Such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous

I write. It emancipates the shit outta me. It gives me rope to the other world. The world where I live freely. Emancipating the shit outta the souls that love to read what I write.

Lately, I haven't been writing. It indicates -> I can't write.

Hrithik Roshan, Deve Gouda, Hank Moody and the likes have experienced shit very close to what I am feeling right now. Lack of creative genius.


I can tell you where I've been, what I've been doing, what I've learnt and what I've got close to. But no man does anything till he feels he's been challenged. Yours truly just was. Times are hard. They get harder in anticipation of separation of beautiful and illuminating company of fellow humans. I've realized its got nothing to do with not blogging.

Been there, wrecked that:

I wreck. I distort the beautiful sounds of an acoustic guitar so badly, it turns into instant death metal and yes you can EAT mys hit. Fry mys hit, boil it, add salt and water to it. It still stays death. M-E-T-A-L. Ringin' my head.

Jumping from the 5th fret on the 3rd string to the 12th fret on the 1st string I'd like to say FUCK Y-O-U!


Not such a great post to start blogging again but whatever. I'm done polishing my writing in bulk to put it up on the web cause too many posts are stuck in the pipeline because of that. SO.

Piece of news: going for a vacation to India for two months. Plan to blog a lot from there, as usual.

From the totalitarian desk of a...

"You get my messages General?", like speaking across the line of intermittent midwifery, the rider talks to his homie.

"Aye."

"Marquee ye Jolly Rogers".

Shaking vigorously, the pair ride along vast fields of uninhabited land. Reminding each other of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Not so often, when they'd stop for re-fueling, they'd treat themselves to a nice hot cup of French Vanilla with extra sugar and cream. And on its sweetness, they'd mull till they'd cross another 500 mi or so. Many a time, they didn't know why they treated themselves to a coffee made of synthetic flavors, manufactured by machines not cleaned for half a year and more or less, it'd anyway leave a bad taste in their mouth. When he asked his ride, his ride told him it was because sipping coffee together was a way of reminiscing on the fact that maybe the world condemns the shit out of them, but they had each other.

"What is life?"
The rider would ask his ride, as if two post-renaissance philosophers would infuse in a random casual discussion, every late afternoon, under the almond tree while sipping on Jasmine tea.

"Life, as opposed to death, is a force that allows you to live. Living, my friend is an independent thought. When an individual doesn't define his life, the living is nothing but living. When he does define it, he calls it religion. But an individual's living is defined by how much love or hate he has brought upon himself. Thereby, acknowledging what he stands for. Thus eventually, defining life."

The ride continued,

Such Wonderland I dream of.

There hasn't been much activity here. Not many archives I would look forward for. Let's face it, I'm dormant. Writers' block or not I'm not blogging. I'm tweeting more than I'm writing. Which in itself is pretty fucked up. I'm no shitting.


I just got fucked up British Airways, there unauthorized ticket sales have lifted my spirits to unconquerable heights at the same time, pushing me into an abyss. I'm fucked. Totally.

If you're still here, hanging on to hope, expecting some fucking action, please head straight to www.deruntermensch.blogspot.com


If this guy doesn't write some fucking Nietzsche some day, I'll die of shame. Read it if twitter or facebook is not an extension of your fucking life.

Its just Rock n Roll to me

A warm wonderful welcome to a day that is going to turn out untoward anyway. A happy little kid's smile fighting against a family of negative thoughts. Some espresso to keep you awake on the long morning ride, some for the same reason on your way back home after dusk. Some phone calls, some texts and some mails. Some lines from popular movies, some faces flashing before your eyes, vast evening skies merging into one another with different shades of red and blue, straight roads, right angled turns, deer crossings, javelina road kills, rabbit eyes shining in the dark, ranches on both sides of the roads, stable price of gas, very welcoming gas station clerks, White Mocha with extra whipped cream, sunlight hanging around till 10 in the night, almost negligible light pollution and one man who doesn't give a damn about what the world thinks but loves the shit outta you(I am talking abt the bro. No pun).

Funny, how a depressing eon of life can be held up against with just some elements that yield a glitter of hope in you.

I've learned some stuff. I always knew what was worth dying for. Now, I know what is worth living for. That is great progress I'd say.

