THE HORCRUX PROBLEM – K

I know I may be getting in well over my neck on this issue, but still. I’ve been audacious before, so why stop now?

The thing is, I consider a series – of anything: movies, books, comics – to be good only when all instalments are consistent. Which means that you don’t invent things for sequels that weren’t mentioned at all in the prequels. For reasons I shall explain later, I will call this the Horcrux problem.

I’m not saying all elements of the storyline of all instalments should be known beforehand. That is impossible. All I’m saying is, elements that are crucial to the climax/denouement/unravelling-of-plot of any story must be – and repeat MUST BE – elements well known, and they must have been introduced right from the beginning. All right, I’ll explain. Any story has certain elements in it which are needed for the ending or the solution of that story.

Think of them as analogous to the clues in a detective story. And like in any good detective tale, these ‘clues’ – to continue the metaphor – must be mentioned early on. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t solve a case with a single clue he found five minutes before telling us the solution, which clue is mentioned for the first time only when he finds it. That clue may be found to have a bearing on the case only later, but it is introduced as an element early on in the story. We know it's there. It's not a total surprise.

Thus, Clues must be present from the beginning, even if they aren’t introduced as such. In other words, it is enough if we know of the prior existence of the clue, even if it's importance remained unknown. This knowledge is what makes the solution – to borrow a term mathematicians are fond of – so elegant.

For example, suppose we have a story in which a villain must be killed. And we all know that there is some special way in which he must be killed. Forget what that way is, we know he cannot be killed by normal means. Example – Dracula and the stake. This is a crucial element. Hence, we must know about this from the first, even if we have no idea what the way is to kill him till the last story in the instalment.

Or, assume that a Secret Service agent is introduced in Issue 17. We must know of the existence of the Secret Service from Issue 1 itself (at least, within Issue 5). No point introducing the agent and then saying, “Whoops! Sorry we didn’t tell you, you see, there is this Secret Service…” It won’t do.

I hope you’ve got the point.

Now, the reason why I bring this up: I find that of late, too many books and movies violate this rule. I'll get to why I call it the Horcrux Problem:

The Horcruxes in the Harry Potter books are the best example of such errors.

See, there have been six Harry Potter books. Now we avid readers know that the main Villain is one Lord Voldemort. We know that there are absolute LEGIONS of very immensely powerful wizards who have dedicated their lives to killing this evil thing. But it isn’t until Book Five (if I remember right) that we learn about Horcruxes. Then we are told that destroying these things is essential to Voldy’s death.

Bit of trivia for buffs: Voldemort literally means “Flee From Death” of “Flight From Death” in French.

And we are also told that Dumbledore knew about these from the first.

All right, I admit that old Harry is too young to learn about this, but, how come none of the other characters ever mentions this? Not the muggles, not the Dark Followers of the Flee-er From Death, not the Good Wizards, NO ONE???

And this is strange, because half the novels centre on Harry solving something by total fluke, and mostly from overhearing things he never should have heard, being so young and nice and cute and all. So, why weren’t these essentials mentioned at all? Harry is told so much about Voldy, except the trivial detail that Voldy’s mouldering soul is contained in these Horcruxii and he can’t be killed without destroying the evil thingummies first.

Classic case of the Problem. Hence the name.

Another glaring case of the Horcrux Problem in the Harry Potter books:

Spells: It is believable that since in each book, Harry learns tougher and more deadly incantations because he is now in a higher class, he didn't know them from the beginning. All right. What about all the others? The seniors? The lecturers? Why don’t they all use these complicated mantras from the first book onwards? I'm not saying they must use it thrice every page, but at least once? They surely knew them? They didn’t learn them all only when Harry did? So why doesn’t anyone use any powerful spells till Harry learns them?

(Now everyone will say that once we know them, we learn in retrospect that they had been used before, or that things unexplained in the previous books are explained now that we know this. Like, once we know about the Avada Kedavra, we are told that Harry's mom and dad died due to that. Right.

I call that bad writing. Hah. That's a laugh. A bad writer on about bad writing. Right.

“Oh, Harry, now that you know what an Avada Kedavra Curse is – what? No, Harry, dear one, it is not a Tamil swear word, it’s a very bad curse – yes, that one. Good boy. Now that you know what it is, I just thought I might tell you – in passing, what? En passant, as the French say, and all that – your momma was popped off by that one. Yes, right, it’s definitely not cricket. Oh, by all means, have another cup of tea, old chap!”
It won’t do.)

I’ll give you another sample:

The Pirate Lords in the Pirates of the Caribbean series: Introduced only in the third movie. If Four Main Characters – Sparrow, Jones, Barbossa, Tia Dalma – are involved, and three of them are actually Lords, how come no one mentions it????

Another one, same source:

Calypso: If all sailors are as obsessed with the GODDESS as they are in At World’s End, how come they never mention her in the other two movies? I mean, she’s supposed to be the Goddess of the Seas and all that, right?

I'll stop here.

And as for you, off you go and find more cases of the Horcrux Problem.

And, before anyone calls me a nitpicker, I’ll get out of here.

See ya.

PIRATES 3. TRULY THE END – K.

WARNING 1!!! NOT FOR FANS!!!!

WARNING 2!!! SPOILERS AHEAD!!!!

Somewhere, in an article to young writers, someone said to avoid melodrama, defining the term as follows:
“An action or a series of actions can be called melodramatic if the characters perform those actions without adequate motivation.”

By this definition, Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End (hereinafter referred to derogatorily as POTCAWE) is MELODRAMA personified.

THERE. THAT SHOULD’VE SPOILED YOUR DAY. IF IT DIDN’T, GO WATCH POTCAWE.

This article shall be divided into two sections:
1) Comments.
2) How POTCAWE was filmed.

PART UN: COMMENTS

Johnny Depp – he’s done it. Invented a character so complete, he can even hold his own in a screenplay that is totally nonexistent. Meaning: even in a totally absent storyline, Capt. Sparrow does EXACTLY what you’d expect him to do. Saving grace 1.

Geoffrey Rush – he’s got the “Arr! Avast me hearties!!! Land ahoy!!” pirate down pat. Saving Grace 2. But, sincerely, Jeff old boy, DON’T play a pirate. In your next 73 movies.

Bill Nighy – Saving Grace 3. Enough said.

Kiera Knightley – STOP MIMICKING CAPTAIN JACK SPARROW. AND STOP THAT RIDICULOUSLY HIGH PITCHED SCREAMING. (Kinder tone) Go take some SERIOUS medical treatment for Anorexia Nervosa, put on some weight and shoot more nude magazine covers, preferably with a nude Scarlet Johansson next to you.

