The Tazmanian Devil (Sri Lankan Istyle)

Chillies 2008

2008-03-07T15:46:00.000+05:30

I know it’s a little too late to write about Chilies 2008 but if I don’t put it down I never will. So here is my take on the event.

It amazed me how people think they get the license to act like fking retards when they think themselves creative. Many people do not understand the meaning of the event. In one context, it’s an event where creativity and creative people in Sri Lanka are appreciated. It is NOT a big match to shout slogans. It is not a rock concert to get on top of table and chairs and act drunk. It is an evening of appreciation. Coming from the ad industry does not make the crowd different. It doesn’t make the event any different either. If one wants a big match, one should have gone to a school that has a big match or go support a rugby club if you want to get pissed drunk and pass out.

I’m sure like in any industry, everyone puts in a lot of effort to get there but do you see attendees acting like a bunch of immature wannabes at other appreciation events? No. Local film industry is a lot more creatively talented but do you see them acting in this manner? Anyway that’s it on that context.

Chilies on the other context, is an appreciation of creative talents in a corporate environment. All end objectives being to satisfy corporate business continuity. In this light SPAM is very simple. Any creative idea which does not satisfy corporate objectives, is in its perfect sense SPAM. Anybody who does not lay it down as simply as that is just Fking around. If you want be judged for being creative without corporate boundaries direct independent films. If you want to win at Chilies simple do a corporate campaign for a legitimate client.

Sri Lankan advertising CORPORATES have become something like a ruthless mob of late. With whatever faults a committee brings, there is a steering committee. They have been entrusted the responsibility of what they do. Ad corporates and corporate heads should not get involved or be invited to partake in any activity of the Steering committee. The Steering Committee comprises of professional individuals who should if at all be answerable to only the judges. Definitely they are not and should not be answerable to any ad corporate head.

However I do agree on one thing. The ad industry has the sexist women in Sri Lanka!!!

Over.

2007-08-19T10:01:00.000+05:30

Another trip. Over. Sad.

Sivaji – The Prince

2007-08-06T09:40:00.000+05:30

To be very honest this was the only Tamil movie I actually wanted to watch. Come to think of it, keeping aside some Bengali films, this was the first Indian movie I looked forward to watching. I was told so many things about this movie, that at one point I felt like it was my right to stand up and defend my precious Hollywood. This had been the most expensive Indian film ever produced. Coming form the biggest film industry in the world, that’s saying a lot I guess. In a country where films actors command demi-god status, it doesn’t get any more demi-godish than Rajnikanth, apparently. So, me being me, naturally wanted know what fuck was all about. I’m sure that there was some divine intervention in letting me go for the movie as I was told that I would not be taken for it due to my comment “Rajnikanth is an ugly old fart”.

Anyway, I end up in front of Cine City, Maradana for the 10 o’clock show. I need to mention something about this theater too. This is no ordinary theater. It looks like a fucking fortress. I couldn’t see the entrance as it was covered with iron fence. It was like a barricade. Though I had been thinking about it ever since, I’m still not quite sure the purpose it serves. I was dreading standing in line inside an iron fence. I would have died of claustrophobia. Fortunately W charmed her way in to getting me inside through the main entrance.

The commercials that run before the movie are as unique as the theater. I have never seen three-wheeler spare parts commercial. Not even on tv. This place had that. Then came Ranjan Ramanayake and his biceps in the trailer of Leader. The sneak peek shows Ranjan dishing out round house kicks, lot of explosions and a chick who seems to enjoy flashing her panty. This is where the first crowd reaction comes. The audience is as unique as the theater and the commercials. Very, very vocal and made me feel like in school, watching a movie without a teacher. There were boos, loud comments and whistles. Too bad I didn’t understand the comments.

So the movie begins. The only name I can recall now, being mentioned in the opening credits is Rajnikanths. And he is introduced as SUPER STAR Rajnikanth. This provokes another outburst of claps and whistles and the movie goes on for a good three hours. The movie as all elements for success, covered. It has a superstar, elaborate sets, five more songs than absolutely necessary and a nationalistic story line. To top it all, it has slap-stick comedy, an over flow of, what apparently are, Rajnikanths trademark moves and outrageous costumes. Rajni (as he is fondly referred to as) portrays a chappy that has made his millions after going to the U.S and is now (surprise, surprise) a software engineer. Comes back to India with a god like attitude and wants make it a better place. What better way than to establish a free medical training college. To make it very short, our chappy Rajni, over comes bureaucracy, beats the crap out of (what seems like) quarter of the Indian population, signs documents with both hands to quicken things up and basically makes India the most sort after real estate in the world by 2020. Single handedly. Now that is fucking amazing, don’t chu think?

W tells me that you will not see anybody other than Rajnikanth in the movie. In the sense, that his presences is so overwhelming. And I agree with her. The director has made sure of this to the extent that you will see seven to eight Rajnikanths at the same time on the screen.

But I would be a hypocrite not to say that I was fascinated by the whole experience. I am fascinated how this less than average looking guy who can’t act for peanuts commands such hysterical mass mania. What is also fascinating is how a sixty-year-old man acts like a thirty year old. At sixty years, I would probably be farting while putting my granddaughter to sleep, while this man is out there kissing the hips of a gorgeous woman. Not even the most versatile of Hollywood actors can pull of what this guys pulls off. I am sure that either he has a lot of ass kissers around him who convinces him that he still can carry this kind of role off or his fans just don’t want him to grow old, at least on screen. And from last nights’ experience, I feel it’s the latter. I have been told by my uncle that in the days when Gamini Fonseka reigned the local cinema screen, they as young boys would come out if the cinema repeating the cool dialogs and would use them anywhere they could. This was what I saw yesterday. Guys came out repeating the ultra cool one-liners and doing the finger snaps. In third world countries, that gets bitch slapped around by the west, because of the socially deprived lives they lead, people seek emotional asylum in movies. In that context, a good movie and a movie star should bring this kind of emotion out in moviegoers. Rajnikanth the man, is more like a cut-out of himself you would have seen in Chennai for one of his movies, thirty years ago. His fans don’t see his wrinkles, his bad acting, his receding hairline, his potbelly. They see a prince who makes love to them, by winking and snapping is fingers, every time they go to the movies. Koool!

Another One Of Those Situations

2007-07-16T14:55:00.000+05:30

I hate having conversations with three wheeler drivers. Usually it’s about either the government, cost of living or cricket. After the first four conversations, you realize that you end up having the same conversation over and over again. Fucking dejavu. I’ve had my four conversations and don’t have anything more to contribute (and the ipod was invented in the mean time too).

That was until yesterday. I was on my way from office yesterday. I hailed down a three wheeler which was speeding towards Grandpass. Inside is a human hulk. I’m not quite sure whether to get in or not. I’m ordered to get in or loose my life. Courteousness was never a virtue of local drivers. So anyway, I get in. Partly due to the fear of the next guy who stopped (he looked like he kidnaps people), party coz I had the first season of “Lost” waiting for me at home (Yes, first season. After year of denial I finally gave in).

Now I’m on a bumpy and zippy ride from Grandpass to Wallawatte. A bus rams into a car in front of Colombo Uni. One thing that I have noticed about local drivers is the fact how they are ignorant about the traffic rules they break. You talk to a local driver and you will realize how many traffic rules he abides by yet have no idea how many he’s breaking. I see this as being optimistic. Anyway, now the conversation starts. I’m not quite sure how it exactly started coz I had my pod plugged in but I’m sure it has something to do with the accident. I get spoken to in English. And extremely good English at that. I get asked all sorts of questions that make me feel like I’m at a job interview.

“Sir, where do you work?”

I tell him.

“Sir, what do you do there?”

The only thing I seem not to do there is what I’m asked to do.

“Sir, do they give you a car?”

I give him a synopsis of my last year.

Then the conversation takes a dramatic twist.

“Sir, do you have a girl?”

WTF??!!! I’m not quite sure how to and why I should answer that. There should be a law against asking questions like that. Me being the sod I am, have this retarded habit of justifying everything I say. So I’m like “No….I mean I had.”

“These girls come and go sir; it’s very hard to find a good girl”

I’m like “ok”.

“Don’t worry sir, you look innocent. You will find a good girl”

Shut the fuck up dude. I will smack you on the head if you promise not to punch seven shades of shit out of me.

“eeerr….thank you”

“I have had enough girls sir. Enough”

Now what are you trying do? Make me feel bad just because I haven’t had my fill?!!!

“I’ve had girls up to here (making a level sign in front of his nose)!! All are bitches who are after your money!!”

They would be, if you told them that you would pay them for their services. Idiot.

“eer…really?”

“I will just fuck them like this (holding his nose), like this sir; and throw them away!!”

At this point I gave up trying to understand him. I assume he has had some bad experience with body odor. I dig you dude, I so dig you.

Somehow, later it dawned on me that it has nothing to do with odor. This guy has some serious issues!! This guy needs some serious closure on a bad relationship. I was told about what a disgrace, women are to human kind. That they evaluate men on what kind of car they drive and what kind of house you own.

Shit!! I’m going to die alone at a bus stand.

After seeing my dads’ name on the gate he asks me hundred questions about the man. I get off but not fast enough. He asks me for my number. I get off the ride giving my old number and run to the safety of the house.

Some people are just under utilized.

D'S

2007-07-09T14:44:00.000+05:30

I’m not quite sure whether they got the spelling right but a stunning place nevertheless.

