desk.

--May I? he said. The Lord has spoken to Malachi.”

Seriously?

There are words that don’t even exist in the dictionaries and lexicographers of the day just went bananas and inquired among themselves in a vivid commotion that “what the fuck is up with all dat shit, yo?” The book Ulysses has since been hailed as one of the finest works of both English poetry and prose. Has been staged, televised and filmed on a number of occasions. On the other hand, Ulysses has also been widely regarded as one of the most vulgar, obscene and morbid works of fiction. And therein lies the sleight of the hand. It is neither. It’s just stream of consciousness.

Allow yours truly to demonstrate this certain style of writing.

And proclaimed him to himself, we are savages in pursuit of our destruction which are things that we crave and hence we crave our destruction. Oblivious. And the dark ravens kiss my mouth and all I know is that moon is ragged and muffled under the effulgent grievance thrown upon it. ‘Gone are the days when we wandered and plundered as men, now we are responsible for our deeds.’ No, we have bared our backs and beckoned the scavengers. Instigating martyrdom through inexorable pedantic.

So you see, anything incoherent can be written but it just can be jinxed into anything at all through stream of consciousness. And that was the genius of JJ. The entire book of Ulyesses 800 pages in paper back chronicles the proceedings of one day only. 16^th June 1914. The day when JJ met Nora Barnacles. As clingy she was as her name sounded as mentioned one JJ’s father. And JJ went like ‘aren’t you weary of the ardent ways’.

And JJ was well aware that no matter how well he wrote or which style. “Soft softly, I would you me lay” was a pretty good line, still. To repay the woman he would have had to do something extremely out of the ordinary. And thus came the Ulysses. Only to flatter the lady. The only just homage to Iris is a rainbow?

Dear pal, if you tell me that yours truly needs to be atleast half Irish to fully understand the JJ’s work. Au contraire, yours truly would like to tell you that you only need to be mad to understand a couple of things. JJ’s work included.

PS: Only a slightly related note, writing something that not many can ever understand also kinda gives a good-buzz-euphoria thing going.

God curse these years

2010-05-14T05:11:00.000-07:00

So Impossible kool did a post on Marilyn Monroe. I have never been a fan of her, nor have i ever seen a prettier picture of her. It made me go OMG.

Reminded me of two things.
"God curse these years that turn women grey." Ezra Pound.

And the Bukowski's "for Marilyn M." (Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame).

"Slipping keenly into bright ashes
target of vanilla tears
your sure body lit candles for men
on dark nights,
now your night is darker
than the candle's reach
and we will forget you, somewhat,
and it is not kind
but real bodies are nearer
and as the worms pant for your bones
i would so like to tell you
that this happens to bears and elephants
to tyrants and heroes and ants
and frogs

Still, you brought us something
Some type of small victory,
for this say: good
and let us grieve no more
like a flower dried and thrown away
we forget, we remember
we wait, child, child, child

I raise my drink a full minute
and smile."

No country for Black People!

2010-05-04T01:56:00.001-07:00

yo ai iz tinkin bout rappin the shit outta diz song yo. ai iz hatin' white people for too long now. white people have exploited the shit outta us for too long now yo.
Ai wanna buy big black guns, hustle some dough and pimp some hoes, yo.
You niggaz dig?
How i dream big?

Yo peace out!!

PS: Almost forgot, 10x goldie, take care.

Hearth n Home

2010-04-29T16:14:00.000-07:00

So like for past few days, this random song kinda stuck in yours truly's lusciously haired and sparsely brained head. It came to yours truly when yours truly was out in this new park jogging along a viciously small track. Since to jog around there, one kilometer would make three round trips of the track and then keeping track of the rounds for nine rounds is kinda beyond yours truly's mental capabilities especially when there is one extremely sizzling hot lady around. Seriously, she is like 5'8", slender like hell, doesn't jog but does a really brisk walk and moves her hands like she is parading in some army event. Not to mention, she is really really petite and upright. You get the idea she's hot, don't you. Mean why does she come out there, like for god sake, women would do horrible horrible things to have a body like hers. And look at her she is out there, trotting like a fox. Had she started coming there after yours truly been frequenting the fitness facility for a while, yours truly would've assumed that she has started coming there to behold yours truly's funky rhythmic sprinting. But that's not the case nor she is the epicenter of this discussion, as yet mind you.

Anyway, those of Tim Burton fan's know that he did only two good movies. Edward Scissorhands and Ed Wood. Aforementioned flicks also happen to be the pivotal and sorts zenith-al in Johnny Depp's career. (Winona 4ever? Seriously dude, that is one of the major reasons, yours truly hasn't gotta tattoo, as yet again mind you(Ok just yours truly youtubed Ed Wood, and Johnny Depp is hot as roaring raging fires and brimstones of heavenly punishments, sorry. But Jack Sparrow sucks)). Anyway the best thing about Ed Wood was the character of Bela Legowsi, not only that kinda sounds like an anagram of Charles Bukowski (about whom yours truly is absolutely bananas) but Martin Landau kicked some serious Hollywood glittery butt. Martin Landau made yours truly believe that old people can still kick ass. Besides Tom Wilkinson, cause even Brando did nothing after he had ignominious amounts of shagging in that Bertolucci movie.

Once again, adrift the narrative may be, but it will all converge. So Bela Lugosi was all funky Hungarian guy, acted in sorts shakespearen plays, obscure silent movies, got laid, served in world War 1, won a medal (the only reason yours truly doesn't have one, is cause he wasn't around during world wars. Cause apparently everyone from that period has one. Too bad they stopped giving medals to victims of terrorist attacks. Heck. And booty is also getting thinner and thinner for people who die or get injured around these days. Life huh!) So Bela was outright raging bull kinda dude, cause he landed in America and despite his former laurels he had to work as a laborer. Kinda pissed off, Bela took to morphine. Hey now don't be judgmental, no serious man with issues can do marijuana, and it was long time before acid was that common.

Well anyway, this is all movie talk. Why don't you take a look at Bela.

And while you're at it. Take a look at Landau.

Now all this said and done, once upon a time on a rainy day, yours truly ran into one of his beloved places, a library. And there was this shelf there, dusty and downtrodden , forgotten and least frequented, where lately the school people had to install cameras cause you know teenagers are horny as hell during summers (Don't think yours truly was any less rutting or single during those days, yours truly just preferred other places. Especially the classes. It's more in your face to the system). And randomly yours truly chose a book which turned out to be Muhammad Ali's autobiography. Now it was surprising for two reasons. It begin with Ali boy losing a fight and going home on a rainy day for he said and yours truly quotes "Home is the place where you go when you don't have the answers." And the second surprising reason was that yours truly didn't know Black people could write books too.

Anyway yours truly is home. And do you remember how this mambo jambo began? Remember movies? Remember the chick? Rememeber the jogging track? God! you people have such short term memories. "you forget so easy." Oh do you remember the song yours truly mention. This was the song that came back to yours truly randomly.
It's one of the Eldor's favs. Was on his TDK tapes back in 1997, long before CDs were to hit our towns. And he'd lie down and listen to it with his huge book lying inverted on his chest, and his papers fluttering around. Oh and he never told yours truly anything about anything about the women, about the music or poetry. No wonder. Anyway he spent a longtime away from his home, and yours truly is taking his turns all at the right moments.

Yours truly is in his home, and its raining. And yours truly is seeing it rain in his home after 8 months. Incoherent, you'd say. Yours truly say, evolve and let the chips fall where they may. Connect the dots and disappear.
Finally after the longest foreword, the song.

Just don't bitch about the sound quality. Buy a genuine CD for once, next thing you know Sheryl will be starving.

Vive Le Tour

2010-04-21T22:11:00.000-07:00

"Workers of the world! Unite. Like, platonic-ally, at least. Duhhh!!!" O Marx.

Summer Subterfuge

2010-04-18T05:20:00.000-07:00

And it is yet another summer again. The sun will try its best to scorch you and kill you. But the evening shades will linger a moment longer than you'd assume. The leaves will be greener and stillness of it all would be lighter. Faith will be stood in all light. All a-washed heavenly. And the breeze, oh yes the summer breeze. There is nothing like it in the world. The world would be more noisy now, a little on the musical side. Especially at eventide. The gardens will scream secrets. The parks will bustle with delight. The flower offers its thaumaturgy more candidly.

Let the seme of the summer bring to you all its semantics in sonnets and sonatas. Be the only stipulation of this summer be, smiles and all the surmounting stimuli.

Rancor Rancor Be my Anchor

2010-04-08T13:00:00.000-07:00

"Another week's hard work and you will have a respectable man's clothes."
"No surprises there either, my sood gir."
"Hearken me lad, these insolent ways of thine, prithee part from them."
"Pshaw."
"ROFL."
"True dat."
"And you don't need the light on to guide you to the southern lands, you just go."
"True dat too."

The year was 1999. Yours truly bought the OST on tape. And now you can un-god anybody. But Tori Amos is a tough one to be un-goddess-ed about.

This is called bet you look pretty on the dance floor

2010-03-28T12:27:00.000-07:00

Whereof we can't say anything, thereof we exclaim OMFG!

2010-03-22T15:18:00.000-07:00

I still believe in Elvis and Zimmerman though.

A bit in yoga too, actually.

Converging Confluence

2010-03-16T01:47:00.001-07:00

Who dares to talk to the man about knowing and not knowing? For according to Umberto Eco “There are four kinds of people in this world: cretins, fools, morons, and lunatics.” The man had it figured out a long time ago that he is an adorable mixture of the aforementioned adjectives rather than the Greek’s orthodox combo of Earth, Water, Air and Fire. The man can be suffering from a severe bout of his manic depression at 5 pm and by 5 30 when he recovers his senses, you will find the man having the time of his life talking and sharing anecdotes of his peculiar adventures to the lay-est possible man he can find, for example a cab-driver, a security guard, a valet, a dog or whosoever gets lucky enough to find the man in this hyper-euphoric drive.

Therefore the question arises, what was she thinking when she brushed her cheeks three times against the man’s week old stubble and wished that the man stays happy forever. And then she demanded the man to force a smile. The man brought forth his all glamorous sneering smile which was welcomed with a mild slap in the face. This cracked the man up big time, as surprises usually come as blows as opposed to usual wont of blows which rarely come as surprises. And a little harsher demand came for a real smile, and the man obliged with all his dark little heart. For the man is all smiles and shines when he has somebody rounded up in corner under his spell at his (lack of) mercy. So smile did yours truly, to thus she inquired that why is the man not happy and is joking around. The man was in no mood for drama at that time and told her to “bring wine, for god has seized me and I am suffering from crop vintage” or something similar of the abstract nature. She turned and then returned and told the man that the man will miss her and that the man won’t admit it but the man will miss her. And the man will tell her that the man misses her, not here not now but maybe somewhere else some other time, maybe over internet.

The man guffawing over the internet idea yelled in most sarcastic of tones that he misses her. And she walked away. The man yelled at her casually and slightly more seriously this time, that he already misses her but she kept walking. She never turned or stopped to see. She walked on and walked off. The man took the wheel and sped off.

The End.

But wait, what is this thing that keeps everyone drawing to itself, and one is lured like a moth to the flame. One feels helpless against the invisible scourge and is ready to bare our breaks to the whiplash. What is the explanation for one always being rewarded with a touch, a dream whenever one needs one and doesn’t deserve one? Why is everything explained so vividly and yet so complicated? “Where does it all come from? Where does it all go?” Why do these muses draw breath from us and not live themselves?

The man knows all the answers. And it’s all very simple, love. And that doth make the man a very very happy young man despite of everything. And hence the man will light up a cigarette and smile to the stretch of this immensely serene night.
“For each day brings wisdom only to the day itself but night’s only logic and reason is its darkness.”

Merci beaucoup, mon dame qui croit tout Mathematiques.

Noob's New Wave of Existential-istic Crisis

2010-03-10T21:29:00.000-08:00

Name: Noob
Age: Around 25
Sex: Yes, please
Address: SQL Servers
Problems: Existential-istic Crisis
Ambitions: Discovering the meaning of life on 11th March, 2010

Diagnosis by world-famous Dr. Thoth: Hmm, interesting case of noobness.
Prognosis: Mellow and oh-not-so-mellow bouts of depression will recur from time to time.
Proscription: Avoid emo-music.
Prescription: Let's get back into the girl scene. And tight happy music.

Manly Manuscript

2010-02-26T09:02:00.000-08:00

Well the missing line says, "The company is not, under current organizational structure, ready for diversity. Thanks for your ideas."

And we had the greatest expectations.

PS: My writing is not so bad, it's just that the pad was in my lap. And i had no computer.

On Saint Valentine's day

2010-02-14T09:45:00.000-08:00

"On a day like this
in eager anticipation of spring
I forget, that i have sinned
I forget, that i have bled
I forget, that i am dead."

(Translation, can't quote reference. Sorry.)

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all.

:D:D:D:D
<3
\m/
10x

Shhhh Shakira

2010-02-11T04:49:00.000-08:00

So she a wrote a song about me, without ever meeting me.
Now that's something. 10 years ago, i would've considered it to be incredibly weird. But today, it's kool.

Epic too. That's right, Epic.

Variformal Vindication

2010-01-31T08:30:00.000-08:00

Let me be cruel, not unnatural:
I will speak daggers to her, but use none;
My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites;
How in my words soever she be shent,
To give them seals never, my soul, consent!
Hamlet by Guess Who.

"The only thing i ask of you is to be nice to me."

"Look now, there are things and then there are things. I can't speak of it. If i have to, it would change everything.
If i start talking about you, every woman in the world will be jealous of you. If i start talking about how your southern gypsy soul has been trying to keep me pinned down on your bed, every man in the world would envy me. And you keep feeding me your folk music which is about nothing but dressing up in white and bearing babies with the face of one's lover and the mild touch with the wild hug(ROFL) and you keep missing your soccer games and haven't been out for swimming in months. And you have actually seen a war, where as i have been at war all my life, and it rages. And you and i, we both know what horrors are there in laying a kid into a grave. And Nizar Qabbani, and at the end of day you can be lured only with chocolates. The red jim-jams with yellow and white daisies on it. And your beautiful scented soft dark brown chestnut hair, which are mysteriously fragrant all day long and during the night, you hang me with bending over my shoulder and caressing my cheek with your hair. The slant of your gorgeous thick lips when stretched in smile made my mouth water and your self manicured perfectly square nails, and your long tender and firm arms of a swimmer. And you kept standing and caressing my arm when you had your favorite fettuccine and we stood in the doorway watching the rain pour down on the glass windows and down on the old stone paved road of the old city while the middle aged glum looking risto's one man band sat in the corner with his dark shades raised to his temples and played old French folk tunes on accordion. And how you beamed at the music, while i joked about your music tastes and you told me that if i ever fell in love, i will understand what these words actually mean (ROFL again). And your straight and slender upright postures, fragile yet composed. And the frail railing of your balcony, against which you didn't let me lean, as you were scared i will fall off. It would've done me some good, i think. And your smooth silken slippery skin, and your dress rustling when you got out of bed and stood at the window to listen to the cold wind howling outside. That familiar sweetest susurrus. Your bones and faint trails of veins on your forearms. Your Miel Meringue obsessions and Mont Blancs and everything Italiono and your French varietas assortiments. And your big thick rose colored lirico-spinto laughter and how you hold your hands on your heart while those fits. And those alcoves of zen of tangles, by and by. It's time to see your smile and not feel cold. And if i say all those things, what will you do? And when you will have choked that inherited madness of your doomed warrior forefathers and are reclining in Sardinian or Bordeauxean rooftops, all successful with the world at your feet and being lissomely entertaining and beautiful, what will you do?
Is it so, then again. It is all that, true, but its not that something. It's just that cursed hour that i can read awaits me and will take me back to the source. But, i know this and all that and you know i don't need excuses. Hence I won't stay, either way. "

Weird Wild Words

2010-01-29T11:30:00.000-08:00

Firstly,

The Men Who Don't Fit In.