BONUS: Top Five Expressions that KK’s face is not made to display:
1) Hauteur
2) Grandeur
3) Grace
4) Anger
5) Disgust

BONUS 2: I think the leg shown at the end of the movie is a body double. No way it belongs on her.

Orlando Bloom – Please. You’ve made me like Legolas less. And I will never forgive you for it.

Chow Yun Fat – Please don’t waste your time in Hollywood. They’ll give you shitty roles. Waste of good talent. To come on with scars and die unsung. Sad.

All the extras who weren’t needed in the story but were there in the movie – I hope you all got paid, or got free lunches, or something.

PART DEUX: HOW THE FILM WAS SHOT

STEP ONE:
“Hey guys! I need sixty four storylines for this movie! I don’t care if they all connect. We’ll shoot them as short films and paste them together. The audience won’t never notice!!”
“Say, boss?”
“Yeah?”
“You used a double negative there. You said ‘won’t never’. That’s wrong.”
“Owwww!!! A smartass aye!!! MAKE THAT SEVENTY STORYLINES, YOU PRICK!!! AND I WANT IT BY TOMORROW MORNING!!!”

STEP TWO:
“We’ve called this film At World’s End. I know, I know, the plot’s got nothin’ ta do with that, but who de fok cares???”
“Say, boss?”
“Yeah, smartass. Whatsitnow???”
“I didn’t catch those last two words… de fok it sounded like… how’dja spell ‘em??”
“THAT DOES IT!!! ONE HUNDRED STORYLINES!!!! GEDDOWN ON THE FLOOR AND BEGIN, CADET!!! HUP TWO THREE FOUR!! HUP TWO THREE…”

STEP THREE:
“Guys!!! Get some good lines in for…ummmm… for… let’s see… Sparrow, Jones, ummmm… some sentimental stuff for Swann… And…that’s it! They won’t understand anyone else’s accent anyway!!!!”

STEP FOUR:
“We need to insult the people of India and the Middle East. Make pirates from those regions as ridiculous as you can!!! F**k racism!!!”

STEP FIVE:
“Hey!!! Holy mother of god!!! We’ve totally forgotten the whole sloppy wet kiss between Turner and Swann!!! F**k!!! What scene are we in now? Shit! The end fight? Damn it’s okay!! Sling it in there! Let’s have the sloppy wet kiss between Turner and Swann scene in the middle of the fight!!! No problem!!!! If anyone’s still in the theatres by that time, they can enjoy it.”

STEP SIX:
CUT!!!!!

End of movie.
End of franchise.
Thank God for small mercies.
End of article.
Thank God for larger mercies.

The Disgusting Paper Caper

By K

- And then it was my turn.

When she uttered that last sentence, it was my jaw's turn to feel unbidden the grave tug of gravity. My eyebrows' turn to arch upwards in a vain attempt to vanish into my receding hairline. My heart's turn to thud in my chest, venom flowing bitter in my veins, anger suffusing my body and my face, turning the latter into some obscure shade of frightened cerise.

Wait. Understand:

I want to get out of this place. Badly. And so I write my final exams, without complaint. I hate it but I do it. But this one, this one took the cake and the frosty icing.

I wrote it, felt bad, sat there for an hour pondering why I waste my emotions on such disgusting things as exam paper-setters' awaited gruesome doom and the grisly demise of all members of their families.

The bell rang. I gave up my paper, prayed to all the Gods I knew to help me to pass in all the exams and I walked out.

And looked into her eyes.

She was smiling. I smiled back.

Wait. Understand:

I wouldn't smile at just any lecturer. But she was intelligent. She could speak flawless English. She drove a Ford Ikon and drove it fast and she drove it well. But she had an ugly face, so that spoils the whole James-Bond-Heroine build-up.

"How did it go?" she asked, still smiling. Probably she thought the paper was a good one.

Oh it was, and I gave it to her. "Bad, ma'am", I said, shaking my head so a forelock tumbled into my eyes. I wiped it back to look at her. One delicately shaped eyebrow was up. "Why?" Her strident tones couldn't hide the surprise.

I told her. "About sixty marks were out of syllabus."

The other eyebrow joined it's mate. "What? Why? Which ones?"

I told her. "One question had the action potential derivation, the cable equation derivation and voltage-frequency converter derivation all in one, and only for ten marks."

The smile withered. I continued. "Another question asked us to derive the Error Correction method using Inhibition techniques and Anti-Hebbian synapses. That's totally out of syllabus. They can't ask us to derive one from the other, they are separate in the texts." Let me explain. This question was like asking you to explain English grammar by defining Sanskrit grammar and then using German vocabulary to relate it to English. When I was done, the smile had vanished from her face.

I went on. "And there was Threshold Sharing Functions, which are not in syllabus, and questions worth two or three marks came for twenty marks and -"

"But how can they do that???" She was aghast, "Shouldn't someone tell them how to set papers?"

I tell you, it warmed the cockles of my heart to hear a lecturer say this. I agreed with her. I said, "I agree with you, ma'am. It was all out of syllabus. It's not fa -"

She interrupted me again. She held up her hand, I stopped. She said, "No, it wasn't out of syllabus..."

"What????" I frowned my incomprehension. And then she said it.

"This is a previous syllabus paper! You've got a paper set for the syllabus that was abolished in 1997!!!"

As I said, it was my turn.

A Bitter End

The circle is complete. The wheel has spun round again.

When first V-Dude and I started this blog, this testament to angst and humour, my first stand-alone article was a bitterness-tinged quasi-play about a farewell gone wrong.

Now, the wheel has spun round. One revolution.

Now it is I who face the farewell. To mark the end of my Engineering. And a phase of my life.

A farewell bittersweet, but a life gone wrong?

Today as I sit, the bitterness is still there, the pain, the sorrow of missed opportunities and too-much-hope. But it is quieter, I am quieter.

More things have disappeared than appeared. More plans have gone down the drain than survived.

College, that entity which some miss, now becomes a large gray area in my memory.

A great man wrote, "What might have been is an abstraction, remaining a perpetual possibility only in a world of speculation. What might have been and what has been point to one end, which is always present."

The end is now.

And I write this, with the decision made in my mind, to sit tight, to forget, to forgive.

To begin again.

K.

The Rocky Tryst-V

A post describing the same adventure is on the Sailor's blog...that one has pictures...but this is slightly differently written.

That out of the way, onwards.