Surgery

2007-06-11T09:07:00.000+05:30

The best thing that happened since my last post was Mark Cross leaving the morning show on Yes FM. Thank fucking god!! Somewhere between wise cracks and fake accents those two jokers lost the concept of radio. Which was primarily to PLAY MUSIC. Shack is as funny as drinking your own vomit and Mark just don’t know when to shut up. Tracy on TNL did the best moring show I’ve listened to. Now that’s one funny radio jock. I still remember the day she played “lankawe ape lankawe” by the Gypsies on the show. That’s kick ass DJing. Shack, dude I’m sorry to say that the only people who listened to you guys were recent middle management retards who still head bang listening to Summer of 69. So please do us all a favor and get another job.

I did come across a few interesting social situations that made me think however. If this post feels like surgery, please stop reading now. The worst curse you can carry in life would be not to fall in love. Imagine going through your entire lifetime but not falling in love. The social circumstances around you prevent you from feeling the essence of life itself. It’s quite amazing the number of people you would find in this social paradigm if you listen hard enough. Getting stuck in a marriage when you are barley out of your teens and before you know it fifteen years go by and three kids come along. All this and you’ve not even reached you 35^th birthday. Suffocating isn’t it? I want to do so much in life. I want to meet so many people. Visit so many places. It’s obvious we all not wired the same way but you speak to these people and realize that when they started out they had a lot of potential and hope by somehow it never really panned out quite like how they expected. Guess if its anything, life is full of surprises. The good, the bad and the ugly.

This post is, sort of, all over the fking place as I have been over the past few months. April and May was like going through surgery. People came and went. Functions were attended. Plans were made. Deadlines were missed. I lost myself in the whole eruption of materialistic orgasms. Not being able text “my favorite mistake” didn’t help either. So here’s hoping that the next few months will be something to celebrate about.

Places To Watch The Annihilation Of Cricket Australia On Saturady.

2007-04-26T17:24:00.000+05:30

CH is nice. Proper Sri Lankan cricket match atmosphere. Cheap but due to the crowd, service is poor. You have to buy grub and booze for the entire night in one go coz you won’t get another chance. Eat or drink to kabba limit would cost you approx. Rs. 1500.

Cheers is more wanna-be. Tries very hard to serve the local cricket flavor and succeeds to a certain extent. Excellent service. Not the place you can reel off four letter words about Ricky Pointings mother though. That sota takes away half the fun doesn’t it? Eat or drink to kabba limit would cost you approx. Rs. 3000-4000.

Bayleaf has simply lost it. Bayleaf is great as Bayleaf and not as a CH wanna be again. Fails miserably as a recommended place to watch the match. Place was great during the football world cup last year. The white plastic tables take the entire beauty of the lawn away. Sad case of affairs Harpo. Eat or drink to kabba limit would cost you approx. Rs. 4000-5000.

Sugar is recommended for a more sedated match. Ideal for England vs. West Indies on a Sunday. Nice music. Excellent service. Though you would miss the match if a tall goon is seated at the bar as that would cover your view of the screen. Eat or drink to kabba limit would cost you approx. Rs. 3000-4500.

Tramps was like Bon Jovi. A metrosextual rock musician. The novelty of having a Papare band in side a club made me go check it out. Band was excellent. In Sri Lanka no matter where you watch the match from a good papare band gets you in to the mood. The sad part was that on the day I went there the bar closed at 12mn. However it’s a great place to party, not exactly a great place to watch a match. Eat or drink to kabba limit would cost you approx. Rs. 5000-6000.

I’m too fucking spoilt to go Parliament grounds but assume that would be one of the best places to watch if you don’t have your own giant screen. Crazy fans, you can talk about not only Ricky Pointings mother but his grandmother too, cheap food, you take your own booze. Nice don’t you think? Eat or drink to kabba limit would cost you approx. Rs.1000.

Don’t even sight Inn on the Green. Too expensive. No giant screen. Too many expats. Not enough swearing.

Please feel free to add other places of your choice.

Another Old Incomplete Post.

2007-04-07T13:44:00.000+05:30

It’s not even mid December yet and I’m already getting in to the Roy-Tho mood!! With the Roy-Tho looking for sponsors, guess I got involved sooner I suppose. For some reason or the other you just can’t beat this feeling. I guess, like most that attended either school, I too lead a sorry life and gets excited over a “bloody cricket match” played between two schools!!! Fools watching fools in flannels. Those of you, who don’t understand, don’t even try. We are just retarded. It’s as simple as that.

I’m not going to write about some big match that happened long time ago or about a scintillating inning played by some fool. The year was 1996. My last year in college. Initial pledge was to start studing for A’ Levels from the first of Jan and then take a break during March and start again after the Mustangs Trophy. My plan went as far as my plan. Cricket World Cup happened, Roy-Tho was played, rugby season came a long. You wouldn’t believe the events you have to attend in you final year at college!!! Thank god some smart blighter decided to sabotage the Electricity Board and the exam was postponed by a month. First instance I started believing in God.

Anyway as I started, the year was 1996. At Tuesdays special assembly, Warden W.M.N De Alwis appointed the cricket captain as a college prefect and issued a death warrant against all who would be breaking the law in the next couple of days. The threat was remembered till around 10.00am. Approximately till 5 minutes after assembly was over. Come Wednesday morning a small crowd of around 120 creatures clad in different shades of blue and black meet on top of Orbanside Street Dehiwala. Trying hard to look as inconspicuous as possible. However war paint made us stand out like…….

We wait a good 45 minutes for our ride. A C.T.B half bus!!! Don’t even ask how we got a C.T.B bus to go trucking. Somebody can still go to jail for that!! How 50 teenage boys, 6 members of a papare band, a driver and a conductor fitted in to a 45 seat mini bus still don’t fail to amaze me!!

So we make our way in to Colombo and girls schools. First stop, Bishops College. Of course. This school always made me feel privileged. The only girls’ school in Colombo a boy was allowed to just walk in to, as long as he had either blue, gold or black war paint on him. Structured classrooms, obliging teachers and generous students. That’s like, a hat collecting Thomians wet dream!! Except for one social studies master who didn’t know the secan but was soon taught, everything was a rewarding experience. Your truily and Amila, the opening fast bowler the next day, takes up the challenge of conducting the year 11 history lesion as the teacher was not available. History always fascinated me!!

We exit as peacefully was we entered, passing the Double-Decker bus. Ah, that bus. I am yet to come across a Thomian who has not given thanks and prays to that bus. I love that bus. Next stop St. Bridgets Convent. I remember SBC now with more affection than then. High gates, higher walls (with spikes, what purpose they serve at such an altitude one fails to comprehend) and young security guards. One girls school which didn’t believe in hiring sweet retired old men. All of us generally charge the gate when we sense hostility. In the cheos that follows, a handful will penetrate the forward defense lines of any security measurement. Somehow the gates withstood the force of the blue army. Yours truly and the now infamous Malaka Silva climb the penitentiary like wall. Hurray! Penetration successful. Now we will attack from both sides. Unfortunately the wiseasses on the other side decide the effort was not worthwhile. Now we were prisoners of war. Shit. I fail to remember how but we somehow get on top of the 12 feet high wall. Jumping off it to the tar pavement is another story all together. To add to the agony Malakas’ t-shirt gets caught on one of the spikes. He yells at me to let go. I tell him that I’m not holding on. He threatens to jump. I ask him to fuck off. The next sight haunts me to this day. Malaka bare bodied running to the mercy of the bus while his t-shirt hangs on one of the wall spikes at SBC!!!

We go all the way down to the beach just to get in to Methodist College. Here I end up taking an English class but gets shooed away by the teacher who arrives late. I exit the class by writing down Umeshs’ home number for those who want private tuition. Sadly that never got us anywhere. The most chaotic was HFC Bambalapitiya. It was the mid day break. And when a horde of boys invade a girls school at a time like that, you wouldn’t believe the amount of Chinese rolls one gets to eat!! The most outrageous moment was when Sister Maxine (who’s name we got to know later) pointing to the gate and asking us to “Get out” and Nishantha “Willa” Wickramasinghe taking her hand and kissing it!!! I could have died laughing. Good thing we turned heel and ran or else I would be still at HFC laughing.

Come 1.30pm we end up at Ladies College. Another girl’s school I love in Colombo. Whoever who said that walls were built to be jumped over, built that wall. A Nissan Hilux with the most infamous of the Chikera boys in it enter the school. If he knew the ordeal he had to face, he wouldn’t have mooned Ladies College with his rugby jersey on!!..............................

From Six Months Ago

2007-03-08T17:48:00.000+05:30

In an attempt to be more frequent on kottu, I have decided to post all my old posts which I never got down to posting. So here's one more.

No cable still and I’m watching a Tamil film advert on TV. Hostage situation. The hero comes in a Mahindra jeep. I wait to for an ugly looking fuck with a musto to get out and start shooting. The ugly fuck does turn up; he actually rolls from under the vehicle. In my sorta sedated state I’m mildly surprised. I go get myself some chocolate biscuits, iced milk and a banana. That’s a meal fit for a king if you ask me. The state of sedation has lasted for almost three weeks now and doesn’t seem to be caving in any time soon.

