Friday, November 18, 2011


I often wonder whatever happened to poor ol' Joe; robbed by a term called the Immaculate Conception, for really, it ain't quite fair to go "Holy Mary Mother of God" and "Jesus Christ Or Lord God In Heaven" to someone holding the view i hold which is, "Where the F**K is Joe?" And why isn't J Sr. referred to as the rightful father of J Jr. Its one of those black holes and I guess the ravages of time has engulfed him in the ocean of anonymity as well together with other rejected Js and Xs.

Imagine Joe getting all ready to have a night out with the missus and she goes "J... I've something to tell you... I'm PG and its The Immaculate Conception." Well, that done and Joe cornered somewhere in the forgotten dusty shelves of history's pages comes the focus on Junior J and his displays of the other cheek when an eye for an eye and a testicle for a testicle was the calling of the day.

The Resurrection of Christ took a mere three (or was it two?) days after what was a fool-proof Crucifixion made in ancient Italy, with all the trappings of old Roman machismo egged on by Jewish lust for blood if you happened to catch Mel Gibson's version of The Torture of Christ.

But this is no tall tale about that gentile lad; its a rather bloated account of my own entanglements in bed - it took an unhurried mellowed-out seven days to get me out of the bed I'd been nailed in after leaving the warm cacophony of Delhi - India's capital belly; bathing in a sea of simultaneously horrid yet pleasant epiphany of somewhat enforced propositions. When you bury yourself in the sack and pull that comforting familiar blanket of warmth; you pretty much filter out the shit you don't want and get busy with the shit you do - such as the daily escapism from the mundane world that waxes and wanes with a million routine you have probably seen a billion times, and the materialism that keeps feeding the consumerism and this Jekly and Hyde ride, transmorphering into ever astonishing new avatars of hellish horror tales.

Its the pits and this is where you remember and reflect upon what Robin WIlliams suggested in Weapons of Self Destruction: make a drug called FUCK IT ALL!!! "Feeling Depressed?" Fuck It All! "Can't Take No Sugar?" Fuck It All!" "Still feeling that emptiness within?" Fuck It All. "Stressed Out?" Fuck It All! "Gotta Get a J.O.B?" Fuck It All! "Feeling TV Exhaustion?" Fuck It All. "Gonna Meditate on the Breath and the Buddha?" Fuck It All!

This read is beginning to feel like a barbaric Caesarian slice cut topped by a hurried abortionist in a C-Grade Hollywood Horror Movie. The barren inspiration and flatulent motivation are the usual offenders wielding a sad looking suicidal rusty knife sticking its blade out on the defensive. It’s a long bloody story, dating back to the Buddha himself. You see, as Siddhartha, he was as pissed as any angry young man when the five senses have been entirely satiated to their fullest desires yet leaving a sour taste on the tongue and a dark hole in the soul that will just not go.

But that same mundane madness that made it unbearably miserable to live life held its own antidote; the cruel jokes of the gods and the dilemma every person faces of being forced to make a choice, when in reality you do hold the die in your own hands and casting them out or not is just a personal action wrapped in some feint destiny called Free Will, Karma, Dharma and the Brady Bunch.

In Sid's case, he cast the die and found the meaning of life. Others wagered the same bets and gambled their lives to the very realms of nowhereness, and some unto nothingness; presumably Waiting for Godot, for even in utter despair, man will do one thing that man is manned to do- cling on to that four-letter jest called Hope.

Today, those timeless afflictions still infect the two-legged along with the quest to fist in, distill out and filter in some of that overrated 'meaning' that has no substance into a void of dark shadows and glum silhouettes. Man was born confused.
Its the only creature that comes into the world wailing and wanting, continuing that theme from the womb unto the eventual cold tomb.

The apple is now both 'Once' and 'Twice Bitten'. This time the bite took Steve Jobs, who went "WoW" when the contours of this world faded and another sphere perhaps caught his eye. Aptly, its to his credit, for he said death was the greatest invention of life. Just as Steve will never run out of Jobs, So will Bill never run out of Gates. He is now practically Mother Theresa in a megabyte suit. He renounced the riches of his windows to immerse himself in another source of immense power - helping the less-fortunate; and now comfortably sings "Gimme Your Poor, Your Hungry, Your Wretched." He built Microsoft but long after he's gone it will be the work he did outside those Microsoft Windows that will etch out a proper gate for him in the stories of the living; when all is dust and bone and the only remnants are stories.

And in the end, what are we if not stories?

Closer home we have our own precious Druk Gyalpo Jigme Singye Wangchuck - a king that gave up a throne and would have chided and chastised a hoarse and coarse humped Richard the Third from whining "A Horse A Horse; My Kingdom For a Horse."

Barrack Obama made that connection with his Changing Yes We Can campaign. You see, when the shit really hits the fan; people tend to vote more with their hearts and less with their heads!

Then there are disgruntlements resounding from the corridors of bureaucracy. Civil servants are desolate, with morale ever depressing and politicians just can't break free from telling the lie; deceit deceives them and catches them unawares until they become willing deceivers in a truthful tone. Brings to mind Daniel Plainview making that boy confess that he is a "False Prophet" and then bludgeoning him with a bowling alley pin. No more milkshakes, the last thing Plainview utters in the lap of conquest is a simple "Its Finished."

In other words, we are all sick; really fuckin' sick and we need that Robin Williams therapy: namely the FUCK IT ALL DRUG to curtail this cock and bull tale and have them BBQ'ed for a midnight binge.

Nobody likes being nobody and I've yet to meet somebody who genuinely likes anybody at all. And if you wanna get away from the humdrum silliness of it all, enter a good ol' fashioned theater for a cinematic experience. Or why else would entertainment, in all its manifestations, rule the world? Because you forget arseholes the likes Hitler & Stalin & Mao & Pol Pot but fondly remember a badass like Gabbar Singh or a Tony Montana. So go download an illegal HD version of SHOLAY and enjoy that song sung in the loons above by a certain Jai and Veeru or in this case, Toxic and Slosh Riders and the Ballad of Fiendship From the evergreen Bollywood Classic, Sholay - The Flaming Film.
Adios!!!! PS: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!