It so happened that the our birthdays happened to find us in Mumbai. One fine afternoon, I had to go meet a friend, and the sailor tagged along. He said he wanted to spend sometime by the sea. They had bonded during his short trip to Goa, and he kept getting drawn to it, like a bosom buddy he wouldn't get to meet for quite sometime. Plus, if he was out of the house, he'd be able to smoke. An added advantage. Irrelevant. The point being, we found ourselves on the promenade near my house. We got out of the auto and set out in our two seperate directions, me to meet my friend, and him to spend some quality time with the cigarette and the sea.

My meeting with my friend done, I decided to see what my dear blood relation was upto. I called.

Me: Maccha, where are you??

S: At Bandstand.

Me: Wait there. I shall join you.

One short autorickshaw ride, I strolled up to the sailor, looking thoroughly out of place amidst the couples who didn't really notice too much. We took a few pictures, stared into the horizon for a bit, and then decided that we should really be home. He protested, and I thought,"Well, we do have some more time. Why not go check out the old fort?" Now, before images come springing, this isn't the kind of fort which you find in old hamlets which smugglers use as their secret base. This run-down fort is pretty much the major tourist attraction. You got a food-court, vendors selling their wares, and other such stuff. However, the fun part is outside the fort.

Outside the fort, there is this strip of rock which seems to stretch all the way into the sea and back. After pottering about in the kiddy section(The easy portion of rock where a lot of couples were around) and observing some crabs, the sailor decided that one could get a really awesome snap on those rocks. Not one to shy away from an adventure, I agreed. "Let us go. Besides, there are plenty of couples all the way over there. Shouldn't be too bad!!"

Famous last words.

Well, not really, but I do love the occasional touch of drama.

So we set off, on the rocks, me in the lead, looking over my shoulders, occasionally barking instructions to the sailor to watch out for a particularly wet patch of rock. Thus, scrambling here, walking upright there, we reached the halfway point. A sudden urge to look up possessed me, and as I did, a wave crashed against the rocks and managed to drench me partially. I shouted a word of caution to the sailor, and he soon scrambled to stand alongside me. As far as we could see, there was none but the two of us in the entire stretch from then on. The sailor wanted to stop for a smoke, but realised that he'd be drenched before he'd taken two drags from the firestick, so he decided to postpone it. We moved on, this time, literally on our knees, trying to find footholds and handholds where there were none. The sea was starting to get furious, and I was starting to wish I'd never suggested this idea. The thought did cross my head to turn back, and as I said it to the sailor, it somehow seemed foolish to abandon the trip once we'd come so far. So we continued.

Now, here's where the rocks started to get extremely slippery, several stretches going underwater everytime a wave hit the reef. We had to scramble across when the water had receded, before the next wave hit, which meant that the rocks were still wet, mossy, and extremely slippery. So, on hands and knees, we crossed those piles of rock. We finally were close to the end of the journey, when the biggest problem presented itself. There was a break in the rocks, with no visible means of making it across. The link was underwater and two wave cycles on, showed no signs of surfacing. On a dry patch, given our heights, we could have jumped across, but I wasn't ready to take a chance with the slippery rocks. I turned back to ask the sailor what to do when he shouted "CAREFUL!!!!" the next thing I know, a huge wave has drenched me, and I slipped into the water. The sailor screamed an expletive, but I waved him back as the water was only ankle deep. I picked myself up again, and climbed the remaining portion to safety. Two minutes later, the sailor came up, soaked to the skin, but grinning from ear to ear.

We sat down, rolled down our jeans, lit a smoke, and watched the sun set over the city that never sleeps, and a few couples who really ought to have gotten a room. Just as this scene seemed like it could get no better.....

TRING TRING TRING

MOM: WHERE ARE YOU PEOPLE???? IT'S GETTING LATE!!!!!1111

So much for that.

It was fun anyway though.

V

Moments-V

These are moments that, in their own little way, influenced my life.

1. K-man convincing me to collaborate with him on this blog- Agreed I only did it to shut him up and let me stare at women uninterrupted. Agreed, I ended up paying the bill for both of us tht day, and agreed that on the first, "joint" article, he changed what I had written and made it sound more like him. I'm writing a lot more regularly, and a lot of people ARE reading what I have to write about. It's probably the closest I'll ever come to having my work published. Therefore, I am happy.

2. Jazzy B's death- She may not know it, the rest of my friends might not know it, but that incident impacted me in many many ways, more than I would like mentioned on a public forum.

3. Moving to Bangalore- A change is good for everyone, no matter what direction it may take. Same in my case. Living away from home for sometime has made me realize quite a few things which I may not necessarily have realized were I still encased in my old life. Oh, and losing 21 kilos didn't hurt either.

4. Losing someone really special to me- To lose someone who still retains the right to be called my superior self because of something entirely your own fault is not something I'd really be proud of. But since we ARE discussing life-altering moments, this does find a mention.

5. The Trial- The first play that I ever performed outside of college surroundings, this play also was the most fun I've ever had on stage.

6. Realising that me cuz and me don't have to be in competition anymore- Twas the end of our tenth standard when this realization hit me, and ever since then, we buried the hatchet and have become pretty close buds now.

7. Every single relationship I've ever had- Agreed that this doesn't count as ONE moment, but to describe all of them is way too tedious, so it's grouped under one. I changed a little bit at the end of all of them, so it can be described as an alteration, in some way or the other.

That's it. Seven moments that have made me who I am today. And these are moments that will hopefully be described someday as the foundations of my personality.

Thanking you

V

Hello- A V Post

It's been a while since I blogged. Truth be told, I'd run out of things to talk about Nothing funny happened, no noteworthy conversations overheard in coffee houses, no more interesting roadtrips to describe. So I thought I'd just lie low, test the market, and generally try and be out of the spotlight for a while. Didn't work...and now I am back blogging.

I recently turned another year older. Sobs and whines about how I am growing old would be best done in person, so I won't waste precious blog space doing it. I will however proceed to reflect on my different phases in life.

I'm 22. At age five, I was going to be king of the world. At age six, I had decided that king of the world had way too many committments and would need a very efficient secretary. That plan was abandoned. At age seven, I wanted to run away from home and be one of the Seven dwarves. I even wrote a goodbye note and everything...made it five minutes away from my house before my dad caught me and dragged me back home...and that's a hiding I won't forget for a really long time. Age eight, I had decided that the world bored me, and I'd grow up and be a catholic priest. That plan ended when I found out that one of the pre-requsites of the job was being Catholic. I don't think I had too many ambitions at the age of nine, or ten, for that matter. Eleven and my only wish was that I was tall. That lasted until i was thirteen. Age thirteen, I gave up wishing I could be tall...instead, I just wished that I was popular. I wanted to be one of those guys who was liked by everyone and had women dreaming about him...dreams a normal thirteen year old would have...but one can't have everything.