Guess life on a life support system would feel this way. Two blimps on the radar would have to be the NTB quiz and Anils concert. Come to think of it felt sedated after one fateful night at Clancys. Got dragged in there would be more appropriate for the record. It’s a Wildfire night. I’m like, oh hell, might as well enjoy the ride since I’m on the trip already. Wildfire at Clancys’ still brings a bit of nostalgia and I haven’t heard WF in awhile. I survive through Shakira singing “pelvic bones don’t break” (or some shit like that) yet again. After a couple of rounds of Chivas mixed in with the occasional shooter, my ears are toned for Wildfire. The guys walk up on stage and I notice a couple of new faces. I’m like no big shit. They might sound better. It actually took till the chorus of “Hotel California” to find out that I’m not drunk enough. Urgh!!!! WTF????? If ever a boy band got drunk and tried to butt fuck each other and in the process sang “Hotel California”, I would assume they would sound something like this. This shit was not even worth getting yourself hammered so you’re put out of your misery. Seeing that the majority on the almost empty dance floor was from the Indian contingent seated next to our table made me feel a little better. They screaming their lungs off to “Summer of 69” made me feel even better. I still don’t know the words. I shit you not. We got up to go when the band started to play “one for the ladies”. Six years ago if you told me you heard WF play “Beautiful” I would have told you to go boil your head. Alas the day came WF played “Beautiful”. James Blunt style. Listening to WF now is like having a kink for getting pissed on. Nuff said.

NTB quiz was a blast. Thumbs up for an excellent event organized. Good questions, better ushers, free booze and walk next door to Onyx for Anils’ concert. Only in Sri Lanka.

Oh yeah, meet Mendez. Our business development help form El Salvador. Till now all I knew about El Salvador was that it meant “The Savior” and some of the greatest chicks in Central and South America came from there. I mean these are “magnificento” chicks! The promotional dames defy God. The distance between belly button and crotch makes me feel the belly button is somewhere around the rib cage. How low can a hipster get? God works in mysterious ways. I like.

From Six Months Ago....

2007-02-26T18:49:00.000+05:30

In an attempt to be more frequent on kottu, I have decided to post all my old posts which I never got down to posting. So here's one more.

NTB quiz was a blast. Thumbs up for an excellent event organized. Good questions, better ushers, free booze and walk next door to Onyx for Anils’ concert. Only in Sri Lanka.

Independence.

2007-02-19T12:31:00.000+05:30

I know this is a little late but who cares.

Independence Day don’t mean jack to me. I see the same circus every year. Only the clown changes once in a while. The worst part is I don’t even know how or what to feel. Were we really oppressed by the British? If so, what have to show after independence? And how does public masturbation of political egos, in front of Galle Face fit in to all this? On the other hand I had a colleague tell me how impressive the tanks were. Maybe Independence Day is for the likes of them. But then, wouldn’t a peep show have been cheaper?

My Independence Day started off with being asked to fuck off by two members of two political convoys who cut into the path of my humble three-wheeler guy. If entire roads’ being blocked is not bad enough, you have political man-whores asking you to bugger off. Guess it’s better than getting shot by them I suppose. I just don’t get it.

I come home to see the president bellowing his guts out on TV. If one didn’t understand the language, one would honestly think that he was mighty annoyed with the audience. After that the so-called Army band took over. I don’t get the patriotism signified by some really bad songs sung by wanna-be commercial band rejects. Even the uniforms were (I think) worn wrong. I’m quite there is no black t-shirt underneath the green jacket! If this was a PR stunt, somebody should loose his job.

Last Friday was the OBA AGM. Like many times before, I ended up at the OTSC (Old Thomians Swimming Club). Just that this time was a little different. I met a friend of mine I haven’t met since leaving college. He was two years my senior and we played football together. He played left wing for Boarding House and I played full-back for Stone House. I had no chance in hell against his speed and ability. He had joined the STF after college. Last month he had lost his left leg in a search operation in the east. I didn’t know what to say or do. My father was in the Navy for thirty odd years and the war finally hit home last Friday. What the fuck do you say to a guy whom you knew as an excellent footballer who had his leg amputated from shin down? It actually took a while for me to let it sink in and go up to him and talk. I dragged a chair next to him and started talking. We talked about the good old days, the matches we played, the chicks we stalked, and he told me about his one-year-old kid for almost one hour. I never asked him about his leg. I still want him to play football on the Mt. Lavinia beach on an early Saturday morning before running off hearing the breakfast bell. Fuck this war. Just fuck it.

Dhoom Machale

2007-01-26T12:22:00.000+05:30

Today, I watched my 6^th Hindi film. For a guy who lived and dated in Delhi for three years, that’s saying a lot. Back then, I was dating this girl who though that Sharuk Khans shit came from Givenchy! Imagine the excuses I had tome come up with, week after week! Anyway, I watched Dhoom 2. Free tickets, if you must know. Now here’s my take on the whole thing.

Characters

The Good guy – A “sevala” cop. Nice and friendly to chicks and attitude to guys kinda guy. Looks nothing like the kaki clad, pot bellied geezers you see during cricket matches. Wears denims, t-shirts, baseball caps. Oh yeah, and a really cool wristwatch. Baddie has eluded him for so long that catching him has become an obsession. The hint that he’s also gay. Even after teaming up with a smokin’ hot former college mate, who would light up a rain forest, he can only think of catching the Baddie.

The Baddie – Thief cum master brain inventor (and maybe part time male striper). Looks like a Greek god with a rub on tan and a waxed chest. Would also be popular in prison. Likes to break in to a dance when feeling good about something and likes to cry a bit. Also a little gender confused (likes to dance around in scarf’s and boob tops).

The Funny sidekick – Works out a lot at the gym for a sidekick. At least the upper body anyway. Seen most of the time riding a very cool bike. Comes out funny. Twice. Not gay. Potential dodgeball champion.

Smokin’ hottie – OH MY FUCKING GOD!! That midriff is to die for. Can you believe that there is a part she’s hand cuffed to a chair? Ok, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit but man, I telling you! Former college pal of good guy. Now herself a cop. Anybody who doesn’t hit on her is gay. Take my word for it. You see her in micro minis, boob tops, two piece swim suit (mind you, none of that towel wrapped around the waist shit!) and every imaginable garment, from a guys perspective of course.

Hottie – Again, oh, my god! Full lips, a narrow waist and an extremely cute tush. Ex- thief, now working with the cops to infiltrate the baddie. She can infiltrate me anytime. Can’t play basket ball to save her soul. Have a feeling that she thinks that basketball and netball are the same thing. But then who would care with that kinda tush.

Scene 1 - Baddie disguises himself as the queen to nick the crown jewels while traveling on a train in, what looks like, somewhere in the Middle East. I’m not quite sure queen of what but I have a strong suspicion that it is of drag. Baddie steals the jewels and fights all the queens’ men on top of the train with what looks like that regiform board you dog peddle with when you first start swimming. Here, it’s made out of bulletproof steel and not Arpico regiform for your information. Then you will see our Baddie sand bladeing at the back of the train before bouncing back on to the train top, with a Matrix type burst to fight more of queens’ men. Baddie also give a “don’t mess with me” kinda look every two minutes. Super cool.

Secene 2 - Introduction of good guy and sidekick. Takes place in the middle of a muddy lake. Sidekick does a “Fast and the Furious” number and lands on top of a boat on his bike. Then gets caught selling fake dope. Good guy springs out of the lake on a jet ski as if the Lochness monster farted him out and shoots all the baddies surrounding his friend. Our good cop also gets a call from his very pregnant wife asking him to bring fish in the middle of all this.

Secene 3 - Starts with Smokin’ Hottie at the shooting range. Cleavage, cleavage and more cleavage. Did the guy who invented the wonder bra ever win the noble prize? If he didn’t, he should have. Between introductions, she somehow manages to cuff herself to a chair. We are told that good guy and Smokin’ Hottie belong to the class of ’96. Both apparently hot and popular when they were younger. I believe her.

Scene 4 - Smokin’ Hottie is briefing her fellow cops on baddie. She uses some kind of high tech projection screen, which has random numbers in green running top down from the left of the screen (maybe the numbers are a countdown to the next song). Apparently no patterns and no way of knowing where baddie will strike next. But wait…no, there is a pattern according to our good guy. Wow! He has figured out a pattern with the dates on which baddie has nicked something. Smokin’ Hottie is very impressed (it would have been enjoyable for all of us if she decided to show it by flashing her bosom at him but no such luck). Then he takes over the briefing and tells everybody where our Greek god Baddie is going to strike next.

Scene 5 - Baddie steals a diamond using cool stuff. First he camouflages himself as a wall carving. Impressive shit, I must say. Then uses a mini lunar buggy to steal the diamond from under the feet of security guards carrying sub-machine guns. Then he uses a laser light to project a diamond. All coolie-smoothie like. Nice. Our poor Baddie gets caught trying to escape. But thanks to him hanging out at the sets of Matrix, he does a few back flips and round house kicks and escapes. Smokin’ Hottie seen answering a Sony Ericsson walkman phone. I just notice her everywhere.

Scene 6 - Baddie hears that he has a copycat. Baddie waits for his copycat at the place it had told the press it is going to nick some kind of antique sword. Baddie teaches his copycat how to steal the sword. Copycat almost gets caught trying to escape but thanks to our “Hindustani Neo” Baddie, gets away with him.

Scene 7 - Copy cat asks Baddie to be her partner. Baddie says no. Copycat strips to see that it’s Hottie in spaghetti straps and denim shorts. If I were Baddie, one blowjob would have fixed things. Now I’m thinking that Baddie is gay too. She says please and being the big pussy, he says no. I just don’t get it. If she lets me mount her, I would make her shareholder not just partner! Anyway, Baddie walks away flatly refusing her.

Scene 8 - Baddie finally realizes what he had missed and come back to find Hottie. He meets up with her at a basketball court and challenges her to a game in the rain. You know what crime is dude?! All my Hindi films had rain and bosoms and yet no nipple!! Can you believe it?!! It’s like having a hot dog with out the dog in the bun. Man, the difference titties would have made to that scene. Would have been the most exciting basket ball game I had watched. Fuck ESPN. Anyway, the scene ends with Baddie and Hottie making up and not making out. Told you he was a pussy.