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain’s crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don’t know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they’re always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: “Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!”
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that’s dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life’s been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He’s a rolling stone, and it’s bred in the bone;
He’s a man who won’t fit in.
Robert W. Service, The Men Who Don't Fit In

Secondly,

The Reader of Fortunes

She sat with fear in her eyes
Contemplating the overturned cup.

She said:
My son, do not be sad.
Love is written for you.
My son, he who dies for the religion of the beloved
Has died a martyr.

Your cup is a terrifying world.
You life: travels and wars.
You will love often, my son.
You will adore all the women of the world,
And return as the king who has been conquered.

In your life, my son, there is a woman.
Her eyes – Praise be to Him who is worshipped!
Her mouth is drawn as bunches of grapes;
Her laughter is music and roses.
But your sky is full of rain and your path blocked.
For your heart’s beloved, my son,
Sleeps in a haunted castle.
The castle is large, my son.
It is guarded by dogs… and soldiers.

Your heart’s princess is sleeping.
He who enters her chamber is lost.
He who asks for her hand,
He who descends the walls of her garden,
Is lost.
He who attempts to unbraid her hair,
My son,
Is lost . . . lost.

I have looked and read often,
But never have I read a cup like yours.
I have never known, my son,
Sadness like yours.
It is your destiny ever to walk
In love, upon the edge of a dagger.
To remain lonely as the oysters
Sad as the willow
It is your destiny ever to remain
In the sea of love, without rescue,
To love millions of times,
And to return as the deposed king.

Nizar Qabbani, The Reader of Fortunes.

Thirdly,

Snowstorm in the Western Province.

The lake is frozen

Leaves are frilled with snow

The sentries prefer not to touch their cold spears

We are running out of wine

I am thousands of miles from home
And i don't wear lamellar and never feel cold

My horse blows and whistles steam

In this white desert

And i remove the snowflakes from his mane

His beautiful mane, reminds me of her hair

But a man has to earn riches and gain offices

In far away lands

For black ink on aged tossed parchments

Bent tips of feathered pens

Are never indispensable.

Qazlak Bey, Snowstorm in Western Province.

Fourthly,

For Real

People are crazy

in all continents
Seriously.

Thoth, For Real.

The telling tale of trials and their trails

2010-01-10T06:34:00.000-08:00

Rrrpt Rrrpt.

A door was knocked in a dark hallway which was answered by inaudible muttering and pretty audible rumbling of glasses and a foot shuffle.

Rrpt Rrpt.

The door was knocked again which was this time answered by a loud distinct deep voice “Go away, I am not here.”

A muffled laughter was heard from outside which continued with rude ruffling bangs on the door rather than gentle rapping fingers which were heard earlier.

Thud thud thud thud thud thud thud.

The same voice answered again, “Wait wait, I didn’t know it was you.” A distinct clink of glasses and click of lock is heard and the door is opened within an instant and reveals a queer sight. The interrupting intruding guest was head butting the door to attain the attention of the reclusive reflecting host and was seen smiling, beaming and standing in one of the coldest winter nights of the year, clad only in his boxers, one foot in a shoe, one foot only in a sock and big dark green cardigan with half of its buttons missing. The host being wrapped in a large black shawl and darkness of the room, assertively and appreciatingly took a moment to realize the condition of the guest, which was a compound of impeccable insanity and despairing drunkenness, and broke into a fit of laughter and stepped aside. The guest joined him in his laughter and in his room.

“What happened? Where are you clothes?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did you come here.”

“I was driving A & B for past three hours, they had a fight, and it was raining and they wanted to go out to patch up. So I took them out for a ride.”

“What? You were driving? Are they insane for letting you drive like this?”

“Yea both of them were feeling pretty suicidal. Give me a drink.”

“You don’t need any drink. You need clothes, food and sleep.”

“Please I am hungry and angry.”
“What have you eaten in past 12 hours?”

“100 green chilies and 200 lemons.”

“Oh! So if you have to throw up, please don’t hesitate to do it in the room. There is enough acid in you right now that it will wash away all the congealed paint drops on the floor.”

“No I won’t throw up. Give me a drink.”

“Here.”

“What have you been doing? Are you alone?”

“Well I am not into your rich decadent friend’s parties. So yea I sat here and listened to music. Except for the time when that hypocrite showed up looking for liquor. I had to bear up with him as I was out of liquor and I went out with him to buy some more. Worst one hour of my life.”

“No way, I thought you wouldn’t let him in.”

“I needed liquor and he had a car, so yea I compromised. How was the party?”

“It was good. Z’s boss is absconding with Z’s girlfriend. He was too drunk to notice. And I have been dubbed as Energizer for dancing and drinking for 6 hours straight. And somebody slapped me to calm me down, and I didn’t bother and didn’t even slap him back, I laughed and continued. If you don’t eat for two days, you can drink as much as you want, without ever falling off or throwing up.”

“Yea. About that please eat something; I have a couple of candy bars as an antidote for your appetite but there is no antidote for your anger.”

Gulp gulp gulp.

“When I was out driving them, there was this acoustic band playing on the radio and they were covering 80’s hits.”

“Livin’ on a prayer.”

“Yea when they played it, it reminded me of you.”

“When they played it, I was out too, going to buy liquor.”

Laughter.

“So what do you want me to play right now? Jagger, Abida or Nusrat?”

“Nothing. I want to talk to you.”

“We talk all the time. What do you want to talk about? Like ‘we need to talk’ talk or who has the pants in this relationship talk.”

“No serious talk. Not the symbols and signals we use when other people are around.”

Gulp gulp gulp.

“Right! Go ahead shoot.”

Silence. Silence.

Gulp gulp gulp.

“This has been a very bad year.”

“I know.”

“It’s bad”.

“Terrible.”

“It’s messed up.”

“Absolutely!”

“It’s absurd.”

“Truly.”

“It’s not that bad but it makes me angry.”

“That’s how it was supposed to be, perhaps.”

“But we still survived.”
“Yes we did.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Neither do I.”

“Despite of everything, I will miss this year.”

“I don’t want to miss it.”

“We will look back at it.”

“I won’t.”
“But them.”
“Gone.”

Gulp gulp gulp.

“hahahaha! Wtf?”

“hahahaha.”

“To abundance of nights and days of our dancing dead.”
“Oh! Isn’t that a bit too abstract for a new year toast.”

“hahahha.”

“Amen.”

And it was a crazy year. A lot of things went down and many floods washed bridges away with them. And in the morning one of them was to wake up and was never to touch alcohol and tobacco again. And one of them would have a story to relate to Deep Purple’s ‘in a cold month, in that room, found a reason for things we had to do’. And one of them would hold on to key of that room, where they sat in light in table lamp burning pages from Huxley’s Chrome Yellow, for such boring writings, save for mention of Cavendish’s eccentricities ought to be burnt. And he would find himself unable to throw away that door key, and he threw it many times in garbage, only to poke into garbage and pick it up back again and finally got rid of it at mountains by throwing it deep down a valley. And one of them would keep in his wallet, the dried leaf that wind blew in and few blades of grass and when he will lose his wallet after three years, the first thing he will regret would be losing those relics. And in a course of months. the recluse was to come out in a few years and meet men, only to realize that he is gathering an inexhaustible supply of tales of madness and the extrovert will lock himself in a modern poustinia for years.

And four years later one of them, on new year’s eve, will stand on a terrace of a restaurant at the metropolitan square and gazing firmly and fixedly at the fountain in front of him. On his back are huge glass windows, where a party is roaring with a local pianist and her vocalist daughter are singing ‘dance with me, make me sway’ and a four course dinner with abundance of original Sangiovese from Tuscany’s Chateaus, Chardonnay from New Zealand’s Pernod & Chianti Classico from Caffagio. But he is oblivious of all that, his smile is crooked, his shoulders are stiff and twitching, there is a knot in his throat and the watery dullness of his eyes has been replaced by a fiery glare. He hums to himself the folk song that a villager Romeo sang to both of them after he had explained to them the geography and bonding and marriage probabilities of two villages on paper , while they were drinking in a park in a cold winter afternoon.

“And you said, you couldn’t breathe

Without looking at me, but look at you now,

You’re still breathing

What is the keepsake of the dead and the departed?

Their memories are like sunset on a cold winter day

When the sun goes down,

A bit too unexpectedly, a bit too abruptly.”

A Kurdish saying from Shafiq-ur-Rehman, when he was chronicling his days around Tigris, comes to his mind. “ The love between a man & a woman is like moon, it waxes and wanes. But man love (ooh that sounds naughty, isn’t it) is like stars shining on a dark night, persistent and untiring.”

The man smiles, lifts his glass of lemonade, lights up a cigarette and wobbles back to the party to party on. For it’s not the lemonade that got him drunk, it’s just that he had lemonade in a highball glass made of memories.

Hands in air.

Obscure Moonsightings

2010-01-06T07:42:00.000-08:00

So like them people were thinking, it's like new year's eve and we need to party like really really crazy. But little did they know, that it was the big bad blue moon making them do crazy crazy things.

31st Dec, 2009.

Narcissism & Necromany!! Say whaat!!!

2010-01-04T23:54:00.000-08:00

“Dude that gay guy is totally hitting on you.” (Oh yeah, nobody can resist the hot stuff).

“I believe in miracles, you sexy thing”. (So do I, My Own potato)

“I know I can kill you, if I say it was fun without you, but actually it wasn’t.”

(I Love you too)

“But you! I don’t understand you”. (How about getting some brains?)

“Are you an artist?” (Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujaaah)

“Oh you are like my favorite pair of jeans, I know all your smells and tricks.” (And you are like the first t-shirt I bought with my first earned money. And all the comfort, confidence & cockiness that came with it.)

“You know a lot about Persian poetry.” (Surprise surprise, first Iranian dude I ever met!)

“You should’ve been in academics.” (Surprise surprise, first Dubliner dude I ever met, to whom I delivered a ten minutes soliloquy about James Joyce & Blooms day!)

“You are the worst liar I’ve ever seen.” (But that’s my thang, how can one say no to his thang).

“This is the best cheese omelet in the world.” (Sunday mornings will always lack something, marginal may it be, without your hangovers and my cheese omelets.)

“All the people who come here, are empty headed and don’t know anything about drinking.” (From a 21 year old Bartender at a nightclub, who has been tending it for free drinks and to get himself through Multimedia design with tips, upon hearing the stories behind the etymologies of names as Bloody Marry, Kamikaze, Three Wise Men, Four Horsemen, Tequila Sunrise, Purple People Eater & the White Russian. Good kid, good luck!)

“I love the confidence in your voice.” (I am also very confident of the love in my speech.)

“Drama Queen.”(Not kiddin’)

“Attention whore.” (Not kiddin)

“Paranoid little girly.” (Seriously not kiddin’)

“I have so much experience that with one look I can tell what a man is made of.” (Oh and why do you think I let you in on me?)

“I want to be you.” (I love you, too, muah muah muah muah xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo. Rio De Janeiro is ours for taking.)

“You make me say ***k so early in the morning”. (And you made me say WTF so early in the morning.)

“Besides, you're not only cute, you're also vicious and intellectually intimidating and sorts obscure when you want to be. So yeah, cute is probably the only side, those single girls can pick up without feeling insecure.” (You made me fly with that intended scourge. But start being good or I’ll be very bad.)

“Why do you do this? Why do you get angry with me only? Oh wait. That’s right, that’s not fair.” (Because I have made you laugh a billion times and not other people. So you took it for granted that I am all fun. PS: Brother I miss you, come back to people. Nothing will matter, except for your annoying big laughs and guffaws.)

“je asdi tasdhkasdlc charismatique.” (My French is not that good yet, and I may be wrong, but I’d like to believe that she just told her sister that I have a charisma. She is not wrong though, if she said so. )

“Oh how clever are you.” (But it is true, they sell something like tobacco for something like money.)

“As was expected of your Heaviness, heavy indeed.” (Godspeed love!)

“I can’t match your rhetoric, but don’t forget that while talking comes from the paternal side, the charms came from us.” (Everything is yours.)

“You’re the best.” (Teman, you are ze best.)

“You’re awesome.”

“Smooth.” (Oh yeah baby, smooth.)

“What did you say to that cashier that made her laugh so hard?” (While you were mastering ‘enterprising’ (sycophancy), I was mastering that thing that you lack and its called emotion and oh yes repeat that for many people.)

“He saw me crying. He knows everything.” (Yes you are 6’3” and weigh around 240 pounds and used to wrestle and can scare cops with one sneer. But you are far better than most I’ve seen.)

“Stop suppressing those smiles to the screen, or grin properly and do some work, Man! And do forward me that email if it’s funny enough.” (You are the best boss in the world.)

“I will never believe anything you tell me, but I believe in you.” (That was the sweetest compliment anyone has ever given to me. I am a slave for you and jealous that I didn’t come up with that line. I gave her a modification of “that dress can cure Cancerrrrrrrrrr” & “Dress like a dream dreamt by Lola magazine, Baby you were born to be seen” and “Oh yeah back home, the dog dish is a real delicacy, which I will make for you this Sunday”)

Prophecy # 1:

There is a myth connected with one of these mountain nymphs (OREADES), the unfortunate Echo. She became enamored of a beautiful youth named Narcissus, son of the river-god Cephissus, who, however, failed to return her love, which so grieved her that she gradually pined away, becoming a mere shadow of her former self, till, at length, nothing remained of her except her voice, which henceforth gave back, with unerring fidelity, every sound that was uttered in the hills and dales (And hence English language received the verb echo). Narcissus himself also met with an unhappy fate, for Aphrodite punished him by causing him to fall in love with his own image, which he beheld in a neighboring fountain, whereupon, consumed with unrequited love, he wasted away, and was changed into the flower which bears his name.

Myths and Legends of Ancient Greece and Rome by E.M. Berens.

Prophecy # 2:

bring bring

straight things: in bird-light,

the terror of a mouse,

grass-arms great stone heads;

and reading Canto 90

he put the paper down

Ez did (both their eyes were wet)

and he told her ...

"among the greatest love poems

ever written."

Ezra, there are many kinds of traitors

of which

the political are the least,

but self-appraisal of

poetry and love

has proved more fools than

rebels.

Horse on Fire by Charles Bukowski.

[from The Rooming House Madrigals: Early Selected Poems, 1946-1966 (1988), Black Sparrow Press]

I knew I was special when I was 6. It so happened that I was very angry that day, and burned all my story books and said some foul things. I was to wake up next day, with mysterious purple rashes all over my body. Elder blamed it all on blasphemy and I was cautious afterwards. However, after all these years, I am more in love with myself than each day that has passed. And people are not helping at all. I think this will be the real “descent into the maelstrom” and “der untergung”, and nothing else. Until then let me mentally high five myself one more time.

Angry chicks are so in this fall

2009-12-26T04:12:00.000-08:00

And all of them have an awesome awry fashion sense.

Who is La Roux again ? I heard her on the radio.
Who is Ke$ha again? Anything involving $ sign drive me nuts.
Then there was Lady Gaga's Christmas single.
And Nina Presson. Oh i know her alright, since i was 17.

But then all that said and done. Stand beside the sun & Shine on.

Avirulent Antisocialism

2009-12-26T02:06:00.000-08:00

A play in two acts, based on true stories, so as to educate the young reader to why it is important and inappropriate for young people of better intentions and finer ambitions to avoid talking to strangers and make new acquaintances.

