Bring on the night

Generally, I do useless things on the internet. Rest assured, this thing isn't. A really, really fab interview of one of the greatest singers/bassists/songwriters ever and certainly my favourite songwriter. Gordon Sumner. You might not have heard of him.

Some snatches of the interview I really enjoyed:

Q: What else are you looking forward to?

A: "The ride. The curiosity of what happens next. When I left teaching they said, ‘If you leave now you will lose your pension,’ and I could see myself at 58 as a deputy head with a pension in the offing, and that’s why I left. I didn’t want to see the future. I wanted to spin the wheel and I’m glad to have spun the wheel a few times. I would like to settle down at some point… It doesn’t mean I will, though."

And some tips from someone who most certainly knows what he's talking about:

"I think all the women in my life have satisfied the various archetypes of my mother: the wife, the lover, the mistress, the unattainable female mystery. She encompassed a lot of it. I don’t think you will ever get to the bottom of a woman. I don’t think men are wired to understand, and I think that’s fantastic – a constant mystery. I think I know what women want now though."

In what way? "I think women want to be asked what they want. One shouldn’t just assume." Do you mean what shall we eat, what shall we do tonight? "Everything." Do you want to have sex now? "All those things." You actually ask do you want to have sex? "Of course. Do you think a man should just club you and drag you down into the cave?" No, but I think it’s something you should already know. "Well, you need to read the signals, but they need to be asked. It’s a question of manners."

The entire interview can be found here.

So there. Run off now. Go have your mosquito soup. It's going cold.

Too much trance and too much...

In that moment of falling

No one saw those wings growing

Now the blood runs thicker

And the hurt stabs quicker

Her body sways and grooves to the pulsing beat

In the pallid shadows he stands observant yet discreet

He tastes her in every flaming drop he drinks

His senses by her luminescent curves hoodwinked

His is the face seen in the mournful moon

She would forever be his mysterious rune

Cursed to stay distant, condemed not to touch

In this smouldering instant, he wishes for just as much

His heart keeps racing, she's set it alight

Racing no one, with no chequered flag in sight

This is what happens after knocking back 4 glasses of 'Be what you want to be...' alongwith whatever was left in the litchi juice tetrapack. That, alongwith a playlist of the most captivating, pulsing and groovy trance tracks. Newfound addiction. Jan Johnston, Justine Suissa, Nadia Ali, Karen Overton, ooooh, sexy people, sexier voices... I'm knocked out enough to blabber uncontrollably, yet not out-of-hand enough to not be able to find the correct key to type all this in. I'm doing OK with the mouse too. No, you don't. The Virgin GP car has to be THE coolest car of the '10 season, despite my unconditional love for the Germanic understated-ness of the Merc. What's this trash I've written here? Lyrically, it's very evidently shitty, but wait till I find a proper DJ who'll to set these words to a beat and create a proper track... and watch me levitate. van Buuren, Tiesto, van Dyk - are you guys listening? Drove the Pajero around a bit. With the 4WD on, driving it on the beach was great fun too. Still prefer the automatic Prado though. All this on my mind, what was it again? Was I thinking about somebody? Rubbished the benign seven plan at Bessie. Would have been pretty inoffensive. Hah, no way. My dream 250 GTO, dressed in Nero Daytona. I'm limited to wishing for the unattainable. Laugh all you want, you creeps. I can delete this tomorrow. I shouldn't. I won't. I probably will. Will I? naaaah.....

They call me Schumi - I'm back, I'm back...

'From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadow shall spring.

Renewed shall be blade that was broken;

The crownless again shall be king.'

He who can, does. He who cannot, doubts. Lots of idiots have been pontificating about the 'cheat' and the 'dick dastardly' over-the-hill greybeard who's come back just to serve his own twisted sense of self-interest and ‘take the sport back to its dark ages’. Time for something 'downmarket', eh you doormats?

Another of my idols for whom subtlety is the least preferred weapon says something relevant:

'But the game ain’t gonna be the same on the day that I leave it
I swear one way or another I’ma make these f**king haters believe it,
I swear to God, I won’t spare the rod, I’m a man of my word
So your f**king heads better nod
I’m gonna f**k around in this bitch and roast everybody
Sleep on me that pillow is where your head will lie, permanently b**ch it’s beddy-bye,
This world is my Easter egg, yeah, Prepare To Die'

Yes. Prepare to die.

This flow is gonna bring more dough

‘Hunting blackbuck is illegal – more illegal than rapping at the WM solo event.’

