tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83698114530712578732024-02-20T07:19:59.866-07:00Shaman's BluesThanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.comBlogger203125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-30963285286189220152012-10-22T16:41:00.002-06:002012-10-22T16:41:40.067-06:00Suicide by star<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
Note to self (and other dimwits) - When a girl asks about her ex, TREAD GENTLY. In fact, run away.<br />
<br />
See, in my feeble dating experience, a break-up is an intervention and is the only solution that doesn't end in murder. So when my friend asked about our mutual friend who was her ex, I replied "oh you know him, he's the same". "And what does that mean?" she quizzed. A wiser man would have picked his next few words carefully, but the only time "wise" applied to me was when it was followed by "ass". So naturally I boasted "Eh, you know, he's full of it as usual". Silence. I went on "you know, he's always bragging..." and this point those rusty gears in my head began turning as I had the onerous task of processing multiple thoughts. "whoa, she's frowning", "talking about how he's plowed multiple girls since the break-up will not end well" and "did I wear deo?" I ended with "... bragging about how he's leading a totally er healthy lifestyle. Say the weather is FINE tonight".<br />
<br />
CRISIS AVERTED.<br />
</div>
Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-35559389795878929832011-07-18T16:10:00.003-06:002011-07-18T16:11:01.141-06:00I'm going to the leftIts everywhere. All around me, you, and everyone else we share this rock with. It can be reassuring, keep you company, give you something to think about. I think of life as being a sine wave - ups, downs, ups and you know what's coming next. But it never wanes.The chatter, the sound, the noise of "social media". Information, opinions, facts, debates. People have so much to say, precious little patience to listen.<br />
<br />
Have I had nothing to say because I've been listening? I doubt it. That life got in the way is too easy of an excuse. That I got swept in the flood of others' words can't be my escape. Reading is not the only exercise my mind needs, I need to string a few words together.<br />
<br />
Hello world.Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-11312734151847794242010-12-15T10:14:00.001-07:002010-12-15T10:17:01.148-07:00Yes! I am A Long Way From HomeI'm an army brat. Almost everyone disagrees. I can see why. I saw unit life only for 10 years or so. I never went to "Army" school. I don't posses the brash, cocky self-confidence that characterizes my peers. Heck, I don't even speak Hindi. A lot of people hate me for talking about myself as an army brat, some don't even like the "community" in general.<br />
<br />
What most people won't understand is that identifying oneself as an army brat/airforce kid is only an attempt to find kinship. To find a meaning for enormous social pressures we faced growing up. Years of being knocked on the knuckles for not knowing which fork, spoon and knife to use when. Horrific bullying by thugs whose fathers were your father's superiors - it added an extra element of helplessness. Being asked not to mingle with kids whose dads weren't officers. Parties, gymkhanas, club events where every "uncle" and "auntie" had to be greeted before eating a tenth of how much a 7 year old would really want to eat. It's not a patch on the smug superiority exhibited by Dubai raised NRI kids. <br />
<br />
Was life harsh and cruel? Sometimes. Was it abusive, and do we seek to form a support group by labeling ourselves? Not in the least. All my family has of our life from 15 years ago is a canteen card and a rank my dad carries. I don't miss a whole lot from my childhood in some remote army base in a fucking jungle. But when I'm down half a bottle of that Irish poison, don't roll your eyes if I want a label to belong to. You wouldn't know - you weren't there.Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-77180956467980865062010-11-24T12:01:00.000-07:002010-11-24T12:01:22.841-07:00Frozen TwilightI have been getting some exercise lately, and while it hasn't yet made a difference to my bulging waistline, it keeps me happy. I'm doing something worthwhile, I tell myself, while massaging my sore muscles. <br />
<br />
I'm not too concerned about my blog being read and commented on, but I do like commenting on some of the blogs I frequent. I get the feeling some see it as a chore, or even a visiting card, often not saying anything more than "lol! so true!" and I find that rather appalling. But I have an important message today. It appears that blogger has more than 1 comment form template available. One particular template doesn't play well with the combination of my firefox+adblock plus + filters at work. I can read the comments, but there's no room for me to chip in with my bedazzling insight. Most of the blogs on my reader seem to be switching to that form, and so guys, if you see this - know that I'm reading and liking your stuff, just not getting to express it. I can use my linux box of course, but I've stripped down the browser there for performance and use it to stay on the company intranet. And what is now getting to be a regular feature in my life, I don't have the mental bandwidth to figure out a solution for my windows box.<br />
<br />
Winter is upon us, the air's colder and the wind cuts like a knife. We haven't seen too much snow yet, but all that can change in 1 afternoon. I have reasonably new tires and all the kinks in my car sorted out, so I'm not very concerned about losing control. Still, after a minor bump on the kerb turned into an ordeal that lasted several months and cost me hundreds of dollars, I'm going to be a bit wary about driving on a snowy/icy road. Hope all goes well.Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-14774984571478187962010-11-18T13:55:00.000-07:002010-11-18T13:55:57.545-07:00Colorado SunriseMe : So guess what, that tooth aching and all, I was looking for dentists<br />
<br />
Kid : Yeah?<br />
<br />
Me : (about to launch into details about insurance SNAFUs, x-ray BS, worries about dental hygiene)<br />
<br />
Kid : Hey, can you see the sun from where you are?<br />
<br />
Me : Umm, no?<br />
<br />
Kid : Oooh, there's this rainbow like thing below it. It's so cool<br />
<br />
Me : ....<br />
<br />
Kid : Let me a take a picture and call you back<br />
<br />
Me : ....Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-9935406823546789462010-11-09T11:24:00.000-07:002010-11-09T11:24:24.392-07:00RhinocerosI feel fat. Lumpy. Slow. Did I just say "Lumpy"? <br />
<br />
I was never thin. Or fit. I have a good throwing arm, and am a pretty good quarterback for our annual touch football gathering. I've never been a good runner, and have the world convinced that it's due to my flat feet. I began training late last year for a Bolder Boulder. It's only 10k, so it was the perfect low hanging fruit to chase. I was also getting in shape for my first visit to India in two years and had more than a few pounds I could afford to lose. <br />
<br />
Getting into a "fitness routine" is like getting into a new relationship. There's uncertainty "do I have what it takes? Is it worth it?" But it's also a lot of fun. You try new things, and while some of it is painful, you sleep well at night. And the experts recommend protection. Anyhow, once I got into a routine, I lost the pounds rapidly at first, and then hit a plateau. This is normal, I'm told, and a month with a personal trainer meant that I was the thinnest I'd ever been all my life. Of course, I still sported a beer belly, but damn, I had a two pack without sucking my gut in. I could run 6 miles in an hour with no fuss, and damn was I happy with myself.<br />