ACT-I

Man. (hideous 4 feet 10 inch tall walking talking chimpanzee)

Woman. (Gorgeous, voluptuous, rosy cheeks, natural auburn hair, 5’8”, hard to forget facial features most importantly an innocent small contour of thin lips.)

Set: A modern and fashionable dining hall with an official air so as to people eating there must have plenty of greens and proteins, but they shouldn’t enjoy at all. Music and any other auditory effects are absolutely not necessary. Clamor of steel cutlery against china would suffice.

(A man has just entered the queue for food buffet, behind a woman. Recognizing her to be a latest acquaintance, man attracts her attention by rapping his fingers on the woman’s tray).

Man: Hey, how is it going, new girl.

Woman: Hello you. How are you?

Man: Not bad. What about you? How is this place treating you so far?

Woman: Just the second day, so still pretty excited.

Man: Ah spare your adrenaline please. It will be horrible when you’ve stayed here for long enough. It’s a terrible place, you’ll know it alright.

Woman: Oh I see, Pray, how long have you been working here.

Man: 11 years.

Woman: (Her thin lips are stretched in a genuinely surprised smile) That’s wow. You look very young for someone who has that much, hey wait, you’re lying.
Man: Do I look like a liar?

Woman: Yes absolutely.

Man: As a much senior colleague, I am seriously offended. And I would definitely like to bring this insolence of yours to the attention of the concerned authorities.

Woman: No no, you never lie. You look like an, um angel. Ah the halo around your head, makes me want to pull down my shades. And ah, if we have a gas outage in the kitchen, the food will stay warm only by the pure warmth of your heart, obviously.

Man: (Flabbergasted, for nobody had matched him line for line, for quite a long time, but he never enters a battlefield unarmed) Make fun of me all you can, but you say one word against my lovely wife and two kids and I will kill you and cook you and serve you here, with the afternoon snacks.

Woman: Hahaha, wife and two kids.

Man: Yes. (With the flat downward palm, pats imaginary heads, while looking affectionately at the imaginary heads at the heights of 2 feet, 3 feet and 5 feet 5 inches, for two kids and the wife respectively).

Woman: Really? I am sorry, forgive me, but I thought.

Man: No problem, it’s just the healthy heavy cardiovascular routine, swimming, yes butterfly stroke too, thank you but you’re not allowed to touch my deltoids, healthy eating habits and strict self discipline that makes me look so young. And oh I had a face lift two months ago.

Woman: Oh, you had a face lift. You are the worst liar I’ve ever seen.

Man: Behold, woman, I have white hair. Look. (pokes his lusciously haired head in the face of the woman).

Woman: I have white hair too. (Jerks her head, which ends in her auburn mane swishing just inches away from man’s face, which by the way has the same bewildered look now as of a man, who has been staring long at the sun and lost his eyesight).

Man: ga la da mfiaasdl lasdas (Or some similar incoherent phonemes).

Woman: How about this, why don’t you show me your ID. And I will figure out the rest.

Man: (As this was usually the man’s coupe de grace, to charm a young lady with his over confident lies and then producing his passport to show how young he actually was, to claim his loot of laughter, but in this battle field the enemy was both cunning and cute.) Ok, I will show it to you, but do promise that you will still go out despite of my age. For I am eternally young at heart, although this body has withered and shrunken and is incessantly crying for rest. For if you can match me in talking, you can’t match me drink for drink.

Woman: Hahaha, for that you’re a bit too late.
Man: Why are you an alcoholic? Must I say that it is not evident from the tone of your skin.

Woman: And so it isn’t from yours. Smart mouth. Show me your passport. And we’ll decide.

Man opens his passport, points to his date of birth and takes a bow.

Woman: (Gushing, gasping and laughing at the same time, her face has blushed to an adorable hue of deep pink, thus becoming an entirely picturesque eye candy for the other people on the queue who were by far pretty annoyed and jealous by the man’s not so subtle wooing and wheedling). Oh (shortening of breath, laughter) God! (Woman with her head bent forward, raises her hand with the index finger pointing upward, meaning that she needs a minute to catch her breath, as the man was actually frowning as he didn’t think that either his age or his picture on his passport was that funny, in the meantime, woman came back to her senses). Oh god, you are so young. I could never believe it if you did tell me so. Oh unbelievable. And you’ve done so much so far, wow I am impressed.

Man: Well I am not that young. I can go and buy liquor without being asked for ID and you know that the constitution of our great democracy actually believes that I am a very reasonable and responsible man as they have bestowed upon me certain rights and freedoms such as eligibility to vote. And since the government trusts my judgment you should trust it too when I invite you to some nice meal at a lovely place some weekend.

Woman: Well, the governments can do all sorts of silly things and not be questioned. Regarding the question of going out, I’d pass that, regretfully though. I may be your junior at your work, but I am actually five years older than you.

Man: (It was the man’s turn to be surprised and tried hard to think of something Shakespearean or Victorian to quote about the timelessness of grace and intellect which he was trying to tackle at the moment. But was reminded of Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti, an album which left him in awe for days as on that record each line, each note was unexpected, yet so in place and placating.) Well I like older women, and you obviously like me. What else do you need?

It was about time, that woman reached the counter for main course and was being attended by the server. The man being a shrewd observer of things was watching her closely. She doesn’t hesitate for a minute to choose Salmon and cheese and asks for it to be sprinkled with lemon juice. The man sighs, a half pleased half not so pleased sigh, for he was going to order the exact same plate. The woman picks up her tray and turns and smiles and waits at the edge of the counter so that man can pick up his plate as well and both can sit at a table together. In the mean time, someone on the queue has some electronic device which starts to play music. It’s a pop song which says “Somebody call 911, Shawty burnin’ fire on the dance floor”. The man looks horrified upon hearing such a horrendous metaphor, and looks towards the woman to see her reaction. She is lip synching and humming along the song.

Woman: Oh I love this song. It’s such a party rocker.

Man: (Not certain what to say, slightly dejected). Mmm hmm.

They both walk off towards the dining tables.

Curtain.

Act – II.

Dude # 1 (Four feet ten, hideous walking talking chimpanzee)

Dude # 2 (Upright, straight as an arrow, with a certain nascence of utter confidence in his voice).

Set: A dark street, scarcely lit with street lamps. Many cars are parked along the curb. Behind the curb is a long tall brick wall, lined with trees. There are no homes. Behind the wall, one can only get the slightest hint, lies a stadium. The flood lights of the stadium are ablaze in their full glory, but here in the street as the light is falling vertically everything is faint and shadowed. So that the dudes, standing besides a car, only appear as shadows. The tops of cars are a bit more shiny as being metallic objects. There is a buzz of chatter and satisfied limpid footsteps in the background, as a crowd is going home after an evening out.

For sake of brevity, dudes will be mentioned only be numbers in the manuscript.

1: So did you have a good time.

2: Yea certainly, I loved it.

1: (With a tone bit incredulous and condescending, for he considers himself to be the last word on music) Ah, so do you like music?

2: Like? I love it.

1: (Still incredulous) But this was African music! You like African music?

2: Yea, I inherited some Fela Kuti records from my father. Besides I was born and raised in Algeria.

1: (Fairly impressed) Oh I see, what about Cheb Khaled.

2: Oh he is a vile pig when it comes to creativity. But he has a voice.

1: Hallelujah. This is the first truth I heard all day, other than music.

2: Huh you don’t say so. Have you been bitten too?

1: Once bitten, twice bitten, thrice bitten, so much bitten that there is no place for love bites on my handsome body anymore.

2: Good to hear that.

1: So what’s on your play list these days.

2: Mika.

1: Mika? The gay kid?

2: Hey, but don’t hold it against his talent.

1: Well, I have never confessed it. But I actually liked Grace Kelly. He has charisma, and rock n roll or no rock n roll, skinny dude in tights, with Mick Jagger-ish struts, is something that really pleases me. Besides, there have been some comparisons of him with Freddie Mercury. I know he is no match of the great Mercury that rose only once in this world, but I am always eager to see anything like Mercury in my life.

2: Yea he is good. You should check out his new single, Rain.

1: Oh I like it already. Anyway what genre do you prefer normally.

2: Well a bit of everything. But Jazz mostly.

1: (Is surely excited and barely able to control himself from jumping) You don’t say so. What you’ve got in jazz.

2: Nat King Cole, Count Bessie, John Coltrane, Charlie Parker, actually I am more into Saxophone.

1: You don’t say so. They were right when they called it Saxophone, it really is Sex-O-Phone. But why only Sax.

2: Oh it’s just that I happen to play one.

1: (Can’t believe his ears or luck, for he always wanted to meet someone who played Sax). No way, that is impossible. Oh this night is getting better and better, first great music and now you.

2: Well yea, that’s me. I’ll invite you over sometime. I believe you can play an instrument.

1: (Is relieved to hear that as he was unable to think of something that may rose such prospects). Well I used to. I wasn’t very good at it. Besides I wanted to be a vocalist. But I don’t know which I lacked more, vocal chords or charisma. It never worked out. However guilty of being in a band once.

2: I thought so.

There is a momentary silence. The Dude # 2 looks up. The Dude # 1 follows the stare of Dude # 2 and finds out, that Dude # 2 is looking at the moon. The moon is not full yet, but it is 11 nights old.

1: The Moon?

2: Yea, it is the loveliest thing about the night.

1: So you’re a born poet too. Wow. But it is only the second prettiest thing about the night. The first is the gift of darkness and its homeliness.

2: Yea do you know that the full moon brings along a lot of madness.

1: Yea I have been following the scientific studies on the subject. I don’t know if they’re right or not but I have always found it to be true for my own case.

2: Agreed.

1: So what else? How peculiar you actually are? Tell me.

2: Well I like to have caviar in breakfast.

1: What? That’s insane. Plain caviar, in breakfast? I love huge breakfasts with pounds of eggs and cheese and butter but I can’t imagine having seafood in breakfast.

2: No I like it with chicken.

1: That’s even more insane.

2: So says everyone, but I don’t care.

1: Pretty cool I’d say.

1: Anyway what about sports?

2: Basketball.

1: (Jumps in the air, imitating taking a shot). No way, man you’re too good to be true. Who’s your favorite?

2: I like point guards. Tony Parker is the best.

1: Yea absolutely. I play guard. And in the early naughties, there were so many awesome point guards. Allen Iverson, Tracy Mcgrady, Vince Carter and Jordan coming back from the dead. These days it’s all Lebron.

2: Yea he’s got game, but I don’t like him too much.

1: Him & bloody Kobe.

2: I hate him, I absolutely hate him.

1: Amen to that.

By this time a group of people approaches them. They should all appear as shadows, too. Long and short, laughing and talking, four men and three women.

One woman: Hey there you are.

2: Yes we’re here.

Other woman: It’s been very pleasant this evening. (to 1) So did you enjoy the music.

1: Finest indeed. I will remember this night for the rest of my life. Even when I’ll forget the names of the bands and musicians. I will be only “7 seconds away” (a certain song played earlier) from this place.

A man from the company: Let’s go. We’ve got to go some place to eat.

2: (To 1) Ok see you, Bye.

1: Hey wait, we should hang out sometime.

2: No I don’t think that would be likely for some coming few months.

1: Wait, what? Come on! You’re like my soul mate. I don’t know if I’ll ever get married or not, but I do know now, who will be the best man.

2: Well let’s see about both these statements. Got to go now, Bye.

1: (Dejected) Wait, I didn’t get……..

2 has already boarded.

1: (mutters to himself) your email or phone number.

1 opens the door of another car and looks in the direction of departing 2’s car, looking pretty glum.

Curtain.

Set should be cleared quickly, for the curtain will only fall and it shouldn’t fall completely. When the curtain has fallen 4/5^th, it quickly again rises. There should be no music or any muffled noise of any sort as is the usual prequel to soliloquies. Yes for the protagonist is to appear for a soliloquy.

When the curtain rises again, there is huge painting on the display in the middle of the stage. It is of a town along the slope of a hill and at the foot of the hill, there is a lake. And the entire town is being reflected in the lake with its trees, gardens and houses. The entire scene should be extremely tranquil and the shade of the lake is the same as the perfect blue sky. Thus if one stares long enough at it, it would be hard for one to tell, which one is the sky and which one is the lake. And which town is real, i.e. one on the slope or one in the lake. It’s basic optics but its only there to give the stage an air of importance and meaningful and yes to fool the audience.

Walks out the protagonist. 4 feet 10 inches, tall, walking talking chimpanzee. He stands straight with his arms down, eyebrows arched and the broken asymmetrical creases on his forehead shimmering in the light. Bows and leaves.

Yours truly, as happens to be the proof reader, editor and finally the publisher of this invidious play would like to bring to the attention of the kind reader who has wasted a fair deal of his time. The woman, as happy and perfect as she appears, is 29 years old and is about to be happily married in a matter of days now. Besides she is working on her thesis for her Masters degree. And to top all that, she has just switched her vocation to pursue a career after her accord, though she had to compromise the fair deal of financial re assurance of her previous work, to start anew as a trainee. She comes from humble family living in a humble house in a humble town. She has tried so hard, that something has gone missing. Whether it is joie de vivre, or lack of vacations one can’t put his finger on it.

The dude # 2, who appears to be a lot more smarter, eccentric and endowed with an esthetic sense & memory, than most people yours truly has met in his life, is actually only Eight and Half years old. Yours truly would also like to add, that writer of the play when submitting this play, has persistently repeated that both acts are based on actual events and actual people. Now this fact yours truly finds extremely disturbing.

For after knowing, such a woman, who is pulling off three most difficult things of adult life at the same time, yours truly wants to cusp himself to remind him that he is still a real man and the woman in question is not the real man. And yours truly would feel belittled in the presence of the 8 year old kid, who already knows jazz, basketball, secrets of nights & how to play saxophone. Seriously one should not meet new people, they are sometimes actually nice and awesome.

SOS Somebody call 911!!!

2009-12-18T09:09:00.000-08:00

Crazy week.
Weird music flowing in from all directions.
Radio has been playing bloody emo-est songs lately. Fell in love with Destroyer.
A very very old friend, whose calling frequency is once a year, called only to tell that he discovered an old summer anthem, which was covered once thinking it to be an original of Pretty Maids, damn the hair metal days and TDK tapes, was actually by John Sykes, thus won the bloody bet again.
Thursday lunch was awesome. Met the smartest girl ever. Thanks a lot. Somebody call 911 Story later.
Finally for the festive weekend.
Dear Weekend, Being with you and without you is how we, the working class, measure time. Thank you for being there every weekend. We will certainly do justice to you.
Sean Kingston, a reincarnation of Fat Albert, wears make up, despite of being a fat black kid, wears orange and yellow jock jerseys, compares women to Birthday Cakes (you're already fat and being featured in the video), the expression at 3:42 is worth dying for, talks like a big boy spending money and with his crazy baby face grin makes yours truly feel on the ninth cloud of super koolness.
However he came up with a genuine metaphor, and the metaphor is worth dying for.
So before you click, do let your speakers roar. And if this doesn't get your party mojo going, then yours truly is really really disappointed.

Somebody Call 911

PS: Yours truly just broke the rule of never posting only music as a blog post, without a long unrelated story.

Waccy Backy, Ruleth thou, cometh thou out of every fountain

2009-12-18T08:21:00.000-08:00

(This is for you, Noob.)

“It was a crazy situation, but all I found was cigarettes and alcohol.”

Cigarettes & Alcohol. Oasis.

“Light up a cigarette, she said, and calm the fuck down

You got a serious side to you that could give the whole world a frown”

Voody lady. Live.

