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sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs July 5, 2009

Posted by myth in books, reviews.
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Before I describe this latest read of mine, I would like the opportunity to recognize the contribution of social networking sites. All those priceless hours just whaling away while browsing on some ridiculous posts on random communities, most of which you are not even remotely interested in – Those hours do pay off. For me,after wasting my time of blissfully on internet for couple of long years, it paid off when I cam across quite a recommendation of books.
And who wouldn’t be curious to know about a book as flirtatiously titled as “Sex Drugs and Cocoa Puffs “



A little googling about the book would indeed inform you that its a conversational book. The whole book seems to be one long conversation with our funny, weird and creative author. Also this title seems to be great way to start a conversation or commit social suicide.
Please don’t pick up this book unless you a re fairly aware of most of the names listed in its Index, because almost all the chapters deal with quite a few pop(ular) culture references – so If everytime John Cusack or The X files or mixed tapes reference occurs and you need to google – the book might take a lot of your time
Being done with the unpleastery warnings, those who still are reading know the goodies are here. First of all this book is ridiculous funny, it is ridiculousl funny but what I insist is it is funny and ridiculous and hence forth addictive
You wonder how can a guy dedicate a whole chapter to philosopihy through a video game of SIMS, but then you read about a little manifesto against Soccer and you are ready to accept anything – its is fun indeed.

Here I strongly recommend this collection of 18 essays by Chuck Klosterman , your introduction to a low culture manifesto , to the like minded.

Ah yes, some excerpts:

It’s no one’s fault, really. Or maybe it’s everyone’s fault. It should be everyone’s fault, because it’s everyone’s problem. Well, okay…not everyone. Not boring people, and not the profoundly retarded. But whenever I meet dynamic, nonretarded Americans, I notice that they all seem to share a single unifying characteristic: the inability to experience the kind of mind-blowing, transcendent romantic relationship they perceive to be a normal part of living. And someone needs to take the fall for this. So instead of blaming no one for this (which is kind of cowardly) or blaming everyone (which is kind of meaningless), I’m going to blame John Cusack.

I once loved a girl who almost loved me, but not as much as she loved John Cusack. Under certain circumstances, this would have been fine; Cusack is relatively good-looking, he seems like a pretty cool guy (he likes the Clash and the Who, at least), and he undoubtedly has millions of bones in the bank. If Cusack and I were competing for the same woman, I could easily accept losing. However, I don’t really feel like John and I were “competing” for the girl I’m referring to, inasmuch as her relationship to Cusack was confined to watching him as a two-dimensional projection, pretending to be characters who don’t actually exist. Now, there was a time when I would have thought that detachment would have given me a huge advantage over Johnny C., inasmuch as my relationship with this woman included things like “talking on the phone” and “nuzzling under umbrellas” and “eating pancakes.” However, I have come to realize that I perceived this competition completely backward; it was definitely an unfair battle, but not in my favor. It was unfair in Cusack’s favor. I never had a chance.

Early Summers,silly conquest and poetic magic June 2, 2009

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“The best moments in reading are when you come across something – a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things – that you’d thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you’ve never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it’s as if a hand has come out, and taken yours. “

If we were to begin at the cliched beginning, I might say I was always mighty fond of books. It might be a seemignly nostalgic and excessive statement considering its how every bibliophile would want to start his story of first love. But I (and a few number of mild scars that one manages to gather while reaching for shelves not exactly in one’s range) assure you that was how my story began. Swear!

Summers for a little kid might mean making up tales of dragons and pirates sitting on the mango tree and pretending one’s slightly elder cousin and friends as Act-3 in Peterpan’s fight against Hook. But this joywouldn’t have been rendered if not for being deeply attached to the J.M barrie narrative,in the beginning.

If memory serves (considering my fondness for fiction is involuntarily extends its influence), it was the hot summer afternoon and the secretive rack with wooden door that compelled me forward that summer. Considering Cindrella was so beautifully illustrated, I would have that book read out loud by every adult in eye (and ear shot- for I sought them out fervently like a little warrior)

The vanity never fails me when needed and hence the visual appeal was what had drawn me towards books,initially. Though the love for it sustained through those confused,angry, free-spirited teen years throguh my love for a good narrative engulfed in murky international conspiracies or mysterious deaths of wealthy patrons on famous trains.Thus, my teenage anguish was saved through my excessive appetite for mysteries. The whole sections of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew’s were defeated easily. Though the rest of novels took a stand with their lengthy narrative and sheer quantity of pages, my idle summers ensured their defeat too. Thus were added to my pile of conquests the like of Agatha Christie, Doyle, Jack Higgins, Frederick Forsyth, Robert Ludlem, Alistear Mclean and Sidney Sheldon..