<br />
Cut to the present, and I've worked out precisely 4 times in the last 3 months. And in showing the lady the deep fried delicacies this land has to offer, I've packed on more pounds than a rack of dumbbells. The final nail in the coffin came last week, when I realized I could barely fit in my jeans, and didn't need a belt anymore. The very same belt I needed new holes punched in, to hold my pants up - not more than 3 months ago. <br />
<br />
Fuck me, I'm running an hour today.Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-82742593953066488362010-11-02T13:28:00.002-06:002010-11-02T13:30:24.310-06:00Have a Drink on MeBack home, since every religious group seeks validation by having days in the calendar marked in their honor, I'm used to at least 1 religious holiday a month. Someone died for our sins? Chug, chug, chug! A demon was slayed viciously on an<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kali"> angry lady's tongue</a>? Bottoms up! Life in a secular nation is fun.<br />
<br />
Holidays in the American calendar are few and far flung. They're conveniently tooled to give the salaried class extended weekends, and I'm down with that. A certain holiday gives ladies an excuse to wear very little in public, and is one of my favorite days in the year. I don't care about dressing up, but certainly don't miss out on the parties. Halloween this year was a general dud, as the women were covered up more than a 50 year old Saudi in a prince's harem. I didn't let that affect me, and highlights of the night include<br />
<br />
- one of the guys in our group felt up a dozen women and came this close to being beaten up. I hit him a few times just to be sure<br />
- said despo wandered away from us, and lacking a cell and wallet, was near impossible to track<br />
- I pushed the group to drink on anyway and shots after shots were poured. <br />
- complimented a lesbo bar tender that Bird (her jersey) was better than Magic and got free drinks for the night<br />
- got everyone else wasted<br />
- picked up a fight with random first gen American<br />
- picked up a fight with random Indian dude about computer security<br />
- campaigned to legalize it<br />
- spoke to 4 different cops and tried to get their opinion on "illegal occupation of US in Iraq"<br />
- offered random Indian dude a position in my team (the fuck I get to decide)<br />
<br />
Most of the night is a blur, and I woke up near naked next to my lady and she wasn't even <b><i>that</i></b> mad at me. I take it the night was a success.Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-18836277920763078302010-10-20T13:25:00.005-06:002010-10-21T15:50:10.273-06:00How Blue Can You Get?Moving from Bangalore to Boulder was almost easy. The allure of women in bikinis, people following the lane system, high speed internet and the opportunity to see some great bands live in concert was too much to resist. Sadly, the mountains here leave no space for beaches, and so I've had to settle for a life without bikinis.<br />
<br />
I missed Iron Maiden by 2 days in July 05, but made up for it <a href="http://shamans-blues.blogspot.com/2010/06/wasted-years.html" target="_blank">recently</a>. Little had I known 5 years ago that I'd go from "I'll piss on your crappy double-bass lacking mp3" to "man I like this record so much I'm going to buy it - even if it is inspired by <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LHgbzNHVg0c" target="_blank">Sesame street</a>". Metal, rock, rock'n'roll, ambient/electronica and finally, the blues. As my musical tastes widened, my interest in B.B King grew. Long solos, crazy improvisations, incredible collaborations - there's nothing this man hadn't done. At one time, Lucille played in my headphones all day and night. I figured of all the concerts on my list - this would be my Shangri-La. He's been old for the last 10 years now, has retired multiple times, why would he strum his guitar in our vanilla state?<br />
<br />
I was wrong. A week from my due return to the States after a month's vacation, King would play at the Red Rocks amphitheater. There was no way I could afford it, much less take someone else - but the kid said I should do what I wanted. It didn't take much after that, I had two seats bang in the center. I told my friends - it's an outdoor amphitheater, there's nothing but mountains behind the stage. And when the moon rises, the night resembles a Van Gough painting coming to life. I think I was spat on.<br />
<br />
So come <a href="http://www.redrocksonline.com/CalendarEventDisplay.aspx?id=41820" target="_blank">Aug. 25th</a>, we were there. We missed a good bit of the concert, thanks to the kid's second day of classes, but made it. Buddy Guy was on stage, cheerful as usual. Al Green followed amidst much fanfare. I knew nothing of the two, and felt a little disconnected for most part. It didn't help that we were the youngest as far as the eye could see. Finally, after numerous sound checks and intros, the legend was wheeled in.<br />
<br />
Wait, what? Yeah. Except for a few steps to his seat on the stage, King can't really walk that much. He hasn't lost any of his snark though, and there were plenty of jokes at the expense of his band. The familiar tunes and melodies started and the event I'd been waiting for, for so long, was finally underway. But it wasn't smooth sailing. King fumbled with his guitar, sounded scratchy and at one time completely missed the strings while strumming. The band covered for him admirably, but it was evident the night wasn't going as I'd anticipated.<br />
<br />
He had the ladies in the amphitheater sing "Please don't take my sunshine away" for nearly 10 minutes out of the 20 minutes he was on stage. He finished off with "Thrill is gone" and there was no solo to be heard. We were out of the venue before he had ambled off-stage.<br />
<br />
So what do I make out of all this? It's hard not be disappointed. Disappointed that the legend I'd heard from my music collection wasn't the same man on stage. But then again, I wasn't born when that man was in his prime. I was disappointed I didn't know enough of the genre to enjoy the concert as much as the folks around us did. The thrill sure is gone, Lucille.<br />
<br />
It doesn't change my opinion of how great King is, but does make me wonder about <a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/n/neilyoung380426.html" target="_blank">fading away</a>. We like Morrison, Joplin and Hendrix as the gods of Rock and roll - handsome, young, mysterious, explosive, unchanging. We grow older, but they stay young. They sound the same any day of the week, any time of the night. When musicians who don't retire stay in the limelight, they prove they're human just like the rest of us. It's just a sad drive back home.Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-26651989548682969882010-10-13T16:56:00.002-06:002010-10-13T16:59:10.451-06:00Cars Hiss by my WindowEver lingered in the shallow end of a crowded swimming pool? I haven't, since my disgust for human proximity set in, but I remember how it was learning swimming in Bangalore. I didn't like the way the water smelled, and was worried I'd cannonball into someone who was as out of control as I was. Anyway, I'd squat in the corner sometimes just to get away from it all, but not quite leave the pool. Dad had paid for my time there - couldn't waste it now, could I?<br />
<br />