“Every T-shirt’s gotta beer stain

And I’m lovin’ cigarettes again”.

Heavy heart. You Am I.

‘Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe

When tipped with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe;

Like other charmers, wooing the caress

More dazzlingly when daring in full dress;

Yet thy true lovers more admire by far

Thy naked beauties—Give me a cigar!”

Don Juan. Lord Byron.

Yours truly, is a smoker and is a habitué to this sweet hetaera at least a score of times a day. The masses, being devoid of intelligence quotient as their part was bestowed upon yours truly and his certain chance acquaintances, and as is their usual wont towards love, find this true unconditional requited carnal love very disturbing. Yours truly, being an artist of the purest kind i.e. a poet without words, a painter without paintings, a musician without a voice, an actor without a face and a dancer without wicked moves, couldn’t care less. But then a friend pointed out that it is for the eternal education and absolution of them plebs, that yours truly comes out of the tower where he holds séances with Faustian phantoms, and address the hordes of non believers and knock some sweet tobacco into them. To which yours truly pointed out that it was writ long ago during the canonization of true love, that one can’t speak about it. To which yours truly’s friend objected, that rules are meant to be broken? Which made yours truly implore of his friend, rather incredulously too, that what are you, sixteen, listening to rock n roll first time ever, duhhh!!

However after some instant profound meditation, yours truly realized that the friend truly has spoken verily. As for every custodian of keys to the esoteric incommunicable mysteries of the universe, there comes a day when he just has to break the silence and explain to the world the motives of Rudyard Kipling, which made him stop blabbering about Sher Kahns (the awesome-est nickname he could ever conjure for a lion) and underage Tarzans and made him come up with the following ingenious line.

“A good woman is a good woman, but a good cigar, is only smoke.”

As contumely the believers are, towards the faithless, the smokers enjoy a marked and mottled discrimination in the favors of the non smokers. The reason for this disdain can simply be ascertained to the fact that the story of every smoker’s taking that first drag is bit more interesting and singular than the losing-my-virginity story of them non smokers. And as has Miss Austen, acknowledged the universal truth, that any man in possession of a fine fortune must be in need of a wife, similarly you, my truly, will also acknowledge and assent to the fact that smokers are always the most interesting people you will ever meet. A simple sublime and supreme example would be yours truly’s name, tranquilly shining on the top of that list of “interesting” people.

As Abdullah Hussain once said, “We men, only know ourselves, through our women.” And once again, yours truly, being a firm believer in Abdallah Hussain & women, crossed this thin line because of a certain woman, whose name he never knew. It so happened that once yours truly found himself at a fashionable event, standing besides his one of many long time comrades, extremely busy in his favorite pastime which happens to be ogling at them ladies. There passed by those two companions, an eminent example of royal and regal beauty of feminine species of Homo sapiens smoking a cigarette, with an air so lofty and majestic and a tattoo of a smiley face upon her smooth deltoid which made the young boys gasp for air. The young men were silent for a while and then looked at each other for a while unable to speak. Then the companion said, “We should start smoking”. And then yours truly said, “And get a tattoo”. And then the companion said, “I dare you to go ask her for a cigarette.” Although yours truly knew arithmetic very well, even when he was young, and could quickly calculate that even after buying a pack of cigarettes with the only bill he had in his pocket, he would still be able to afford a ride home. But the reader may not know, that besides women (if the reader has bothered to read any of yours truly’s writings, he might have noticed it), back in the day, such stupid wagers were also a major weakness of yours truly. And a wager involving women, was a party yours truly was ever too eager to go to despite of his audacious maxim of never going to a party, uninvited.

And hence, yours truly, like an arrow shot from a bow, ran after the prima donna and stopped her. Surprised, the lady threw a magnanimous quizzical expression upon yours truly. Yours truly instantly regretted the wager, as he had not seen his loss of words, coming. However somehow, yours truly, plunged into the question, trusting his eerie sweetness and omnipresent halo of blessings of his elders around his head, and beseeched the lady, “May I have a cigarette, please.” The lady, upon hearing this request, burst into laughter which made yours truly resent trusting his eerie sweetness and omnipresent halo of blessings of his elders around his head. After laughing for a full hour, during which the attention of every breathing soul in a circumference of 500 meters was now focused upon yours truly and the lady, the sweet lady said, “You are cute, but underage, so buzz off.”

Dejected and despondent, despite of winning the wager, yours truly walked off the scene. However, this wager had one minor and one major aftermath. The major consequence was a delightful charming lady in her late twenties was amused by a boy in his late teens, a discovery for the boy which will itself have some major consequences in the years to come for the boy, the minor consequence was, that yours truly acquiesced to a horrendous humungous nicotine addiction.

Like all sacred relics, the origins of tobacco have much been debated & doubted. All the evidence has been pointing in the direction of Jamaicans and Incans. Bob Marley just exploited the one love grass is greener on the other side deal, as his Shaman forefathers were at it, hundreds of years ago. Tobacco was a major Entheogen (literally meaning God Within) for Incans and they believed that this smoke carries their prayers to heaven. Yours truly has concluded many an uneventful and heated arguments using this Incan methodology and blowing victorious smoke rings in the faces of the debaters. Sir Walter Raleigh has been cited as the pioneer of this sweet dark ritual for the modern world. This Irish lad was so peculiar, that yours truly has often felt that whether yours truly is an reincarnation of Mr. Raleigh. It is oft thought that queen was in love with Mr. Raleigh, she spared him of death sentence twice. Walter Raleigh, once was sitting in a dark gloomy pub, listening to chitter-chatter of sailors hoping to hear interesting smutty adventures of them sailing boys. It was there, that one obviously intoxicated sailor mentioned a city in the ocean that was made out of solid gold by a strange brown bronzed tanned skinned race (whose women will be generally referred to as MamaSitas some 4 and a half centuries later). It is not known what was Mr Walter Raleigh drinking at that particular pub. Whether it was scotch whiskey or boot legged absinthe from Bastille or his general insanity or was it a huge debt, but Mr. Walter Raleigh immediately had his heart set out on finding and claiming the ‘city of gold’. Next month Raleigh boy set sails, to this city, little is known of the adventures that followed. However it is well known that Walter Raliegh, came back with (literally) a ship load of tobacco and some screenplays for Disneyland’s movies (El Dorado movies). Oh not to mention some Incan slaves, thus pioneering proper modern slavery in the west. Us Occidentals were there a long time ago i.e. slavery was common in Middle East and Chinese Qing dynasties had lived their lives high on tea leaves’ smoke.

It must not be forgotten, that Walter Raleigh has also been cited as progenitor of Chivalry. Laying one’s robe for a lady to tread upon can only be explained by two ulterior motives, the first is love and respect, the second is that the day might have been the laundry day at Raleigh’s chambers. However for all his ills, Mr. Raleigh finally got his head severed from his chivalrous body on a rainy day, in the old Bailey. His legacy, however lives on, pouring countless dollars into tobacco industry owners and governments (This vice brings in one hundred million francs in taxes every year. I will certainly forbid it at once—as soon as you can name a virtue that brings in as much revenue, Napoleon) and helping occasional lad in winning favors with a lady he fancies.

Ponder in parenthesis time.

(That was high time for sea travels, voyages, new women in new ports, Captain Jack Sparrows etc. Yours truly has often wondered if those Portugese hadn’t landed at a certain port looking for tea leaves, how his life would’ve been different. )

Yours truly, only once in life has tried to quit smoking. Yours truly had been clean for one month and was fully detoxed after a month in the fresh country air and was back, standing amidst the cheery undergraduates in a corridor outside a class room. And a certain very ‘supportive’ friend told a frenzy nerved finger crackling yours truly of his friend who had taken up smoking again, as he missed talking to his cigarettes. Yours truly savored & memorized the ingenious line but somehow did not smoke. Later in the evening, yours truly’s storyteller of a sweet prince playboy comrade showed up, who had taught yours truly the subtle difference between holding a cigarette like George Clooney or Marlon Brando and oh the first zippo trick, and offered yours truly a cigarette which yours truly refused to his dismay and explained the reason for clean smoke free hollow limbo that had been ensuing in yours truly’s room. The tovarish showed his contempt and inquired, what about the revolution and if you had to quit why did you start it only three months ago. This was the most convincing public display of affection and went back yours truly as thus to the arms of that dark aflame goddess that swallowed him whole with its regular affection and availability.

However at the end of the day, its not about chips being down or up, its not about talking with confidence, its not about weight checks, its not about money spent or saved (please never use the money thing to dissuade anyone from smoking, that’s seriously lame), its not about lung cancers or angina pectoris, its not abut looking cool or feeling cool, its definitely not about Freud’s disgusting explanation of smoking (people who are obsessed with sex & psychology personality relations, are seriously either retarded or virgins, true that the earth moves during it, too, but there are better things in the world as well), its not about soothing nerves, its not about rolling over and lighting it up, its not about excusing yourself everytime you are in unwanted company to smoke a cigarette (trick can be done with a cell phone), its not about pain or wanting to kill oneself, its not about being on the other side of the tracks, its not about addiction (ok it is, nicotine is scientifically proven to be a worse addiction than heroine), its all about loving and enjoying a thing. If you, dear reader, can’t understand that then you have wasted a fair amount of your life, unfortunately.

Important Corollaries:

Smoking is a bad bad thing.

Yours truly is no longer infatuated by chicks who smoke.

All smokable drugs, roofies, spliffs etc are for teenagers, and yours truly loathes 20 something teenagers. If you don’t agree, then try asking your cool ass dealer for heroine and take a picture of his freaked out face to remember the truth.

Green Fairy in yours truly’s writings will always be absinthe and not cannabis derivatives.

Don’t start smoking. It’s bloody addictive.

Get a hang of things first, for all those who are not fish are soon tired of the water.

This page shouldn’t be donated to wikiquote.

It is you who is the hypocrite, au lecteur, mon frere, mon semblable.

Regarding yours truly’s health, yours truly can still run five miles without a stop, a feat which many of the healthy herbivores are incapable of.

Secondly expediting decay and death, you may refute yours truly’s stories but you can’t turn down Nazim Hikmet.

There will be hookas in heaven. Yours truly had a vision of this long before reading Byron’s

Why is it whenever yours truly writes, it becomes a four page long affair and a lot of stories have to be omitted.
The moving finger has written and moved on, we are our decision in our right minds. Some will suffice, others unfortunately won't.

A smoking song, a remnant from the days of yours truly’s short and ill fated romance with Flash, it has a dog, cigarettes, weird dreams, a woman and matchstick men animation (not made by yours truly).

My Mad Mercurial Melpomenes.

2009-12-11T00:55:00.000-08:00

(Yours truly, what else can he be, but all apologies. For yours truly just can’t help quoting dead dudes. Dead dudes rule magnanimously i.e. slapping the bass big time. Look at Tupac Shakur & Che Guerra’s t-shirts in the nearest shopping mall or the ghetto-boy/girl-of-the-hood-maker-salon/tattoo/body piercing parlor and differ if you may beg but coherence will elude you, my truly, and will be on the side of yours truly.

Nevertheless, before you proceed any further to read this boisterous piece and by piece yours truly doesn’t intend to mean a big black barreled gun as they are referred to by the gang$ta brothas, yours truly would like to request, very humbly though, you to play a certain song. The song happens to be sung by the sexiest man who has ever sung on earth and was called Mr. Mick Jagger( Let those jaw bones be a tale for another time cause yours truly actually went wicked insane gay for him, when Jagger showed up at lords to watch test cricket). From his The Rolling Stones days and the title of the track is (yea you my truly had it coming), You Can’t Always Get What You Want. Before you advance to double click on one of the most awesome icons in your computer (i.e. the song), your truly would like to request you, twice as modestly than the previous request, to play the original version of the record, i.e. the studio version which features a choir, for a choir has the same immortalizing and rejuvenating effect on a rock song, as the Pimp My Ride’s team’s creative input can have on a certain Suzuki Mehran (affectionately dubbed as Mehru by her owner), after it has been pimped by the team of Pimp my Ride.

Anyway music ready? Hit the lights, and ride on and read on)

Now I shall spy on beauty as none has

Spied on it yet. Now I shall cry out as

None has cried out. Now I shall try what none

Has tried. Now I shall do what none has done.

(Not Nabokov’s finest lines, but can’t blame a man for trying)

Once, when yours truly was intrepidly inexperienced in the matters of the world and what goes on therein, yours truly read this poem by Nizar Qabbani (translated by Munno Bhai, in a book in Urdu, no shit. But yours truly has read more books in Urdu, than you’ve ever spoken and yours truly will not be exaggerating if he tells you that he can write Urdu a tiny bit better than the Zuban-e-Firang) about his blessed beauty who was crying. So Mr. Qabbani wrote something like that “Women are the most beautiful when they cry”. Being infinitely naïve from his inception, yours truly believed this to be the absolute truth as is his general disposition towards all books of poetry. And yours truly eagerly awaited the day, when he’d see a girl cry and get all mused up and like write something for her.

And yours truly didn’t have to wait long for that. And when yours truly saw her crying, the first thing he did was, that he cursed Nizar Qabbani, his crazy forefathers and perhaps his posterity. For it wasn’t pretty as it was supposed to be, au contraire it was humongously horrible. Being a witness to big pretty blue eyes tearing up and watching those tiny streams of tears tread down lovely smooth cheeks like snow flakes, beginning slowly at the start and then falling quickly and rapidly into history, is perhaps a thing for Friedrich Leighton, but definitely it never worked for yours truly. And crying kids look only partially innocent, because when yours truly is beating the senses out of his four to five year old and 2-3 feet tall wicked Satanist cousins from hell, there is still a hint of that satanic malice in their eyes which they have evidently inherited from the crazy genes that run in yours truly’s lovely family, but crying women, oh my god, they totally let go. They look more innocent and harmless than hungry toddlers.

So yours truly wondered and wondered a lot, and then again wondered a bit more till he started to feel like, Alice in wonderland, that why women cry. And yours truly is good at wondering and wandering, and coming up with explanations of people and delivering them their psycho analyses, and suddenly unannounced and unwelcomed, my truly. But wondering about this one proved out to be a real bitch for yours truly. Till one particular day. It so happened that on this day, yours truly was riding in a car, going somewhere random with that goddess of a mother of his. During the course of this journey, came some banquet hall, where a wedding ceremony was about to end, and the bride with her big red 40 pound dress and accessories and bigger redder 10 pounder makeup was about to depart from the banquet hall, her girly silliness (to take up general womanly silliness, not that she was cured of silliness, mind you) and her family. So at that instant she was hugging her mother and both were crying madly. The mother was crying as if her child was being taken to the gallows, and the future mother to be was crying like her unborn child was taken to the slaughterhouse. Whatever. And all the girls around them, were sobbing and sniffing and couple of kids, who were perhaps brothers of the bride were also crying. Dreary sight, and the makeup of girls was running and what not. Disinterested, yours truly indulged in speculation of the facts that must’ve made both the women cry, even if they were going to live at 10 minutes drive. Was the girl crying, because she was married against her will, or for some boy she knew say 5 years ago or is she actually going to miss her old life or does she dislike her new mother in law or mean sister in law perhaps or the guy she married is ugly or is she crying because she just can’t understand what she wants to say or she just realized that she has left some evidence of a dirty little secret on her bed which she was about to throw in the bin and then forgot or is she feeling helpless and many more things. And please repeat the same questions for the mother herself for sake of brevity. And thus was yours truly busy in his speculations trying to be the next big Jung, gazing lazily at the scene, but wait, all of a sudden yours truly thought he heard a stifled sob, in the very car he was sitting in. Thinking it to be a figment of his vivid imagination, yours truly jerked his head to clear it of the thoughts and looked towards his goddess of mother, for one glance at her could mellow up yours truly, like a school boy who gets to play truant on school. And to his utter disbelief and surprise, the sob had come from within the car, and from that goddess of a mother. And then the following dialogue took place.