Little did i know that while exhausting the treasure cove of a library at home, I would eventually be paving way for the adventures of literature – the experiments, the critical blows, the recommendations – you know the lot. Even before the advent of identity crisis that supposedly befalls the young adult, I was dealing with the crisis of seperating the good from the popular. Many a sleepless nights (and drowsy morning lectures) would be spent on best sellers that would be later categorized under one or other of the following

  • The VFM read (Value for Money )
  • The Winning Stallion
  • The over rated book of century
  • The Outright Silly

While I began the tedious process of sorting through Sidney Sheldon’s, JKR’s, Dan Browns,Robin Cook’s, Paul Coehlo’s – I was being driven into the long awaited hall of true literature. Well, The University’s vast library indeed house the hall of literature for our fellow Art Graduates but I believe it did change my life.

Like a crazy maniac chasing the tornado, I began going after book after book telling tales of lost wars, defeated spirits and and unfair world – mostly told to me in excessive english which would force me to over look paragraphs or dust off my trusted and torn Webster’s Dictionary. Misery Loves company and So Virginia Woolf  went ahead and made friends with Tolstoy, Bronte and Kafka. But the sanity was restored while I finally reached out to the P.G.woodehouse, Jane Austen’s. (And the Shakesperean tragedies were thankfully balanced out by the bard comedies) As this noticebly lengthy paragraph illustrates that my little past time have been dependent on quite a good amount of pocket money – I was pretty quick to discover the used books tutelage soon. It was indeed a special feature that made me cherish the book even more! Not only was I already mystified by the magic of seeing my sentiments in some others writings but also the fact that quite a few number of patrons have cherished (or strongly not) this particular book ,adds to the indentity of the copy I own – engulfing stories told in the book into those of its owners. Its indeed Magic!

“We are such stuff: As dreams are made on, and our little life: Is rounded with a sleep.”

Indian Summers “Early April Ballad” April 23, 2009

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This one goes out to Mumbai and the fun I am having(albiet getting broke)

Experimenting is my guiding neon north star during summers

Bunking with a bunch of trainees is always fun especially since I posses a USB drive thats getting updated everyday.

Nevermind that I ended watching Hillary Duff and Chad Murray re-do what has been done million times – unsuccesfully nor that I actually saw Amy Adams sing!!! * On the flip (yay) side, I did watch brillantly weid David Lynch at work – Mullholand drive. What was that movie-totally gripping!!! Hell yeah, eye candy cost me 300 bucks but it was a 1+1 offer – My man Vin on Deisel and ma boy Walker doing a little furious and a lot fast..whoopppieee

The daily venture into local train is an adventure in itself, hell yeah

I have been crushed in my white formal shirt, squeezed through with my lap top, missed my station on the fast track, stood like a statue in the evenings and hell its fun everytime. At those times I do have breathing, moving and dozing space – I get my daily dose of Calvino

How poetic, being on a train and reading a book. Its poetic since the book is set on the rails and talks about readinga  book. Told you Iwas having experimental fun

And yes, the endless nights (read till 11 pm as cindrealla returns pumpkin nights) are spent at Cafe Leopold, Sports bar Crystal chowpatty, Falafels, all-you-can-stack salad bars, Mocha’s waiting (sheesha) room at times   :D

More ballads to follow (and with grammar as a bonus)

*Cindrella story and Enchanted – one was boring and the other was not!

PS – My new movie to sleep to is Step Up, I know right!

Immortality February 23, 2009

Posted by myth in Creation, Short stories, ramblings.
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“Have I ever told you?”

That were the words that first echoed in the silence. They were beautiful, they filled the space with sounds.

They marked a part of the canvas ,now there was before the words and after the words – a time divided.

The voice would have to be complemented with a picture, the words devoured the vacuum and formed an image.

It had to been the voice spoken out a bruised lip, it was far too coarse to be coming from those with glistening smooth mouth. A little scratch on the lip spoke them, a scratch that wasn’t always there – another time united.

