Yes! I am A Long Way From Home

I'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.

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.

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.

Picture of Innocence

I 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.

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?

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?

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.

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.

Dark Signs

When there's a movie I really want to see, I usually look for movie reviews on rotten tomatoes and then go watch it anyway.

I was waiting to see Paranormal Activity for the last 3 weeks. Everyone and his sister has seen the promos by now, and this whole viral marketing is increasingly getting on my nerves. I hate it when big studios try to act all underground and "with the times". Facebook groups, scratchy trailers, websites with "clues" are so fuckin' 2006. Night vision captures of kids screaming in the theater, movie footage bearing the cloverfield effect, limited release are now the hallmark of shitty indie horror films. There's a reason studios spend millions on a professional cast.

Anyway, we saw the movie last night. Boy did it suck. Seen those shock videos which make you look at a serene picture before a popping a frame of something ghoulish with a scream in the background? Yeah, that's all this movie is about. Just a 90 minute snoozefest for a 5 second money shot at the end. "Critics" and kids in skinny jeans will tell you it's all about pacing, but punch them in the nose and go watch.. um.. fuck it, there's nothing good playing right now. The japs have horror down to a science. Learn from them, yanks. While on the subject, stop remaking jap films. Remake =/= learning from a genre.

On the other end of the spectrum lies the movie I saw earlier last weekend. Oldboy *- which is Korean for "we're going to town on your brain with a toothpick". Every scene was stunning, unpredictable and nerve wracking. Yes, the plot twist wasn't a big surprise and I saw it coming faster than a Chinese woman in a RAV4 with a cellphone, but still it was a mighty fine watch. I'm asking everyone around me to watch this movie. My only regret is I won't have the same wondrous "what's going to happen next?" feeling since I've seen it already. I'm going to miss that emotion, and doubt if there are too many movies that can have the same effect. Brrrr, what a movie.

Next weekend movie list - Ichi the killer, Suicide club, The Audition. I've seen all three, but there's a few liberal arts majors friends still unsullied by the madness that is Japan.

* - Yes, there are a lot of really good movies and books I'm only getting to now, or will get to in due time. What's the average life of expectancy of Indian males anyway? 80?

Rusty Cage

Thanks to the car pool lane, the 37 mile drive takes just under 45 minutes. If I've been awake, or driving, us 3 Indians and a Brit will have had an animated conversation. I enjoy their company, and as much as I'm in a foul mood due to insufficient sleep, I keep the banter going. Much like the doomed king of Sparta (in the movie anyway), I toss all my accessories into the top draw. The wallet bulges too much - even though I don't carry cash. The shades dangle from my shirt and annoy me. The keys poke through my jeans - they all need to be kept aside too.

Approaching my chair, I begin to nerd-up, to prepare for all the technology I'm going to deal with. Almost simultaneously, I unlock 2 computers, check email for 3 different accounts, check the latest on my favorite gadget site. I refill my nalgene - how did I drink warm water in India? Make some tea, and settle down to save the satellite TV industry, again. It's not even 9 AM yet and I'm feeling almost smug that everything's in place. And then, it begins.

Fat man arrives, his chuckle heard from across the floor. Walks up to Skinny Jones to discuss the day's agenda. Skinny has a nasal, annoying tone, almost like he huffed helium for breakfast. Fat man breathes heavily and will always respond to skinny's questions with a "huh" before launching into a series of defensive grunts about why he didn't/can't get the work done. They sit with a cube in between and so they carry the conversation on until fat man plants himself noisily in his chair. There after they'll talk to each other like lovers on either side of a bad phone connection. Aw great, just another 8 hours of this shit.

Any time after 9, the cube neighbor S arrives, talking to his beloved wife over a douche-y bluetooth headset. S has allergies, breathing problems, and faces a constant battle of the bulge. As a result, he clears his throat now and then, all the time sounding like rotting phlegm is trying to scratch its way out of him. It's going to be a long day, I grumble, not quite to myself.

Send some mails, read the news, get the top priority stuff licked so that I can look good on those assessments. Glance around, pull up notepad.exe and begin typing. The day goes by just a little faster.