“Mother! Are you crying?”

“No”

“OMG! You are totally crying”.

“Yes”

“But why, what happened.”

“It’s just the wedding”.

“Wait! Whaaaaaaaaat? This wedding? This wedding? We don’t know these people, we’ve never seen these people in our lives before, and I am sure we will never see them again. And if any such prospect ever arose, I will ensure that I don’t see them”.

“Shut up! You don’t know anything”.

“Ahan! Like what? Come on. Please don’t cry.”

“No it’s nothing.”

“Then what is it. Please tell me.”

“Ah! It is just that.,,that any daughter departing from her family for good, it just tears me up.”

“Oooooohhh!”

And then yours truly had to sing some stereotypical sub continental sad legacy oooh la la I am a woman and my life is so tough and hard song to cheer her up. Aglay janam mohay bitiya na keejio to be particular. Yours truly is proud to be your son, you goddess mommy, and big time proud.

Anyway, after that, yours truly stopped wondering why women cry. They cry for many a number of reasons and yours truly can enumerate scores of them, accurately too. But it will be mean of yours truly to do so, and yours truly is mean and loves to be mean for meanness is all yours truly’s got, that and not to forget his sweet style, but yours truly can’t just be mean, despite of all his evil urges, to a woman to whom world has already been pretty mean.

(The studio version of You can’t always get what you want, is of 7min32sec length, do repeat it as long as you’re reading).

Here’s another specimen dialogue.

“Dude what’s up. Hahahaha, one night I was so depressed that I cried and cried, and my bed was wet with tears and I thought I slept, but I actually, like totally faded out.”

“Oh all’s good, just cruising along smoothly. Wait! Whoaaaaat? WTF? What happened?”

“Ah no big deal. Just the usual stuff.”

“Whoaaaaaaaat the faaaaaaacccccccckkkkk, how am I ever supposed to get over shit like that”.

“Awww, that’s sweet/cute of you, bla bla ”.

Fair enough, fair enough.

Seriously, what the fuck. The same gentleman Nizar Qabbani, when immortalizing the tears of his blessed beauty has also said, “You are beautiful when you cry but when you laugh, I forget there is sky above my head.”

So yea, there are days when yours truly wakes up sullen and sulky and on days like these yours truly doesn’t like poetry anymore and find flaws and repetition in Shakespeare’s sonnets (Dear Lord and dearer Shakespeare, forgive yours truly, yours truly is just using rhetoric to cheer up some chickas and totally doesn’t mean it). And unless and until one of you smiles for yours truly, yours truly doesn’t feel alive.

So yea babies, yours truly does lie and exaggerate, but the greatest strongest and riskiest oath yours truly has ever read, was of Nazim Hikmet’s when he was recording that affair between Gioconda and the chinaman, and he said, “If one doubts that a single word I am about to write is untrue, god may ostracize me from the realms of poetry, forever.”

And so is yours truly going to copy paste the above line here for himself.

“If one doubts that a single word I am about to write is untrue, god may ostracize me from the realms of poetry, forever.”

For if wishes were horses, the world would be full of funky little horses (your truly’s) doing funky little tricks for you in an attempt to tempt you out of your gloom.

And if yours truly could have a penny for every time, yours truly come up with a new line to cheer you up, yours truly wouldn’t need to work again.

And every time them firangi babes, after laughing heartily to yours truly’s usual antics, ask if yours truly is going out with anybody or anything, yours truly’d say no. And then they’d ask, what do yours truly think of women here, yours truly’d always say that they are lovely and must have caused ten accidents and hundred whistles this morning and some of them are hot enough that yours truly believes that he could use them to light up his next cigarette in case he misplaces his beloved lighter, but they are no match for the women of yours truly’s country and then they’d ask, why and yours truly’d tell them, because each one yours truly knows is worth her weight in uranium, the one that is used in fission. And they’d tell yours truly that uranium is like a billion dollars per pound and for an average 120 something pound woman, that would be 120 billion USD, and that is a lot of money for current market situation. And yours truly’d tell them that yes 120 billion is really a lot of money for sulky stupid women yours truly know but they are worth far more than that, and then yours truly would slightly feel like a pimp saying that and weighing you. Which is definitely embarrassing.

And yours truly would continue writing like this, regardless of the work he is putting off.

And yours truly would hold the door open, even if that chick is like 5 yards away, for its so worth it.

Get it all together, and stop being bad.

No big deal, you be nice to yours truly once, yours truly will be nice for life. And will never tell you of the nasty things that put him off, everyday.

So as a part of exit music, yours truly was thinking of Back door man or Alice Cooper’s Every woman has a name. Yours truly was only joking, when he made you play Jagger, yours truly actually meant this.

So much more yours truly could’ve wrote, but his eyes are hurting now after a long day at work and staring at a computer screen for 14 hours at least, today.

PS: Don’t flatter yourself much over this, there are a couple of you involved here.

I slaep de bass!! Big toime!!

2009-12-09T04:17:00.000-08:00

Yours truly got mugged. Not today or yesterday, but few months ago. As one can easily notice that yours truly is peculiar, ok, eccentric, well okay half-mad, um, ok you’re right wicked sick insane. Hence it shouldn’t come as a surprise that yours truly loves to jog, late at night, 9 30 pm being the usual time. And not in the parks or upon the treadmills with dials showing one’s speed and heart beat rate, but in them streets down there where them plebs eke out their bare subsistence. And not with the ipods, or other modern portable music accessories, but quaffing the magical melodies of night’s early hours. Ok perhaps you’re right wicked sick insane, might be an understatement, but what can be done, yours truly is a man of simple pleasures rather than wealth and taste.

So, one night, yours truly was delayed at work, and when came home, felt them calves and thighs twitching for a round of the block, and negotiated with his body muscles the urge for a hot shower and a hotter cup of sweet tea. Only to find to his abysmal dismay that his body is better negotiator than himself, for the body lured yours truly into multifold pleasures of aforementioned indulgences, i.e. hot shower, tea, and to top all that hearty meal (bloody peas and chicken, from the planet Krypton) will have a better impact after an intense cardio-vascular workout. Your truly’s immense will power, reason and wit, which makes many mortals lost for words, had lost this vital case against his own body. Such are the forces of chemistry.

Hence, began the course of jog. It must be around 1015 pm, and being a rainy day, streets were a shining under yellow street lights, and a bit more deserted than usual which made yours truly thank the lord, for them kids who crack them snide jokes about your truly’s unseemly, ok hideous figure, jogging slowly like a drugged bull caught in the stampede, won’t be around. Hence it all began smoothly. Yours truly knows very well the corners, bends and streets and the distance between all them mentioned streets, bends and corners. Not because yours truly is a bloody Cherokee or a witch doctor, because he has measured all the distances on a car’s speedometer, duh. And it might sound like yours truly is going for the over kill, but yours truly usually jogs a minimum of 5 kilometers in these escapades of his, with breaking a lot of sweat mind you. Stinking and soaking in sweat, and detesting body hair, is nothing compared to staying in the game, next morning, if you know what yours truly mean, dawg.

Well, being a mama nature’s boy, the rainy weather enticed yours truly to venture into a neighborhood, which yours truly hadn’t explored as yet. And it all went great, it was more than 3.5 kms by the simplest estimate of yours truly, and hence yours truly stopped in his tracks for his 120 second break, did a bit of stretching in a dark corner, and decided to turn back. Dark corner because, yours truly has a body stiff like a corpse and is always embarrassed to do some leg raises in front of anybody, which look like kicking an imaginary football rather than leg raises. And on his way back, there came out of thin air, two gentlemen. (Dear Reader, Is this what you were waiting for? Right! you are sick, catharsis is one thing but laughing and rejoicing at an innocent man’s plight, how colorful the narrative may be, is plainly inhumane, bugger off! But wait the best is yet to come). And they waved to yours truly and asking to stop, and stop did yours truly. The gentleman seemed very nice, gentleman like and comely. One of them was wearing a nice big warm hood in which his biceps were bulging, and other was clad in a fine big winter jacket. It appeared at first that the gentlemen, who had themselves good hard bodies with little traces of fat, wanted to make an acquaintance of yours truly, being fascinated by your truly’s dedication to cardio routine. There was something eerie about them, but yours truly doesn’t count much on appearance, for if appearances mattered that much, yours truly would be a sad little man crying to his mama, pleading for an arranged marriage.

But lo and behold, the jacket-ed gentleman slipped his hand into his pocket and brought forth a piece, and by piece yours truly totally means, a big bad black barreled gun. And the one in the hood, in a very diminutive voice put forth his request as thus,

“Gimmie all you got, ____”. (fill in some slang cusses, according to your own trash talk capacities).

Yours truly, had just gotten over his initial shock of the gun, and the wanted to implore the gentleman of the meaning of this suggestive sentence. Since ‘gimmie all you got’ even when coming from pretty little number can freak out a gentleman such as yours truly. And then coming from two big boys, one of them pointing a gun at yours truly, this was surely very confusing. Yours truly swallowed some air and decided not to ask the gentlemen their intentions and remembered that the comedian always gets his brains blown out in war movies. Besides yours truly had a hair cut during the latest weekend, and it takes some 15 days for your truly’s hair to grow back to their significant length, that is to say, yours truly looks his best 15 days after a hair cut. (It’s hard to explain here so many things, some other time perhaps). And yours truly definitely doesn’t want to let his friends see him for the last time, in his absolutely un-aphrodisiac freshly cut hair and half of the brains missing. And hence kept quite, gambled with his luck (gimmie all you got bit, remember), and just handed the gentlemen his wallet.

The gentleman in the hood, went through the contents, and expressed his agitation in some sweet nothings directed at yours truly (and those. For yours truly doesn’t carry much cash, and neither has a credit card. Then the gentleman asked for your truly’s phone. And by now yours truly was sure that they are not interested in your truly’s number and handed them the apparatus, gladly. As that would’ve meant some very peaceful days. Well now that the transaction was complete, the gentlemen wanted to bid farewell. However before leaving the gentleman in the hood, as a general public display of affection, punched yours truly in the face. It was a good blow, but yours truly used to box, in another lifetime though, and was unmoved and stood his ground. This feat of strength was evident of the fact that yours truly had his rump kicked many times before. (One such gentleman who had the pleasure of throwing lefts to yours truly’s handsome face went on represent the country in SAF games, no shit, seriously). Anyway the hooded gentleman was not much pleased, and he launched a right unto yours truly. Here yours truly is not sure, whether the gentleman hit him with the gun in his hand or those huge biceps didn’t peak with steroids, but the punch landed on yours truly’s lovely ear and the universe’s undertones of the night stopped and all yours truly could feel was sharp hot needles being shoved into his ear, interspersed with cold bellicose silence.

In this moment of excruciating pain (and yours truly shit you not), the first thought that sprang to the deranged mind of yours truly was of Thomas Alva Edison. For the genius, was once punched by a certain station master once in ear and went deaf in his early adolescence years. Which somehow served him well, as Mr. Edison later proclaimed, this gift of silence helped him to concentrate better on his inventions and stuff. Yours truly on the contrary is no genius, and definitely not a man of science, but is a simple man whose greatest known pleasure is listening to music. And yours truly felt, very genuinely too, that the auditory sense of his left ear has kicked the bucket and joined the choir invisible.

Which made yours truly feel very sullen and sulky.

The protagonist duo had disappeared and yours truly walked back home, with his head tilted to 55 degrees all time as at that particular angle his ear hurt the least. However a couple of days and with the use of a certain allopathic ointment, the pain disappeared and the hearing re appeared which made yours truly happy as a puppy playing fetch. For in his painful gloom, yours truly had prepared himself for a lifelong dull sensation of hearing music through one ear only. And if you, my dearest reader, have ever had suffered from listening to music through headphones, which have one piece dysfunctional, then only can you imagine how had yours truly anticipated to cherish his passion for music, for the rest of his life.

But then, a reader of finer inquisitive sense will never seem out of place, if he questions yours truly that why yours truly is so helplessly, head over heels, in love (agape) with music and comes up with quotes such as “Music bes my mistress, and plays fiddle to none but me” and that Az Kuja Me Ayed Ein Awaz-e-dost(How come I hear the voice of that mistress o mine, in a reed made out of wood) , and that matla’a (last verse) of Hafez’ ghazal, (gar bar sar-e-turbat-man, ba mae o mutarab ba nasheen—ta bobiyat za lahed raqs kunaan bar khaizam) which can be translated as “Love! Dare not to visit my grave, without wine and song, for only then I’d rise from dead and welcome you doing a mean booty shake”.

The reason why yours truly loves music so much is very simple, dear reader. Though yours truly can boast off that his passport drive, contains in it, a plethora of music, as diverse as the Diaspora of Adam, from Hungarian gypsy folk to Brahms’ allegro affetuso to GG Allen to Johnny ‘suicide waiting to happen’ Thunders to pleasant plaints of Pathanay Khan’s (maidha ranjhan hun koi hore) to Hendrix playing an ablaze guitar to Shudhkalyan of Roshan Ara Begum to Sardar Ali Takkar to Elvis to Sabbath to Abba to Beegees (the first tape yours truly ever bought) to The Concretes to Hansdhuni (a raga for the first quarter of the night, with ascending (aaroh) notes being (sa re ga pa ni sa) to Chopin’s Nocturnes in flatted B etc etc. And yours truly can also boast that he has sat by a certain fountain in a certain school with some angelic human beings and sang, was part of a busking duo on a beach, can improvise a delightful song on a guitar on the mere sight of lady who pays the slightest intention, has publicly declared himself to be an avatar of Dionysus (to which some friends obliged as well), has sung his dog to sleep, has wobbled drunkenly in dark gloomy hallways listening to invisible saxophones and hears the moon hum fabulous chansons to him. But all this would be a bit too far fetched.

The actual reason is very simple and stupid as is the wont of all actual reasons. Long ago yours truly fell in love and has actually lived all those songs. From Flo Rida’s my lips taste like sugar to Joy Division’s Love will tear us apart to GNR’s how could you look so fine to Springsteen’s that pillar in the temple where we carved our names.

In a princedom in another land, at another time.

And the King Pimp Daddy said,

“I have sung to women

In twelve cities of the world

And it’s all the same

Bah!

Now I will sing of the sun”.

But Daddy, it’s never the same for your son. For every time, a new song flows out of the heart and each one is more subtle and singular than the previous.

So if you don’t dig and question your truly’s taste in music or change the radio station if they just played Roxette’s song at the instant when she sings, Lay a whisper on the pillow, yours truly will not make you cry like a little girl in an instant of which he is so perfectly capable of. But yours truly will certainly regard you with a bigger than yourself contempt for the rest of your days. It’s Baudelaire’s Be drunk, on wine or music or poetry or it’s Khayam’s Wine, Music and thou, in a sweet garden under the bough all the time. Because yours truly has slapped that Bass, big time baby.

