Whole Lotta Love?

June 22nd was a really, really special day for four reasons, though the fourth one is utterly unimportant.

1. 'Stones in Exile' was released on that day. AND I SHALL WATCH IT TOMORROW.
2. Marshall Mathers finally got his 'Recovery' out of the way. Going by the initial reviews, I think I'll like it. My only gripe is that Dr. Dre has produced only one track.
3. John Isner and Nicolas Mahut started playing their megamatch on that day.
4. I told you the fourth reason is unimportant. Go away.


* It's here, then it's gone.

And so it goes on

This one's been stuck for the past week or so and yes, it's rather appropriate.

'Yeah, when the train left the station
It had two lights on behind
Whoa, the blue light was my baby
And the red light was my mind'

'It's hard to tell, it's hard to tell... when all your love's in vain.' *

And Stana Katic is my crush of the month. Sigh.

* Love In Vain (Let It Bleed) - The Rolling Stones

Cocksucker Blues

I shall reveal to you, my nonexistent reader, the ultimate and highest truth, the wisdom of the ages which no one has been able to apprehend yet.

It doesn't matter whether the brahman/atman is real or unreal, static or dynamic, existent or non-existent, barbecue sauce or non-barbecue sauce.

What matters though, is that the grades that we will receive will be real, static, existent, unmodifiable, immutable and most definitely, they will NOT be barbecue sauce.

And all those seers and rishis from centuries ago created tomes and tomes of irrelevant 'concepts' and 'truths' - obviously while being stoned out of their minds. Who knows, they might have had an awesome sense of humour and therefore they are responsible for a trip that has lasted for centuries now and is showing no signs of going anywhere.

I'm sure they've been laughing their asses off all these days. For them, this is just one long, MEGA-trip.

Gimme, gimme shelter

This is prophetic/indicative/purely coincidental, whichever way you want to see it. But it happened thrice in the course of 12 hours, so there must be something to it. Even if there isn't.

My playlist on Winamp had some 120-odd songs, comprising artistes like Muddy Waters, The Rolling Stones, Circa Survive, The Prodigy, Massive Attack, The Tallest Man on Earth, The Police, The National, Eminem, Swervedriver, Kyuss, Tool, Run DMC, Beastie Boys, Queens of the Stone Age, Mos Def and some more. And the shuffle mode was on.

For reasons I shall keep to myself, I generally let the music play when I'm away for short periods of time. So, yesterday, when I got back from dinner, Merry Clayton was screaming, 'Rape... Murder. It's just a shot away, it's just a shot away.' I obviously didn't think much of it, but yes, it was a nice thing to hear because I just can't get enough of that song and that album.

Then again, when I was returning at half past 2 in the morning from - you don't need to know - I heard Keith and Bill rocking it out with those haunting chords. Same song.

And then the crowning glory was when I came back from lunch today. Shoving the key into the lock, I heard Mick going, 'If I don't get some shelter, oh yeah, I'm gonna fade away.' Of all those hundred songs, this is the one that had to somehow waft from the speakers as I approached the locked door of Pamba 516. And then I thought a lot of thoughts.

Most of those thoughts were about the endsem which I am about to write tomorrow.

Somewhere, a wild boar sucking on an ice-lolly is burping contentedly. Maybe I should just be an eco-friendly doormat and turn off my laptop when I'm away.

One Lysol-Vermouth. And lots of those olives.

One eminent personality says that relying on a 'stream-of-consciousness' method of excreting words, sentences and exam answers, for that matter, is never a good idea.

Why, in the name of all that tries to be acceptable, would good ideas find a place here?

Hey, that fatfaced monkey is chomping on your slippers! Obese men in thongs are dancing evil dances on your bed! There is an army of murderous gnats hovering right outside your window!

But you're still here. So you might as well.


Sin city had this news
Some of them were human too
Swiveled out of harm's reach
Gunshots locked in a clattering medley

Free Surrender
Hope's just running
Holes are cut away

The only way they'll believe you
Is when they see you run away

Slaying trucking giant
Flaying and ducking crates

Run, swim Strake O'Cronwell
Hell is on your plate

Bled for your mezcal
Slid down it rough-shod
Slot into death row
Fed on your anger
Preyed on your smugness
Misread the fine print
Crashed into a stonewall

Would that be all?
No

Gone, snuffed out
Bled out of
The impassive sky
Oh, what a mess

Where did the cleaners run off to?

The Stones. Forever.

A rather stupid debate. And there probably isn’t one at all. The Beatles vs. The Rolling Stones. No contest. They are both the greatest. Or there will be some who will say that The Beatles are the greatest, and by a considerable margin.

The funny thing is, I listened to The Beatles first. I remember ripping CDs of ‘The White Album’, ‘Sgt. Peppers’ Lonely Hearts Club Band’, ‘Rubber Soul’ and ‘Revolver’ when I was in class 8. And I listened to them then and liked them alright. I mean, we all had questionable tastes back then. If you say you didn’t like Linkin’ Park when you were 13, I’ll smash your beauteous face in.

But now, it’s The Rolling Stones. All the way. I’ve listened to everything by them now. Ah, and the best part is, they might just have yet another album left in them. And for the better part of five decades now, they have been the greatest live band of them all. Their energy, even at this age has to be seen to be believed. In 2007, they were the top-grossing band in the world. And the magic still endures. Just watch Scorsese’s ‘Shine A Light’, and you will know what I’m talking about.