Flight of the humble bee

As I write this, I am sick with food poisoning to the point of throwing up and passing out in a puddle of regurgitated bile and undigested Indian food. On the bright side, I haven't had to say a single word to anyone in the last hour and a half and I'm hoping to avoid civilization for the rest of the day.

A few years ago, dad worked for a software start up. The company had everything going for it - talented young engineers who were part time actors and musicians, curly haired nerds who thought they were playboys, minor indiscretions such as, and not limited to, the CEO boinking his secretary behind closed doors. The complete package, if you will.

Among my dad's peers was a snooty management chap who thought the fine arts had chosen him to be their savior. He wrote short stories (a pig learning to make an atomic bomb through a brain-internet interface, a Utopian society where names were replaced by numbers but havoc when the youngest citizen picked a name etc.), played the flute, violin, sang, and even critiqued this blogger's writing. I was in high school at the time, and had hosted a website that chronicled a 5 day vacation with the boys. "Promising, needs more work", was the verdict, and I had to try hard to keep my middle fingers stationary.

The company hosted it's "Annual Day" in a small party hall one evening. There were quizzes, stupid dancing, embarrassing-bordering-on-sexual-harassment-contact, and plenty of singing. The art savant then took the stage to render some classical Indian tunes on his violin. I don't remember how the performance went, guess I was busy looking for that secretary. Enter stage right, his son clutching a violin bigger than his torso. There was a hushed, almost revered silence. It was rumored that this 7 year old was the greatest gift to music on this side of the Rhine. As he sat down, with an extremely somber demeanor, the audience collectively held it's breath. The excitement was palpable and a few were convinced that this era's Paganini would emerge this evening. What would be on offer for our aural pleasure? Hindustani? Carnatic? Jazz maybe? With possibilities endless, and yet nowhere close to the hype, the kid began.

Happy (scratch) Birthday (pause)
to you (wail)
HappyBirthdayToyouuuuuuuuu
Happy (silence) BIRTHDAYYY to you (notes blitz)
assorted licks and squeals

The silence in the room, though momentary, rang louder than the cacophony we had just heard. Soon there was polite applause followed by 94 attempts to change the subject. While the kid looked nonchalant, the father was sporting a hitherto unseen shade of humble pie. Grown, brown men can blush.

Dinner was served, and the frivolities resumed.

Heavy Fuel

Greetings Yanks.

It's me, the brown guy with the funny accent. I have studied your people, and I'm fascinated. You love your pop-culture, light beer, your smoke-free zones, parenthood, barbeque, family dinners, inter-city sports extravaganzas, reruns of those sports extravaganzas, religious holidays - sometimes all in the same day.

I do like barbeque sauce. And driving on your beautiful roads. Driving fast, that is.

Most Americans are early morning people. Or so I thought when I first got here. All "early" appointments are at dawn break, at times when any self respecting Indian is still dreaming of black Friday bargains. Turns out you guys aren't actually early morning people. You need to get home early to fight with the family so bad, you get to work early and stay juiced up on coffee all day long. We Indians like getting to work later than you chaps do (9 AM usually) but we're fuckin' ready to deliver when the minute hand ticks past '59.

Your morning routines are a travesty heaped on someone already in a foul mood thanks to no good office timings. You drive slow, real slow - 10 below the limit on a 25 mile single lane street because you're still ingesting your first cup of black magic. Let me level with you - I'm a bad planner. I do not factor traffic, indeed driving time, into my morning commute so I'm always in a fuckin' hurry.

Though I don't know why I bother, because when I do get to work, everyone else is crowded around the blasted coffee machine sharing dry witticisms. You're in an office. Work, don't chat. Warm up before you get here. Before you leave the house. The road to work is not the place for quiet contemplation/relaxation. Find a hidden mountain road for that indulgence on your own time.

Look guys, I love this country and its people. But lets make life a little easier for all of us. Sleep an hour extra everyday. Or two. It will change your life. You'll be better relaxed, tolerate your spouse and kids that much more, and get to work ready to throw punches.

If not that, please get off the road when you see an angry brown kid speeding in the school zone.

Many thanks,
T

PS : I deleted this post by accident in a spree of late night editing. I've managed to recover it, but Narco and Lil your comments are lost in the intertubes. Sorry!