The Cantus Firmus

2009-12-03T10:08:00.000-08:00

“Man, the fuckin stones, the clash, the Jagger, Johnny Thunders, Pearl Jam, The Floyd, Syd Barrett, Bowie, The Maiden, Johnny Cash, Hendrix, Oasis, The Doors, The Who, Rush, The Mars Volta, Tori Amos, Ani Difranco, Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Silverchair, You am I, Smashing Pumpkins, The fuckin Clapton man, The Zeppelin, Bruce Springsteen, Bush, The Beck, The fuckin King (b.b.King), the Aerosmith, Collective soul, The Dave Mathews, The Fuckin Beatles, The Radiohead, Sigur Ros, Lou Reed, Cat Stevens, The Sinatra, Chris Cornell, The Dylan, The Black Crows, The Kinks, The Fuckin Cure, The Nick Cave, Diana Krall, Blur, The Blue Oyster Cult, The Foo Fighters, The fuckin GNR, Bird York, Leonard Cohen, Ryan Adams, The Pete Yorn, The Neil Young, The Santana, The Lynard Skynard, The Dominoes, Credence Clearwater, The Deep Purple, The Heart, ACDC, Muddy Waters, Nina Simone, The Thin Lizzy, Freddie fuckin Mercury, Faith no More, Blues Brothers, Zakk Wylde, The Howlin Wolf, The Beach Boys, Fiona Apple, Patti Smith, REM, Norah Jones, The Fuckin Presley, Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, Jeff Buckley, The Smiths, The Joy Division, The Scorpions, The Motley Crue, Trixter, The Cardigans, Opeth, Tom Waits, Janis Joplin, The Charlatans, Van Morrison, Ella Fitzgerald, The Mars Volta, The System of A Down, The Fuckin Nat King Cole, The fuckin Patti Smith, Joni Mitchell, The Dark Dio, Alice bloody Cooper, Tesla, Sinead O messmybrainsbigtime Connor, The Dream Theatre, The Sabbath bloody Sabbath, Steve fuckin godlike Vai, Saigon Kick, The Heart, The white snake, The Grateful Dead, Phil Collins, Peter Gabriel, Bob Segar, Jeff Beck, ColdfuckinawesomePlay, Del Amitri, Kula Shaker, Mr. Mclean, Mr. Big, Massive fuckin Attack, Duke Ellington, Jewel, Mark Ronson, Everlast, Santana, The Muse, Archive, Dead Can bloody Dance, Portishead, Cranberries, TV on the Radio, Poison, Pet Shop Boys, Survivor, Foreigner, The Verve Pipe, The Zutons, Brahms, Mozart, Chopin, Julliard’s fuckin blogs, radios, random internet radios nothing worked man. All I could hear was those two words from that sweet chin, from that honey dripping tongue, produced from the loveliest resonance in that super gorgeous sternum in that all placating all affectionate modulation of her voice in which she addressed me when she wanted all my attention. And I could precisely recall, what shape her jaws were in when she uttered that, how her lips curved, how the flesh of her cheeks moved and her neck man, And nothing else, no more walls, no more doors, no more sheets, no more rooms, no more curtains, that’s where I was that night. Drowned bloody drowned man. Realizations, epiphanies and what not. ”

Yours truly: “And I thought I was the one who could talk”.

“hahahahahaha. Well I learnt a thing or two along the way too.”

Yours truly: “OMFG, you bloody kiddin’ me.”

And the hangout was over long ago. There sat now only two men talking and telling each other about their dark rich lives. And they had made stronger bonds during their frosh years using only music, than most people ever make with their own children. But it was time to go, and yours truly touched his both ears with his both hands for tauba tauba at the vivid narrative taken by his companion and bade adieu.

However following trivial corollaries need to be brought to the knowledge of general public.

Yours truly don’t remember all the musician's names the guy named and used some of his own.

The conversations that begin with two comrades bumping fists and doing a chorus of Evidently Chicken Town (exactly like sorority girls) , can transcend into any possible dimension.

The actual conversation had lot more profanity and lot more mention of tonal variations such as the diminutive moments of some flatted notes in modern western musical progression and the effect of pick slides on overdriven guitars. Which had to be omitted to savor the gentle suaveness of the narrative.

Thank your lucky stars that the ABCD, our protagonist for this story, didn’t know the folk music and the ragas and grew up on punk and grunge and later moved on to finer and greener pastures. As with the slightest mention of NFAK alone, this would’ve become an absurdly humongous novel for yours truly to type.

They are both hard boiled and kinky during the day, but the woman (in fact, all of their kind) melts at sunsets whilst the man (in fact, men) is a different story during the after hours of the night.

Who hears music often

Feels his solitude

Peopled at once.

(Robert Browning : 1812-1889)

Fan Mail

2009-11-26T10:44:00.003-08:00

Dear Thoth,

I hope you are faring well in your parallel alternate universe of fairer never lands. The year is about to end and all your friends are trying to get on the invitation lists of various new year and/or Christmas balls and/or galas and/or concerts and/or parties. You obviously don’t have any plans because you are too busy in do nothing look busy antics and must I say that you have become very good over the years. It has been immensely exciting, amusing and amazing to be with you all around the year. But there are a few things I’d like you to re consider and review and change about yourself. And I will try to put them in bullet format, hope your browser support rich text formats.

After coming home from work, the first thing you do is that you take your shirt off. Not kool bro.
Please take a look around, before taking the shirt off, you are sharing the apartment.
Even if you have taken the shirt off, and there is somebody around, refrain from doing an Arnold’s pose of trapeziums.
Avoid mirror for all above mentioned actions.
Learn to drive left hand cars.
Learn to drive right hand cars.
Cars are the most beautiful thing in a man’s world. Not women, not kids, not sunsets on rocky mountains, not surfing, most definitely not the Nabokov’s writings, not jogging on the beach. Remember that next time, they discuss cars at work.
All cars are different. Don’t differentiate them only on basis of number of tires.
Women are just bodies. They don’t have hearts or emotions or feelings. They love to be treated badly.
Laughing women are not the prettiest thing in the world.
Money is imperative to your existence. Start loving it.
Money is imperative to your existence. Stop spending it as if you were born to a Saudi king.
Axl Rose and Slash will never be re united.
Stop impersonating Jim Morrison in the shower.
Stop fantasizing about being born as Jim Morrison.
Plagiarizing Shakespeare/Pound/Neruda to compliment random girls in the street only to see them smile and forgetting them altogether the next day is not kool.
Music is not your religion.
Literature will not feed you.
Your poetry collection is not your most prized and priced possession.
Start arguing with men on politics, economics and your employer’s policies. And prove your manhood.
Billie Holiday is dead, get over it.
Stop calling Xbox, PS3, Wi etc as video games and stop pitying people who enjoy them. They are human too.
You don’t drink anymore. Stop gushing when you smell whiskey.
It is absolutely immoral and unethical to explain to men who just want to get smashed, the miracle of fermentation and brewing and how meticulous is the distillation and then combinations of 60 different blends of scotch whiskeys and then aging and then refusing to drink it.
Stop being scared of women who weigh hardly 120 pounds, you’ve done bench presses of more than that.
When one of you’re oldest and sincerest friend tells you that you that you are vicious and intimidating, don’t grin.
There is no such thing as karma.
16^th June, 1904 doesn’t mean anything to you. You weren’t there.
Change your passwords. You’ll go bankrupt in an instant, if some one figures out the date of, well forget it.
Big Alsatian dogs are not the first thing you will buy when you get there.
You can live without 4 hot showers and 10 Earl Grey teas per day.
Buy some new clothes this year.
Buy a wrist watch.
Hugo Weavings doesn’t own a wrist watch, a cell phone or a driving license. But he is a millionaire Hollywood actor. You on the contrary are you and a salve to the system and thwarted with repetition.
Knowing the meanings of feminine names of four major religions of the world has paid off already. Stop it now.
Stop referring to certain poets and writers as your dead brothers on the dinner table.
Stop referring to Ezra Pound as daddy and Ghalib as Chacha Hazoor and Iqbal as Doctor sahib, you don’t live in 1930s.
Get a hair cut, you don’t live in 1970’s either.
You talk too much. But do not forget; only one day in your life you actually dried up in a conversation and you hadn’t seen that coming, despite of “Drying up in conversation, you’ll be the one who can not talk” boasts and premonitions.
Forget all the people who have loved you unconditionally.
Staying hungry, angry and poor is not the way to live.
Publicly expressing the desire to be a woman, only because you won’t have to shave is definitely not kool.
Stop singing Charles Trent and Edith Piaf songs to people who know French.
“Them that got shall get, them that not shall lose, so the bible says and it still is news but the lord doesn’t bless the child whose got his own”

Good luck kid. Be thankful for the lovely times and lovely people you know. Be thankful to all those who have kept you hanging on.

Best Regards.

Yours truly.

The taming of that beast called world.

2009-11-22T11:12:00.000-08:00

Kid: Hallo, hey wait! What’s up my man, long time no see? What’s happening dawg?

And the man, who had crossed the kid, came back, and raised his arms till they were parallel to his torso and he started to look like a (rather funky, some would say) scare crow, and then he threw his arms down and chanted,

O ye beloved, fairest of all them denizens of air, being I have been pimping around long time in foreign lands but everywhere “thou art the violets and the wind above them”, I have given up and given in. I have come back and I went away to come back to boast of the storms that I would have weathered, and exiles I was supposed to beat off. Rather in my grailous quest, I have forgotten all I knew, once.

And ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.
For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes, in diverse places.
All these are the beginning of sorrows.

King James Bible.

Matthew 24:6-7

Kid: Say what? Don’t you babe talk me man, ROFLMAO WTF Man, you didn’t had to quote the reference, like nobody ever cares or shit, you could’ve said it was from Shawshank Redemption and people would’ve bought that shit like those muffins, mommy gives me money to buy for in recess.

But the man told, that he loveth to quote the Bible, um, ah, rather unnecessarily. And he had developed the quirk from the ultra awesome character Samuel L Jackson portrayed in the Pulp Fiction. And then the man mentioned the afro and said, whoah, doth thou know’st what makes a killing, a 6’2” African American brother with a big bad ass gun and a bigger badder ass afro, quoting Bible in the biggest baddest ass manner. And Lo and Behold! the kid was so appeased, that he totally forgot everything.

And then the man said, after a strategic aposiopesis, it was here. They were here and they aimed their spears at your heart. Seven spears to pierce the bravest and strongest of all hearts. And each spear head was laden with poison and they aimed and aimed they did. Then the first thrower, threw his spear and then the second and then third.

Kid: Alright get over it already for fuck sake man, ain’t got all day bro. Brothas gotta get to work to eat. It’s a hard knock life, bitch.

But the man continued, with an abnegation of kid’s existence. And the fourth didn’t thought twice to throw his, and fifth thrower never hesitated and sixth one never vacillated and the seventh,…

Kid: Neither dilly dallied nor shilly shallied. Right? But what happened next.

And the man rejoined his discourse as thus, And seven spears lodged into a body, and your heart perforated. That’s what happened. And it was then the song of seraphs was heard across the plains. And the peasants looked at horizons in sheer amazement that only peasants are capable of expressing, and the chromed yellow winter afternoon sun beamed on the mountains, and while they were enchanted by the allegro of the song. You rose up and your assassins saw your body moving and they couldn’t believe their own eyes. And you told them to run away for wherever they will they should to, but they couldn’t and they stood their ground firmly and were not to be moved. And you left them standing there. And the peasants brought you fires and brimstones, to burn the miscreants but you were tired of all the burning. And you wove yourself unto them, and grew under their skins and they were trapped inside of you and they grew into you and you into them and no one who could look, could tell the difference. And then everyone knew that its time for crescendo and they were all happy and peasants caroused and the gods smiled and then the night fell and the world was calm.

Kid: There’s no way in the world, that, that could happen.

And the man looked at the kid full in the eye, and he had the belief of the prophets in his eyes and with an affirmative half-nod, the man told the kid that,

my son, this sort of shit happens, too.

Revenge is a dish that yours truly serves in hors d’oeuvre, in main course, in dessert and with post prandial tobacco leaf derivatives.

2009-11-11T22:55:00.000-08:00

Yours truly, intends to praise women tonight. Women, women, women, beautiful, large eyed, silk haired, curly haired, blondes, brunettes, red haired, effulgent, laughing women, crying women, sneezing women, coughing women, glowing in elevators after hearing “have a nice day” from beautiful strangers, soft skinned slender fingered sirens, catty woman, women swooning in arms of their men, crying at airport terminals, mysteriously smiling their too pleased with the world or with themselves or with their men or with their children smiles, pregnant women, infertile women, laconic women, verbose women, women who talk the senses out of yours truly, shopoholics, all sortoholics, women with dreamy liquid eyes that yours truly often has mistaken for scintillating stars, moon faced women who make yours truly curse poets for they carved out a simile which is so unworthy of these shining diamonds, unnamed queens serving coffees in restaurants, “cocktail waitresses with dreams”, goddesses sleeping hungry after feeding their children, women who save men from the previous women, women who murder all other women in the world for men, dancing swaying women, humming murmuring whispering women, women who call one by one’s name and one discovers new meanings in one’s own name, melting with tenderness, adamant lionesses, senescent housewives, women stuck and confused in traffic, head strong stubborn women who can knee one in crotch, women under sheets who scent up one’s entire life, women running after their toddlers as if entire universe will fall apart if their child stumbles gets a bruise, princesses trapped in teenage castles, house maids whom fate lends a shrewdness in the jawbones, women with hearts vitrified by the inglorious iniquities of games men have played with them, women which make one feel lonely in crowded bars and music halls, women who make one feel like a king, tramp stamped women, in tank tops and stilettos, women in cotton dresses with shoulder blades that cut through one’s heart faster than venoms of them serpent tongues, women who make one believe in the Man up there, women who make one hate the Man up there, women who have inspired all the poetry and song in the world, women who obliterate everything in one’s life, women one yearns to smell and hold in empty gardens, faces one can touch and feel after eons, cheeks and noses one can trace perfectly in air after uncertain millenniums, doth thee women get the idea. Yours truly is all praise for your love and beauty and is fully aware of the fact that by writing about it he is indulging himself in an endeavor, that his eloquence and capacities are, like so totally unworthy of. Yours truly would then like to resort to his much loathed habit of quoting a dead dude, which this time happens to be Jack Kerouac, who has said something which goes like this, but do mind that Jackie boy was tripping (literally and figuratively) all the time, “The world will never find peace, unless every man goes home and prostrates himself at the feet of his woman and beg for forgiveness”.

But there is one, about whom yours truly can hardly summon a word. That one is not known, yet the muse tonight. Apparently she had the heart to leave a gentleman of excellent resolutions and aspirations, which in turn has left the gentleman somewhere on the vestige of being an idealist misfit in a rather healthy unidealistic one-size-fits-all society and a total emo dude who incessantly plays Jeff Buckley or Damien Rice or whatever has just been posted at indiemuse.com and has absolutely no ear for the hymnal music of the heaven aka Jazz. And last but not the least of his foibles, is his obstinacy to sleep on the couch every night, when there is a very comfy and cozy bed vacant in yours truly’s humble abode. Now this habit yours truly finds slightly more annoying than the hair that gentleman/emo dude leaves on yours truly’s bathroom floor. But mysterious are the forces of nature, and even mysterious-er are the ways of emo noobs.

FFS. Perhaps pimp daddy of them was right when he pimped them all and said “What thou lov’st well, remains, the rest is dross.”

Dream brother!!!!

Of Mixing it all up now!!!

2009-11-03T00:29:00.000-08:00

Shakespeare helps. He is the ultimate wingman. All of yours truly's truest life yours truly hated him, the major reason being having this certain friend, who just loves to quote Romeo & Juliet, which is extremely phony. Not that there is nothing wrong with that, but a lot of people would've never known if Baz Luhrmann hadn't made that movie. And what a sneaky corny cheesy flick that was. Yours truly is a very loyal fan of Leonardo Dicaprio, but in that movie he plainly sucked. He sucked so much that yours truly can't conjure a decent word from his thesaurus for sucking. Nevertheless, yours truly averted everything of Shakespeare. Unless and until there was this woman.