Fighting light, in the dungeons on hot summer afternoons, darkness is always looked down upon. At times of darkness, when heavens are so far away in the best of your dreams, a moonlit sky boils the shit outta your survival instincts. The traces of fragrance from the body left over the talisman found en route to station of peace. Amrutanjan smeared, masala tea server should be the happiest.

The notes composed, crescendos indicating the uprising of a wave, again on a full moonlit night, make you sit there on top of that wave traveling along the sea shore drowning the son of a bitch surfer risking his beautiful life on a Sunday afternoon. KaaruKOOnda? I like the way it pronounced my last nime.

Muscle cars, clean streets, straight roads, gas stations selling beer, vast dry lands with bright yellow grass spread till the point of reach of your eyes, flights touching the skylines with empty rooms. Wine tasting on the patios, India calling, summer hitting. Wasting weekends and 4th of Julys, when the whole country is celebrating their freedom, I gaze at the fireworks and search under grass carpets for emancipation. I grope around for traces that angels leave when they realize they need a break from their pathetic job of soaking up floating confessions and saving the ass of reckless drunk drivers from the cops. Moping around instead of playing at concerts all over the world on a peace tour?

If there is life beyond 2012, 2021 maybe, I don't want to be where I am right now. Nor do I want to be at a place where I was for 21 years. I'd want to travel. Performing, singing possibly, being a part of a band with no specific genre. Taking everyone listening to me on a high, buzz their souls, then slowly give them a rope out of this world, making them say, "This, is MUSIC". Wearing All Stars and putting the pedal to the metal, while my kickass lead guitarist bends the shit outta his Vintage Gibson and the percussionist couldn't enjoy himself any more. I want to be there. Right about there. Acknowledging the friends and audience alike, strumming like madmen and unequivocal about hate, religion and life and death being just a part of vicious cycle. Then when no one is looking, pass on the live videos to Tarantino for editing then putting it up on youtube passing the message on to part of those music lovers who couldn't join us at that moment. And at that point when I kick that mortality bucket amidst the grace of that higher human being and join lost souls in search of transformation, posthumously on earth though - Get a tombstone, engraved "Memento Mori" and beckon 1000s of flowers of all colors. Those exotic fragrant flowers that bud from the gardens of the rich to those blades of wild grass that tear-out of the carpets of soil in the slums of big cities.

Life well survived, death well won.


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u2 - Magnificent

I hate this fucking world. I hate this fucking world.
The world hates me right back and I hate this fucking world.
My skin is burning hot. My skin is burning hot.
This life is full of taking shit I hate this fucking life.
I have to paraphrase
All the pain inside
Then I have to type on this motherfucking comp.
I hate this fucking comp. I hate this fucking comp.
There is something more than this comp that I hate and its this fucking world.
I hate the rotten socks. Which adorn the hallway of my room.
I also hate the garbage bag which is always fucking full.
I hate the fucking tenet, which lives inside my head
which tells me I deserve no more than a piece of shit.
I hate this fucking head which is full of chem imbalance.
I hate it so bad that I want to scrape my skull.
I hate the bitch who gave me hand. I hate her stupid fucked up curls and I hate her fucking accent.
I hate my fucking prof. I hate my fate. I hate this life. SHIVA HATES YOU ALL!

I pretend to be a poet. I pretend to be a rockstar. Inside my head God makes me believe I am actually worth a shit. I think I want to puke. In this early morning rebuke. I hate you.

Rollin' on a Mothership, bottleneck

Summer Breeze, comes to you

The sea never colors you blue

there ain't no much talk

in the crowd, about the man for the job

it ain't makin' no sense on the ship

searchin’ for rum, desperately running from the cold

the storm, damaged the mast

the sailors, livin’ in the past

shakin’ so nervously, the ship swinging side by side

sinkin’ in its own rhythm, livin’ with an old system

tryin’ to keep a tone, managing some skulls and some bones

makin’ the sea merrier, creating a wave, subtler

the transsexual is overboard, ahoy!

Better than earnin’ a penny, servin’ in an Irish Pub

Shamrock, Watchmen, Manhattan and the likes

Of the state, through the gates,

Here the air traffic is worse than an in Ameerpet

Made In India drainage covers, adornin’ the Wall Street

Across the Brooklyn Bridge

Evolving into an unsunny misty day

Or every other Saturday

Ball and bat

Hit the good cat

Bad dog, cookin’ up a new pot

Pickin’ out all the seeds

The way ya’ll treat the beads

Stickin’ in an old song

Life long, ting tong.