I was well within my angst-filled teenage years when I decided that angst was overrated and decided on insanity as my calling card. Be it getting thrown out of class for calling my literature teacher a feminist, or flashing a girl who was bugging me instead of paying attention in a class on exhibitionism, I made my own peculiar brand of insanity and stuck to it.

Age 20, I fell in love. And fell very badly. For the first time, after a really long time, happiness had entered into my life and looked like it was going to stay there. That lasted for a very brief time. Age 21, I just wanted to fit in, somewhere, anywhere...I also wanted Italy to win the World Cup...some dreams do come through..hee hee. The latter part of 21, I just wanted to be accepted in certain intellectual circles and not be thought of as a juvenile who had no important opinions of his own.

Finally, at age 22, I just want to be ME.

Maybe, finally, I'll get what I want.

Hopefully Yours

V

Two men, a car, and Freedom-V

A rather ponderous friend of mine has recently acquired a car. He uses it wisely, for all the right things, including transportation. One fine day, or rather, night, he decided to go on a longish drive. As usual, I was the only one awake, and probably the only one willing. A brief telephonic conversation ensued.

Me: Hello??

Ponderous Friend: Hey, what's up?

Me: Err..nothing really..watching American Idol.

P.F: Huh??

Me: Yeah..really!!

P.F: Right. Wanna get some chai??

Me: Sure!!!

P.F: Cool...pick you up in half-an-hour.

This is usually how most of our roadtrips begin. We start of by deciding to just go drink some tea, drift along the roads lazily, make fun or bitch about randomly selected people, and that usually ends up in a rather long trip. This one was no different. We began by finding a tea vendor on the road to the National park. We sat down for a bit, overheard some software pros chat about life and how to foil a customer's mainframe, discussed each other's lives for a bit, and then decided to hit the road. The initial plan was just to go a few kilometres down the road and then turn back. However, as we went on, I began to remember paths that I used to bicycle down during my youth. Memories from long long back came flooding along, and we decided to go in pursuit of a busstop with a rather funny name..and from there to see if I could remember the road that led to the BDA complex.

After that, it was as if the road itself was speaking to us...inviting us to venture just a little further....teasing...coaxing..cajoling..not that we needed much convincing.....gladly we followed the invite. Onward and onward we cruised, with gentle music playing over the car stereo, until we reached the top of the road, and looked around us and saw the spectrum of lights of the various houses spread over the valley. An individual connect-the-dots style puzzle, for each to connect and play along...making your own shapes, figures, figurines. My thoughts were running along those lines when my friend turned around and said how this view reminded him of his hometown, and of younger and simpler days. That set us off on another quest to find another stretch of road that I was sure existed, but road signs were going against us. After several turns, retractions, a wait while a train went past us (still thrilling, no matter how old you are), we finally reached that fabled road, thereby proving that I was indeed right. Again, we turned a corner, came to the top of the hill, stopped the car, and watched an even bigger spectrum of tiny lights indicating houses as they stood, some clumped together, some slightly apart, and some standing completely aloof, solitary light-houses. The silence all around us, the calm, slightly chilly cold 4am air brushing through our hair, we stood there. Stood and looked around, each lost in his own thoughts. Atlast, daring to breask the silence, if only for a moment, I ventured, " The city sometimes is beautiful, isn't it?" He turned, looked at me, took in the view all around us, and said, "Yeah! It's got it's moments."

And so we stood there, each one allowing his thoughts flow freely, for almost 20 minutes, before a dog's howl somewhere in the distance brought us back to our senses, and we decided to move back. As we were heading back, as if to cap a truly memorable trip, we literally raced the sun, watching it make it's way in a graceful arc, (we lost the race, but the view was worth it). Finally, as the rest of the world was awakening, he dropped me back home and went back on his own way. Thus ended our journey.

I wish I'd taken some pictures of the tapestry of lights, or the sun making it's way from it's lair to it's rightful perch high in the sky. I couldn't, but sometimes, the best pictures fail to retain images the way a powerful memory can. I can't speak for the both of us, but for me, as long as I can rationally think, that view above the Nagarbhavi Hill will remain one of the most spectacular views I have ever seen.

Cheers and good notions

V

An Ode To Fruit (or lack thereof)- By V

This post was inspired by a certain remark to the Resident Evil. The Monolith may feel free to take credit for the inspiration, should he want to. That said, as usual, this post is by V..yada yada yada..etc etc etc..and so onwards.

A new restaurant has opened up near the Monolith's house. On my return from the hometown, he suggested lunch at Lychees. Now, having no idea what the hell it was, I was understandably confused. Lychees?? Aren't they a kind of fruit?? Well, it so happens that that is also the name of the new restaurant. He said it was fairly nice, and easy on the wallet. That was the selling point. And so we ventured there. Now, this "restaurant" is more like a patio diner, spacious, sunny, and cheap. It also offers the eater the choice of a Kfc style crispy chicken and something known as a Zinker, which is awesome. I definitely recommend you try it.

But, I digress. I did not intend to submit a newspaper review on the restaurant. We were shown to our seats, and a little man with a notepad arrived to take our orders. I felt the need to have something to drink. I hunted for a fresh lime soda, and now finding it, I asked the waiter whether he had any. He paused for a moment, and then said that he did. Excellent. So may I please have a fresh lime soda?? Sweet??

Pregnant Pause.

Waiter looks at me.

I return the look.

Waiter looks at the Monolith.

The Monolith looks at me.

The spotlight suddenly being on me again, I repeated the order, thinking that there was something wrong. One Fresh lime soda, Sweet. Simple, tasteful and quenching. He couldn't not get it.

Waiter looks at me.

Uh oh.

Still looking.

Still looking.

Finally, something moved. He turns to me and says, with great thought, "Two."

"No no, One. ONE. " (holding up fingers to demonstrate)

"Two!"

"ONE!"

Another pause. He sensed that I wasn't understanding what he was saying. The linguistic barriers seemed to frustrate him as much as they were frustrating me. So, he went and explained the situation to his superior, who rapidly came by and informed me that we could order two because once he opened a soda bottle, it wouldnt be prudent to let half of it go to waste.

Problem solved.

However, I must make a mention. The said waiter has now become a rather good pal of ours, and makes it a point to wave at us whenever we go past, and serve us extra carrots whenever we are there. So say hi to Noful the next time you are at Lychees, courtsey me and the Big Boss as he calls him.

CONFESSIONS OF A SUSPICIOUS MAN

- A Rant By K.

Why does it all look so suspicious?