Hey, that’s funny! No offence to the newsletter people – you’ve been doing a fab job by letting us in on all the latest dope on Saarang as it marches on. You are bone-crunchingly funny and all and no one’s taking potshots at you. This thing is a general perception here – that line just got to me and here I am, getting to nobody. Who the f**k reads this anyway?

An insignificant wart on the insti’s grand posterior of things like me doesn’t even merit an itch, but seriously, rapping is illegal, but guttural growling that sounds only as melodious and rhythmic as a bag of spanners being shaken by a drunk chimp to ear-splitting, driving ‘chords’ which make the poor guitar sound like someone’s scraping the loading bay of a cargo ship with a shovel is? The only truly awesome thing about that kind of music is the drumming, which bleeds coolness from everywhere. But you like headbanging, having bramble-bushes for beards, and smoking lots of trees, and how else are you going to do that if not for this delightful music? Rap is actually way better (though, admittedly not if you listen to Vanilla Ice or MC Hammer) and of course, the dopest and illest rhymes with awesomely witty wordplay and the thumping snare drums and the heavy synths help.

'The greatest death metal musicians almost can't make a living with what they do, and yet the musicians in these bands continue on in spite of their obscurity. Death metal is so non-mainstream that its musicians have to work incredibly hard for their career sales to reach even a million copies (which less than 6 death metal musicians have actually done).'

From Wikihow

Hah. Serves them right. See, taking shots at this is even easier. One would be too indifferent to this trash to give a damn, but well, who started it?

Of course, music and the way someone perceives it is a very personal thing, but quit dissing something you know nothing about.

Take your motherfucking death metal and stuff it up your intestines. No wonder Chuck Schuldiner died of brain cancer.

Brake Point

♫ "Already Home" (feat. Kid Cudi) - Jay-Z on the music system

Season review time. If you are indeed an F1 fan, I don't expect you to be reading this. Go read the season reviews written by James Allen or Peter Windsor or just listen to Sir Jackie Stewart in his tweed coat banging on about what he feels about the way things panned out.

I just felt weird when the lighting systems at the Abu Dhabi circuit died out and left behind a stark darkness as opposed to the brilliantly illuminated giant jellyfish skin they had swathed the entire main grandstand complex with. Jenson Button and Brawn were already champions and they didn’t really have to…

No. I didn’t feel weird. I felt disgusted at that moment because my brain stopped being absorbed in the race and I gradually felt my olfactory senses pick up the most revolting stench that I’d been oblivious to thus far - I'd been too busy drinking in the visuals.

What else do you expect from a room that has no air-conditioning, no proper ventilation, unwashed and un-disinfected ancient carpets, and is generally occupied by those hordes from that state between Tamil Nadu and the pointless Orissa? Oh, and the monkeys occasionally pop in for a dump. And then leave.

I mean, this season shook it all up for the sport. Or the entertainment show(as the honourable Government of India likes to see it). Ferrari and McLaren, the ‘big boys’ could only whimper with their tails ‘twixt their legs while Brawn and later Red Bull brawn-ed and bull-ed their way to an eventual contest between each other for the titles. I’m sure all the Ferrari and McLaren haters(there seem to be some) were overjoyed that this year had been a nice little kick up their backsides. Truth be told, yes, it was really good to see someone else do the winning for a while.

But the novelty factor soon wore off, because Brawn had been blitzing everyone else for the first one-third of the season. Yes, the double diffuser thing helped, but Williams and Toyota had it too – that didn’t make them that awesome. So, we should give credit where it’s due. Ross Brawn, Nick Fry to a certain extent and the exiting Honda management to a small yet no less significant extent.

And of course, the new Brit hero, Jenson Button. Finally. After that promising start to his career with Benetton and Williams, nobody had bet against him not winning a championship before he turned 29. And yet, that’s what happened with him languishing at the luckless Honda pitwall for over 6 years. If people say he doesn’t deserve the championship, well, they should just shut up. There have been a few such champions in the past, and there will be such champions in the future – a champion is a champion is a champion. And Button deserves it, as much as anyone of his other challengers did. After all these years of frustration and anger, it almost seems poetically apt that Button won the title he so badly wanted in this dramatic fashion. Senna had once appropriately remarked, “Every year, there is a winner of the World Championship, but not necessarily a champion.” However, the record books think otherwise and so we should just shut our mouths and move on.