If you stand still in a pool for sometime, you get the distinct feeling the world is passing you by. Fresh faces jump in, lap around and exit stage left. Soon, you're the only one you can recognize in the mass of flailing limbs and twisting bodies. I'm feeling like that all over again.<br />
<br />
I saw a few of my college buddies when I was visiting home a couple of months ago. I couldn't spend too much time with them, but sent them an email with a nod to good times in the past. Guess everyone's busy now, I got no replies to my effusive thoughts. The kid has a lot of good ideas about being nice to people and has convinced me to give it a shot. I called a lot of friends after I got back, and most of them spoke to me at length. Not much has changed in the year that we haven't spoken. But we haven't spoken.<br />
<br />
Texting and calling belong to the last decade. Letter writing is a lost art, but when did we stop communicating? What happened to social networking? Twitter, facebook, blogger - weren't they meant to draw us closer? My twitter timelines are flooded with inane observations and retweets. I've blocked nearly everyone after farmville infected facebook. All the blogs I used to read are near dead or comatose. Where is everyone? <br />
<br />
I find myself standing waist deep in a stiff current trying not to drift. I haven't read a good book lately, seen movies or partied. I didn't camp all summer.<br />
<br />
Where am I?Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-89368724614775113402010-10-07T12:17:00.000-06:002010-10-07T12:17:41.848-06:00No Time to CryI don't have the time for anything these days. That's almost a shameful admission considering how well I used to be "connected" thanks to my smartphone, high-speed internet and general nerdiness. I'm insanely busy at work, and going to sleep absolutely exhausted, knowing that I couldn't move anymore keeps me happy. But I'm uncomfortable. I'm living my life now - my job, my career, my lady, our evenings, our weekends, groceries, cooking, driving. And it's keeping others out - friends, family, video games, Sasha Grey, poker, Rocky Mountains national park... I don't feel guilty about it. I've done enough so far to be a "social animal" and it's a great time to be a recluse - just a new feeling having to say "sorry, didn't have the time". Two years I've spent looking at 2-D images of my little lady, and I'm going to spend every second now with my face pressed to hers. The world can wait.<br />
<br />
But I do get moments away from the madness. I have another 12 minutes before a status meeting, and a day filled with coding and testing. And I decided to listen to a little gospel. That led me to the "I have a dream" speech. It's easy to admire the man, and it's a frightful past to think about. I would be lying if I didn't understand how a section of society can be trampled upon. It's disgraceful, but is easy to be blind to the plight of others' when you've been told all your life that you were superior just because your parents were. Casteism, racism, they're all the same. It's another thing that breathing for more than 12 years should erase that feeling, but society can be weird like that. Anyhow, I typed "Martin L" in the search bar on youtube. The comments section are the cesspool of internet intelligence, but the auto-suggest feature does tell you a story. In this case, I learned that people typing "Martin" were more interested in Martin Lawrence stand up than a preacher who changed civil rights in this nation. Ah, the travesty. <br />
<br />
In other news, I saw an <a href="http://www.reuters.com/article/idUSTRE6962VT20101007" target="_blank_">article</a> that said "Poor Countries Ignore the mentally Ill". And the ill. And the sane. And the healthy. It's the definition of a poor country WHO, get used to it. The article goes on to say "$2 a day can drastically change all this". Really? How? Does it take into account that the $2 (is that a million Ethiopian dollars?) would rather be used by the "poor nation" to save the sane/physically ill? To feed starving kids/corrupt bureaucrats/motivated drug lords? The developed side of the globe never fails to amuse me.Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-25486981997546985362010-09-22T09:49:00.000-06:002010-09-22T09:49:16.872-06:00Demon AlcoholA lot can happen in a month. <br />
<br />
Picking up from <a href="http://shamans-blues.blogspot.com/2010/07/ted-mechanic.html">here</a>, I spent a crazy day at work to wrap up three dozen loose ends, at least half of which legitimately required a day's effort. As my flight time approached the skies opened up and sent things (and traffic) into a tailspin. I made it to the airport on time, and S delivered my last minute gift purchases which I'd left in his car. There were nearly twenty French students catching the same flight, and as pretty as the girls were, I grew tired of their incessant babble. But, motherland beckoned, right? I dismissed the cellophane wrapper guy like a pesky mosquito and checked my bags well ahead of time. I was underweight by several pounds, and that's a first in more ways than one. Security was a breeze, I didn't even get "randomly selected" for a pat-down. <br />
<br />
Since I had so much time to make my flight, I decided to get a few drinks in. I'm sure drinking heavily on an empty stomach before a trans-continental flight is a great idea and I found the bar closest to the gate. "Double shot Jameson on the rocks, easy on the ice", I bellowed as I set my incredibly heavy backpack down. For some reason that drew attention from at least 3 blondes around me, and that was another first. "Nice", a lady of a slightly older persuasion muttered with a smile, and a significantly younger 'un said "I shoulda ordered that". The ladies have never been kind to me, and I'm sure looking like a creepy foreigner doesn't help. Since I haven't been single for a couple of years, I feel no pressure while making conversation at bars these days. I even had a choice this time so I picked the younger one to clink glasses with. Another lady was was asking her questions about a Dallas flight but she was dismissed quickly in my favor and I felt like an engineer on the verge of... something geeky. <br />
<br />
At this point, I was aware that <br />
<br />
1) I wasn't going to meet her again, I could say whatever the fuck I wanted<br />
2) I was drinking on an empty stomach, things would sound interesting to me no matter what.<br />
3) she had the look of a "closet Republican" on her and this would indeed be *lot* of fun.<br />
<br />
We spoke about her destination, her travel plans - visiting an ailing relative. I told her mine - travel to India. Sure, there was more to it, but why get there so soon? I was wrong about the closet Republican part - she was pretty liberal, so dang, no fun there. I did try to stir shit up about white folk having to be overtly politically correct, but no dice there. Alcohol fueled time acceleration got us talking about a lot of interesting things, and soon I had an offer to visit her place in CO, a few miles North of my home. No, it wasn't for anything carnal, but see what no pressure on a guy does? In any case, I didn't want things to get awkward so I told her about my good lady and my intentions to propose. This must have eased the pressure on her too (yaay, creepy foreigner doesn't want to copulate with me), and she opened up about her love life.<br />
<br />
I find it amazing how most people around me are so candid about their lives. Makes me wonder, is it because they're honest, or because they feel they won't see me again? Why is it that strangers can talk about finances, family and lost love but clam up when it comes to politics? Anyway, my new friend gave me her contact info. which I promptly lost in a week. Heck, I'm not even sure what her name is anymore.<br />