Stuck in Transit - 2

The following is purely fictional. Was trying my hand at satire.

"Desperately trying to peek into the future, I realise... But I'm still stuck in transit!"

I always presume, that I'm done with stupid unintended symapthy-seeking blog posts where I crib about my daily life which grinds the emotions outta me. But trust me, I am not. I cannot stop. Maybe because I think this blog decreases the burden on me. Because it helps me out with a lot of things. For starters, it makes my mind clear. 

Its been 6 months since I've landed in America. The same amount of time I've been seeking a permanent accomodation. The same amount of time, I've been searching for a source of income. Almost the same amount of time, I've been waiting to stick my heart out on the walls of  'my room'. Which right now, looks like a distant dream. Speaking of dreams, a night hasn't passed without me waking up atleast once. Not for peeing. Sleeping bags are overcrowded with bugs of the size of Sri Lanka. The worst part about Hurricanes is that apart from all the damage they create, they never kill a darned bug!

No memories from back home. Except for the occasional snapshot of Captain Lee flashing before my eyes, whenever I need to get myself away from everyone. The lazy drizzle outside, with spine chilling winds, beckons me more than the rooms scattered with food that was thrown on the carpet before the 1st world war even began. The same food that was declared a leftover, which adorned the dust bin 5 weeks ago. The smell of burning tobacco is more soothing than the stink from the very room I sleep in. Well, look at the bright side - I atleast have a place to sleep at. Or wait, what am I complaining about? When I went to Mississippi, I slept on a bed! For two consecutive nights! OMG. Now that, is what I call awesome!

Show me the job! Because the last time I checked, being a money grubbing parasite was not a pitstop on the road to redemption. But its not like I am Donald Trump! Or wait, because I am not Ronald McDonald.

Hey, I am not alone in this. I've got a bunch of people here who are neck deep in this shit themselves. The only difference between them and me is, no no no, not the job, NOT THE JOB! I have a blog to crib, they don't. 

Its not like I want to go to NYC. Its because I trust I'd be a tad bit happier being with someone who knows exactly what I was and can estimate what I can turn out to be. Or maybe VA. But thats just where I loose it. Too damn confused. Will I go? Won't I go? Will I stay or not? I've got an asshole back in Florida. But he's too busy playing with the goddamn Zippo I gifted him on his birthday. So, that is totally out of question.

'Life is weary', that phrase is so darn an understatement. 

I don't expect anyone to understand this post. Nor do I want anyone to read it. Maybe this was supposed to go in my diary. But my goddamn diary is misplaced you son of a bitch! Where the fuck should I search for it? Which god forsaken room? Don't come to me with. "Everything will be alright". Because if there is anyone in this world who knows it'll be alright, its me! And also don't send me messages on facebook acting like its my fault! Because its not! The conscience is a big looser. Only loosers talk about Karma! 

Karma is not 'someone dumps you = you repent', its 'someone dumps you = they repent'. Screw it! Once this shit is over, I am gonna post more merrier stuff. More Santa Claus threw an 8GB iPod in my Christmas sock. More Marilyn Monroe kissed me under the mistletoe. More the flying deer wagon was issued a speeding ticket by the most honest Texas State Trooper. More Santa throwing shoes at George Bush upon a client's wish after what happened at the White House some days back. Or maybe some fantasy shit like Mumbai Police catching the terrorists behind the Mumbai Massacre. And the Indian judiciary actually punishing them. Oh wait, even if I have to post, don't I need a keyboard, a monitor, a working CPU and some electric supply for that? Of course, a shuffle between 5 rooms at 5 different times should give me enough to brood over political satires or racism and post it on my blog. Piece of cake.

At this point of time, if there is anything more soothing than ni'coke'tine then its the little thumbnail of Wolverine saying 'Cerveza' to a bartender in Mexico that is my current display picture on one of the social networking websites. 

JUDGE MEASSHOLES!

AMEN.

Funny forward

I never post random stuff on my blog but this shit was really really funny. It had to had to go on my blog! So here it is.