There was a hand that slightly touched upon the chin and rested there while the words came to life, its fingers have felt things, felt life, felt death, felt flowers and ribbons, felt sand under the nails, felt the hot iron of the bike exhaust, felt the sunlight drip from the sky, felt the violin string in the dusty shop, felt the .

A hand that had felt its way through the soft curls of a dark long hair, a time when the lips and the crack smiled in bliss.

Those eyes watched that – the birth and life of the rugged smile.

On a bright summer morning when the star burnt in the middle of the sky, the breeze claimed the wheat fields and the dust and the hay. Those eyes were looking at the smile, a bliss, a time divided.

These eyes have waited, at the swarming subways, at the yellow colored classrooms buzzing in chalk powder, at the water fountain behind the purda, at the mall wearing one left shoe and looking at the mirror, they waited for the smile.

These eyes found words, words found the rugged lips, the lips found words that echoed in the universe.

Just as Eve came from Adam’s rib, just as Venus was born out of the waves, Agnes sprang from the gesture of that sixty-year-old woman at the pool who waved at the lifeguard

One love poem due to flu meds February 13, 2009

Posted by myth in Creation, Poetry, ramblings.
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I wrote a poem for you once
On yellow paper and black ink
I added little heart stickers and glued a petal too
I was clumsy and in love and I spelled you as ceno-rita
After all these years I still remember my ode for you
You did frame it in our living room

replay January 17, 2009

Posted by myth in Creation, Poetry, Uncategorized.
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I used to have the knack not ryhming once, just to remind this post hence

And came the thunder
A cry of a beastOf
time long forgotten
Put to the altar of the priests

The heavens are burning
A bonfire For the Gods
In Curses, sins and fools

The mighty gust ,
windWaltzes ,
the ashesRaising,
the eyesChokingCrying in breath
And death

A pile ,dust.
Heap the metal,
the debris of the lost
soul,spirit, truth
Burning high

The grim reaper walks
The dark black coat bright in bonfire
The heavens sent him?
He sways and strays ,
Fills the lungs,
The eyes,the hands

Thousand war drums
My heart beating
Clenched in a fist
The word of the God
In the other
the soul of me

The display mannequins January 13, 2009

Posted by myth in Creation, Scrambled eggs, Short stories, ramblings.
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“It was always like watching the world from the outside. You are standing at the doorway; the crystal clear glass in front of you can be instantly forgotten if it weren’t for the breath that fell upon it. The view on the other side engages you for it is an alien world, you can recognize the people’s reactions: happy, lazy, sulking, sleepy, hungry, hazed, joy, breathless. You can see the vivid display of these interactions from the other side of the glass. You observe the routine and nothing misses you eye expect for the reason. You could, for the life of you, never understand them. Never understand why they are reacting: happy, lazy, sulking, sleepy, hungry, hazed, joy, breathless. It was always like that. Watching the world from the outside.”

“Oh, you say you never felt that way. Don’t be offended by my upcoming comment but there was a time when I detested that answer. I was naive and considered that lack of recognition to be a sign of unfortunate and poor faculties. I now know better. With the same intensity of belief you gave my earlier comment (for I did see a flash of anger when I said unfortunate), you must believe me when I say I am happy for you”

“Its not for the sake of civility that I am saying that I have changed my view, that wouldn’t be the truth. It was not a momentary realisation under a sunny bridge during a summer evening. No, it was more the work of deliberate pursuit one attempts to understand oneself. It was the eventual outcome of a living a life intertwined with eventful experiences and lengthy deliberations.”

“I do agree that i have digressed, you need to pardon me for old habits die hard. One needs to control the desire to constantly evaluate. I started out to say how it felt to be living like that, to be watching through the looking glass and not understanding the reasons. It was initially hard to draw the correct expectations, I would always draw faulty assumptions and they never came true.”

“Depress. You are right indeed, but that was an intermediary phase. I was initially confused at my lack of wisdom to expect the events; I even resigned to the fact that I was just not going to be that good at it. But nothing in life is rarely permanent; I eventually begin to expect myself to succeed.”

“You smile; you do see the paradox I placed myself in. If my expectations were never realised, how can my expectation of being correct ever come to realisation? I was though wise enough to recognize the paradox. It was then I noticed, I was standing on the outside. I was never going to draw the correct conclusions for the game I can’t know the rules of. I can always watch, and observe but I would never understand”

“I am not offended by your reaction, I can see you logic in calling me a laggard. I never attempted to walk through the door you say. Well that part is true but not because I was lazy or revelled in myself pity.”