<br />
Thoroughly buzzed, I sauntered off to the gate just in time for boarding. Good thing they don't let you make calls during take off, I was so ready to drunk dial everyone I know. First question I was asked when we were airborne? "Do you need a drink, sir?" Why, I certainly do.Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-51161090316139888582010-08-31T12:06:00.000-06:002010-08-31T12:06:19.224-06:00Goodbye Lenin!<blockquote><span style="font-family: inherit;">Overload, overload, overload</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Comin' up to the</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh Stylo...</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Go forth, blossom in your soul</span></blockquote><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mmm, pump that bass, bare your soul Womack - I got a letter to write.</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dear Skype,</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">You've been around for a while now. You were there when I was in college, racking up huge bills with dial up (for entirely legal reasons). You helped me crank call tech support when the yanks manned the controls. You were my first option after that worthless excuse for a communicator, Y! Messenger began blocking calls. When I moved stateside, my roommies made gratuitous use of your free 60-minutes-on-sign-up to make a year's worth of calls. </span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Your webcam support helped me stay in touch with loved ones, even if it meant them sighing in resignation over my piercing. As time dragged on, you got ambitious. Like a man going through midlife crisis, you tried a fancy toupee and a corvette. By that I mean shiny graphics and pointless "hints" and "features". And like every 50 year old man accustomed to going through 6 packs of Bud lite, you got fatter, slower and stank of excess. I let you stay, like a burnt out hippie uncle crashing in the basement, laughing or crying for no reason at all (in your case, just crashing). I was somewhat grateful, you did help me see my lady love twice a day, and wake her up every morning for the low low rate of 9 cents a minute. </span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">But off late, it's just not working out. You try on new updates oh so often and need my intervention all the time. You always want your friends Y! toolbar and the FF extension to hang out with you. When you're not looking, they totally cup my balls and that gets me all riled up about spyware and shit. Like a creepy racist grandpa who could never come to terms with inter-ethnic marriage, you simply can't handle Windows 7's new hotness. You stick around in the toolbar no matter how many times I close you, and the old trick of using compatibility mode to fool you doesn't work anymore. You started as an IM program, and even chat on your bloated interface sucks these days. </span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, even though we go back to way back when, I must ask you to pack your bags and head to the shelter. I heard they serve pea soup on Mondays. My uninstaller will help you move out tonight.</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Love,</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">T</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">-----------------</span><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><br style="font-family: inherit;" /><span style="font-family: inherit;">4 Weeks, and I'm back. With stories. And a lady :)</span>Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-20187246937747063812010-08-09T14:51:00.000-06:002010-08-09T14:51:54.850-06:00Break on ThroughOver three years ago, there was friendship. Emails were a good start. Then lyrics. I don't know how, or when, but the phone calls happened. Minutes grew into hours. If Bangalore is a city of one-way streets, it was fitting that an expat was alone in his emotions. Things changed, life chugged along and the feelings were mutual.<br />
<br />
Two years. The distance. The heartbreak. The unbridled joy. All that time. All the singing. The silly fights. The intense ones. Soul-searching. Happiness and some more of it. Support. Ego-boost.<br />
<br />
The plans, the ambitions, the countdown. The culmination of every grand desire.<br />
<br />
She said yes.Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-27112096868794253702010-07-22T12:33:00.000-06:002010-07-22T12:33:53.694-06:00Ted the mechanicThis room won't stop spinning. <br />
<br />
Last night, my team had its first outing and I chose to finish all the beer. As is the case with any dysfunctional group trying to socialize, there was plenty of awkward silence, needless bragging and polite laughter. I chose to drink and let the boss yack, after feeding him with some potent questions (and I did want to hear his opinion, wonder how much of a kiss-ass I came off as). Later, dinner with friends meant vodka, wine and more vodka. I wasn't hungover this morning (thanks for the fruity cocktails R!), but was sleepy as hell. I can make do without caffeine on a daily basis, and I use coffee for days such as these, but I need to limit myself. I had a large cup of near black java and I've been jittery for the last 3 hours. <br />
<br />
As a result I've been awfully cheerful, and insanely productive. I can probably slack off for an hour or two, so hello world! <br />
<br />
I'm gearing up for a trip to Bangalore, and am sorely unprepared. I have tickets, but that's about it. My roommie moves out the day I leave, so I'm hoping he'll clean his part of the house and won't rob my place. Need to find volunteers to water the near-dead plants in my absence, clean the kitchen, wipe off all the bile from the WCs, vacuum, laundry... AAAAAAAH. It doesn't help that I'm working weekends and late nights, so I have no energy left when I get back home. That and God of War 3. Still, the flight's a week away and I need to get my act together. <br />
<br />
Last Christmas, I lost control of my shiny-red on ice, and bumped the curb. The steering was all whacked and the bumper popped out a bit. I took it to an auto-shop who told me I needed to replace a rim and everything else was dandy. We had no luck with that, and I was told that wheels were rotated so I had another bent rim which no one had found so far. So a few more hundreds down the hole, I now had two new rims. There was still some vibration, but it was far lesser so I figured it was due to snow and shitty mountain roads. New tires, new wheel bearings, we tried everything. When I heard a weird clicking noise on left turns, I had enough and asked the mechanic to bugger off. I'm not 100% certain my dealer is honest (well, which one is, anyway?), but I had to go there. He found a bent ball joint in the wheel assembly, and the alignment was badly off. As a result I'd come close to shredding two tires, which are barely 3 months old. I had this claim backed up a third, independent mechanic, so there.<br />
<br />
During the 5 months of trial and error, I kept asking the first mechanic if the wheel assembly and suspension was okay, I even expressed surprise that I didn't need alignment. Now, nearly $1500 down, I wondered if he is incompetent or just plain dishonest. All I wanted was $300 for the new tires. If he had bothered to align the wheels, he would have found the bent joint, and I wouldn't have shredded the tires. I bent the ball joint, I'll pay for it myself. I gave him a chance to explain his position, and he pretty much asked me to fuck off. Guess I got that cleared up. I've complained to the BBB, and am contemplating Small claims court, but some people say I don't have very good legal ground, since by driving a car that I knew had problems, I'm also responsible for the state my tires are in. Oh legal-ese, how I love thee. <br />