How to tick people off

• 
• Specify that your drive-through order is "TO-GO."
• If you have a glass eye, tap on it occasionally with your pen while talking to others.
• Stomp on little plastic ketchup packets.
• Insist on keeping your car windshield wipers running in all weather conditions "to keep them tuned up."
• Reply to everything someone says with "that's what you think."
• Practice making fax and modem noises.
• Highlight irrelevant information in scientific papers and "cc" them to your boss.
• Make beeping noises when a large person backs up.
• Finish all your sentences with the words "in accordance with prophesy."
• Signal that a conversation is over by clamping your hands over your ears and grimacing.
• Disassemble your pen and "accidentally" flip the ink cartridge across the room.
• Holler random numbers while someone is counting.
• Adjust the tint on your TV so that all the people are green, and insist to others that you "like it that way."
• Staple pages in the middle of the page.
• Publicly investigate just how slowly you can make a croaking noise.
• Honk and wave to strangers.
• Decline to be seated at a restaurant, and simply eat their complimentary mints at the cash register.
• TYPE IN UPPERCASE.
• type only in lowercase.
• dont use any punctuation either
• Buy a large quantity of orange traffic cones and reroute whole streets.
• Repeat the following conversation a dozen times.
  "DO YOU HEAR THAT?"
  "What?"
  "Never mind, it's gone now."
• As much as possible, skip rather than walk.
• Try playing the William Tell Overture by tapping on the bottom of your chin. When nearly done, announce "No, wait, I messed it up," and repeat.
• Ask people what gender they are.
• While making presentations, occasionally bob your head like a parakeet.
• Sit in your front yard pointing a hair dryer at passing cars to see if they slow down.
• Sing along at the opera.
• Go to a poetry recital and ask why each poem doesn't rhyme.
• Ask your co-workers mysterious questions and then scribble their answers in a notebook. Mutter something about "psychological profiles."

Repercussions of the bollocks of an intimidated mind

"You think you won't become one of them. You are sure, 5 years from the day you land in America, you will actually still be Indian. Walk, talk, shout and behave like an Indian. You tell everyone back home that you love your country and you don't want to get adapted to the American culture. And that you are the Indian you always were, back in India."

I for one, believe in hope. In faith. In human service and I fear God. Sometimes my senses don't. But that is totally a different topic. I do almost everything a sane human does. I try to socialize, try to give in, try to get some love and some money outta the little things I can do with Adobe Photoshop. Sometimes, I telling people that death metal doesn't intrigue me nor does it interest me. And that, Classic Rock rhymes with Rehman. Try spreading the quantum of miniscule energy that Pink Floyd provided me since 6 years now. Also try explaining the BFF on the phone of what the British Invasion was. Beg the Fairy Godmother, the Western version of the Goddesses that dwell in the tiny cement temples we find on the streets of Hyderabad by the foot pavements, to throw me into that point, where the Indian Cult was being idolised. When the riffs on the bass guitar of a song performed in some garage in the downtrodden areas of Seattle were being tabbed, which later became an anthem of a generation. When grunge was born. When having the hairstyle ala Satya Sai Baba was the latest fad. Live the life of a tramp. Hitchhike my way to the Himalayas, and maybe run into God. Have a cup of tea with Him and not realising who He is, bid farewell.

The moment I stepped in America, I had begun fantasizing something entirely different. I wanted to take classes in poetry and literature like a friend of mine had suggested. Take guitar classes and perform alongside Chris Cornell while he was performing on stage wearing the Fruit & Loom almost see through vests that he bought from WalMart.

The moment I stepped at Kingsville, a place overcrowded with underdogs ala me, I realised, if there is anything I can possibly do, then its just buying the almost see-through vests that Chris Cornell bought from WalMart.

Now, that I actually own the see-through vest, and not just one, but several of them, I think that to expect anything more than this, is a joke.

We aren't just underdogs. We are a society of desis, living away from home, trying to rub our superiority over the fellow desis. We cannot speak up unless we are drunk. We act according to the company around us. Also, we 'act'. We won't speak straightforward. We have the same weaknesses that we had when we were in India. We cannot speak in English and whenever a boy and a girl are seen around a lot together, either the boy has proposed the girl or the boy has a crush over the girl. They are not to be considered as friends. We assume things, believe in second hand information, gossip, chat and crib. Also, did I mention? We NEVER speak straightforward.