Mick Jagger is the greatest frontman of them all and is still the loaded gun he’s always been. And Keith, well, what can I say about him that hasn’t already been said? Sorry, Lennon-McCartney but Jagger-Richards are way, wayyyy cooler.

The Stones have rocked my world in a way The Beatles never could.

Somehow, All You Need Is Love will never resonate with me the way Jumpin’ Jack Flash does.

Last name: Ever, First name: Greatest. Totally.

Wish my name was Casey Stoner

Sugary equivocation from the setting sun
I might not be the only one
You're not there to break my fall
Your one touch could've healed it all
And I just die, drop by drop
Wish she'd told me when to stop
Floating with these wavering shadows
Splattering the impassive ceiling
Searching for your dogdy outlines
Marking out your lines in the shifting shapes
The scraggly troubadour's soaring wails
Cutting up this frozen night into two
Come let's get going one more time
Let's spin the wheel once again, it'll all be fine
Or you can just leave this place
And be someone else's someone else

This is NOT an attempt at potery. Shit, poetry. My rhyming is horrible, so is my sense of form and rhythm.

And Lionel Messi is the reason why. Of course he isn't, what am I saying.

It's like waking up from a really nice dream and finding yourself naked on a busy highway with mice hard at work on all your orifices.

And this too

It's all very well reading exquisitely brilliant poetry, with all of that jaw-droppingly magnificent imagery, the slick craft, the mesmerizing flow and symmetry and turning those lines over and over again in your head, realizing that some things are just too fantastic to be written and yet for the particular writer they somehow weren't. And you reverently genuflect in front of such dazzlingly fantabulous artistry.

But there's another side to it too. Something nasty, vile, repulsive, ghastly and yet something that rips out your heartstrings or stretches your gallbladder out on a cycle rim and then does a John Bonham on it. That isn't what you'd call appreciating.

That, my non-existent readers, is what you'd call feeling. Or, in this case, feeling the shit.

The more you... put me through
The more it makes me wanna come back to you
You say you hate me, I just love you more
You don't want me, I just want you more
I buy you flowers, you throw 'em at me
I know it's sad but it's making me happy
The more that you slap me, the more that it turns me on
Cause you love me, and I love you more

What you say, what you do
I'ma hunt you down 'til I find you
No matter where you run, I'll be right there
Right behind you, in your nightmares
All the flowers, and the candy
All the times that you threw it back at me
You told me you hate me, you're gonna hate me more
When you find out, you can't escape me whore

Marshall Bruce Mathers III. From the track Love You More from the bootlegged 2003 EP, Straight From The Lab.

I know it's sad but it's making me happy.

Altered Cerium

“For god’s sake, will you change into 4th? You want to rev the nuts off this snotbox?”

“Hell, yeah”, I say noncommittally and slot it into fourth. “Why are we even doing this? And what the hell is going on?”

“The Leaf said we’re supposed to keep on driving, and that’s exactly what we are going to do. And let’s not try to act smart. We’ve gotten this far. We’ve survived the encounter with Ratzen. And we can’t afford to blow this up. Focus. FOCUS!”

“Okay, okay, OKAY. But I’m not exactly pleased with what I am seeing.”

I really wasn’t. The sky was on fire. In sharp contrast to the sky was a towering structure owned by The Syndicate (or so the gargantuan neon signboard claimed). It looked like an enlargement of the internal mechanism of one of those ancient gearboxes, the cogs engaging and disengaging with deafening noises that threatened to rip the ground apart.

She goaded me on: “Shut up and drive. We need to get to wherever we need to be as soon as possible.”

“I’m not sure if we should.”

“Then you’re not sure if we shouldn’t.”

We were driving on a bridge over what used to be the river Qailaiea. Now it was a dynamic, shiny black mass of slime that stank to the high heavens. Unable to take it any longer, I puked all over the dashboard and swerved violently. The car broke through the iron railings and was free-falling into the darkness below.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” she yelled, and tried to grab at my throat in vain.

“Fuck this”, I shouted back.

And we went under.

Bad in the saddle again

Yes, I'm fucking bad. But you can't stop me, can you?

More importantly, why on earth would you even want to? Don't you have worthwhile things to do in life?

Chew on this though: Sometimes, mind you, just sometimes, Pac's words ring truer than Hume's. Or Hobbes'. Or Locke's. Or Rohit Gurunath Sharma's, for that matter.

I was just saying...

It is dreary by day and fusty by night
The firebrands glow in the sodium-lamp’s light

Baleful moon, through these rusted bars be my guide
In your slithering shadows, pray, let me hide

Her eyes had scorched my senses, not unlike the noontime sun
My obsession for her justifies everything I have done

Here I am, fighting this war with only a wooden sword
Sparring with the unseen enemy, my thoughts an icy fjord

The bell tolls and the walls all dissolve away
A new reality emerges and slowly creeps up on me

While on my mind the spiteful fiends and phantoms prey
The jailor turns the key, twisting the dagger of fate

Someplace far away an aggrieved wolf bays and moans
And I let out an anguished sigh, and ascend my fiery throne

'I smoke blunts to take the pain out and if I wasn't high I'd probably blow my brains out' - Tupac Amaru Shakur. But you don't know who he is. You're cool.