This was the cause of a major argument between my mother and me some days ago. She maintained that every person has a right to maintain their dignity about their nationality, and a right to oppose any affronts to the same – remarks usually labelled ‘Racist’.

I maintained that all that is fine, but where does the line of contention lie if certain innocuous (or descriptive) words uttered in normally and essentially human tones of sarcasm or animosity are immediately taken as ‘racist slurs’? Who defines them? It is common at inter-racial meetings to refer to candidates as ‘Indians’ and ‘Americans’ just to demarcate. Why then, if a normal person does that, on national TV, is it taken to mean so much more?

I was glad, one day later to see that two top columnists shared my ideas.

One of them said:
“Paying Shilpa Shetty Rs 3 crore plus for enduring a few vilayati gaalis, has been a smart move for the producers of the show, which of late, had become as sluggish as its slovenly participants.”

Another vituperated thusly:
“Saving Shilpa has become like saving the whale or saving Private Lynch. Have we lost it? Why should we get…in(to) a twist over Shapely Shetty being reduced to a sobbing lump because a bunch of white bullies gave her a few verbal punches in broad limelight?
Why elevate the vacuous bubble gum of a celebrity show to a Michelin-starred debate on multiculturalism?
I refuse to make 'Indian' into a racial slur. And I wouldn't make an UN-necessary fuss about being called 'Paki' either, now that we greet every cross-border delegation like baratis. If Limey louts want to make these into hiss words, that's their problem.”

But other than these quasi-political and quasi-moral issues, I think the main problem that I saw, which disturbed me so, was the essential incredibility of it all. I mean the word in the basic and the basest sense: something that cannot be believed. It was all so suspicious.

In a conversation yesterday with some friends, a comment was made:
“Macha, if we are lounging, stinking, in our Bermudas with some beer and making porn jokes, and this seven-foot tall too-sexy ***** comes in dressed in a silk designer saree, and says (Herein a very credible imitation was made of the famous NRI/Hoity-Toity Nasal Indian accented voice): ‘Hi!! I’m ShilPA!!’ We would obviously say ‘Aw **** off, *****!’”

Also was heard this statement:
“So? Any toilet-paper using mother-****** would find it hard to believe that we use our hands…(And here the conversation went into a whole harangue on cleanliness and Paper v/s Hand. Not necessary.)”

The point is this, sarcasm, especially in a foreign accent, sounds very rude. But it isn’t. Think Ozzie or Rolling Stones. A “FECK ORFF!!!” sounds rude, where actually it is more of a daily catchphrase.

And the point is also this: Big Brother has always been known for the wrong things: Participants going in the buff (whole websites are dedicated to procuring and providing videos-with-sound of same), participants sleeping with one another and finally, participants behaving in the most horrible manner to each other just to get the other voted out. So, you are actually required to be impersonal, and at times, very rude, and all this has come to be regarded as an actual trademark of the show, people trashing each other and all that.

Because the deal is this: if you remain, you win loads of money!!! ONE HUNDRED THOU!!! (QUID!!!)

With classic quidnunc behaviour, if you’ll excuse the pun, I shall proceed.

Now, when Ms Shetty was asked to go on, we made a HUGE fuss about it. All Indians who surf porn know the ‘quality’ of BB. It is surprising that Ms S or the media made no mention.

Some days later, the world is SHOCKED by allegations of racism. Everyone most embarrassed. All public support goes to Ms S.

Ms S sniffles and blows her nose and stands seven foot three in her stockinged soles with classic figure and world drools and weeps, basically shedding water from two orifices simultaneously. Some people tie themselves in knots saying how embarrassed they are that such behaviour came out of them, and then the same ‘some people’ depart under a heavy, dark cloud. Then the same people take a six-month paid holiday to India on a ‘Healing Trip’. Though why coming to India should be considered one, the situation screams ‘BRIBE!!!’

The whole of the limey population are falling over themselves trying not to look racist, doing everything to look friendly.

Every single person who agrees with this votes for the aforementioned Amazon. To try and look very un-Racist. Result: Ms S garners 64% or something of deciding votes.

One day later, the aforementioned Amazon wins. Almost EIGHTY LAKHS of moolah (plus the 3 crores that she was already paid to attend (and maybe to accept ‘racist slurs’, who knows?) And she’s all smiles.

Quien sabe?

It looks very very suspicious. A brilliantly executed series of events, I agree, but it makes me feel very weird. Like Einstein must have felt when he came up with a brilliant plan, and then found out that the Americans had used the idea to kill millions of Japanese with the result.

In short, I am saddened. This smacks of Below-The-Belt tactics to me.

I’m sorry, but I don’t approve.

K.

BLOODY HELL!!!

- A Scathing Review by K.

A while ago, I had published on this my blog my feelings about the kind of language used in the Times of India. I might have neglected to mention that the Hindu contains some of the best written articles, in the best English, by far. And this has been true from my grandfather’s days.

That image, unfortunately, was shattered rudely today.
See this review.

I haven’t seen this play. But even then, this review is GIBBERISH. That such things not only get accepted, but actually feature prominently in one of the nation’s largest papers – God!

BRING BACK THE SPANISH INQUISITION!!!

This is the first time I have ever felt like REALLY tearing a review apart. I’ve read some stuff in my time, but this takes the cake. I may get personal here, but really, this is something that must be done.

I shall take isolated examples. To prove my case. The review in BOLD BLACK. My comments in RED.

1) The play was executed well, with only a few technical hitches.
I am liking it!!! There is nothing else to say. This is as non-committal as you can get. Executed well – Okay!! Thanks!!! But no – wait! There were – only a few – technical hitches.
Right.

2) The stage is set to suggest these two locations with two Roman Coliseum like structures at the two ends of the front stage, and a pharaoh's chair at the centre.
A coliseum looks like this:

And a pharaoh’s chair like this:

I wonder how the stage would have looked with two Coliseums (or Coliseii). And classically, the Pharaohs were not known to use high-backed chairs. Most of the chairs of that period barely came off the ground.

3) The actions happen in the appropriate areas.

A VERY funny statement. I am liking ver' much.

4) The music too, occupies scenes between Anthony and Cleopatra…

Bad, bad music. It comes between the two lovers, thrusting its physical presence between their two physical presences.

...but (the music) ended rather abruptly...

every time.

Oops!!! Another hidden barb. Clever, clever writing.

5) The costumes were grand. Cleopatra was dressed in shimmering gold, and the rest of the cast in black.

Now this sentence, for some strange Grammarian reason, strikes me as INCREDIBLY funny. Classic usage of bathos or counterpoint. But let me not ascribe too much.

6) Keeping a basic style of the toga, the actors were given different styles in black.