Intermission.

2006 Ipod Style

2006-12-29T17:55:00.000+05:30

2006 was an emotional and a physical rollercoaster. The worst and most played on my Ipod sums up the year in a way I guess. It’s got the good, the bad and the mombo ridiculouso. Any way this might be my last post for this year, so here’s wishing all you guys a great 2007.

“Jesus Christ! How did that get in there?!!” List

1. I Don’t Wanna Miss A Thing – Aerosmith (Somehow minus Liv Tylor this song just doesn’t sound the same)
2. Colour Blind – Darius (Let alone not knowing how it got there, I don’t even know how to pronounce the guys name)
3. Two Steps Behind – Def Leppard (Met an ex. Nuff said)
4. Landslide – Dixie Chicks (Never lend your pod to anyone. Especially a chick)
5. Superman – Five for fighting (I didn’t mind this until I saw a guy in a tight t-shirt sing this at Sopranos)
6. Beautiful – Christiana Aguilera (I find Aguilera kinky in the video)
7. My Sacrifice – Creed (Guilty as charged)
8. Moonlightening – Leo Sayer (Download favor for a friend)
9. It’s My Life – Bon Jovi (Disgraceful. I liked a chick who liked this song. Utterly disgraceful)
10. Unwritten – Natasha Bedingfield ( I won’t even try explaining)

“Most Played in 2006” List

10. Where Have All The Good People Gone – Sam Roberts
9. All For You – Blues Traveler feat. Sister Hazel
8. Give Me Novocain – Greenday
7. Rape Me – Nirvana
6. At My Most Beautiful – REM
5. Learning to Fly – Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers
4. I Hate Everything About You – Ugly Kid Joe
3. Can’t Let It Go – Goo Goo Dolls
2. Hang on Sloopy – Yardbirds
1. I’m Shipping up to Boston – Dropkick Murphys

What I Didn't Write.

2006-05-29T18:42:00.000+05:30

This is what I should have written on the gift that I should have got. Also the very thing I shouldn't have told her since I didn't get the gift that I didn't give. But if I didn't tell her about the gift I didn't get, she wouldn't have got it and where's the fun in that ;-)

Dear P,

One of the toughest things to define is something that never was. However, it is a euphoric feeling imagining what could have been. Personally, I don’t think it ever gets better than the imagination and the real McCoy doesn’t come even close for once. Being human, it’s so easy to get caught up in the euphoria and end up chasing the illusive water dragon. I swear that I’m not and this is not a lame effort to make you chase it either.

The role that you play in my life does not define what you mean to me. It is not something somebody else will comprehend; you need to feel it to know how good it is. Now there’s your new definition for unconditional love. So getting you something materialistic somehow just did not cut it. I hope you will like what I got. As you “unwrap” your gift you will realize that, in the end it’s like what we had.....…nothing. Many happy returns of the day.

Enigmatically yours,

An Incomplete Post…..

2006-11-15T09:46:00.000+05:30

This is something I wrote sometime ago but failed to complete. Now I just can’t be bothered.

Ok, that’s it. I attended my eighth marriage function within the last two months and I’m burping in my sleep. The cost of the shirts I had to buy would amount to the GDP of a small country.

Engagements are charming affairs, I must say. Especially when the to-be groom goes down on one knee and proposes to his dearly beloved after the wedding halls have been booked and the gust lists finalized. Fascinating.

I like weddings because you can drink like Nicolas Cage in “Leaving Las Vegas” and not get noticed. That is until the bridesmaid whom you have been eyeing since the engagement comes and tells you at the home-coming that she saw you drinking like Cage in “Leaving Las Vegas”.

Anyway, with great difficulty I have compiled a list of ten thing I love and hate about marriage functions during office time.

10 Things I love.

Make up – Starting from the 25 year old bride to her 80 year old grand ma thank the Egyptians everyday for inventing make up. Make up do really work. Take my word for it. Make up do get ugly people laid. Take my word for it.
Billa music – After O/L and A/L batch parties’ finish you get only weddings where you can get hammered and dance like a retard to Billa. A good billa session really puts me in a good mood.
Alcohol – In the old days finding out the bride was not a virgin would disgrace the family. Now running out of booze during the wedding is a disgrace on the family.
Brides’ maids – The only chicks who consciously makes an effort to look second best. Friendly as long as the best man is ugly as fuck or you don’t get noticed drinking like Nicolas Cage.
The Parents – Sweetest out of the lot. They inquire about my leg. I tell them the story. They ask me who’s looking after me. They tell me about the trouble they went to bring up their daughter. Her driving. Her social life. About the groom. And many more. This is also the first time I met them. Sweet.
Brightly light ballrooms – I love a grand ballroom and I hate candle lit weddings. Reminds me of the house of horrors we use to do for the college fair, only difference being I’m too old to pinch butt.
Meeting weird people – Part of a conversation is as follows.

Weird chappy : Hi machaan.

Me : Hey much.

Akward silence.

Me : So much, where do you work?

Weird chappy : I work for “Soththiys” (or some weird ass name like that).

Me : So what does he do?

Weird chappy : Soththiys is an advertising company.

Me : Right. So who are your clients.

Weird chappy : I did the Siddalepa campaign in Mogadishu (or some weird ass campaign that sounded similar).

Me : Interesting.

Weird chappy : So machaan, did your check the chicks out?

Me : eeerr….ummm….yeah.

Weird chappy : Think we could get laid tonight?

Me : Think – Not when you smell like an asshole with dentures. Say – Of course dude.

Weird chappy : So take your pick.

Me : Huh?

Weird chappy : Go on pick your girl.

Me : You go first.

Weird chappy : That one in the sky blue saree.

Me : Think – Hey that’s my cousin. Think again – I love these social situations. Say – Hey that’s a hot chick. Wanna bet your car on who she’ll leave with?

(I don’t even own a unicycle)

Weird chappy : See that you’re a betting man. Your on.

We have very different approaches. He starts chatting up a chick. I text my cousin saying I’m tired and ask her for a lift home. God just doesn’t like some people.

10 Things I hate

1. Wedding bands – I hate wedding bands. Most of them sound like Paul Simon stuck inside a vending machine. Trying to get out of course. Baring a few who can actually carry off a good billa session.

2. Toasts – More often than not toasts make me cringe. Last toast I heard gave me the life story of both bride and groom. How the bride attended Ladies college and was the captain of the skipping team. I think. She had obtained her bachelors from either Kings, Queens or Jacks college in UK. How she had made friends with Jacky from USA, Jonny from Scotland and Chappy from Soththiys….….aaaaaahg!!!!

3. Galadhari Hotel – The chandeliers gives me a headache.

4. Aunties who come and sit next to you when uncle is dancing with a bridesmaid – I don’t have anything else other than work, marital status (invariably comes up) and leg to make conversation with them. Nine times out of ten I change seats when they go looking for their divorcée daughter/neice/friend (yuck!) to make introductions.

One Gigantic Birthday Party

2006-11-13T09:55:00.000+05:30

10 Things I had this birthday.

An awesome birthday cake.
Home made birthday party masks.
A band playing happy birthday at TNL On-Stage and making me wish I were part of the furniture.
Three B52s’
Four tequilas
Three Barcardi-Cokes
Two joints
A beer.
Four weird-ass friends plus two goofballs whom I adore beyond simple human comprehension.
A birthday wish asking for the same thing all over again next year.

Me & My Green Underpants.

2006-09-15T19:09:00.000+05:30

Past few months were a fucking killer. And the next few months don’t look too good either. Work, eat, and sleep. Work, eat, sleep and nothing beyond that. Ok, maybe a bit of gamming here and there. Went out for a welcome drink yesterday. Oh man, didn’t that whiskey taste good! Almost as good as sucking on a new tit. Fuck, it’s been so long that I can hardly remember what that feels like. Anyway moving away from my sex life or rather the lack of it, I saw a hen party unfold yesterday. The guys I met up with were colleagues of the chick who was getting married and was planning a male strip show where one was going in as a stripper. This reminded me of a certain hen party I was involved in, in a different lifetime.

To begin with, it was the same scean; a female colleague was getting married. This was not your average female colleague. She was maybe as tall as me and well built. Had the physique of a swimmer from OZ. Ok, maybe not but close. Her alcohol capacity impressed me too. I mean nothing that went down ever came up and she use to beat some male colleagues at Tequila rounds. The worst thing that could happen to you is to challenge V for a Tequila binge and loose. Whole of next week you will be bombarded with insults that you just cannot find your official mail in you inbox. But after two had been made to eat dirt by V, the guys wised up. Those were days where every Thursday was CH & Clancy’s. We all simply loved her.

So anyway, V was getting married and was having her hen party at Lalos’, her cousin, place, whom we also knew. I still can recall how it all started. Lalo gives me a call a week before the wedding.

“Hey H, how’s it hanging?”

“More on to the left these days.” That’s me the cocky one.

I get a ‘fuck off men’.

“Do you know any male strippers?”

I’m like “Which part of me looks like a pimp to you?”

No, no men and she reels off on this hen party thing. Now where would a god-fearing man like me, get male strippers from? And I don’t give it a second thought.

Later the same afternoon, I’m having a smoke behind our office with Buds. I remember the call and I relate the conversation to him. I see Buds latching on to every word of mine. At the end of the story Buds asks me,

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yes but I’m not quite sure whether I have the balls to do it.”

