Introducing Fully Loaded.

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.

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"

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

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.

What I Didn't Write.

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,

H.

Fyodor Dostoevsky - Crime and Punishment.

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.

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.