The Everlasting Gaze

I've written about my good buddy S before. Quick recap : he's from the subcontinent (not Indian - but more Indian than I am), tried his hand at the dating game and didn't do too well. Thanks to the wonders of arranged marriage his mom hooked him up with a rather pretty youngster and he's all "settled" now. And by that I mean he gained 50 lbs.

He first got to know the girl by an email his mom sent him with her pictures in it. He showed me the email, and I got to know her by saying "I'd hit that".

Last week, we were talking about this girl (not his wife) we knew who was to join as an intern. She isn't very likable, and her unibrow doesn't help. Our conversation

Me : Yeah, that [redacted] is coming back as an intern
S : oh, ok.
Me : Totally hate that unibrow.
S : Why?
Me : Because!
S : Slow down, what's a unibrow?

I explained, adding that it makes women look fugly. I should note here, that S being diametrically challenged, every move and word is slow and deliberate. And his sub-continent accent increases in the face of things he doesn't understand.

S : What's fugly?

At this point, I should have sensed something bad was about to happen and should have bailed, but hey, I was never known for my foresight. And so I enlightened him about that too.

S (deep, deep accent) : Why do you say that? I like unibrows!
Me : (with a contorted smile imagining the multitude of ways I could make fun of this unfortunate admission)
S : My wife has a unibrow!

It took about 2 minutes of backtracking and some unconvincing explanations as to why his wife's unibrow didn't fit my definition of fugly.

So yeah. We don't talk that much now.

One More Time

You : Dressed up like hell, as usual.
Me : Black tee with funny graphics and blue jeans, as usual.
Us : Super awkward because you figured I was trying to hit on you the last time I saw you.
The evening : Full of mind games
Me, later in the evening : Chilling offstage with a beer
You, a little later : Dancing with random dudes trying to catch my eye - and succeeding twice.

Thank god we did the mature thing and acted like there was nothing wrong.

Quadrophenia

I hate baseball. It makes test cricket look interesting (not that I mind cricket anyway - I actually follow the sport). As I found out when I went to a baseball game in Denver, the audience was rather interested in beer and hot dogs, backslapping and general banter. That there were uniformed pearl shaped "athletes" running around like headless chickens was incidental. From the time someone plays his/her first game of beer pong, life and beer get intertwined irreversibly. As a result, the enthusiasm to watch a baseball game at home or in a bar comes from the knowledge that large quantities of watery beer and overdone meat will be consumed. I understand all that, and I have that concept down.

I love (American) football. It's fast, yet there's a commercial oh-so-often, which means there's time to get more food and/or beer. The rules are simple and it can get pretty interesting as the game draws to an end. Of course, that may have something to do with the beer consumption, but I digress. To me, the rivalries are - meh. I didn't grow up in the states, and so it's amusing at best when drunk Americans get all hot and flustered when they see a rival jersey.

But why does Shyamkumaran Krishnamurthy feel so strongly about the Raiders? "I fuckin' hate them with a passion" he says with the highs, lows and tongue rolls that come with the Indian accent. "Why?" I ask, expecting a tale of deception, loss of honor and a refund lost somewhere. Mostly the latter. "Because I'm from Denver man! And we Broncos fuckin' hate them!".

No. Shyamkumaran Krishnamurthy is from a Chennai (formerly Madras, formerly Chennapattinam) suburb, a hot and humid city in South India, the people of which are proud of every achiement in their 1500 year history. They invented their own language, dance form, music - even the wheel and fire but no one gives them credit for it. Shyamkumaran Krishnamurthy spent 2 years in Denver studying his MS after which he moved to San Jose to work for a well known software firm. After which his parents had him married to a well educated girl from another Chennai suburb. He now goes by the name "Sam". Or SammyK. 

So SammyK can't stand the Raiders. I guess I should have picked someone to hate by now, but I was too busy buying beer for the big game. Next season I guess.

PS : Aww, Chennai, I kid I kid. You know I love you. Kinda.

Not tonight, honey...