<br />
What was I saying about <a href="http://shamans-blues.blogspot.com/2010/05/almost-honest.html">honesty</a> again?Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-42410055076308714882010-07-08T14:30:00.000-06:002010-07-08T14:30:17.647-06:00Angry Chair<div style="font-family: inherit;">Who's in the mood for a little geek talk? I got a new PC at work because my old setup (linux box running a VMware session) was a pile of shit. My spanking new windows box has has a soundcard and I can finally listen to music at work without worrying about when I'll drop my ipod next. Small battles, people, small battles.<br />
<br />
Speaking of music, Nirvana never grew on me. They were big when my older brother was in college and so he identifies with them on some level. Me, on the other hand, had boy and girl bands to combat during high school/college years. You can watch it on the VH1 series, Go Fuck yourself the 00's. Anyway, I'm told popular music of an era represents the most dominant feeling of that society. Growing up in a different society creates a disconnect between the music and the reasons why we enjoy it. People in the know remarked that music of the early 90s (American rock anyway) represented the angst of youth troubled by poverty, fractured households, high divorce rates, poor education and more. <br />
<br />
We were told to value our culture, our history, and traditions by those who'd never heard a beat of hard rock/heavy metal but despised the genre. "Heard about that blonde singer? He OD'd AND shot himself!! Respect your great aunt or you'll end up like him". "You mean with millions of dollars and hundreds of groupies?" "shut up". <br />
<br />
So when I got here, I was pleasantly surprised that most of my American friends were pretty stable and balanced. Guess they never faced the hard times like ol' Cobain did, I told myself. But they did. I learned much later that all the Americans in my group had separated/divorced parents. One of them was even a Columbine survivor. Life's probably a lot tougher for those under the poverty line, but that's something I have absolutely no idea about, and won't insult anyone's intelligence (any more than I already have).<br />
<br />
Back to my friends and peers. I'm sure it was pretty agonizing, and some scars will never heal, but they're here. No angst, no mood swings, no sniffling in the corner. Confident, loving, cheerful, marrying and raising children - you'd never guess dad left mom for a 20 year old maid (true story).</div>Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-18036887802695715002010-06-26T17:29:00.000-06:002010-06-26T17:29:39.908-06:00Wasted YearsI arrived in Denver on 29th of July 2005. Turned out, I missed Iron Maiden in concert by 2 days. My host for the first few weeks had been to the show. I asked for pictures, and there was just 1 - him outside the venue. "The show was so mind blowing I couldn't take any more pictures", he said. I cursed my luck, travel agent and Thai Airlines. Iron Maiden had some old geezers who hadn't been young since the 80s, so what was the chance I'd see them again? <br />
<br />
Years have passed, and I've gotten to see nearly everyone on my checklist, but on Monday the 14th it finally happened. Iron Maiden played in "Comfort Dental Amphitheater" to a 12,000 strong crowd. Incidentally, Comfort Dental Amphitheater has to be the worst venue name ever since Staples Center (screw you Lakers!!), so the locals call it Fiddler's Green. Me and a few friends got some drinks going. As always, in spite of being the DD I drank way more than anyone else - 6 shots of whiskey and so was in a good mood by 7 pm. Mostly. My stupid camera refused to switch on and I was pissed that I would do worse than my host from 5 years ago.<br />
<br />
Dream Theater opened, and since I don't care about pansy ass "progressive metal" bands, I walked around the venue drinking and buying merchandise. Soon we were ejected from the seats we were squatting on and thrown all the way at the back where we really belonged. No matter, the view was still great, and had midgets in front of us. The curtains came down and after the first note I knew why it's so hard to take pictures in an Iron Maiden concert. Bruce Dickinson is a fuckin' legend. Not sure why he needs a mike, his voice is brutal. And if I'm a tenth as fit at 50, I'll go run a triathlon. <br />
<br />
I knew most of the songs, and sang/screamed/head-banged for an exhilarating 2.5 hours. Set list<br />
<br />
The Wicker Man<br />
Ghost Of The Navigator<br />
Wrathchild<br />
El Dorado<br />
Dance Of Death<br />
The Reincarnation Of Benjamin Breeg<br />
These Colours Don't Run (notice the spelling?)<br />
Blood Brothers<br />
Wildest Dreams<br />
No More Lies<br />
Brave New World<br />
Fear Of The Dark<br />
Iron Maiden<br />
<br />
Encore:<br />
The Number of the Beast<br />
Hallowed Be Thy Name<br />
Running Free<br />
<br />
My neighbor was a fan putting on a Chewbacca impression. He was quite wasted, and was going "Aaaauughhh" non-stop. My voice was dead for 2 days after the concert, wonder how bad his week was. El Dorado is a new song, and sounds pretty heavy and good. He introduced the song as being "relevant" and having rap in it, to appeal to the masses. Ah never mind, fuck you record execs, he said and started yelling again. <br />
<br />
There were jokes about the England-US worldcup game, barbs to google and apple/iphone for being the big brother, and disapproval that we weren't loud enough. After the first 3 songs, Bruce welcomed everyone to the show. It was clear that we were in his backyard. That made the difference. When I saw Metallica, they were genuinely happy to be in Denver and under the lights. Iron Maiden, on the other hand, said "you're welcome". <br />
<br />
The debates on whether they should have played Trooper, Run to the hills, Powerslave and other oldies will go on long after the concert (and hopefully till the next one). While I don't like anything from Maiden post-Dance of the dead (and that too grew on me), this was as good as it gets. The lads at Maiden are looking ahead. They want the 20 year olds to cheer for No More Lies, sing along with Blood Brothers as their 50 year old parents stay at home to balance their checkbooks. They're talented musicians, and while Trooper would have blown my mind, I ain't complaining - that encore had my ears ringing.<br />
<br />
Dead throat, broken neck and a grin I couldn't wipe off for the next week. Up the irons!Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-68747861668681650452010-06-18T10:20:00.001-06:002010-06-26T17:37:59.526-06:00Drive My CarI bitch plenty about idiots on the road but it gets tiring after a while. Plus, after nearly getting t-boned at a 4 way stop due mostly my oversight, I decided I'd be nice for a change. <br />
<br />
Driving in India is a low speed nightmare. While typical speeds are under 30 miles an hour, the roads are a clusterfuck of cars, buses, rickshaws, and motorcycles. Given that we're such a crowded country, competing for limited resources creeps into every aspect of our daily lives - including road space. Lanes are non-existent, lights are mere suggestions. We're impatient. Very impatient. I was too, when I drove there and I'm not sure what the hurry was. <br />