I remember, last year at this point of time, I was cribbing about how the world hates an underdog. Of course, the blog got deleted. The post surely remains in google cached pages. Anyway, I now realise why the society hates underdogs. Because they never try to be anything more than an underdog.


Let there be Floyd, Metallica and Led Zepp.

P.S: As I am writing this post, some people are talking about who is greater. Balakrishna or Chiranjeevi. I leave the place immediately.

Bollocks of an intimidated mind

America! The land of the hottest chics, coolest cars and the ultimate freedom. PDA, down to earth movie (porn) stars, great money(1$=50Rs), cheap oil($1.69/gallon), cheaper alcohol(JD 750ml = 20$+tax), cheapest beer (1 beer = nothing+NON TAX, no one buys it, but I still find it in my refrigirator everyday), the fastest internet, amicable people and to top it all, a black President! The land of Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, the place where you'll find the real cowboys. The land where jeans was invented. Where chinky chics look at you over public computers. Where you can find the cheapest airfares. The land where you can never smell the pollutants, that an overloaded Bajaj Scooter with a family of 5 sitting on it, would emit. No one dies of hunger here. There are no cyclones, maybe there are but at least they are not called cyclones. Where no one can play cricket, hence when you actually play it, people think you are great at it.

But you are not.

Where people speak only in English or Spanish. Where every girl who looks at you, smiles at you. Hot and non-hot alike. The coolest of the clubs. Rock and Roll concerts every saturday night, across the roads. Electric guitars are sold by the roads. You come here with the notion that everybody loves the Indians. Our culture is deeply respected and worshipped. That once here, you're treated with great humility.

But you're not.

And in Texas, yeah Texas, you expect some cowboy action. Guys with dusty jeans, riding on a horseback yeeeee-haawing all the way and feeding on the cows of the size of Canada. You expect to see tumbleweed rolling on the sandy streets. And then an awesome real time Mexican standup on the roads. You are drooling through the salon while the bad guy is shot by some tall and lanky man with the eyes of an eagle, his skin charred under the summer sun and the smoke coming out of a fat cigar in his mouth, slowly rising into the air like the vestige of a spirit that leaves the body. You think after you come here, you grow out of being an Indian. You think you won't become one of them. You are sure, 5 years from the day you land in America, you will actually still be Indian. Walk, talk, shout and behave like an Indian. You tell everyone back home that you love your country and you don't want to get adapted to the American culture. And that you are the Indian you always were, back in India.

Bang on! Finally you got that right.

The biggest problem with the herd here, is that they are a herd. The Indians stay with the Indians, the Chinese and the Koreans hang around together. The Mexican guys are always seen with Caucasian chics and the Mexican girls always have a black boyfriend. Forget about the Americans. The Indians here, always hang around in groups. They won't talk to the Americans nor do the Americans talk to the Indians. No one makes an effort. Because the Americans are fed up of the Desi junta. Why?

Well ok. Let me tell you. Did you ever work in an American Strip Club(the Desi version of an obscene bar, but only that its legal in the US)? Where the customers pay like crazy if they like a dancer? You know what the desis would do? They'd go to the club, they'd enjoy the dance, relish on one or two drinks and when the dancer would come up to them for money, they'd throw four quarters at her feet like the Maharajas would throw gold coins to the court jesters in for entertaining them. Now, if you had self respect of at least the size of a microbe, you wouldn't take that money. Just because a woman is a stripper doesn't mean you treat her like a beggar. This, our desi junta wouldn't understand. What do they get? The stripper would take a 10$ note and throw it on the face of the desi guy and get him kicked out of the club.

And why don't the Indians make an effort to talk to the Americans? It is simple. Because they can't speak in English.

They might've scored 99% in their high school in English exam but they can't speak it. That is definitely not so bad because English is not their mother tongue, but what is really annoying is :

1) They don't make an effort to talk better than they actually can.

2)They hate you because you can talk better English than them.

I mean what the fuck? The seniors want you to be dependent on them, they want you to treat them with respect, they want you to add a 'bhayya' at the end of every sentence when you talk to them and they want you to owe to them for all the mental support(?) they give you. Reminds you of something? Bang on! Communism!

Anyway. I think I'll end this here. I have better things to write about but this was the one that was bugging me from a long long time. Had to use my awesome super power of cribbing on my blog and hence this post. Leave a comment, or act communist. Anything's fine with me. This shit ain't entertaining anyone buddy.