Once a 80 year old guy married a 75 year old woman. They went to the Bahamas for their honeymoon. They had this awesome cottage by the beach. They'd spend all day walking on the beach, sipping margaritas and taking in the sun. The first night, they got close together, looked deeply in each others' eyes, held hands... and went to sleep. The next night, they hugged passionately, held hands...and went to sleep. The third night, the guy held his wrinkled hand out..and the wife said "not tonight honey, I have a headache".

There's a friend of mine from the sub-continent who's a good chap but he can be a little slow on the uptake. Hey man, if you're reading this, you're a brother and there's a compliment coming your way, alright?

Anyway, I roomed with him when we were interns about 2 years ago. It was a good summer, all the interns were fun and I made some good friends. This guy, whom we'll call S, was a good cook (ding ding ding we have a compliment!!). He'd cook for some 20 chaps every weekend and we'd lap it up. There's this girl we'll call Eliza Dianne Robertson, who was rather fond of his cooking. So Eliza Dianne Robertson offered to return the favor by buying him dinner. Time was short and the date didn't quite happen. He moved back to town later that year and promptly asked her out.

Date night, S had a rather nasty headache but decided he'd go anyway. Dinner, I'm told, went well. Eliza Dianne Robertson had a great swinging time, and suggested they get drinks downtown. S replied "uh, not tonight - I have a headache, I want to crash early".

Surprise surprise, Eliza Dianne Robertson didn't return S' calls from then on. 2 months later, he met her "new boyfriend". Eliza Dianne Robertson was married 10 months later. She had a kid a month after that. Gee golly, storks in America are goddamn efficient.

The Crystal Ship

I'm not sure what I was thinking when I made my previous post. Anyway, it is written.

I'm also not sure what the fuss about The God of Small Things is all about. Reading about the plastic watch, rose colored glasses, cinemas with red carpets took me back to my childhood in India. Of noisy South Indian Hindu weddings. Of colorful silk sarees, gold and perfumes. Of rain, sweet tea and terribly small shorts. Chaddis. Of the maid who'd seen 2 generations of my family grow up. Of her alcoholic, wife beating, abusive husband. Of the smell of arrack, toddy and paan.

And despite the premise I was made to dig through a compost pit of metaphors, puns and similies. Badly rhyming poetry written in prose. A Pulitzer Booker (thanks Narco!) for the shrill voice of a douchebag "activist". An author trying ever so hard to stretch a short story into a cynical view of the caste barriers in India.

I've heard of sexploitation, blaxploitation, Cannibal Holocaust, and much more. And yet, I struggle to find a term to describe the whoring of the mess that is rural India. We, the Indian people, get our panties in a bunch when a movie is made about the slums of Bombay Mumbai. Which, incidentally, exist. And yet, when something like this comes along to pander to the tastes of crusty book clubs, we wet our pants in absolute joy.

A child need not be very clever,
To learn that "later, dear" means "never".


Yeah. Give him a prize.

Como estas, tu casa mi casa. Pendejo.

Me and a bunch of pals went to Mexico for our friends' wedding. The groom was my partner in crime and during our binging prime we may well have kept a few bars in business. It was also the first Christian wedding I'd been to, and the first visit to Tequila land (Guadalajara to be precise).

As an Indian I needed a visa, which surprised everyone at the Mexican consulate since I can easily pass off as Jose Carlito. The lady at the desk asked me if it was my first visit and zooked me out by saying "they say the girls there have the prettiest eyes in Mexico". Life's never the same after a 40 year old woman in heavy makeup winks at you.

I get an average of 2 "como estas" per week in Colorado, you can imagine how it was in Mexico. A rush of Spanish directed at me and my Mexican friend, then disbelief when I said "no habla espn". But I do "get" the Mexicans, in that we're pretty similar in the way we think and act. Both Indians and Mexicans don't believe in the trivialities such as queues, retail price, traffic lanes or crosswalks. We both know how far a good tip goes, how important the sub-staff is, and that no TV show can work without 25 mins of drama.