<br />
While Denver is known to have shitty traffic and irate drivers ranking among the worst in the country, I find my daily commute to be a joy ride compared to my life from 5 years ago. There are several rules on American roads that are aggressively enforced and for plenty good reason too. The speeds are a lot higher, and the smallest mistake can be life threatening. And while ignoring blind spots, yacking on the cellphone and picking the wrong lane are annoying habits many people exhibit, their attention to detail tends to be rather surprising. <br />
<br />
I always marvel at how well we manage to merge traffic from two highways, cars alternating turns. That maneuver wouldn't work in India for even half a second. I was driving from one intersection to the other when I realized I was 2 lanes off to the right and had to turn left next. I put my blinker on, and the car to the left of me stopped a few feet further into the intersection to let me pass.<br />
<br />
<i>Shiny-red </i>(aka Lucy aka my bad-ass car) has enough torque to beat most cars off the line at an intersection, but I've never had to play the rev-engine-overtake-to-switch-lanes game. Unless I want to be a dick, and that's known to happen frequently.<br />
<br />
And then there are days when I set the cruise to 5 under the limit, and watch the world roll by to my left. No honking, no angry gestures, only the occasional tailing. If you think driving 2 feet behind me will scare me into going faster, you have no idea what the drive from <i>Banashankari II stage</i> to <i>Resthouse road</i> via <i>Vidyapeetha </i>thru' <i>Sajjan Rao</i> <i>circle</i> is like.<br />
<br />
And that's the difference. When I pull into the lot, wind the volume down and get out I'm ready for whatever's up next - an hour of gaming at home, 8 hours of work, or 4 hours of binge drinking - it's all good. Thinking back to Bangalore, I can distinctly remember sighs of relief that I reached my destination in one piece.<br />
<br />
People wince when I say I travel 45 mins. one way to work, but I laugh - that's how long it takes my parents to get to the grocery store. Perspective, Denver, perspective.Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-42693536732763615932010-05-03T20:20:00.005-06:002010-06-26T17:38:40.079-06:00Almost HonestIndia is brimming with corruption. A traffic violation will disappear for a bribe half the price of the ticket. House plans get approved in a day as long as a dozen bureaucrats get their kickbacks. For a low sum, I can get driving lessons, be given a cheat sheet to the written test and pass the driving test. All in a week. Numbers multiply, the circle gets bigger and things that the humble Rupee can accomplish will surprise anyone.<br />
<br />
My brother moved to the states nearly 10 years ago. He was the first in our immediate family, and was subject to every typical question from the elders. "Are they racist*?" "Do they fornicate in the streets?" "What are black people like**?"<br />
<br />
Soon we were talking about bribes, and my brother had this to say. "There's no corruption on a daily basis - cops, low level clerks and municipal workers are mostly honest, but the corruption at the highest levels is staggering". That was my first insight into the world of lobbyists, town hall meetings, campaign funds and the whole shebang.<br />
<br />
So when I first moved out here, I was delighted that being stopped by a cop didn't mean that I had to bribe him, 3 constables and 2 peons. It did mean coping a massive fine and spiked insurance, but whatever. The land of the free, good, hard working people. <br />
<br />
Living with two roommates in abysmally small apartments, shuttling back and forth from grad school, one doesn't get complete perspective on how average Americans live. I did start picking up on things when I started making major purchases.<br />
<br />
The first was a beaten up Mazda 626. I took it to the local mechanic to have it inspected. He gave it a clean bill of health, but said it would need new tires, new cv boots, possibly a new timing belt. Soon. Just in case. I bought the car and did nothing about the alleged problems since my penury limited maintenance to oil changes. And guess what? A year of madman driving and no problems at all. I shredded a tire much later, and got them all changed then. CV boots? Only 1 needed a change, mainly because I was off on a 1000 plus mile road trip. <br />
<br />
And so it went. Trouble breathing due to a nasty fall on the ski slope? You need to sleep it off, said the doc, but it could also be a bruised lung, ruptured diaphragm or worse. Better admit yourself, just in case. You come from India? You may have been exposed to TB, get on a 9 month course right now. As part of the "treatment", I had to avoid alcohol for those 9 months, that made the decision rather straight forward. "Are you sure you don't want it? The last patient who said no came back with a hole in his lung". <br />
<br />
Buying a house? Sure, it looks fine, but probably needs a new furnace, new AC, vent cleaning, new windows, new doors, more insulation. I had to go through 3 damn handymen before one of them repaired my furnace without giving me a $2500 quote on a new one. Buying a TV? Yeah, you'll also need the protection plan and $50 cables.<br />
<br />
It's the death of you otherwise. Doom, gloom and utter destruction. Not now, but soon.<br />
<br />
I've come to realize that there is corruption in this country. Plenty of it. They don't want bribes, the good honest working class, the blue collared middle class average Americans. Oh no sir, they'll work for that dollar. To every last penny. But they lack honesty, they all do.<br />
<br />
When a policeman in India spends 10 hours on the street with a malfunctioning rifle, and demands a bribe because he makes a tenth of what I do, I can laugh it off and part with a few hundred rupees. But when a mechanic charges twice the hourly rate I get paid at, and wants to replace every damn moving part, what's his excuse? <br />
<br />
What does the lower middle class pat itself on the back so much for? Where are your values? If God asked you to vote for Bush, did he also ask you replace that two year old compressor for no good reason?<br />
<br />
Before you call me an ungrateful prick, I'd like to point out that I'm eternally grateful living in a country that gives me the space and freedom to live my dreams. To be overtly sensitive about my race without me asking for it. To let me speak my mind anywhere I choose to. Like criticism, credit should be given where due.<br />
<br />
Every system has its flaws, and if its one that gets my goat the most right now, it's the abject lacking of moral fiber from the kind of men that supposedly built this country.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">* - Indians are <b>crazy</b> racist. Crazy, I tell you.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">** - See what I mean?</span></i>Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-62242505436725428752010-04-20T12:44:00.001-06:002010-04-20T15:12:04.509-06:00Tell All The PeopleI have a mild form of ADD, I think. Oooh look, shiny thing. Anyway. I'm somehow never around when conversations begin and lose patience to see them to the end. Saturday night - Belated birthday binge drinking, now that we're all responsibly employed. Pre-drink conversation, no idea who started it and how.<br />
<br />
Someone : Man, I feel old.<br />
Someone else : Me too!<br />
Birthday chap : ....<br />
Girl who was never into live bands : yeh, let's get away from the band, can't stand the noise! Heh, guess we're all oldies now!<br />