Buds is fucking crazy, on the other hand I didn’t have any plans that Saturday night. So I convince myself to do it for kicks and experience. I was sure that I was going tell it to the world on an anonymous blog 6 years later. I was going to be a male stripper.

Next week my confidence levels reach great heights. Five of us, including Lalo, plan the whole thing. We agreed to stop at underwear level. I was quite firm in not showing my crown jewels off. Not to V anyway. Buds was willing to go a notch below and moon the crowd. I can remember Lalo making him stand up and check his shaker out. Can’t remember whether he passed or not. Getting costumes ready was a bitch. Everybody was to bring whatever he or she could find and meet up at Lalos’ place. When we met up surprisingly there was quite a collection of stuff. Ranging from silky bathrobes to a black leather cap. Buds and I were going to be in masks. The absolute last thing I wanted to show in there was my face. We had a choice between a green Frankenstein, an Ewoke, and if I can remember correctly, Count Dracula. We immediately went for the Frankenstein and the Ewoke coz we were sure that you could recognize the wearer of the Count as there was quite a big opening for the mouth. After an hour or two we finally decided on what we were going wear. I now can’t remember what Buds wore. I was donned in (I warn you against imagining this) an Ewok mask, a blue Hawaiian shirt on top of a shiny blue waistcoat, blue track bottoms, black Addidas sneakers and green underpants. The underpants were mine, just for the record.

Then came the moves. This was fun. Every thing from Village People to Bonny M to Hindi films was reviewed. I think I added in a few moves myself. We practiced our number for around one hour and we were ready for war.

The following Saturday came by too quickly. Around seven my confidence was at an all time low. And I knew that chicks smell the lack of confidence like Great Whites smell blood. So I had to either get in swing or get ready for a Tiger Woods swing. We meet up at Buds place and have few neat shots of Vodka from his dads booze collection. I felt my blood start running again. We got donned up. Two guys helping two guys dress up would have felt very different under different circumstances. In around forty-five minutes we are all dolled up except for the masks. It was very hot under mask. We have a few more shots while waiting for Lalos call. We get the ring-cut at 10.30 and we start heading down to Gregory’s road. Buds give Lalo another ring-cut. That was her que to come meet us at the gate. We meet her at the front gate and head straight to the back door. I can here the music blasting away. My high was coming down and so was my confidence. I was numb. I was still comfortable but not as confident as I was. If I don’t get this over and done with soon, I’m going to chicken out. We were given our instructions in the servants’ quarters. The DJ will start playing La Bamba by Los Lobos and suddenly there will be a power failure. During which time Lalo will escort us to a coffee table on which we will have to start our number. We creep in to the house. Buds hits his shin on the coffee table and cringe in pain. I’m like; great this is all going according to plan. We get on top and are ready. I’m pissing in my pants and the worst part it is that, it will be seen in a few minutes.

Suddenly the lights come back on again. We stood there motionless for what seemed like eternity. Come on DJ, play that god damn funky fucking music for crying out loud!!!!! Finally Eddie Rabbit starts signing, “I love a rainy night”. There were shrieks, whistles, boos, oh my gods, woo-hoos. There would have been a lot more noises but I fail to remember now. I remember confifi being thrown at us and champagne being sprayed. We had to get all clothing items off (except for the underwear) within that song and dance our way to the bride-to-be to the tune of “I wanna sex you up” and dance with her body to body. Not exactly body-to-body but more like in front and behind her. I’m thinking that the next minute V is going to realize who I am and hold me so tight from my jewels till I take off the mask. She’s was quite capable of that.

I’m doing my job when suddenly my arse gets pinched. I was so not expecting that it made me jump and turn around. Everybody’s on an excellent high. After turning back I felt somebody tugging at my mask. Instinctively I held on to it for dear life. Then it suddenly occurred to me that pulling the mask was maybe just a distraction. The real motive might be to pull my underwear down while I was concentrating on the mask. FUCK!!!! How do I get myself in to these things???? Lalo comes to my rescue and gets whomever off my mask. We dance our way back to the coffee table to the tune of “wake me up before you go” by Wham! Somebody gets the bright idea of shoving money notes down our underwear!!!! Now, I’m like Jesus fucking Christ. Second tipper pulls back Buds underwear and suddenly lets go. Wathak!!!! The elastic slaps Buds on the crotch area. That would hurt!!! Will somebody please get that drunken cow away from the strippers!!!! Don’t come anywhere near me you psychotic freak coz I’m going kick you in the fucking kisser.

We finish our session. Lights go off and we leave the same way we came. Our stuff is in the car by the time we get to it. Everything had gone according to plan. Brilliant. Went back to Buds place and got so hammered that I slept till 12.00nn the following day. Next time I met Lalo she planted this huge kisser on my cheek and start telling me how well the whole thing had gone off. She laughs her head off when I tell her about my mask story and Buds underwear story. A week from that day we started going out and it lasted for around six months until she went and joined V in Scotland. This one’s for you Lalo, one of the best trips of my life.

Conquer Me by Blues Traveler

2006-08-28T19:25:00.000+05:30

Hail to you my mountain climber busy at your task
I know you're in a hurry but there's something I must ask
Do you ever get lonely climbing up so high
If you don't want to answer me I can understand why
If I told you a secret, would you want to know more
I've got a challenge I hope you won't ignore

Conquer me figure me out and set me free
I've got a hundred million things to show you as many more to see
But only if you conquer me

Sometimes I get this precious view and the grand scheme shows its face
When all is in harmony it can be such a lonely place
The melody is sad and sweet, and the dance I do is fun
Yes I love this precious view but I'm staring at the sun
For as pretty the picture, I share this view alone
Will anyone stoop to grasp this gauntlet I have thrown

Conquer me figure me out and set me free
I've got a hundred million things to show you as many more to see
But only if you conquer me

Hail to all you mountain climbers all you dreamers on the run
I'm your self appointed solicitor but now I speak to only one
Whoever she is now, and whoever she'll become
I'd like to ask her to hurry please and if she's walking could she run
It's not my impatience though perhaps just there I lied
It's just I'm feeling invincible and it has me terrified

Conquer me figure me out and set me free
Conquer me figure me out and set me free

Introducing Fully Loaded.

2006-07-17T08:45:00.000+05:30

It all started on a gloomy Thursday evening. The rain had been coming down hard since morning……….felt like droplets of Nitrogen. I couldn’t feel my left tit………..blasted air conditioning. It was day I just wanted to go home. I had a funny feeling in my knees……….it’s called arthritis………I’m just kidding…….ha…ha….laugh it up, asshole. But something told me that today was not going to go according to plan…………at least not according to my plan.

I rubbed my cold palms together trying to get some life in to them. I could almost see my steamy exhale. It’s only a matter of time I told myself. Ring. Ring. The phone made me jump out of my skin like an electrocuted testicle.

“Err..hello?”

It’s Shorts.

“The Boss wants you in his room in ten.”

Fuck.

“Now what does he want?”

“Come find out for yourself.” Click.

Bitch.

My mind starts running at the pace of a pirated DVD on my LG player.

Smooth….Stuck…..Smooth……Smooth……Stuck…….Stuck…….Stuck

Now what does the moron want? Then my rotted brain horns in on something. Something big. Shit. Must be the segmentation model. Has he found out that there are no Arabs in Colombo? Fuck. Kotler, that son of a bitch.

The walk to The Chamber was not pleasant, it never was. Feels like the green mile. I need a drink. Suddenly I could hear ice against glass. Cling, Cling. I could feel the mildly sweet aftertaste of a sip of Chivas. Shit. Office was not meant to be pleasant anyway, I tell myself.

I see Shorts typing something. I like this dame. She smells nice. I imagine fucking her brains out.

“Hey Shorts, wassup?”

“Same ‘ol, same ‘ol” comes the reply.

Nobody is feeling like small talk today. Blasted weather.

The Boss keeps me waiting. I like the local gun law. Silencers are banned.

I hear the telephone conversation in the room ending. “Fuck off”. Thadang!! I am sure the receiver chipped. That’s my que to enter. I hate days like this. Curse………

………Half an hour later I’m at my station. What happened? How did I get here? I feel run over by an eighteen-wheeler. Last I remember was walking in to The Bosses room. Shit. Now I remember. I didn’t even see the bastard coming. He must have hit me with a butt of an AK 47. Fuck. Now I have to carry this headache home. I hate days like this. Blasted weather!!

Ironically, “Time of your life” by Green Day keeps running in my head. Armstrong, that pimp.

I came close to asking God for a break. Shit. I gave up on that freak a long time ago. Bastard father of a bastard son. Smirk!!!

I got that funny feeling again. Danger was lurking close. I could almost smell it. I was half expecting it jump at me and tear my throat out. Like a salivating Rothweiler. I was holding my breath. Suddenly it did. Michael Stripe of REM started singing Orange Crush on my N70. I pick up.

“Hello?”

I regret that “hello” faster than I could find a tit in a strip club. It’s a dame and her name is Dangerously Attractive. I hate chicks that call me on rainy days. Dames who call me on rainy days land me in trouble…….or bed. Pretty ones want to tell me about the asshole they are fucking right now. The ugly ones want to fuck me. Either way I’m fucked. I need to start that directory on my phone. My memory is not as good as it use to be.

“Hi”

Shit.

“Hey”

“Wachay doing tonite?”

From the looks of it, regretting answering this call.

“Um…..nothing much”

I’m old. I hate that. Fuck. My brain and tongue don’t seem to work together anymore. Shit.

“Want to go for a drink? Nice weather for one.”

Here it comes.

“Yeah, sure”

I could use the exercise.