The Church wedding was amazing, and very different from anything I'd seen. Firstly, Americans (the groom was American and the bride's family is greatly Americanized) somehow manage to project opulence in a ceremony where the only colors are black and white. Second, the people are awfully quiet and actually concentrate on the wedding vows. An Indian Hindu wedding has enough colors and noise to cause an epileptic seizure, and absolutely no one gives a crap to what happens on center stage. A wedding is an awesome networking opportunity, and the couple getting hitched is only incidental. With enough food to feed a small army.

I was taking all this in, when it was time for a blessing. Folks lined up to receive a share of the ol' flesh and blood. There was an even bigger hushed silence as people joined and left the queue. My German friend, who at that time was drawing our attention to the pretty girls in the church jumped up and joined the line. If this wasn't surprising enough, he returned and even said a silent prayer. I was watching agog as he said suddenly in his deep and accented voice "hmm, Christ tastes rather bland, doesn't he?"

Yeah.
Did I tell you we also tried to pick up cougars? No? Some other time then.

Just Push Rewind

There's a saying I heard once

You never regret the things you did, only the ones you didn't.

I've used this line pretty shamelessly to get people drunk and/or other things they'd otherwise be hesitant to do. But some memories can make you feel like a complete tool. Small events like a physical fight, an act of aggression or unkind words don't matter much. If one does feel badly about them, some amount of self-persuasion with a dollop of justification helps.

Ever get a small pebble stuck in your shoe on a hike? The air is getting thinner, your lungs, legs and back are all complaining, when suddenly, every step brings additional irritation. It's not so much about the pain as it is about having to deal with the dull prick amidst all the other creaking joints in your body. Soon, everything else ceases to matter until that small, insignificant pebble has to be discarded.

Wish memories could be handled as easily. I worked in Bangalore for about a year right after college. During the time I'd take food to work everyday (love you mum!) or go out for lunch. On rare occasions, the workload would give me no time to eat out. We had peons in the office who could run out to get takeaways for us. I used that "service" once. I gave the boy (term loosely used - he was at least 10 years older) 20 bucks to get me lunch. He was back soon with the food and 5 bucks change. I asked him to "keep the change". He said "no no, it's cool". I insisted, he kept refusing. I didn't understand the reluctance at all - tips are rare, and meager. His refusal went from a polite "no" to an almost helpless plea. Finally, he said "ok" with some resignation and my ego was stroked - I had been "generous".

It took me sometime to realize that he was not as much of a "worker" as I saw him to be. I'm sure he drew a monthly paycheck, just like I did, and didn't need to be tipped like some of the daily wage laborers. Must have been terribly embarrassing in a country where social standing, class differences are still very important. That, and I figure now that I must have sounded like a complete douchebag.

There was some scene in a movie I saw recently that brought this memory back, and now I can't stop thinking of it. Even if I could apologize to him, I probably wouldn't, considering he *is* a peon and I - well - I'm a dick. Still, I wish there was some way I could get rid of this annoying pebble.

Any regrets?

Mortal Kombat

I've been on the internet since its early days. Back then, it was hideously expensive, frustratingly slow and mighty unreliable. There was no google, myspace or facebook, yahoo was evolving and porn wasn't free. There was no blogging and some of the few ways to communicate with strangers were IRC and usenet. The latter was occupied and aggressively maintained by angry nerds of all ages. I was 13 or 14 and was given to typing like I was texting on a cell phone (strangely enough, I didn't have one till much later). I was crucified for the first post I made, and it made me feel like shit. I still know where to find that post, but won't post it for obvious reasons. Soon, I caught up with the program was blazing away on the digital trail.

You can never take anyone seriously enough online. The anonymity that the internet provides makes for spectacular cajones and people are nasty, witty, interesting, predictable - sometimes all at once. In real life (IRL), people are almost the same. Usually civil, occasionally awkward and sometimes funny. While one may want/need the opinions of strangers (or people of online acquaintance), there's only so much thought you should give to the words of some chap with a little time to kill.

I've been on forums, slashdot, comment threads in communities and blogs long enough to somewhat understand human behavior online. Although the idea is to discuss opinions, people get into arguments. Some of them get nasty and turn into flames. Flames sometimes augur very well for traffic, but in the end they all end mundanely . It's like peeing in a crowded swimming pool - wrong but hysterically funny, until you realize that you're swimming in your own waste, and perhaps others had that idea too. Flames lose the original intent behind the argument rather quickly, and they turn into long-winding slugfests that people participate in, only because they want to have the last word, as useless as it may be. I've noticed a few patterns after having instigated and participating in plenty of flames.