I was totally crushed for Sebastian Vettel. I’ve been looking out for him ever since he set those blinding times during the free practice for the 2006 Italian GP, and 2009 was the year he should have won that title. I won’t go on and on about how some errors, from himself and from Red Bull, and plain old bad luck conspired to deny him what would have been a stupendous achievement. And he just goes hard at it all the time – he can’t just think of getting the car home and bagging a few points. That’s not his style. And I love his attitude. He wasn’t like, “I’ll be stronger because I have learned to lose” or “Losing is part of the game” or “I have grown as an individual” or any of that regular drivel all these smooth-talkers say when they lose. Instead, he said:

“I wish I didn’t have to say it, but I hate losing. I think I knew it all along, but now I am definitely sure. But somehow that doesn’t only go for racing - I’m afraid I hate losing in anything I am doing - whether it is playing a silly game, or football, I obviously simply hate to lose.”

That’s definitely the guy I see as one whose side I am on. Ah, you’re wondering why? Who’s that dude I worship?

And who is that person we are not talking about? Yes, mister, you. You should stop saying “I have never accepted that I wasn’t as good as Michael.” About time.

Oh, and watch out for yet another young German in the immediate future, Nico Hulkenberg. He will probably turn out to be as good as Vettel. Yes.

Anyway, I’m mega-pissed at Ferrari for letting Kimi Vodkanen go, by terminating his contract that would have expired in 2010, all because President Montezemolo wanted Fernando Teflonso in the team. And that’s the reason I am going to be a Mercedes supporter in case, IN CASE Schumi decides to haul his ass into their racecar for the next season. Ferrari and Schumacher fans shouldn’t see him as a traitor who’s ‘forsaken his loyalty to the team with which he’s spent the golden years of his illustrious career’. If Ferrari can hire Alonso, then without an iota of doubt, Michael occupies a higher moral ground if he decides to get himself released from the ‘Consultant’ position at Maranello and drive for the German company who funded his rise through the junior classes and the DTM. So the Ferraristi in Michael’s camp, shut your miserable whining traps and scream for the Silver Arrows henceforth. My reverence for Ferrari the Manufacturer remains undiminished, but Ferrari the Formula 1 Team? They’d have to do something special to win me back. Hah. Like they need to, or like they ever will. They’ll just ask me to go f**k myself.

So, as a pre-emptive measure, I shall hit ‘Publish’, re-enable μ Torrent, rise from this chair I’m sitting on…

…and do just that.

See you later, infected crimson pustules.

Scaredy Crap

Jump back, what's that rumbling sound?

You avoid an enraged colugo that's just come down

Perspiring glassy beads, your skin's goose-pimpling,

You feel a frantic fear, and you just can't stop its incessant gaveling

Instantaneously, you scamper and quicken your pace up

Could also be the Fizestra behind you, it wants to cut you up

Now, you should have fallen down and splintered a bone

You should've been writhing in pain, your shrieks would bother them none

And then it would come oh-so-close to you and smell you out

You'd know it's gonna be over, there ain't a shadow of a doubt

You grab a fallen branch, turn and swing it around right then

Of course there's nothing right there, its just the hallucinogens

You're confounded and dazed again, you're brain-fucked again

Daft doorknob, they're using you - you're just an experiment

They're killing you no more than they're feeding infants wet cement

Shut the fuck up now and get ready, there's another test

Chew up this Peruvian Torch, so what if your mouth's abscessed?

Lesions and contusions? Just this one, we'll see what they crack

And after stitching you up, you'll land slap-bang in rehab

And is there any other place you'd rather be?

Yes, the pain's there and yeah, you do bleed

But this acid trip is all you're ever going to need

It's 4:45 in the morning. And I am generally irritated. This was written in 15 minutes flat. I have scaled new heights of horrible-ness. It's quite pathetic, but let me tell you something. 50 Cent could do with a wack songwriter. He needs one.

Sigh. It has come to this.

It's all askew

Hey, randomly shitting on blogspot is good fun. That too without having my blog URL and title in capitals on my gmail status message, mind you.

So, let's nuke it:

Sittin' on a boulder, little Burt wonders, 'What do I do?'

'Should I point my pencil at my eye and drive it straight through?'

'Or should I be still and watch the bird crapping on Roxy's statue?'

Now he's at home with his Math homework, he's got a lot to do

'What's the interest on this instalment, what does it accrue to?'

Mathematics tortures him, and it all seems scarier than voodoo

Cold fusion is idle speculation, a theory they all eschewed

While he whiled away his time, an intense battle brewed

He'd neglected the murderous Macbeth - a huge assignment was due

Enough - he locked himself in the bathroom - a self imposed curfew

Reached into the toilet tank and fished out the bottle of Quaaludes

He swallowed them all, and then lived out a million bedazzling hues

♫ It's 3 AM in the morning... Really.