And now, yours truly is well aware, that you my truly, are thinking, that there is always this woman. Or there is always this man or boy or some Armageddon of your soul that comes along to obliterate you in the ways that you my truly have never thought of. Well the will of god be done, there are such things, no denying that my good fellow.

Your's truly was greatly titillated when G. B. Shaw, one of yours truly's favorite wits of all time, wrote this play called Dark Lady of Sonnets, which questioned Mr. William "Bill" Shakespeare's writing inspirations about this Dark Lady that appears in the Shakespearean sonnets, Duhh! And it seemed and deemed fair that all was well that hath endeth well.

But there is usually no beginning, nor the end. So when yours truly was out one night, with this certain fair lady of pleasanter songs, yours truly was horrified to find out that she finds the genre known as house music most bemusing. Yours truly had just begin the evaluation of the lady and she stated, rather indifferently, that the music which moved her the most is house music. Yours truly repeated these two vulgar words in his head various times, House Music, House Music, and then gargled his mind. But alas the woe hath befallen yours truly, for yours truly detests only one thing more than the bad taste itself and that happens to be repetition. However the plight of the situation was that yours truly thinks of House Music to be a perfect amalgamation of bad taste, (i.e. synthesizers, hyper speech patterns such as oh yeah, we partaaay, move it, etc) and a blazingly painful and slow repetition of drum lines whom party lovers sometimes dub as intonation. For pete's sake, yours truly felt lost, swallowing invisible air, breathing hardly and tried to settle his ruffled and muddled thoughts by thinking of Shakespeare.
What would Shakespeare do?
WWSD?

For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.

To love things nothing worth? House music! Oh no!
And all this is a folly to the world?
Being senseless, dim witted in the forest, yours truly, opted for the way out of this, but there was no way around it.

Sometime all full with feasting on your sight,
And by and by clean starved for a look,

What hath no beginning knows no end, doth ever thy thought rend
A blister of mercy for the harmless, a broken heart needeth a mend

It hath fallen to the stars of this precious coruscate young lady to be entertained by yours truly, and entertain does yours truly and entertain did yours truly.

Before yours truly bid adieu, the memory of a patient old companion, tonight is stronger than the jagged darkness.
"So are you to my thoughts as food to life"
Patience- GNR

Converse!

2009-10-18T05:40:00.000-07:00

Man # 1: It is unjust what they do to us, they make us work long and hard, and they make more money out of us than we will ever make out of them.
Man # 2: I am as able as Adam was at the outset of mankind. And look what they do pay me.
Yours Truly: STFU, Dude, WTF are we talking about. Oh yeah!! Money money, she is making, forget the way she’s shaking.

Man # 1: But without money our lives are dark. We will be torn apart by never giving our neighbors the opportunity to covet their neighbors.
Man # 2: And it’s all because of that religion, which is against our religion, controlling all the gold in the world that we have to endure this tyranny.
Yours truly: Duhhh!! Like is it in the news today? Again?

Man # 1: Look at them, how they carouse, in their debauchery how they revel. Infidels, Miscreants, Heretics all, lo how they dance. They know not, that in name of their lust, which they name, love, they will be devoured whole by leaping tongues of fire.
Man # 2: Oh but our religion is the most superior, most sublime. We are always on the right path, we are the best nation. But doth that yonder wench giveth me the eye?
Yours truly: OMG dude like totally, guess that mama is into fat dudes.

Man # 1: The lord blesses me for I was given this path by the lord. I have never faltered into these sins of flesh. I have not sinned and when I wanted to, the lord delivered me to myself.
Man # 2: Blessed brother. I agree that these sins mortify our flesh but blessed be the lord of heavens who will provide us ample when he invites us to his abode.
Yours truly: Urm, so you guys talking about getting laid, eh?

Man # 1: My country bleeds and suffers because of them; I want the god’s lightning wrath to strike upon our enemies. I want oceans to rise up till heavens and swallow our enemies, I want mountains to fly and crush our enemies, I want rivers to change their path and smash our enemies to smithereens, I want…….
Man # 2: We must not rest until we defeat our enemy. Our hearts are charged with heavenly fires, victory will be ours, undoubtedly.
Yours truly: Dude #1, you are Michael Bay, aren’t you?

Man # 1: Lord bless the food on our table, may my children eat and grow strong for our country and religion.
Man # 2: Amen, this is the finest of its type, straight from the fields of my father.
Yours truly, is witty but is still hesitant to crack a joke about somebody’s children or father.
Man # 1: Oh and just by and by, did you know that Man # Umpteenth, became the head of that department. I am amazed why it was given to him, that sycophant; for I am more learned and confident that I can do that job better.
Man # 2: Oh yes and I hear he is getting a wage that is many a time as mine. Oh all my education and hard work and I have to live on this wage, thy ways are mysterious, Lord.
Yours truly: Dude i’d love to be porn star, OMFG those guys get paid for sex.

Man # 1(Addressing yours truly) God will surely have a treatment for your blasphemous soul, oh my truly, go away and repent.
Yours truly is in such a bad humor right now that he doesn’t even want to recount the proceedings of the rest of conversation. Yours truly is generally in a bad humor to hear men (save for a few noble souls) talk about religion, politics, jobs, money, finance, business, ladies (in a tone that ladies surely won’t like), sex and everything else in the world. Yours truly always want to tell these men, but can’t due to his social inhibitions, this.

I am a quarter of a century old dude
I have a uniquely sexy and sexily unique hair do
Last time, I was weighed at 185 lbs of awesomeness
With a really really low IQ

I own 5 shirts, 3 t shirts, two jeans, two pair of shoes
12 items of haute couture, for my year long dressings
I like to say Dude where’s my car, for I have none
But own an unceasing supply of mama’s blessings

I own a bunch of noob asses for friends who like
To check out chickas, and sing, in cruising cars
And I do own, a mad woman’s heart, who
For bling bling, proudly wears my scars

25 awesome friggin years old, no $$$
I avoid hair cut, as long as I can
But dare you do go out in the night, in the evening,
Try looking here and there for a happier man
BITCH (alluding to the Man #1)!!!

Peace out.

(After an unavoidable, uneventful, boring evening out with some people at work. Your’s truly now think that next time, it will be better to quote some one else, rather than trying his hand at the purest form of Vinum Daemonum (i.e poesy, i.e. poetry) i.e. rap.)

What they want. Charles Bukowski.

2009-10-12T09:02:00.000-07:00

what they want

Vallejo writing about
loneliness while starving to
death;
Van Gogh's ear rejected by a
whore;
Rimbaud running off to Africa
to look for gold and finding
an incurable case of syphilis;
Beethoven gone deaf;
Pound dragged through the streets
in a cage;
Chatterton taking rat poison;
Hemingway's brains dropping into
the orange juice;
Pascal cutting his wrists
in the bathtub;
Artaud locked up with the mad;
Dostoevsky stood up against a wall;
Crane jumping into a boat propeller;
Lorca shot in the road by Spanish
troops;
Berryman jumping off a bridge;
Burroughs shooting his wife;
Mailer knifing his.
---that's what they want:
a God damned show
a lit billboard
in the middle of hell.
that's what they want,
that bunch of
dull
inarticulate
safe
dreary
admirers of
carnivals.

The Cast is as follows:

Vallejo: No idea.

Van Gogh: The famous incident. Van Gogh had a little too much of the green fairy one evening, and was pretty cuckoo as usual and saw a beautiful lady in the corner of a café. Well then the lady was offering herself for a price and Van Gogh was so moved by the undertows of mysterious powers, that he thought I should offer something genuine to the lady, so he cut his ear with a table knife and offered it to the lady to cheer her up. In as many accounts I have read about this incident and as widely it is cited, I don’t recall I’ve ever read any details about the woman which makes methink, perhaps her name was not funky enough to be remembered. However she was kind of immortalized by Van Gogh, hope she cheered up. After a couple of days of hanging around one eared, the Dutch surrealism maestro, Van Gogh died

.Arthur Rimbaud: French poet, the first rock star of European poetry. As in the libertines and Casanovas were the norm, but they were rich people. Rimbaud came from middle class, loved bohemia and black people, had a tender and under nourished body. He loved to run late in the night, after consuming a fair deal of green fairy and absolutely loved to crash into things. Poems usually didn’t pay well, back in that time, if they were a bit too emotional or beautiful. Hence Rimbaud was piss poor and stupid raging absinthe-olic. One day he went to Africa to find his fortune, came back to Paris with gangrene had his leg amputated, and died couple of weeks later.

Ludwig Van Beethoven: Wrote many awesome pieces of music. His music is noted for a youthful and jovial expression. As a matter of fact extremely elating, if you have an ear that has music in it. (My version of beauty is in the eye of the beholder). However the interesting thing is Beethoven went deaf in mid life, and couldn’t hear a thing but, extremely loud train guard sort of whistles, and was very pissed off and suicidal, and it was during this time he wrote some of most delightfully uplifting music that was ever written.

Ezra Loomis (King Daddy of Poets) Pound: was a very very awesome and a good looking man. He hated Jews and supported Mussolini, loved Chinese culture and Sushi, much to the regret of McCarthy’s of his time, made his mistress and his wife live in the same house , happily ever after too, but was tried for treason (for openly expressing admiration of Mussolini), and was given a death sentence by American Court, won the noble prize for literature, helped Thomas Stearns Eliot win one too (as that kid was bloody suicidal too), then feigned to be insane to convert the death sentence into life sentence, lived 12 years (citation needed) in an Asylum for Insane in America, underwent electric shock therapy and still wrote Cantos as the Love Powers were always on his side.

Chatterton: Who?

Ernest P Hemingway: The pure American macho man,Loved Spain, bull fighting, women, wine, fishing, boxing and a type writer. Lived as far as from America as possible, wrote many books, won the Noble Prize of Literature (and a couple of medals in the Spanish Civil war), went back to America when he was in mid 50s, grew a white beard, waited for a couple of years, and committed suicide in the same house, his father had killed himself.

Pascal: I am not sure about this either.

Antonin Artaud: Founder of the theatre of cruelty, Parisian mad max of theatre, and tried Tarantino style gore on theatre before his (Tarantino’s) parents were learning to walk. He liked astrology, astronomy and his face and doctors thought that he was crazy and they (doctors) him the electric shock therapy. Won Pulitzer Prize for writing Van Gogh: The man suicided by society. Stayed in Asylums for around 3-4 years in madhouses. Also he had a walking stick he claimed that it belonged to Jesus to impress(guess why) nuns, his psychologist wasn’t so pleased with this feat either.

Fyodor Mikhaylovich Dostoevsky: had a very awesome Russian nobility beard, inspired Tolstoy to write about the poverty in Russia and grow an awesome beard, did not win a noble prize as it did not exist at that time. Well this man wasn’t into vodka, or women, or anything weird. Rather he satiated himself with a woman and gambling. I am not sure what Bukowski is trying to imply with this line. And it might be a metaphor for the single woman he suited over a course of 15 years, who refused to marry him every time.

Harold Hart Crane: I know absolutely nothing about the gentleman before this poem. But now I know that his body was never recovered. And he must be partying somewhere with Elvis Presly or Jim Morrison or perhaps Andy Kaufman. Because you know they didn’t die they just played it.

Federico Garcia Lorca: The James Dean of Spanish modern poetry. His works are not very popular globally as he was killed pretty young, as you know by the age of 38 only a few poets win any awesome prize such as Noble Prize or Pulitzer Prize. Nonetheless, ask any Spanish speaking gentleman of fine taste if Lorca means anything to him. And apparently the dude was very awesomely regarded by Mr. Che Guerra, the man found very commonly on T-shirts and very rarely in brains.

John Berryman: A very practical and complete portrayal of Hamlet in 20th century’s real life of America. Enough said.

William S Burroughs: The founder of Beat Generation and is to post world war 2 American Literature what 50 Cent is to post Tupac gangsta rap, that is to say both gentlemen used to chop cocaine to support their artistic endeavors. His major contribution to the world is that for the first time words such as fuck, appeared in mainstream print media to great applause and he inspired all other beats such as Keuorac, Ginsberg etc which in turn lead to white man becoming familiar with LSD, Benzedine and Jazz. He didn’t shoot his wife with a gun, rather with some injections on which the bitch kinda ODed and had a nervous breakdown.

Norman Miller: Well he actually stabbed his wife, and won Pulitzer Prize twice and got married 8 times. History is yet to discover another specimen of homo sapiens, who has accomplished all these feats in any order.

Charles Bukowski: The biggest hypocrite who has ever lived. Ok combine all the malice, wit, mercilessness, charm, false hopes and everything you have ever seen in politicians or lawyers, and yet you will be a good deal short of all the mentioned adjectives that Bukowski possessed. His poetry is absolute rubbish about whores, beer, horse races, and apartments with dirty floors infested with roaches and other insects. He worked as postman for US post for 10 years and used to listen to Mozart and Beethoven while fucking whores. When he was around 50 he was paying 50 grand as income tax in early 80s, he married a socialite, bought a BMW and started to hang out with Sean Penn. Has written thousands of poems, never appreciated a living poet in his entire life. Lived his life on beer, cigarettes and whichever white-trash-trailer-park-queen he was living with at the time. Actually I have a lot to say about this gentle man but let’s save it for another time. Just for the record, if I hadn’t read, “There is a bluebird inside my heart” when I was 17, my life would’ve been very different.

Why all this: I discovered scribd.com the other day and downloaded Bukowski’s Love is a dog from hell. I read this poem when I was in third semester in a net café. I couldn’t save it and forgot the name of the poem and remembered only a few lines. Have been looking for it ever since, never found it and found it yesterday. In the meanwhile I have read 5 of his books always hoping I will find this poem. And it was real nice to see the actual Henry for the third time in a course of 7 years.

An ovenly and heavenly experience.

2009-10-08T23:48:00.000-07:00

“Important Notice: This following story is entirely fictitious, this has never happened and any resemblance to any person, place, time or kitchen will be merely a coincidence. (If the author didn’t want to give it so an official tone, he would’ve wrote awesomely coincidental). All the characters and dialogues that disappear in the following lines are entirely fictitious (very awesomely too).Thank you.” Thoth.

Man: Come over to my place, I have got a new oven and I am like, an awesome Rastafarian baker now.
Woman: (her first language is not English, so one has to speak slowly to her and emphasize the words) Sorry?
Man: I bought a new oven and I will cook, please COME TO MY PLACE!
Woman: Ahh! Ok. What you making?
Man: Whatever you prefer. But no, let me think about it later.
Woman: Ok 8 o clock.
Man: (does a little tap dance in his imagination to that jingle in his heart and Um, you know what men expect at such occasions, that is to say, when a lovely lady promises to come over, right?).

8 PM.
Man is wearing his kitchen gown, impersonating Alicia Silverstone’s character in Clueless for he is Clueless at the moment, not that he is into some freaky sort of cross dressing, like that sort in which you only have to cross dress to some pesky brat of 90s teenage movies. (If you didn’t know such things existed, and are horrified now, not my fault. Internet is a horrible horrible place.)

The door bell rings.
Man: (Wakes up from his Clueless daydreaming slumber and shouts) Yea one second.
Opens the door and gasps for breath, for the woman is wearing a violet colored cotton dress, only to ensure that every man who looks at her gasps for breath or try to catch up on that beat that his heart skipped, every woman who looks at her can do nothing but to envy her skills in finding and fitting into THE perfect dress and all those people who put up those billboards “Marital Status: Single, Fashion Status: Fabulous” go holy shit! yea that’s what we were talking about.