Now this is amazing. A toga looks like the picture on the left.

From what angle do the costumes even resemble togas???

I really beg to differ on this point.

A Toga is classically a length of cloth almost TWENTY FEET long, wrapped around the body.

7) With same actors playing two roles, Tonse plays Charmaine and the soothsayer and the three main male characters — Agrippa, Anthony and Octavius Caesar — merged with other characters.

WOW!!! One woman, FIVE roles. Two female, three male. AMAZING!!!

And then comes this silent stunner:

8) The single flaw? The performance seemed rather dilute and unconvincing. The strength and resoluteness of Cleopatra even in her emotional shifts, vanity and diffidence is missing.

Now the thing is, this review contradicts itself every other sentence, and sometimes within the same sentence. And this above plum kinda negates everything else. The play was DILUTE (I assume the word is diluuted, but we'll let that go) and unconvincing. Cleo's strength and resoluteness were missing.

9) While none of the actors had any problems with lines, they too struggled somewhere with being convinced themselves.

I CANNOT understand this sentence. They weren't missing lines, but they struggled (somewhere), unconvinced about what????

Oops. I know, I know. You understood that sentence really well. Cool. Thou art better than me. I am just a nitpicker.

But, to continue:

I present to you, the FINAL PARAGRAPH!!! A SUPREME EXAMPLE OF THE WONDERFUL LANGUAGE OF GIBBERISH!!!

MAKE SENSE WHO MAY!!!

TAKE IT.

10) Sudarshana Gupta's work is apparent, nevertheless, her struggle to seem convincing as Cleopatra, only suggests that a play of Shakespeare, even if adapted, becomes in many ways both the best and the worst play for those who are working on it for the first time. Admittedly a difficult script such as this requires a lot of authorial and characterization support, otherwise faces the risk of showcasing good, potential talent, which ultimately does not touch.

Thank you.

I end here.

No, really.

I can go no more, my stomach hurts.

Luv,

K.

To Post or Not to Post

- By K, in a Quandary.

The thing is this. I went on a trip. I want to write about it.
But I am still daunted by The Middle-Class Brahmin's superlative posts of his travels.
Should I blog it or not???

I am thinking....

K.

More Travel!!!

Happy New year Everbody
So says the blogger named V

I finally did some travelling. Every year, my close knit group of wierdos also known as my family goes to visit our religious deity, in a temple town known as Tuljapur, which is about an hour away from one of The Indian Railway's main bastions, a place called Solapur. COntinuing with the information, Solapur also has one of the busiest railway schedules, and at any given time, one can see a train either chugging in or out of the platform.

When I was old enough to be made a part of this tradition, roughly at the age of 4, we used to rent a room at the railway waiting rooms. These are large rooms with two beds, and extremely airy ceilings. I used to always hope that we got room number 3. That was the one with the self-flushing toilet. Perhaos i should explain. There was something amiss with the plumbing, and as a result, this particular toilet used to flush every twenty minutes or so. Aside from laughing at that, there's not much to do in there. No television or radio. The rent is for the room, and two thermos loads of tea. Therefore, I used to explore. Down the stairs used to lead me to platform number one, where I was allowed to go on my own after the age of 10. The big trains come on this platform, the Grade-A trains so to speak. The Udyan from Bangalore, the Dadar-Chennai express with it's colorful engine, the Jayanthi-Janatha taking a pit-stop on it's way to Kanyakumari all found a halt on Platform number 1. Considering Solapur is a pretty important station, the halt is for about twenty minutes. In days gone by, you could exit the train, help yourself to a steaming cup of tea and some excellent onion pakoras. However, the railways, in some insane twist, felt that those stoves would serve as means to aid terrorists and hence discontinued it. Damned paranoid fools. However, they still serve the best omlettes on this station, and i will swear by that!!

Once you get out of the station, the next thing I'd be exposed to was the bus-stand. If people have read my earlier post on how much I love travel, they'd know that busstands have a special place in my heart. This is no difference. Buses coming from the very hearts of Maharashtra pull in, and the clientele that exists serves to remind me that there is more to this state than the city of Mumbai. People still wear the traditional Gandhi caps, these ones white, speak pristine Marathi, and discuss the price of livestock, all adding to the quaint old-world charm. Ofcourse, the dry heat does it's best to sap you of all energy, and the hard water does make you reach for the cola bottle a lot more willingly than usual, but it's all a part of the rustic experience I guess.

Once you leave the town of Solapur, it's about an hour's journey through some sugarcane fields to the town of Tuljapur, wherein lies the temple of Tulja Bhavani. This town used to be extremely well-protected by Shivaji's soldiers, considering it was his deity as well. The temple is part of a fort, and still has a back gate that leads into the hills and to some of the higher vantage points. The temple experience I wont go much into, considering it's not really something I like. The crowds are horrible, the place is incredibly filthy, and begging seems to be the prime occupation considering the droves who descend on you. What I do like is the authentic batata-vada and kadak cha we always have after a trip to the temple. It's been as much a part of the temple going ritual as offering our prayers to the deity itself.

Thinkpotty may complain that he can learn all this from the History channel itself, so I assure him that I have steered clear, for the most part, of giving a Lonely Planet description of the two places. I merely tried to convey the feeling of wanting to go somewhere that this trip always brings out in me.

However, we try and improve the experience each time we go. The past two trips, our pit stio has no longer been the waiting rooms at the railway station. Instead, it is now a rather modernistic hotel which goes by the name of Hotel Ambassador and allows it's guests to watch AXN on it's TV sets, and an excellent view of the biggest cowshed I have ever seen, not to mention an excellent to smell the manure as it is being cleared. Sigh. Somehow, as I sit in my air-conditioned room, and watch tv from a very comfortable bed, I feel that this just isn't the same.

But the omlettes here also rock. There is a silver lining.

Pack your bags people. The World is at large.

Cheers

V

DO GO HERE!!!

A wonderful site, with wonderful conversations. I believe it is to do with things English and Jeeves-ian, though I may be wrong.

Still, good fun.

Sample:

Ho Bloody Ho
Dear Boy,
GO AWAY, DAMN YOU. AVAUNT. BEGONE. YES, I KNOW. NOW JUST FARK OFF!!!!!!

(Apologies. I've just done the computer equivalent of embracing Rome in latter years and bought a Macintosh. As I have yet to work out how to turn off the STUPID PAPERCLIP, it keeps popping up and telling me that it looks like I'm writing a letter. Do you reckon St Paul had this problem? No wonder he was so bloody snippy with the Corinthians if he had a helpful animated paperfastener trying to reformat his scroll every third line).