I get picked up at seven. I’ve got use to that now and it’s not funny anymore. I get down from a 2004 Toyota Corolla. I smell the cool Colombo air. Smluck! I step on mud. I see mud all over my boot. Like I held it under an asshole. Fuck. I hate this weather.

I meet the same cunts all over again. I have the same drunken conversations all over again. I just enjoy the alcohol, helps me loosen up. I knock up a quick couple. Fuck! That felt good.

I wind up in a sleazy tavern with Dangerously. A sorry excuse for an Irish Pub it claims to be. If there’s anything worse than the air conditioning it’s the lightening. Fuck! The band’s blasting the cover off a CCR cover. To think I use to like this place!!

I have a pet name for Dangerously. It’s call “very”. I could see her buttocks tighten under her skirt as she balanced on those high heels. Fuck. I think I’ve drunk enough. We sit as further from the band as we can. Suddenly all hell breaks loose. I look for a political hoodlum spraying everybody from the bar. Shit. My mistake. DJ is playing a Shakira track. The dames think themselves Shakira. The punks think themselves Wyclef Jean. Cheapest masquerade one can organize. It pays off to have a broken leg sometimes. You don’t get drag on to the floor.

I light up. Suddenly Dangerously squeezes my hand under the table. I hate that……..well actually I don’t mind. This is where I think my film-noir style of narration wares off. Ever notice the difference between when your hand is held under the table and over? Anyway, I explore her hand with mine. I could feel the lines on her palm. Slender fingers. Nice change. Feels nice.

“I’ve missed you”

Fuck. She’s hunting. Alcohol and hunting is a dangerous mix. Somebody can get hurt. Seriously.

“Since when?”

I try to joke my way out of it. But she’s got all the guns. I just have the clutches.

“For the past few years. Technically.”

Jesus fucking Christ!!! Good answer. When a dame says “technically”, she means business. Fuck. How the fuck do I get myself in to these things? Fuck.

“It was nice while it lasted and we moved on.”

Safest possible answer I could think of.

“Do you know the cutest thing about you, Mr. Horus?”

My face? My butt? Please tell me it’s my face.

“The way you sleep in your socks”

Shit. Hey, my feet get cold. Okay?

“I don’t any more. I broke that habit a long time ago.”

I lie. Fuck.

“Things change, ha?

“Big time.”

I stop her from taking her hand away. Shit. I shouldn’t have done that. Red Hot Chilly Peppers. “Take it away, take I away, take it away now!”

The gang’s back at the table. One asshole asks me for a light. Thankfully I use both hands. No hand when I come back. Fuck. If I didn’t want it, why the fuck do I miss it?

Parting time. Thank god. Only a little while longer. I get in to her car. Shit. Another green mile. Maitland crescent is good. Not a word is spoken. I try to ease the ice.

“Can I put some music on?”

I get a nod. Good enough. Put the bastard on and I’ll be at home in no time.

WHAT THE FUCK????

REO SPEEDWAGON.

FUCK!!!! FUCK!!!! Holy mother of Peter!!!!!

I assume she still likes REO Speed. Fuck.

Why can’t they have one common button for all stereos to change from CD mode to Radio mode? Fuck.

“Hey, you still listen to REO.”

“Yup, some things never change.”

CLICK. CLICK. BOOM!!!!!!!!!

My brain matter is all over the fucking dashboard. Oh look, the hypothalamus is on the carpet.

Lordus Cuntus in his delusional state tries to make things better.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For acting like I just discovered my first pubic hair.”

I get a laugh. Thank you god!!

“It’s just that I’ve got a lot of shit going on in my life right now.”

“You’re not the only one whose life is not going according to plan.”

I told you the pretty ones want to tell me whom they are fucking right now. Here it comes.

We exchange shit over coffee. It was nice. Like old times.

Last bit of the conversation is just fucked up. Went something like this.

“You know horus, you are one guy tuff guy to get over. I still measure other guys with you, even if I don’t fucking want to. But a girl once in a way wants her guy to make a stand. Tell her what to do when she can’t make up her own mind. You don’t have to always ask. For fucks sake it would be nice to be told once in a way.”

I get dropped off. It’s raining again. I’m drenched by the time I get to the porch. Learnings for the day, number one, chicks that call on rainy days are bad news. Always. Number two, must have updated phone contact list. Smirk!

Mind Over Matter.

2006-07-11T09:30:00.000+05:30

Like in the words of somebody I can’t remember, it’s been a while. For the last couple weeks I was caught up in the race of means where individual ends are met. Seems like such a fucking waste now. Like I’ve said before, shit happens.

It’s almost 1.30am on a Sunday morning. Here I am on a beach in Induruwa, stoned out of my mind with Shams next to me. She always looked the prettiest when she’s asleep. Nice to know that I wasn’t bull shitting when I told her that. Nice trip this is turning out to be.

Anyway, Kottu has been on fire over the past few weeks over doing things, knowledge gaps, revolutions and….errr….V for Vendetta. All good stuff but I’m too stoned now to look at the big picture. I am not a revolutionary. I lack sacrifice to be a revolutionary. I am too middle class to be a revolutionary. I do not have the recourses or the faith of the masses to be any part of any revolution, which I think are prerequisites for a revolution.

I have a very false sense of patriotism too. I hate everything about Sri Lanka. Hate the roads, hate the drivers, hate the system, hate the war, hate the rulers and the list goes on. But ask me whether I hate Sri Lanka, nooooo you mad! I think the only reason why I like Sri Lanka is because I’m not one of the masses. I get to do things that fascinate others and talk about it, which gives me a false sense of superiority. Given the choice I think most Sri Lankans would prefer to be of some other European, North American or even South American origin than from a third world South Asian. But then, I might be wrong.

As for saying that I should be give back all I’ve received from the country, there would be a whole heap of people who be there before me, who if they started ever repaying by the time it come to me my name the list would be so faded that it can hardly be read. How far down would you think a guy who never went to a public education institution and worked all his life in the private sector lie in that list?

This is me in my own way trying make sense of it all without making it sound like, with all due respect, a cheap Hollywood take of an excellent comic book hero. So where do I stand? In this frame of mind why am I writing a post on a borrowed PDA instead of listening to Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and snuggle up next to Shams? (Fuck! That’s so tempting now that I’ve mentioned it. Mind over matter. Mind over matter.) That means unfortunately I honestly do give a fuck about this country. Unfortunately because I have not idea what to do about it. At least to start with, I don’t think it has anything to do with political affiliations and revolutions. Again I might be wrong but I’m too smoked up to give a fuck.

People are leaving the country. Mind you these are people who think that the present system is good for the country. When people who think the system work, leave, there is some thing radically fucking wrong there, don chu think?

Last week this dickwart was telling me that though the government is loosing money by curbing (at least trying to) the consumption of cigarettes and alcohol, since the people consumer less it cuts down on what the government spends on health care. I tossed him a rupee and asked him to go get an education! When the likes of Al Capones run the illegal alcohol business and the likes of Valentines day massacres take place here, we will be wondering, HOW THE FUCK DID THIS HAPPEN in our sacred country?

Sorry, that’s me going on a trip. Political decisions have been criticized enough I think in the blogspear. What I think we lack is “somebody” who has the balls to teach economics to the masses. Commend the decisions that make sense and ask “what the fuck were YOU thinking?” when it comes to the baloney. Right now there is no one body which does both according to my limited intelligence. If there is, then it has a serious fucking marketing issue. Everybody who commends is bias and everybody who criticizes is bias too. People have lost faith because nobody gives them logic anymore. All they hear are political agendas that are cheaper than a whore who will blow a dog for fifty bucks!

Ouch!! That’s a head rush. Time for a smoke, if I can find the pack without waking Shams. Anyway, that’s that. Nice sky. If stars, when they burn out make black holes, wonder what happens to a black hole when it come to the end of its’ life span? Shit! Sure could do with Entire Island being wi-fi now. Are they even thinking of that?

Experimenting "Womanizing"

2006-06-14T16:43:00.000+05:30

I’m a Neanderthal in its perfect sense when it comes to this matter. Mind you and quite proud of it too. After my mum gave up combing my hair, my hair has not sighted a comb. I shave because I belong neither to the Navy nor the Al-Qaida. I never knew that “eyebrows” and “plucking” were words used together until five years ago. I cut my nails out of fear of scratching her while climaxing. Till now I was able to fend-off any comment on my skin/eyes/ears/hair/rear view mirror/radiator/paint job with distinction. Whenever a girlfriend told me to “better maintain” myself, I went to the gym. However the world seems to have evolved. I was part of a conversation about salons at the Germany vs. Costa Rica match. Worst part was the conversation was between men. “I was a part of a conversation” would have to be the understatement of the decade. My only contribution was that I’m trying to grow a “mullet” to see whether I can carry it off. These guys knew who gave the best “blow job” (the action that takes place when you operate the hair dryer) at a particular salon. It’s been long since I gave up passing judgment on things I didn’t know; on the other hand I hate not being opinionated.

So I google “makeovers for men”. The second result is from www.sofeminine.co.uk . My first generation of unborn children died prematurely. I pack my balls back up and click. The site asks me “Have you always dreamt of finding the perfect hair cut that slims your face, opens your eyes and flatters your skin tone?” WTF??? (I haven’t dreamt of it yet but I’m sure to wet my bed thanks to you now!!!!) The only way I can imagine that happening is if the barber is a fucking rookie or a blind. No pain, no gain. So I boldly go where some men have gone before.

Next www.fashionstylist.com.au.