Presenting, the top 5 defensive tactics and ways to deal with them -

Ad-hominem attacks.
"Oh yeah? If that's what you think about subject at hand you must be a retard". Common insult when a person has nothing much to say about the previous post since it did make sense, and cannot be countered by logical reasoning. Falls apart when goaded into sticking to the topic at hand. "Yeah, very clever, how about you focus on subject at hand and leave the Freudian shit to someone who knows better?" is known to work.

It's my blog/forum/website, I'll do whatever I want shpiel.
Web 2.0 (i.e. sites that allow and encourage interaction) presents a unique set of opportunities and problems. While your opinion may be spoken about on your site and elsewhere, it opens up the place for attacks on your thoughts. Many times, a good perspective will help quell some nastiness. However, if the perp is out to get you, taking it on the chin may be the only resort. A common mistake is present something controversial, and just dismiss it altogether in the next line (or post) by saying it's your website, a place where you don't need to justify your thoughts. Unless you can pull that opinion off without a long winded explanation, why bother maintaining it? Telling the author that's a weak line defense doesn't solve anything, but is extremely funny.

Yeah, I wasn't being too serious about it, get a life...
We write about the thoughts we subscribe to, because we like them, and want to be heard. But when one is forced into a corner thanks to numbers or strong words, some people throw water on it all by simply shrugging it off. It mattered, at some point. Admit it. How hard is it to agree with someone else? Laugh this line of defense off for maximum hit points.

Verbose posts that say nothing
You will find little ticks in every forum. Ones that don't have any real opinion, but want to be popular. They'll usually align themselves with the hip crowd and chip in with little more than "yeah, I agree" followed by a stream of wordy nothingness. Even if they disagree with the current happenings, they'll continue with the butt kissing, because everyone knows the ticks can't stick it up to the big boys. All the more interesting when the ticks are brown and the asses are white. Ignore the ticks, they'll never amount to much.

You need to get laid.
Right. Ultimate last resort from someone not getting any. Pity is an option.

Flames are great ways to build character and grow a thick skin. If you have the strength, find a forum, recognize the typical defensive reactions and kick their self righteous asses into oblivion. Always makes for good entertainement.

I asked...and I received

I submitted my blog for a review at Ask...and ye shall receive. I said in the submission form

A collection rants, embedded youtube videos and obscure references that are increasingly reeking of self indulgence. I'll try my best not to cry, but perhaps a kick to the nuts is what I deserve for all this writing.

Brilliant. Outstanding. Moving.
These were some of the words the reviewer didn't use in the review. Excerpts -

But the gray text on black background is hell on my eyes. I suspect "Thanatos" knows this and is just punishing us all, little death boy that he is.

and -

...you know what Mr. The World Is a Vampire? Go fuck yourself.

Wrapped up with a

But keep on doing what you've been doing the last couple of months only better, and post more frequently and more meaningfully, and I'll revisit this rating.

Full review here. Funnily enough, the comments section which often turn into flamefests, and are almost as funny as the review itself, indicated that some of the regulars there liked me (kinda sorta). Got this from the reviewer in the comments -

Thanatos, I may have been having flashbacks during your review. Sorry.

Oh well. All in good fun. I've applied some changes already, will work on this baby some more. Flaming finger or not, I'm still alive, yeah, I'm still alive ;)

Space Truckin'

Dear SUV owner,

I'm not going to give you shit about gas consumption. Meh, the world can burn, and we can help.

What I do want to talk about today, is your faith in your 2 ton death machine. I'm sure it's tremendous fun driving a 4 wheel drive in snow so deep you could bury the Olsen twins standing up. A few thoughts for your consideration. While your 4X4 will handle better than front/rear wheel drives in snow, there are limitations imposed by this entity called Physics. Sucks, I know, but blame the very planet we're trying to burn.