Asshole who volunteers opinion irrespective of audience: You're telling me, I'm 30 and I'm the oldest in this group, this is a first!<br />
Me : Bartender, 7 car-bombs, double shot Jameson on the rocks and some guinness. <br />
<br />
2 hours, several drinks later <br />
<br />
Bald guy : Have you had (some IPA)<br />
Birthday chap : But that tastes like ass!!<br />
Me butting in : Depends on the girl man!<br />
<br />
Another hour passes, more people join in, and some are lying face down in the basement bathroom.<br />
<br />
Asshole who volunteers opinion irrespective of audience: We gotta go early, me and the wife have some gardening to do tomorrow<br />
Someone else : Dude, I gotta slow down, the room is spinning<br />
Me : Bartender, 3 shots of red breast<br />
<br />
At this point, I was reasonably sober, and had to drive. And why the fuck don't my wimpy friends drink whiskey? That I was pissed off would be putting it lightly. And Mr. Asshole started pontificating on how we software nerds aren't quite engineers since we don't work on a lathe. Apparently an engineer is someone who does "stuff" and makes "things" with his hands. I gestured to the birthday chap that Mr. Asshole was pleasuring himself and was due for a finish reminiscent of the Icelandic volcano. You know - slow, dusty and something most of us don't give a shit about. Caught in the act, I was glared at by Mr. A. <br />
<br />
"What?" he bellowed.<br />
"Your lack of job satisfaction and low productivity has no bearing on why the world calls me an engineer"<br />
<br />
Frankly, between me and all 1.5 of you, I don't care if I'm called a pig-nipple-tickler as long as I like what I do and get paid for it. And this isn't the first time I've heard that only mechanical engineering is true engineering (ignoring the fact that the people working with cutting tools are most likely high-school dropouts). What makes it special is that Mr. A is belongs to the species of jerk-offs who opine all the time under the guise of a debate. How is it a discussion if you won't listen to others' opinion and are unwilling to change yours when presented with a compelling argument? Are you that insecure that you must interrupt 4 bachelors talking about women they'll never be in the same room as, with shit about "finding a purpose"? If I want rehashed opinion from your twitter list, I know where to look.<br />
<br />
I can be pretty pig headed about my opinions too. I wouldn't have strong opinions if I was swayed easily. But engaging me in a conversation just to preach and ignore everything I say is just plain disrespectful and a complete waste of my time. Time I can spend on making masturbation jokes, which are far better informed than Mr. A's opinion on financial reform.Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-77987878439031850642010-04-15T16:24:00.002-06:002010-04-15T16:29:13.686-06:00There's a placeI remember seeing her turn around the corner and come into view. Long hair let down and blowing in the wind, big eyes shining with excitement. I'm not sure how the distance in between us melted so soon, but I remember her skipping down a couple of steps and yanking me close. I'm not the one for details, and several specifics escape my mind, but I doubt I'll ever forget those two minutes. And the years since. <br />
<br />
<i>In my mind there's no sorrow,<br />
Don't you know that it's so.<br />
There'll be no sad tomorrow,<br />
Don't you know that it's so.</i><br />
<br />
We like memories. In fact, we go far to cling on to them and not let go. Some of my friends won't stop talking about the "good old days" and how we should get back to them. Not me. Things could be better, and they most likely will. Alright future, let's see what you've got.<br />
<br />
I'm not alone, and I have an excuse to smile for no reason.Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-21621443937710826062010-04-07T13:51:00.001-06:002010-04-07T14:07:28.635-06:00Start of something beautifulIt was the eve of my first full-time job after my masters. That wasn't a strong enough excuse to stay sober, so we stumbled from one bar to another, every passing hour getting groggier and murkier. Quite by chance, we happened upon the back room of an annoying bar. The cover was steep, which is unusual in a college town such as the one I was in. The music sounded intriguing and the smell of green was unmistakable. Down the rabbit hole we went.<br />
<br />
The spectacle that greeted us was both unexpected and unbelievably rewarding. Onstage were three DJs, singers of several genres and color. If trip-hop was an art invented to take dopeheads to the next level, this was a temple of the high priests. Every so often, a DJ would disappear under his table and puff enough smoke to turn all his mates invisible. The tunes and voices were from another dimension and the only constant was the bitter drink in my hand. <br />
<br />
My friend went to get a fresh drink, as I watched over his very, very drunk girlfriend. She was unable to stand steadily and was swaying to the music. I had my arm behind her back to help keep her balance, but an inch of air in between just to make sure no drunken mistakes were made. I was seemingly hugging an invisible layer around her. A black guy in dreadlocks smiled and asked me where I was from. "India", I said and he roared back with delight "I'm from Kenya man!". Indians, we're everywhere. All races feel some kinship with us, and we're expected to share the emotion. Ah well. <br />
<br />
He suggested I hug and kiss her to "seal the deal". I told him that she was my best friend's lady love of ten years and I was only looking out for her. A heavy handshake and a slightly uncomfortable hug later, the Kenyan gushed "you're a good man!". The night wore on, and I was in a team meeting 8 hours later. <br />
<br />
The couple broke up a month from then.Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-44221791812250859392010-03-02T10:13:00.002-07:002010-03-02T10:15:28.067-07:00Idiot PrayerI don't have a profound insight into life. In fact, I have very little insight. Into anything. However, I am the eternal optimist.<br />
<br />
I believe, I can work just as hard as anyone else. That I can be as clever as need be. That I can let go. That I can smile. That twenty-six years* weren't so bad, another fifty won't be terribly shabby either. <br />
<br />
I'd like to imagine that humans can do good. That someone somewhere really is working on <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2010/02/18/60minutes/main6221135.shtml" target="_blank">clean</a> <a href="http://media.caltech.edu/press_releases/13325" target="_blank">fuel</a>, better <a href="http://www.inhabitat.com/2010/02/26/yves-behar-unveils-new-hackable-solar-electric-car/" target="_blank">cars</a> and cheaper food.<br />
<br />
I can hope that we'll stop going down this spiral of destruction. That 10 years from now, the place I call <a href="http://bangalore.whereincity.com/" target="_blank">home</a> won't be brimming with people, <a href="http://www.thehindubusinessline.com/2009/11/10/stories/2009111050250600.htm" target="_blank">corruption</a>, callous <a href="http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/india/Taslimas-article-sparks-violence-in-Karnataka-2-killed/articleshow/5631326.cms" target="_blank">disregard for others' lives</a> - as it already does now. <br />
<br />
I can dream that outer space will someday be in our reach. That we can colonize other planets, spread out and evolve before this one home we have implodes. That one day we'll be able to make spaceflights that take us millions of miles in a few hours. That Clarke wasn't being wistful while dreaming of our future. That his entire bibliography wasn't a slap in our faces of what will never come to be.<br />