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Till now I wanted to get married to Martina Hingis. She finished her career at 24, if I remember correctly, fourth highest in earnings (as long as you’re in the top ten it doesn’t really matter) and has a mid-rift to die for. Us making love over the kitchen table in the morning overlooking the sea (I assume she owns a beach house) would be a Hallmark moment………..ok maybe Hustler. But now I want Susan.

I’m fascinated and mortified at the same time. Apparently it’s amazing what an image overhaul can do for your sense of energy and confidence of attitude. Image overhaul? Sense of energy? Confidance of attitude? Ingreesy, gentlemen, Ingreesy. But even a Neanderthal can understand that those three words seem like they can do a lot, especially in the chick department.

So I relate this to Shorts. She trips. “C, come with me on Saturday. We’ll go for a treatment. Don’t worry, I’ll take you”. I’m like noway hozay. Then she goes on “do you know how many men come there? There are more men than women there”. I’m like, really, good for them. “Ok we’ll just go there, you don’t have to do anything. See if you like it”. Last time I heard somebody say that, he meant Alcoholics Anonymous! I’m given a leaflet with “SOTHYS” is printed on the top right hand corner. Now that’s the kind of name you should give a male beauty treatment…..eerr……joint!!! Great going, now I’m all motivated. I open the leaflet half expecting the treatment to jump out and grab me in the face.

Instead this is what I see.

(W) The Lightening Institute Treatment – Proven results for a uniform complexion, translucent and luminous. (somehow I fail to come up with a reason why I would want luminous skin unless I plan on playing Elmos’ brother on Sesames street)
Active contour – A complete contour answer with a combination of science and nature. (I don’t understand complete contour answer. These are three different words to me)
Aha peel – Brighten your complexion with professional skin peeling with glycolic acid. (This I like. I like the sound of glycolic acid)
Flash beauty – Here comes one really long sentence I can’t be bothered typing. (Flash beauty is Flashes’ chick. Simple)
Hydroptimale THI3 – Hydrating system. (That’s all you need to know!)
Oxyliance Institute Treatment – Radiance. Vitality. Anti pollution. (Remember my dad owing a car which need this treatment)
Lift Defense 2 Institute Treatment – Double action firming and anti wrinkle treatment. (you can use Surf Excel as a substitute)

In a Salon.com article entitled “Meet The Metrosexual” (July 2003), Simpson said, “old-fashioned (re)productive, repressed, unmoisturized masculinity was being given the pink slip by consumer capitalism. The stoic, self-denying, modest straight male didn't shop enough. His role was to earn money for his wife to spend. So he had to be replaced by a new kind of man, one less certain of his identity and much more interested in his image. A man, in other words, who is an advertiser's walking wet dream”.

In a recent interview, Simpson goes on: “Commercially it makes perfect sense to maintain that metrosexuals are all straight. After all, advertising is trying to persuade as many men as possible to relax their sphincter muscles, cooing in their ear that there's nothing gay about being fucked by corporate consumerism. Which, ironically, is true”.

Now I’m not the kind of person to get fucked by corporate consumerism but I’m contemplating masturbating, just to know what it feels like. If I come out looking like a boiled egg after all the treatment, there’s always coffee with Shorts to look forward to.

Chocolate Éclairs and Onions

2006-06-10T16:32:00.000+05:30

Ever had a chocolate éclair with an onion? Well I did last week. In the form of an ex-girl friends’ (whom I shall refer to as Tash from this point on) wedding. A chocolate éclair because she’s such a sweet person and I was happy to hear that she was getting married (me not knowing the guy helped too). An onion coz everybody I knew, who was going to be there at the wedding, knew “us” and I never made it as part of the gang after we broke up. I knew this was the kind of social situation that would make me want to eat bed sheets but then I never learn.

So come Tuesday night I don my purple slim cut shirt I got from Hameedias after pawning my balls. Tie? No tie? Ma decides tie. Crutches? No crutches? God decides crutches. Call 688 or 588 or 666 or 999 or something like that. Half an hour later a Toyota Corolla parks itself in front of my gate. I have a very intellectually stimulating conversation with the cab driver on how G-force works on my way to the Inter Con.

I take a deep breath and get down in front of a glass door with a sign that says “push”. Now I’m trying to make up my mind whether I would prefer giving up my N70 or my Doctor Martin shoes for a half a bottle of “gal” so it would keep the friends and the awkward conversations at bay.

These days if there is one thing that I hate more than the “murunga” curry the maid makes at home, it’s “push” and “pull” signs. For me to push or pull doors with the crutches, I need to have either a third arm or a penis that one could hang a wet towel on, when not erect. And I have neither, so some god damn bellhop better be at the door by the time I hobble my way over there.

“Oh my god C, what happened to you?” I freeze. It’s like I just had Mr. Freezes’ icicle gun shoved up my arse and turned on. Everything in between my rectum and eye balls felt submerged in liquid Nitrogen. One flick and I would have come crashing down in a crystal blitz. Bling Bling. Oh, look it’s Hash, the bible quoting sniper form Saving Private Ryan. She will aim for your gut and then read the bible while you bleed to death. If you are really nice to her, she will pull your intestines out for you so you make your trip faster. Don’t forget to thank her for the bullet. “Hey Hashi, it’s been a long time. Yeah men, shit happens but it’s sooooo nice to see you after all this while” (Did I introduce myself? Hi, I’m the fucked up nice guy). Anyway I share my accident story for the googleth time with her. The “chick version” of the incident works like a charm. Especially on dumb chicks. She decides to walk with me to the reception. Though most people I related this story to, thinks it had nothing to do with my charm, I think otherwise. On the other hand Hash, knowing her, would have relished the attention she got when she walked in with a guy with crutches.

A cute girl asks me my name at the entrance. I tell her. She asks whether it’s Mr. & Mrs. I tell her “oh yes, but Shit, I forgot the Mrs. at home”. She gives me a smile that I know is wondering why she gets to handle all the freaks. I’m on table number twelve. Hash and I are at the same table. Somebody upstairs really loves me. I would have been happy being stuck at a table with an aunt who thinks I was “just right” for her three times divorced, thirty nine year old niece. No such luck.

I hobble my way to the furthest table from the entrance. Now I’m beginning to think that this is one gigantic conspiracy of Tashs’ to teach me a lesson for breaking up with her. Chicks have memories of elephants and guys that of gold fish.

Reach table number twelve and lo and behold! all the gangs there. Visa, her bad breath and all. Tashs’ I-can’t-remember-her-name friend, who thought I was cute. Tash always thought she was blind. Ruvi, who I always had the hots for. I will always remember her as she helped me complete my transition journey from a breast man to an arse man. Then there were people I’ve met before but can’t remember. Seems almost like in a different lifetime. Time seems to go by so fast.

Then I saw her. My Tash. I’m sorry, Tash. All of a sudden memories came back like lightening crashes. I felt so nostalgic it made me sick. The conversations, the fights, her lips, those eyes and that smile. Suddenly I was happy. I knew that smile. That smile still tells me a thousand stories. One which says that today is the happiest day of her life. I’m happy just to be here to share her happiness.

After a good trip I get back to my seat to find I’m sandwiched between a half drunk Hash and a bird who smells of cheap perfume. I decide to drink and flirt with Hash. A drunken sniper is better than cheap perfume any day. For all you know I might get lucky……..she might decide to shoot me in the head.

Fyodor Dostoevsky - Crime and Punishment.

2006-05-18T17:25:00.000+05:30

By Emile Melchior, Vicomte de Vogüé

The subject is very simple. A man conceives the idea of committing a crime; he matures it, commits the deed, defends himself for some time from being arrested, and finally gives himself up to the expiation of it. For once, this Russian artist has adopted the European idea of unity of action; the drama, purely psychological, is made up of the combat between the man and his own project. The accessory characters and facts are of no consequence, except in regard to this influence upon the criminal’s plans. The first part, in which are described the birth and growth of the criminal idea, is written with consummate skill and a truth and subtlety of analysis beyond all praise. The student Raskolnikov, a nihilist in the true sense of the word, intelligent, unprincipled, unscrupulous, reduced to extreme poverty, dreams of a happier condition. On returning home from going to pawn a jewel at an old pawnbroker’s shop, this vague thought crosses his brain without his attaching much importance to it:

“An intelligent man who had that old woman’s money could accomplish anything he liked; it is only necessary to get rid of the useless, hateful old hag.”

This was but one of those fleeting thoughts which cross the brain like a nightmare, and which only assume a distinct from through the assent of the will. This idea becomes fixed in the man’s brain, growing and increasing on every page, until he is perfectly possessed by it. Every hard experience of his outward life appears to him to bear some relation to his project; and by a mysterious power of reasoning, to work into his plan and urge him on to the crime. The influence exercised upon this man is brought out into such distinct relief that it seems to us itself like a living actor in the drama, guiding the criminal’s hand to the murderous weapon. The horrible deed is accomplished; and the unfortunate man wrestles with the recollection of it as he did with the original design. The relations of the world to the murderer are all changed, through the irreparable fact of his having suppressed a human life. Everything takes on a new physiognomy, and a new meaning to him, excluding from him the possibility of feeling and reasoning like other people, or of finding his own place in life. His whole soul is metamorphosed and in constant discord with the life around him. This is not remorse in the true sense of the word. Dostoevsky exerts himself to distinguish and explain the difference. His hero will feel no remorse until the day of expiation; but it is a complex and perverse feeling which possesses him; the vexation at having derived no satisfaction from an act so successfully carried out; the revolting against the unexpected moral consequences of that act; the shame of finding himself so weak and helpless; for the foundation of Raskolnikov’s character is pride. Only one single interest in life is left to him: to deceive and elude the police. He seeks their company, their friendship, by an attraction analogous to that which draws us to the extreme edge of a dizzy precipice; the murderer keeps up interminable interviews with his friends at the police office, and even leads on the conversation to that point, when a single word would betray him; every moment we fear he will utter the word; but he escapes and continues the terrible game as if it were a pleasure.