1) While your metal pachyderms will help you get to 60mph on ice a lot faster than sedans, braking is another matter. The science is in stopping a 2 ton object sliding on ice. Doesn't matter how many cylinders are driving your 10 foot wheels, the same rules apply to all you jackasses. Drive too fast, you will take longer to stop - and will fishtail like shit, given your redneck driving skills (or lack thereof). Anti lock brakes you say? Won't do shit if they're off the ground and on a sheet of ice. Inertia is a bitch, and you will stop only when you've slid enough or come into contact with another mass (more about that later).
2) Speaking of 10 foot wheels, the high clearance and dominating view of the road must be very fulfilling, or as the rest of us say - compensating. But your high clearance means a high center of gravity. So when you pull fancy 90 degree turns with one hand (the other stuffing a big mac down your triple chinned throat), you are at an incredible risk of executing a belly flip. Amusing for the rest of us (you know - the ones with a triple digit IQ), but not too much fun for the 7 kids in the back. So again - it's physics - slow the fuck down.
3) Given the bulk of your badly made trucks, and your complete lack of driving skills, your tires are usually worn to a block of rubber in a few seasons. Couple that with point #1 that I made, you might as well carry coffins in the back seeing as there is so much room for more.
4) I drive 80 miles a day, and nearly all the idiots I see on the shoulder nursing a fender bender are SUVs. Sure, mustangs suck ass when driving in slush, but they don't let you go over 30 on some roads - and that's a good thing, you retards. That's why the only mustangs you see in snow related crashes are the ones that get ploughed into by maniacs driving trucks.

I'm a little reluctant to write the next bit. If physics doesn't work on you guys, concepts of courtesy are certainly far out of your reach. I'll try anyway.
When you see that shiny red car minding its own business in the right lane, doing 40, leave it the fuck alone. Use the left lane if you really want to fulfill that death wish. For what it's worth, at least one owner of a shiny red car promises to use his mad skills, superior handling, and bullet acceleration to make life living hell for you sloths in the spring/summer/fall. My 3 to your 1.

So, in conclusion, try not to kill your fellow motorists this season, and maybe, just maybe, I won't laugh as I go past the crumpled remains of your stupid truck.

Sincerely,
Owner, Shiny Red Car.

Because lists are easy

People I don't like

- people who talk too much. Shhh, speak when spoken too.
- people who violate my personal space. Maintain 3 feet distance at all times
- people who reply on forums and say "I don't care". You replied. You care.
- people who call each other names on youtube.
- people who say anyways.
- people who turn on indicators in turn-only lanes. Yes, I get it already.
- lady drivers on cell phones. Most of you suck at driving, let alone talking and driving with 1 hand.
- people who turn any conversation into a bragfest about their kids. You got/got someone knocked up. Congrats. Big whoop.
- people who make idle conversation when I'm working. Go away.
- snooty waiters. I make much more than you do. Go get my soup now.

Thunder Bolts and Lightning, very very frightening

Sometimes, I wonder

- can Ozzy, Page/Plant, the Stones get any wrinklier?
- where are the flying cars?
- why are the New Kids on the Block still together?
- what are the "undecided voters" in the US 2008 elections waiting for?
- can HBO get any cooler?
- when will body/mouth odor be outlawed?
- how much longer is Seth Rogan going to milk his tragically-funny-fat-loser-jew persona?
- when will Dee Snider stop wearing facepaint?
- how many more weekends can my liver survive?
- will my wireless router make it through 1 entire day without needing a reboot?
- whatever happened to American Idol winners?
- how many more Saw movies after the 2011?
- will I ever spend an entire weekday without being drowsy?
- how much will Lustbader take to stop spoiling the Bourne franchise?
- when will MS and Apple fanboys stop fighting on engadget?
- when will humans evolve mental super-powers (apart from the ones we call emotions) ?
- when will they stop making superhero spoof movies?
- whatever happened to Tom Green?
- when will they stop rebooting/remaking/refreshing films from the 70s?
- when will my cube neighbor stop "borrowing" my iphone?

Showing Off

Eat your heart out.

Of glazed eyes and pouty frowns

Look, you can write poetry all you want (I'm guilty of that attempt too), but please don't read it out in public while indulging in a poor imitation of Val Kilmer doing a poor imitation of Jim Morrison.