Woman: Bonjour Monseigneur.
Man: (in the most fumbling French ever) Bonjour Madamme, Bien dress.
Woman: (Very pleased to notice the effects she had on man in last 5 seconds) Merci! So what are you cooking?
Man: (Grins sheepishly and tries to remember what is it that he is cooking and what is this thing called we have at night, Oh yeah! dinner) Argh! Actually I haven’t figured it out yet.
Woman: (Makes a sad face, in general coquettish foxy connivery of women) Oh! I am hungry.
Man: (Acting like a total buffoon, ransacks his brain for awesomely romantic movie moments to handle the situation, and remembers that Maggie Gyllenhal movie in which she is a baker and makes awesome cookies and thus lulls a handsome young man into that black magic called love, movie name was Stranger than fiction). Would you like some cookies, my grandmother’s greatest recipe, (a big white lie used for subtle reasons), with some milk or whisky tea perhaps.
Woman: (Shrugs) Ok.
Man: (realizing that they are already in the kitchen, looks at the cabinets for the first time in his life). Ok please wait in the salon, make yourself comfortable, and put on some music, have a drink and I’ll be there with you in a minute.

Woman goes to salon, turns on the tv and starts surfing channels. Man rummages the cabinets, conjures the ingredients somehow, puts the butter on stove to melt, hums a tune, mixes things up, looks for the secret ingredient (Coco Puffs, yes the cereal, the recipe was invented by the man when he was under the influence of some youthful whims and a tinge of some illegal chemical compound and wanted to have chocolate chip cookies and found no chocolate or chips and ended up using coco puffs), puts all the dough in pans and puts it all in the oven. Since this is a fictitious story, the author would take the liberty of omitting the recipe of cookies and the mundane details about setting the right temperatures of the stove. And takes you right to the instant where man goes to salon to chat with the woman.

Woman: (sees the man approaching from the corner of her eyes and smiles). How goes?
Man: Bien Madamme! (Everybody who has not figured out as yet, must know that Man’s French is limited to such meaningful phrases as bien & merci which mean good and thank you respectively) what were you watching on tv?
Woman: Ah! Nothing special, just searching through.
Man: Oh and I just remembered how are things with our friend XYZ.
Woman: (Beaming at the chance of gossip, although being a lovely professional woman you’ll ever see in any office, indulges herself) This guy went out with that girl and that girl was this and that guy was that. And his family lived in Burkina Faso and her family lived in Jordan, and now nobody said it was a match made in heavens but it worked somehow. And you’re too good to be true (Man’s mind is more attentive to the song that is being played on the tv as a playback to an ice cream commercial, for he loveth the song).
Man: Well that’s all very well indeed. But the thing about a woman speaking English with a French accent is that, she pronounces A as AA and B as BAY, and C as C and I’ve never heard you say D. But when you are speaking English, it is one of the loveliest genres of music I’ve ever heard.
Woman: (Beams again, and her perpetual beaming is one thing that man is so fond of) Ah, you poet! You talk too much about me. (A lovely sound of a feminine chuckle resonates in the air of a salon with some random tv channel’s noise in the background, of a small apartment, resounds and lingers for a bit and disappears, with a calmness and grace of passed eternities and oh oven’s alarm goes off).
Man: (Smiles with a full heart), Prepare yourself for a delight, Bon appetit.
Woman: Bon appetit. (Rubs her hand on her tummy). Go fast.
Man: (Thinks to himself that Quickly was the right word to use here, but forgives her in as a generous token of the events so far and proceeds to the kitchen humming.) it would be heaven to touch, oh I wanna hold you so much.
Man opens the oven and basks in the smell of some freshly baked raisins, walnuts and vanilla essence of fresh cookies. He takes the tray out and realizes that the cookies are not brown enough on the top and decides to let them stay in the oven for a couple of minutes. Ta ra la da da. When he placed the tray back, he realized the presence of a burner in the upper chamber of the oven and in a moment of truth decided to turn this burner on for just one minute so that the cookies attain the perfect brown color like some well sun bathed Brazilian beauty on the beach.

And the woman walks into the kitchen, the man forgets all about the tans and suns and lets his mind divulge in reveling in the Mediterranean skin color.
Woman: Ready?
Man: Just a minute. Uno momento. (Needless and pointless thing to repeat in Mexican/Spanish but men argh!! They just can’t hang on to their cool for long enough)
Woman: Okay.
Man: Sing me something.
Woman: What? Here? no, let’s eat first.
Man: (Knowing that this is nothing but an excuse, and the woman is just playfully refusing, just a thing women really really enjoy, mind you) Come on, just for minute.
Woman: No, I can’t sing at all. (Giggles). Why? I’ll say AA BAY C De again, if you want me to?
Man: (The hunter has become the hunted, but appreciates the good natured humor of the woman, and man being a novice pleads) But please sing a bit. La Mer, La mer?
Woman: (Laughing heartily) Oui, (singing intonation) La Merrr!! Ey fire?
Man: (goes back into the clueless mode) What?
Woman: (Pointing at the oven) Fire.
Man: (Following the direction of pointing and realizing the his oven cabin is a bit extra bright than its usual shade). Oh. (Quickly opens the cabin, the cookies are aflame, like burning flames in a fire place, and dark black smoke fills the kitchen in a blink of an eye). Shit!! Impossible! (looks around for his gloves, finds them puts them on in an instant, tries to pull the tray out, realizes that the flames which are rising out of the oven now, like some wild flame thrower is on a rampage from world war movies is in there, will burn his glove, looks around, pours water in a glass, and throws it upon the fire which extinguishes instantly).
Man dejectedly pulls out the black coal look alike burnt cookies. There is so much smoke in the kitchen that man can hardly see the woman, who is standing only at an arm’s length. She turns the fan on and is still smiling. Man is in utter disbelief of what has just happened and can’t believe the powers of upper chamber grill of his oven.
Woman: (Coyly) I never knew that cookies are that inflammable.

And she starts laughing. The man starts laughing. But the woman is hysterical now, she is laughing so hard that her body is shaking and twitching. Man slightly embarrassed but still laughing, is relieved to see her relaxed and starts laughing heartily and he holds the woman. He felt her body shaking so hard with laughter in his arms, her breath shortening, her head thrown back, the fragrance from her collar bone and his own unabashed happiness and expressed it all in a fit of laughter. There were a man and woman, in each other arms, in a place and time, laughing very hard over burnt cookies which lay on the stove, in a lonely place, trapped in one of the strangest sensations of laughing very hard in the arms of another. While finding it’s way out of the window, the smoke disappeared in the big bad sad world, which continued its existence in it’s usual oblivious and unpleased and perhaps, a little resentful, manner.

PS: Cookies are actually flammable and that part is not fiction and we don’t endorse you to try this at home. For not many are as cool and calm in stressful fire in the kitchen situations as the man.

The Choke Studio- Originality at its lest.

2009-08-06T22:31:00.001-07:00

Allow us to begin this rhetorical piece of musical critique by lamenting the de-evolution of human intellect over the years. A friend of ours has put forth this theory that appeases both the religious and the scientific. He opines that Adam and Eve did what they did and thus came into existence a very fine breed of humans, all intelligent and funky and good looking. Meanwhile nature was taking it’s rather silly course too and some baboons evolved into some hairy, ugly looking and rather dumb species. And then both the breeds mixed up and every body lost their identity or should we say pedigree. But many a wise men attribute this jinx to capitalism. Let’s not debate over such and such and too on such an irrelevant note and move on to finer objectives.

The Coke studio, a fresh breath of air or as it is sometimes called the fresh air of breath of Pakistan’s music has been inspiring a many lately and transpiring or should we say being broadcast for three years. Over a thousand day course of its markedly intermittent life it has, alas too, lost its galore to the likes of you-know-who doing you-know-what, rummaging and bludgeoning traditional and eternal pieces of eclectic beauteous music in the name of what is termed as fusion. But do remember that it was nothing but a fusion of similitude between descendants of Monkey-man and Cain’s lovely children that brought the human race (wink-wink-nudge-nudge) to where it is now.

So after a rather incoherent and intolerably long preamble, let’s get it on with the grilling.

The C(h)oke studio, this year features the mellifluous talents of such acts as Riaz Ali Khan, Javed Bashir and Saeen Zahoor in the occidental capacity, and then there are the pop/rock sensations, namely, Noori, Atif Aslam, Zeb & Haniya and Josh. Josh, obviously is not really worth mentioning here in this limited space. For musicians, we have Omran Shafique, Gumby, Asad, Rohail Hayat, Zia Mohiuddin’s kid on synths, three unknown obscure dholchis, one unknown violinist, one guy with the shakers, two chicks for backing vocals and smiling meaningfully at times. For an artifact-ic meretricious-ness some rugs and a plethora of coruscate disco lights because saith god, let there be light. Besides remember Pink Floyd concerts, they used laser shows, to make their music deeper and sounding resonating as if only those flanging synthesizer were not psychedelic enough for the Daddy-O Mr. Waters.

In my humble memory the sublime and highly praised art of fusing folk with pop began with Mr. Shaheki teaming up with Mr. Allan Faqeer to do a ‘Humma Humma kar bhaiya’ which was pretty awesome because it was original and nice. Afterwards, fusion was few and far between, and then came Nusrat and everybody with slight inclinations towards fusing music had a rather nice ball. And then afterwards there was so much fusion, so much transfusion or should I say Trance-Fusion that there was even a band named Fusion, (the legend of Raga-Boys saved for another time) making the music scene more and more infusible. And then Rohail Hayyat thought that Oh there is just not enough fusion around and let’s just gather anybody we can, and cover some classic numbers in the name of originality, spirituality, homosexuality and ineluctability of it.

Then let us discuss the acts in here.

Well firstly and foremost, only thing that is fresh or new was Zeb & Haniya’s duo. The Persian song, Paimona was beautiful. Chal Diye was a splendid piece of music with genius written over it, which featured Javed Bashir who did his best to write plundered over it. And afterwards it plainly reads as Genius Plundered, now that’s a peculiar adjective to use as a hotmail nickname but writing it all over a song is pretty much frowned upon in almost all cultures. However this nouveau arrive is to be welcomed at all costs.

And the fascination of Javed Bashir with Khayal and then starting the Khayal with Urdu’s alphabet Zaal, by Jove it is meaningless. I’d rather squander my ear listening to a train’s rattle on railroad tracks than this Zaal. This singularity of Javed Bashir results from his adulation of NFAK (if you can’t make anything out of this acronym and get like lynched someday, know that you partially called it upon yourself), and covers his songs paying homage to Nusrat by letting us all know that how superior NFAK is than Javed Bashir. This reminds me of Jeff Buckley who once said its voice that is the medium of personal experience (In the sense, that vocalist gives meanings to the lyrics by his or hers intonations). Javed’s doesn’t, unfortunately. He should rather limit to emotionless and expressionless ragas of his with Mekaal Hassan. Time to move on from Zaal to Daal or should I say to Alef.

Josh is not worth mentioning here at all, therefore we wouldn’t mention them.

Atif Aslam, the underdog-boy-next-door-good-looking-bigstar-popsensation, who has clearly descended from them apes. And therefore lacks, what is called intellect. He has recently seen some Bon Jovi’s or perhaps Liam Gallagher’s live performances and has realized that if you move hands a lot while your singing, bimbos think that you are very deep. Nobody disagrees to that. However we just love him doing impersonations of himself, when he is out there in the centre, giving Bush Jr’s trying-to-look-at-least-of-average-intelligence vibes. We particularly enjoy his nasal falsettos accompanied by his hand movement that imitated a turning a knob on a very small transistor radio. The raised palm (in which a vocalist closes his eyes and raises a palm) has of course come from many bands of the Hair Metal genre, ever increasing in it’s popularity with the bimbos, since with time, there come more and more bimbos. Khayal’s in Nasal Falsettos come from nowhere, they are entirely Atif’s invention, and an invention over which there never will be any patent disputes perhaps. Simply because they are too cacophonous to be considered to be patented and no one will ever like them to be patented to their name. And the beads and everything, Atif just impersonates everything that will be the fad, once entire foul human race loses around 2/3^rd of its IQ.

Oh and Ali Zafar. Is he worth mentioning here, not really. But still he suffers from the same lack of heart that all other performers do other than Noori and Zeb & Haniya. Last year he did a great perfect rendition of Allah Hu, Iqbal Bahu’s sufi stuff, with a guy who totally looked a desi undertaker (and by undertaker we mean, the guy who actually digs graves in the local Qabristaans). This year he did Yaar Daddi which was made immortal by a remarkably forgotten mortal named Muhammad Jumman. Ali on the other hand was deficit on the Saraiki dialect, and had abundance of synth, which later turns into a texas-meets-samba-shuffle sort of beat. Then came the flutes and a strange Arabian-esque solo. If you take out vocals of that track, you really can’t tell what country’s folk music it is. And then Ali Zafar just had to resort to Khayal, that too in a Breathless fashion. Dear Ali, one request, stick to dance numbers mate, don’t try to molest what existed before you were born and will exist once you are dead.

A small note about the ancients viz. Riaz Ali Khan, SAEEEN Zahoor and the obscure big shot violin guy. Great teeth, great locks and dress and great spectacles boys. Right on the money. You are dead ringers for the KISS. However bountifully blessed these musicians may be in their respective crafts, they seem entirely out of place, ever too self conscious, rummaging their self images in the camera in their minds, when placed amidst the glitterati of Pakistan’s music. Saeen Zahoor, the nemesis of Pathanay Khan was dug out of god knows where, when good folk singers in the Saraiki belt exist at a ratio of 1.0581:1 to normal public. Riaz Ali Khan is perhaps a bit too old school to be here. And the obscure violinist, great spectacles.

This is really getting longer and too viciously pogrom-ish than I had initially intended to. But on a final note, Ali Noor and the Noori. Personally we adore them brothers. Ali Noor has the arguably the best voice, skill and persona in Pakistan’s modern music. Ali Hamza is not less gifted and innovative by any means. However the dudes just don’t know Urdu and are hell bent on singing in Urdu. We remember an interview of Ali Noor where he very cockily criticized Vital Signs saying that Vital Signs just used to translate any number that was topping Billboard charts at that time. Must have been, but JJ at least bothered to translate lyrics. Here is an example of Noori’s lyrics from the song Jo Meray.

“Mann mera dolay, raat bolay meri shaam main

Laagay bol mere mann main, koi bol de,

Haal-dil jo mere tann main, koi rokk de”

Which translates and transliterates as

”My heart sways, night speaks through my evenings

The words have hurt my heart, someone say it

What is in my heart, is in my body, someone stop it.”(dare you to come up with a more coherent translation???)

(and translation has made it slightly less uglier than it actually should read, which is lot less uglier than it actually sounds when Noori is singing these lyrics)

Now that’s either way too abstract for our pour souls to fathom or it is plainly too dumb to believe.

We don’t mean to disparage the musicians or the fans by any means. We do believe that both of the mentioned parties have done an incredible job for the music here. However we would like to put forth these simple requests

to Ali Zafar, Atif Aslam and Javed Bashir and that is Classical and folk music existed before Khayal.

To Rohail Hayyatt, deep music doesn’t mean too much synthesizer and trip hop gongs.

To video directors, Disco Lights??? Close ups of Javed Bashir?? Man, how amateur can video direction get?

To Noori, sing songs, and not words Ali Hamza can understand from K L Saigol records he so boasts off.

To our facebook friends, who just storm the feeds by posting coke studio videos from youtube, a la 4chan,org, please develop a musical ear.

PS; These pejorative lines are meaningless. There is no end to talking, and no end to things in the heart.