<br />
Maybe I should just get back to work.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">* - not my birthday. Yet.</span>Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-91593686161987015062010-02-22T23:49:00.006-07:002010-02-23T00:12:36.803-07:00The EntertainerWhat if I had a thought I couldn't tell you about? What if it's something I don't like thinking about? What if it's something I want to drive out of my head?<br />
<br />
<i>Take me up and out</i><br />
<i>Cause rainy days are all I feel</i><br />
<i>I'm walking about</i><br />
<i>I know that, there's no time</i><br />
<i>In the days of muse breaks</i><br />
<i>I had to hang on tight</i><br />
<i>Looking back I wish I had</i><br />
<i>more time for, you...</i><br />
<br />
I have something to say, words aren't my friends today. How about a tune? I can't pick up a guitar and pluck away, staring into the distance.<br />
<br />
<object height="265" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/GWrxs2RDNRU&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/GWrxs2RDNRU&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="320" height="265"></embed></object>A new song is a journey. A collection of notes, chords and words waiting to be explored. A gentle start, gathering pace, expression, notions, ideas. Slow it down for a moment, contemplate, take it forward. Pick it up, undulations, rhythms, assertions, belief. Ease up, hope for the best, fade to black. <br />
<br />
Isolation, self-loathing, sleep deprivation, self-pity, love, rage, desire, hope.<br />
<br />
Play. Play all night long.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><object height="265" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/IyCRJmerW1Q&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/IyCRJmerW1Q&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="320" height="265"></embed></object></div>Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-83371319049020755832010-01-29T15:35:00.003-07:002010-02-09T17:10:33.401-07:00Sign LanguageMy dad studied in a <i>Kannada medium </i>school. In other words, the medium of instruction was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kannada" target="_blank">Kannada</a> and all his textbooks were in Kannada. He had to learn English and Hindi real well and real fast when he joined the army (and that's a story in itself). Mum studied English all along and due to her going to grad school for Sanskrit, English was always something she was good at.<br />
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I started talking when I was four - which is phenomenally late by any standard. I'm told I had my baby talk vocabulary for everything I wanted at the age and so couldn't be arsed about learning any "real" language. As preschool loomed over the horizon, my parents realized a couple of things<br />
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1) I needed to stop communicating like a baboon<br />
2) We lived in a town of goat herds and schooling would do more harm than help there.<br />
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I was home-schooled for the first two years of my academic life. Considering Hindi is the lingua franca on any Army base, I was always ahead of the curve when it came to English. Hindi, not so much. I guess there was only so much room in my head for languages.<br />
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As a kid I spoke in Kannada only with my grandparents and elder relatives. And since my high school had pretty much banned all non-English languages, my knowledge of Kannada is rather formal. English is the language of choice, it's the tongue I think in, it's what the hot girls in my dreams speak. <br />
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I can speak Anglican pretty fluently, without ever using Kannada words (like everyone else, yes). But if I make the mistake of trying Hindi, I use all the non-English words I know and it's a big mess of ethnicity. Until recently, anyway.<br />
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The kid and I started communicating in English and she'd always brag that her Kannada was better than mine (NO IT AIN'T, WOMAN). We started talking in Kannada as a joke/challenge before we started seeing each other. By the time we were together, that was the only language we used. As a result, these days I find myself almost using Kannada words in an English sentence. It only happens when I hear a South Indian accent. Still, pretty weird. <br />
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I have very little faith in my mental abilities as it is, and I'm even more convinced that all this drinking and brain cell killing is starting to catch up. So if you come back next time and see worse-than-usual crap, you'll know it was a really good weekend.Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8369811453071257873.post-6583209159203952652010-01-25T12:05:00.001-07:002010-02-09T17:05:25.186-07:00Picture of InnocenceI have no photography skills. I have a simple point and shoot that has some 5 auto modes, and 75% of pictures feature me and my friends making asinine faces. What's the point in smiling for a still photo I always say. I usually avoid landscape pictures and most definitely random/stranger shots. I'd like to take it all in, I tell myself. <br />
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A lot of my friends are avid shutterbugs. I find their talent amazing and their pictures striking, but it doesn't hold my interest for too long. It seems that photoshop turns everyone's flickr stream into an issue of National Geography. What's the point of a picture? Is it to capture a passing moment, a brief coalescence of people and events that must survive, or as a homage to unchanging magnificence of nature? Or is it to spend 4 hours on a flatscreen applying layers, filters and changing contrast? <br />
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Is an over-saturated, multiple exposure shot of the skyline worth fanfare? It is art, I get that. Ever plunging prices of frighteningly complicated DSLRs give weekend warriors a canvas that oil paints can't stand up against. I'm no connoisseur of arts, and I'm the man corporate America strives to squeeze every penny out of - but I can't be that clueless can I? <br />
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Every evening, hundreds gather in front of that crumbling dust arch in Utah. Of what good is a sight through a tiny viewfinder and a high res raw file when 20 mins of concentrated viewing can provide gigabytes of info (multiple angles, 3D, artistic or otherwise) that will always be stashed away in my brain? I don't need a 1024x720 picture to remind me of the 20 min hike, the 4 accents I made my friends laugh at, or that Indian dude (not me) everyone (including me) jeered at for trying to pose right before sunset. <br />
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It's an artistic medium alright, but one that's getting awfully saturated and predictable. Hummingbirds, flowers, owls, nightsky, domes, black and white stills of hobos, silhouettes, sunsets... I want to see art in what my eyes see and fill in the blanks in my head. Take my point and shoot, use it for a year. Give me 12 unaltered pictures that can blow my mind. Till then amateur photography is as much of an art as wearing a Guevara tee-shirt is anti-establishment.Thanatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18086063666735002969noreply@blogger.com11