The magistrate Porphyre has guessed the student’s secret; he plays with him like a tiger with its prey, sure of his game. Then Raskolnikov knows he is discovered; and through several chapters a long fantastic dialogue is kept up between the two adversaries; a double dialogue, that of the lips, which smile and wilfully ignore; and that of the eyes which know and betray all. At last when the author has tortured us sufficiently in this way, he introduces the salutary influence which is to break down the culprit’s pride and reconcile him to the expiation of his crime. Raskolnikov loves a poor street-walker. The author’s clairvoyance divines that even the sentiment of love was destined in him to be modified like every other, to be changed into a dull despair.

Sonia is a humble creature, who has sold herself to escape starvation, and is almost unconscious of her dishonor, enduring it as a malady she cannot prevent. She wears her ignominy as a cross, with pious resignation. She is attached to the only man who has not treated her with contempt; she sees that he is tortured by some secret, and tries to draw it from him. After a long struggle the avowal is made, but not in words. In a mute interview which is tragic in the extreme, Sonia reads the terrible truth in her friend’s eyes. The poor girl is stunned for a moment, but recovers herself quickly. She knows the remedy; her stricken heart cries out:

“We must suffer, and suffer together; … we must pray and atone; … let us go to prison!…”

Thus are we led back to Dostoevsky’s favorite idea, to the Russian’s fundamental conception of Christianity: the efficacy of atonement, of suffering, and its being the only solution of all difficulties.

To express the singular relations between these two beings, that solemn pathetic bond, so foreign to every preconceived idea of love, we should make use of the word compassion in the sense in which Bossuet used it: the suffering with and through another being. When Raskolnikov falls at the feet of the girl who supports her parents by her shame, she, the despised of all, is terrified at his self-abasement, and begs him to rise. He then utters a phrase which expresses the combination of all the books we are studying: “It is not only before thee that I prostrate myself, but before all suffering humanity.” Let us here observe that our author has never yet once succeeded in representing love in any form apart from these subtleties, or the simple natural attraction of two hearts toward each other. He portrays only extreme cases; either that mystic state of sympathy and self-sacrifice for a distressed fellow-creature, of utter devotion, apart from any selfish desire; or the mad, bestial cruelty of a perverted nature. The lovers he represents are not made of flesh and blood, but of nerves and tears. Yet this realist evokes only harrowing thoughts, never disagreeable images. I defy any one to quote a single line suggestive of anything sensual, or a single instance where the woman is represented in the light of a temptress. His love scenes are absolutely chaste, and yet he seems to be incapable of portraying any creation between an angel and a beast.—From “Dostoevsky” in “The Russian Novelists,” translated by J. L. Edmands (1887).

I'd rather be hated for who I am, than loved for who I am not.

2006-05-11T10:02:00.000+05:30

One day during the time when Michael Jackson’s’ “Black or White” was being vastly over played on local radio stations and people didn’t think “Summer of 69” was rock, I was “tripping” at a friends place. We were checking out new material (after slaving two months to collect Rs. 250 for the audio cassette) R got recorded from either Trax or by Weeramanthri. First song on side B was “Blackhole Sun” by Soundgarden. The second song broke my trip. It was grunge like I’ve never heard before. The crash metal guitar and the vocals were passionate and riveting at the same time. A combination that I think, at that time, was lacking even in the most popular rock band, Guns N Roses, which went from hard rock to pussy rock with songs like November Rain and Patience (maybe with the exception of the song “I use to love her”). Thus was my introduction to Kurt Cobain and Nirvana. The song was “Smells like Teen Sprit”.

This is not a lame Kurt Cobain tribute but a lame effort to spark interests on exploring the works of one of the most geniusly talented yet wholly misunderstood icons of the 20^th century. This was a guy who didn’t want to attract the wrong kind of fans to his music. After it was revealed that the song “Polly” was played in the back ground during a gang rape incident Cobain went on to say, "A girl was raped by two wastes of sperm and eggs while they sang the lyrics to our song 'Polly.' I have a hard time carrying on knowing there are plankton like that in our audience” (Duh? If you don’t want people to listen to your music Kurt, go play in your god damn church!).

The second album, the first released under a major record label, was nothing short of a musical masterpiece. Initially not expecting to exceed 500,000 copies, Nevermind with its’ anthem-of-a-generation track went on to sell 3 million copies within the first six months in the US alone. With songs like come as you are, lithium, and of course, smells like teen spirit, it ushered in a whole new generation of frustrated Sri Lankan teenagers who appreciated rock music for what it was (These were trying times. As parents, teachers and girl friends alike, resented rock music. Rumor had it that some jerk-off from Prep. had got stoned and killed his parents after listening to “rock” music. The rumor was that he listened to rock music). Anyway after his overnight success, lead vocalist of Nirvana was quoted saying “The last thing I wanted be was famous” (wtf??? Cobain pay attention! If you don’t want to be famous stop writing killer lyrics, don’t sell your music to big record labels. For god sakes don’t form a band!).

Never the corperate ass-kisser, Cobain once got kicked out of his own album launch party for starting a food fight with Krist Novoselic (yeah! Way to go dude. The way to get your next album in to mainstream is to act like retards in public). These are just sighting of some weird straits in Cobain, which amount to nothing compared what’s on the net about the man. His health disorders, heroin addiction, marriage, ultimate death, suicide note and conspiracies are all that maketh the man.

The Citizens Commission on Human Rights sums up Cobain in what I think is the best net summary of his life as a person.

KURT COBAIN: 1967-1994

A talented and creative child, Cobain was misdiagnosed as "hyperactive" and prescribed the cocaine-like and highly addictive Ritalin. Side effects include insomnia, nausea, abdominal pain, hallucinations and a predisposition to later cocaine use. Sedatives were prescribed to counter the insomnia. The progression to street drugs, including heroin, was a given. Compounding the Ritalin were untreated chronic medical conditions that affected him his entire life, including a "burning, nauseous" stomach, which Cobain said heroin "quenched." He enrolled in a Los Angeles psychiatric drug recovery center. Thirty-six hours after admission, he bolted and ended his life with a single shotgun blast to his head. Heroin and Valium were found in his blood stream.

A Dying Plea

To Boddah

“Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand.

All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years, since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community has proven to be very true. I haven't felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music along with reading and writing for too many years now. I feel guity beyond words about these things.

For example when we're back stage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowds begins., it doesn't affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seemed to love, relish in the the love and adoration from the crowd which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is, I can't fool you, any one of you. It simply isn't fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I'm having 100% fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I've tried everything within my power to appreciate it (and I do,God, believe me I do, but it's not enough). I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. It must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they're gone. I'm too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasms I once had as a child.

On our last 3 tours, I've had a much better appreciation for all the people I've known personally, and as fans of our music, but I still can't get over the frustration, the guilt and empathy I have for everyone. There's good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little, sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus man. Why don't you just enjoy it? I don't know!

I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what i used to be, full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point to where I can barely function. I can't stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable, self-destructive, death rocker that I've become.

I have it good, very good, and I'm grateful, but since the age of seven, I've become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along that have empathy. Only because I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess.

Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore, and so remember, it's better to burn out than to fade away.

Peace, love, empathy.
Kurt Cobain

Frances and Courtney, I'll be at your alter.
Please keep going Courtney, for Frances.
For her life, which will be so much happier without me.

I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU!”

April 5^th marked the twelfth death anniversary of Kurt Cobain.

Getting Over

2006-05-04T22:17:00.000+05:30

Today, over a random conversation with Pumpkin, “getting over” somebody came up. This I thought was interesting. At what point can you confidently say that you are over somebody? Is it you being able to have a very casual conversation with him/her without either party feeling awkward, or is it being able to have a conversation about the person he/she is currently going out with or does it boil down to just having conversation. Sadly, I know people who have not got over their exs’ even after one year and people who have before you can say Paul McCartney! (Why God couldn’t go metric I still can’t figure out!). Immaterial whether you take the highway or not, the destination is the same. But how do you know when you’ve arrived? After some (extensive) research I have concluded that views on the subject vary so much that there’s no proper definition. Nobody seems to know jackshit of how to get over somebody or more importantly, realizing when they have got over.

Thanks to the All Seeing Eye, I have a theory on this.

Getting over somebody is mostly about accepting reality as it is and accepting the fact that it’s over. The day you get over him/her is the day you come to terms with, that there is no outside/slim/remote/even if you were the last people on earth chance of getting back together. When it’s over it’s over dude. Cough it up and spit it out. Lots of people, especially guys, hold on to what have been and I think the first step is actually accepting reality as it is.

Then of course there’s that thing called history. Don’t get me wrong, history’s good for ya. I mean, what else are we guys to brag about? Been there done that is what we live for but it’s a bitch when it comes to getting over somebody. But hey, history always repeats itself.

Comparison is important for brands, not for people. You are the smallest person in the world if you compare how you feel about people, especially people whom you have gone out with. No two people are the same. Getting over, is appreciating every relationship for what it was/is and not comparing him/her with your ex.

That’s the art.

Right, now comes the…ummm…. confusing/interesting part as explained by one research subject. Say you’re a charmed one and you’re over him/her. What makes one flaunt the fact around? As explained further, getting over somebody feel like receiving a medal for bravery while still being alive. So what’s the damn point if you can’t flash it around?

Is that just human or is she psychotic?