Laz-Y-Boy Bloggerturd

I would have been writing about a lot of things if they had been slightly different. Like if Schumi had made that sensationalunbelievableoutoftheworldheroic comeback. Like if Britney Spears had taken the stage at a sold-out concert and exploded. Like if India would have actually justified it's obsession with the retarded game of cricket. Like if I would have grown a third head when there had never been a second.

All of that didn't happen. What did happen was that we had to write a 'walking poem'(yes, this is yet another gandu doing what everyone else has done) and I wrote a poem which doesn't deserve to be called a poem because I can't write poems and if I can't write poems this can't possibly be a poem. But write I did. And though I agree that one of the justifications for shutting down all the blogging sites would be the leeway that poop-spewers like me get when it comes to putting up any and everything we think of on our blogs when none of it deserves to be even on the back of a shopping list, I'm not going to let that shame me into not posting it.

Yes, there is a serious lack of content here and to keep this blog alive, I have to flog it to within an inch of its life.

Prepare to be 'Oww'-ed:

As I amble along this forest path

A light breeze swirls around the leaves

The slanting afternoon sun breaks through the foliage

Its rays tinted all purple and orange

A gnarled, rotting trunk lies on the forest floor

In a pitiable state of decay

The living trees around it seem dark and almost mournful

Melancholic and sorrowful at this untimely demise

I walk on slightly despondent, but little do I know

On that very trunk, a little Peepul plant grows

Maggots and earthworms scuttle around in its rotting innards

And a clump of tumbleweeds bloom in all their unwanted glory

The rotting, visibly lifeless trunk

Once supple, mirthful and erect

No, it isn’t dying.

In these numerous, unwitting beneficiaries

It lives on.

And so do I. I live, despite writing this. Life's fair. Sort of.

Don't do it

My tonsils have decided to act funny once again. As a result, I've been coughing like an old, beaten-up Chevy's starter on a sub-zero morning. Each time I cough my cough, every muscle in my body feels like it's compressing into a bolus, and then exploding before coming together again and repeating the cycle. The back of my head especially feels like it's going to come apart at the sutures.

Enter Roxid. I finally gave in(after consulting Dad, OBVIOUSLY), because Wikoryl didn't work, and Crocin was useless - the bodyache was killing me. So, last night I gulped down my first Roxid and for the aches, a Nimesulide tab went down with it.

And today, thanks to Mamu, I had a Combiflam tab a while back. And as I am now on antibiotics, having(or not having) cold stuff to drink makes not a jot of a difference. So, in the past 4-5 hours or so, I've slammed down a glass of chilled orange juice, 2 cans of Diet Coke, a giant glass of self-made cold coffee, and several glasses of chilled water. All this despite my rebellious and sorely sore throat.

So what if you've fallen ill? Just do it.

And stop reading this asinine blog.

What if...

This is going to be a very short post. I am mega-pissed off that the USTA is doing this to Rafael Nadal Parera. Or it's just the Fates who probably think it's some kind of joke. He now has to play 4 consecutive days of tennis at the US Open, and all this after having to play the last night matches in the previous rounds. After the match against Gael Monfils, I think both of them left the court at 1:20 AM NY time. I shall not talk about his strained abdominal muscles because the man himself doesn't want to. It seems as if the stars are all aligned against him and are doing everything they can to prevent him from holding aloft the trophy in the Arthur Ashe Stadium.

However, having said all that, I also know that if anyone can tide over these obstacles and still do it, it's that man Rafa. And what shall be even more satisfying is that we fans can shout, "Up yours, USTA, the Weather Gods, and whoever else wants him to give up!".

It is a very tall order and his championship hopes might even be snuffed out by Gonzalez tonight itself. But what if he does it? I know it's a bit like speculating on the taste of the omelette even as it is still a zygote within the hen, but hey, can you stop me from enjoying the hypothetical occurrence of this happy possibility?

But what are you going to do if this slight possibility becomes a reality?

-----

From an AFP newscast:

"Nadal hopes to complete a career Grand Slam with a US Open title and such a run would continue a tradition of historic crowns won in rain-hit years.

Don Budge completed the first calendar-year Grand Slam in 1938 after a hurricane halted play for a record six days. Rod Laver finished off the second men's Slam with a Monday win in 1962 and his second Slam in 1969 on a Monday."

Is my evil, shrieking laughter making your ears bleed?