Also do check out the Gentleman's Dictionary, full of words for those who haven't yet mastered the Queen's, King's or indeed, the Chaps' language...

Do visit this page:

http://twochapstalking.com/

Thanking you,

Yours sincerely,

I remain,

K-Man.

This Day I Share With Ye

- A Supreme Indulgence, by K.

I am, on this day out of the plethora of others I have lived, immensely pleased. I have consulted authorities and found out things about the day of my birth, being the Fourteenth Day of June.

Just the day, not the year.

The things I have found out, about the events that occurred, and the people who share this day with me, I hope, will be harbingers – of essentially good fortune.

It is considered lucky if someone great has been born on one’s birthday, for the reason that the same set of circumstances that made them great, might work for you, as well – since you fall under the same stellar and astronomical signs.

Similarly, it is also considered decently good luck if a great man passed on, on your birthday, for some essence of his greatness may bow be embodied to you, since that person no longer has use for it. Consider that Stephen Hawking, probably the greatest post-Einsteinian physicist, was born on the day that Galileo Galilei shuffled off, so to speak, his mortal coil.

These are the people that share my birthday in one or other way:

Alois Alzheimer.

Karl Landsteiner – Discovered Blood Groups – a great man to anyone who has studied Biology.

Che Guevara – Indeed, I don’t know how to take this. But it’s a fact.

John Logie Baird – He gave us the TV. Great man.

King Diamond – I LOVE MERCYFUL FATE!!!!!!!!!!

Boy George – Boy!! My Karma Chameleon must have been Iridiscent!!!!

Yasmine Bleeth – YAY!!!!! I am louing it!!!!

Steffi Graf – DITTO!!!!

And many of my favourite authors share this day:

Harry Turtledove – One of my favourite SF authors.

Alan Jay Lerner - He gave us My Fair Lady. I need say no more.

Yasunari Kawabata – Japanese Nobel Prize winning author of The Master of Go and The Sound of the Mountain

Jorge Luis Borges – Love this guy, even if he had written NOTHING other than THE LIBRARY OF BABEL.

Jerome K. Jerome – SHARMA!!! NODI!!!

G. K. Chesterton – Now for this I must feel immensely proud, for whether it is my favourite detective Dr. Fell (Based on Chesterton), one of my favourite actors, Alec Guinness (played Father Brown in the only movie made of that series), one of my favourite books (The Man Who Was Thursday) or my writing (I write a little of mystery, in which my main inspirations remain Van Dine, Carr and GKC)….

Roger Zelazny – Again, I am bless’d for this connection: Zelazny is one of the true SF authors I admire, and his Lord of Light remains a great influence.


ALSO:

Superman debuted on June 14th, but so did the Boston Strangler.

Paris falls to the Germans, and Hawaii is accepted by the US.

Bonaparte wins at Marengo, and America accepts the STARS AND STRIPES as its Flag.

The world’s first BOURBON was, it is said, made on this day, and named after the place at which the Rev. Elijah Craig (reportedly) distilled it. The sailors on board the Battleship Potemkin revolted, unaware of this sublime fact.

We are first introduced to PHILO VANCE on June 14th, in THE BENSON MURDER CASE.

I, for now, rest my case.

K.

Silent Bloody Night

- A Rant by K.

They started testing the loudspeakers at around six in the evening. I could feel unmentionable parts of my body (like the follicles of the hair on my head) quiver as wave upon wave of noise crashed into the walls of my house. And then, curse and blast it all, came through the hideously mutilated tunes of someone trying to sing ‘Silent Night, Holy Night’.
Apparently the speakers weren’t set right.

Another half an hour of MAYHEM, BEDLAM and SHIVAJINAGAR-AT-SIX-IN-THE-EVENING ensued.

About two hours later, two hours that I spent in mortal agony, children trickled out like the last drops of water from your kitchen tap when the water tank above your house just goes empty. They trickled out merrily, and their parents oozed out after them – these belong, in general, to a species much larger than that of the children, who, compared to these, are but ants to a behemoth – raising the general level of noise to Ungodly (or is it UnGodly?) levels.

I think Dante met up with Ser H.G. Wells, traveled forward through the time machine and by mistake came into the gardens outside our apartment, on the evening of the twenty-fourth of December, 2006. He came and he saw and he conkered. He saw the people milling about, the children screaming, the generally demoniac screeching of the loudspeakers, and he thought (to himself): “Now, wot shall we call this, my precioussss???” and several minutes later, came up with a brilliant word, so brilliant, so ethereally SEXY that he went back to his own time, and said to himself again (Great writers always talk to themselves, please note.): “Oi!!! Such a luverly idea-rr as that should be written about!!!” and he started his greatest work, to write about the Capital of Hell, PANDEMONIUM. My place. Of course, he started with some rot about how he came unknowing into the great dark forest, this forbidding place where every fear is renewed (“Which in the very thought renews the fear,” as Longfellow translated it), but you can get the general picture.

After M. Alighieri had come and gone, the party really began. My god. I have never seen such a thing in all my life. The term Bacchanalian would have to be retailored to fit this night. All in the name of celebrating Christmas Eve, these people decided to try, with just acoustics, to tear the roofs from the buildings around.

It’s a wonder the police didn’t catch them at it, seeing as this revel went on till around one in the night (I checked the time). I heard every kind of evil music, from the tunes of Dhoom 2, to all the possible Bollywood hits made all the more vulgar by the addition of the morphed Second-Millenium equivalent of that Eighties and Early Nineties phenomenon called “Jhankaar Beats”.

These people had hired some other people to see that the sound levels were kept insanely high, and the hired hands kept to their task well. Too well. (Indeed, if I’d been an Eighteenth Century writer, I’d have called them ‘Swarthy Ruffians, with a most evil glint in their eyes.’ But suffice it to say that these were probably from another echelon altogether, indeed, such a different echelon, that I could picture them in Tyre Advertisements for the Rural areas, under the motto of the ‘Echelon Man’.
Sorry.
Humour, ran away with me.)

I am sure half those kids will be deaf for the rest of the week (as will most of the senior residents), and most of them will still be breathing out the smoke that they inhaled in copious quantities during the bash.

It was horrible. And if this is the way we are going to usher in one of the most peaceful times of the year, I am extremely sorry.

We have never behaved this way on my home planet.

Bloody Humans!!!

K.

Thus Spake Monolith - From K With Love

Great comments like this (Great both in length and Yoda-ness) ought to be treated with some respect. And of course, add to this the excitement that I feel about the fact that my value and my importance in the scheme of things on this great planet of ours is going to be gauged by none other than a pre-eminent Jedi Master!!! Ooo-er!!!