“I know you didn’t say the exact words, but I wouldn’t find it odd if you did. Let me give you my reason and then you too can see there were other courses of action. I was not lazy but I was indeed a proud person. I was sure I was standing on the right side of the glass, I was sure I was not misguided. I just accepted that the other side was of a different set, the world was playing a different game, an inferior game. I could, hence, never understand why they didn’t see the inferiority and take up a better, interesting course.”

“Now you do see my pride. Well that too was in the past, the ever evolving past. Speaking of which, our time for now, seems to have come to an end. Well you do know I could stay no longer than I am going to stay. You must not rush it, if i ever learnt anything it is this – never rush things unless you are ready to accept the consequences without question. Well, I can resume but I have to confess I am not popular for my ability to tell a single tale or discuss a single topic. Yes, like earlier, I tend to digress. Like now, when I am politely going to take you leave, for the moment, I am still talking. Ah, yes, you see the reason we have this chat is precisely because of that. I still watch the world from the outside”

Middle of nowhere December 15, 2008

Posted by myth in Creation, Short stories, Uncategorized.
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Looking at the vast planes of El Dura, looking at the rising sand dunes that cloud the sun, looking at the blowing storms that create monster shadows, looking at all this magnificient stretch of land, Citizen Twoke wondered why was he ,always, the unlucky bastard that ends up in the middle of a big barren desert. Who could blame Twoke, except the Fine God who created this piece of barren desert, for cursing out. El Dura was exactly middle of no where, certified and classified by the department of Mathematical Deliberations as-Middle of Nowhere.

It was a tedious process that The Ministry of Mathemarical Deliberations undertook, you know, finding the middle of nowhere. They wouldn’t have undertook the ventures had it not for one stick lean, 6 feet tall, hyper active filing clerk at offcia centrale. That particular clerk has just been transferred from a decade long serving under the ministry of Philosphical Deliberations (yes, the one whose employees insist doesnt exist beause there is a possibilty is will not exist). Robed, Moved and armed with his decade long knowledge obtained from the archaic filings under the Philosophy Ministry the newest variable was welcomed with a huge pile of filings waited to be discarded off as “anamolies 1-6″ or the lucky ones as “probables”. During one of his immense searches through these barricades of mathematical hypothesis that Twoke found the archaic filing by anamolist, Reverend Fourthkey.

Now Reverend Fourthkey was one of those poor souls who was born with a rag in hand in a myriad of plastic garbage piles ,with a smile on his face. His doomed fortune was hence partly not his fault. Growing up on the late planet of foton, citizen Fourthkey was raised to praise the creator for all the magnificient piles of garbage strwen upon him, for it would have been unlucky if they were the pile of garbage. Reverend Foruthkey embraced his faith in creators good fortune with open heart, and fantastic smile. He travelled the piles spreading his idea of fortune and blessed life to truly ignorant, though pitchforks were a frequent companion of his wayward sheep in the conglomerations. On those odd days where no fire, stones or head bangs weren’t involved The Reverend would deliberate on the anaomoly as an act of complete faith and would envy the folk seriosuly for their enlightened state of blissful fulfilment.

As history shyfully indicates, the Reverend would travel extensively to spread his bliss and would known across the worlds-peaceful and cannibalistic. History would also duefully note the moment when he first landed on the dreaded planet of cannibals called *aaah* and how an extinction follwed his departure. History would also have to note the series of moments when the reverend walked the corridors of Mathemetical Deliberations as one among the mathicians. But Fan sites probably would note the Vegan conundrum that arose from the *aaah* phenomena where people wonder was it the dawn of Reverends’ bliss that lead to the vanishing act of cannibals or the dawn of the Reverends’ bliss that lead to cannibalistic wars of despair that lead ot extinction

 

A backstory into the insightful world of the author:

The series is the authors newest attempt at dealing with commitment issues in a creative way, besides not everyone thinks adopting a barking wagging shit machine as the firs step in dealing with commitment o phobia. The sucess of this method can be the pusblishing of the next episodes…ALl ya pshychiatrist -analysts don’t you dare replicate it without consulting fee paid to a certain paypal account