Here it is in full:

This very famous theatre person whom you respect very much...did he know that he was getting into theatre when he was doing his engineering?? I am guessing no. But he followed his heart. And that is all that we can do. Follow our hearts. They may take us through pain, suffering, take us to the depths of despair, to the very edge of the chasm of hopelessness. But we must continue to follow them or we lose our raison d’être! So follow your heart. And if your heart says no, then no it is. If it says yes then plough on and you will eventually see the light. Take it from someone who has been doing that for 14 years. I will make it. I am confident. Perhaps I am alone in that confidence. But I don’t care. I feel that this is my time. I will succeed. Your time of clarity will come soon. You have realised your dilemma. You will find the solution. The first step is faith. And the next 6 months. And to borrow from Rae's theme “The Force is with you, young Skywalker. But you are not a Jedi yet.”

Advice seems to be the best medicine, and I greatly appreciate it.

Dankeschon, Herr Ubermensch.

K.

A Quagmire Called Confusion - K

I’m confused.
And I’ll be thrice-damned and say it thrice again. I’m confused. I’m confused. I’m confused.
There.

Extremely uncomfortable stage of life to be confused in, but there it is. No, I don’t mean that I’m plagued by the normal fears: love, acceptance, fame, blah. What I’m confused about is my future, six months from now.

Six months from now, I’d have finished my engineering. All my heart wants is that I get into theatre and writing, my two passions. But I’m afraid that may not be so easy. That’s where the confusion comes in.

Torn between getting a job right after my engineering, and doing what I love. Add to this the fact that of the few people I’d have loved to work with, one is bogged down by career and work, unable to meet any sort of schedule (I’m not playing the blame-game, just citing the reality of the situation); and another two will leave exactly at the time I finish my course (July ’07 or thereabouts): one to learn his craft and another to ply his trade. Plodding on alone is not something that seems such an attractive prospect.

And then, someone whom I admire greatly said yesterday that looking back now, from his position as a very famous theatre artiste, probably one of the true greats in the field, he was regretful of the fact that he had done his Engineering and thereby had probably wasted someone else’s seat, since he anyway got into theatre.
Though this struck a very painful chord, I cannot even say that, because I don’t know for sure whether I am getting into theatre or not.

I’m writing, a hell of a lot, and – to borrow a British idiom – slavering away at it like Billy-O, and even in that I haven’t reached that stage where I can confidently take my oeuvre of work to a publishers’. Hence all this blog-ranting.

And this is what is causing all the aforementioned confusion: the variety of future careers I can choose from and the uncertainty that I feel about taking the decision.

I don’t think the feeling’s going to go away anytime soon.

K.

YULETIDE me over

This post is by V
Seriously, it's just me!!!!

Greetings. It's been a mixed bag of feelings so far. I am back home, something I have been eagerly awaiting since weeks. I've met friends, well-meaning relatives who made not-so-discreet whispers to my mum about how thin I have become, I've hung out with my parents and realized that they aren't so bad provided I don't live with them 24/7 and managed to get some good writing done. Sounds like fun eh??

And yet, not surprisingly, I manage to find myself in what the Monolith appropriately terms a "Funk". Ingredients:

1) More mood swings than before

2) Long periods of Silence

3) Just a dash of pensiveness

4) Long Solitary walks

5) Self-conversations for that extra blah!!!


Volia!!!! The perfect funk!! Serves one round of depression.
Warning: Excessive indulgence may lead to prolonged loneliness!!!!!

Jokes aside, I found myself turning increasingly to my oldest confidante, the sea. All around me, the season of merriment continues in full swing. The roads are decorated with fake snow, Santa Clauses are "Ho Ho Ho'ing at every street corner, boughs of holly deck every hall and Jingle bells are ringing everywhere. Yuletide spirit has replaced the traditional pollution. However, with my mood being the way it was, I thought I'd be spending the holiday spouting "BAH!! HUMBUG!!" at anyone who even dared think the words "Merry Christmas!"

It all changed two days ago. I was on one of my solitary walks at night when I heard a group of carol singers singing songs that reminded me of school days and the accompanying innocence. Louder and louder the music grew, as I stood entranced to the spot. And then, my personal Christmas miracle happened. Without my knowledge, my lips had started singing and my feet had started tapping.....

"....and then one foggy Christmas Eve
Santa came to say,
"Rudolph with your nose so bright,
Won't you guide my sleigh tonight?...."

It made for an odd symphony, a bunch of carol singers on one side, and a solitary figure on the other. But we still sang on, and then some more. At the end of it, we crossed paths and smiled greetings to each other and just being merry. As I returned home, I suddenly found my heart a lot lighter than when I had left.

My life may not exactly be rosy, but I think I'll get back to the gloom on tuesday. After all, there'll be no sad faces on Christmas.

So, "HO HO HO, and a pound of Fruitcake!!"

Merry Christmas Everybody!!!

V

My Year End Article (Couldn't Resist) - K

(An article by K in the lines of similar articles by V-Dude and the Monolith, fellow writers; in keeping with the accepted formats used thereof. Michael Caine.)

Strange. It’s the Year End. And everyone’s writing about it. "Me too! Me too!" screams my pen, and I oblige. Noblesse and all that.

Wonder what this year was the year of. The Buffalo? The Yellow Lizard? The Morbid Hippopotamus? Whatever it is, it is

Over.

I’ve lived another three hundred and sixty five days. I’ve seen sunshine and rain, whisky and vodka (and have served them too). I have seen palm leaves casting wriggling shadows on broken panes of glass. I have seen purple and red strobes of lights caressing the dust on an empty stage. I have had water poured on me for another man’s whim; I have seen men cackling over the wanton killing of a Jedi Master when in the guise of an Engineer (all that for a shotgun :-) !!); men laughing over a game of Uno with steaming cups of black coffee at three in the morning.

I have made many successful DVD conquests, and for that I thank my fellow Conquistadoré. (You great!!!)

I have basked in the sunshine of a woman’s love for over one and three quarters of a year. I thank her for that.

Resolutions? I didn’t make any last year, so I have broken none. this year too shall be the same. Safer for me.

I am also grateful to the friends I have made, to the worlds they have opened up for me, to the realities I have seen through their eyes.

It is with an aching in my heart that I mourn the passing of another year, but it is with some semblance of joy that I welcome a new one.

All ye who shall go home for the holidays, enjoy thyselves (and I look forward to meeting thee upon thy return). All ye who shall accompany me in final exams in December (starting on Christmas Eve), here’s a sincere wish that we may all come through unscathed.

Cheers.
Live well.

K.