Author: Dr. Gonzo

On the Same Page

I have never hated anyone more than myself.

My dark passenger? The one called (nothing) once known as the big bad wolf (The Artist formerly known as Prince reference Prince logo.svg). But wait, that was all in the mind, right?

So wait, what is it in me that is uh, not me? And what is me?

My head? My thoughts?

No, but those are manipulated, at opportune times and I (italics perhaps for effect)

(sudden fit of laugh)

(just realized I could be listening to music while I typed this. Not be this silent. A movie on hold. Inside the house. On the bed. That can wait. Did I mention being very restless oft late?)

And I have no control over them. The thoughts. The rationalizing part of me is definitely me.

Marijuana smokers are most likely to die of a fire. The worst you can do is fall asleep while smoking and it lights up the place. Random fact. Cropped up in head.

Ah, thank god. Strange Love playing. On my ipod.

Random phone call. From office. Was that me talking to him?

Yes I was pretense, but yup that was definitely me.

So what is this then? The Being John Malkovich thing? Trapped inside something and sometimes controlling and most times letting go with the flow thing? But most of us react to that, right?

Right. Dexter is a cult serial. Lots of fans. Who identify.

Lots.of.mainstream.fans.

Fuck yeah. And I am trying to pass this off as mainstream literature too. LOL!

Wait, yup, this is an sms I just wrote to a friend. Extremely useful in building up the set and setting, you know! So that, everyone is on the same page. Or click.

“Ajab Gajab, Last Chance Harvey, and now From Dusk Till Dawn. Not non stop actually. But sort of continuous. Not brushed teeth. Have eaten one pav bhaji and two maggis in 2010, two days. Lots of beer though. And quite enough whisky.Not really hungry though.And not in happiness too.A lot of emptiness around and within.”

There.

That IS sort of weird.

Was in a British Hoity Toity Club’s outdoor lawns supposedly partying with the tiffed of this drainbox of a city on 31st night. Instead tried to spend as much time away from the noise around a mostly lonesome fire outside. Dressed up in fuckin blazers and tie! Then there was the fucking crowshit. Literally. At some 11:58 pm. Literally 2009 shitting on me as it scampered along after a successful fucking up campaign.

1, 2 3. See! And 4 and 5. From Twitter.

Wait, I started the paragraph trying to prove a point here. So hoity toity british club for new year’s eve. At the derby for new year’s. First race bid on a horse called fucking Pocket Rocket. For the fucking poetry of it. You know! The whole act is supposed to be a celebration of the new year, right?

So I do. 500 bucks. The horse ain’t a favourite. But it wins. First place. You know, for the poetry of it. But seriously. The horse wins. So I get double my amount. 1000. But a bugger bid with me on Pocket Rocket. Coz I am a new comer to a derby. And there is beginner’s luck. You know? For the poetry of it.

It wipes out his entire loss deficit since morning. So brother is ecstatic and gets me a beer. And the only thing at that moment I want to tell him is, to really tell him, bro, you really ought to watch 13 Tzameti. I didn’t say that. He wouldn’t have got what I was saying.

Long story short. Next race, I bid again 500 on some random hunch. Plop. Nowhere in the top 3. Or top 5.

Ain’t no poetry. Okay?

None. But bah, the point being. it’s been a pretty ‘event’ful 2010, so why the emptiness inside? And which part is empty? Me or the italicized me?

Gonzo.

Sorry, we don’t do fiction here.

We don’t serve noble gases either. They don’t react.

Marathon movie watching session happening. Absolutely random movie experiences. Almost to the finish watching Zoolander. And I am about to achieve film geek stardom by attempting 12 Angry Men immediately after it.

Udhar ke Happy New Year Wishes

‘May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you are wonderful. And dont forget to make some art, write or draw or build or sing orlive as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself’ …

Neil Gaiman

and one for God.

Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee, and I’ll forgive Thy great big joke on me.

Robert Frost

Bachao

6:33 pm In office.

31st December.

As was 25th dec. As would be 1st January.

Everytime I quit / get fired / almost get fired,  it is January.

Last to last year it was 10 th Jan. Back from Goa. Landed in office. Fired.

a series of misdemeanors

But Bah.

I am out!

18:44.

Baad ki baatein baad mein

Extract from Mammaries of the Welfare State

Page 22, and it shall omit the distractions, so the first timer can just immerse himself/herself for now.

‘So you’re a dope smoking civil servant. Do you bring to your work a new perspective?’ Suroor apparently knew a lot about the government. Agastya decided to ‘sir’ him while sharing the smoke, to try and discompose him.
~~~
‘That isn’t fair, Rajani,’ objected Daya, handing Agastya a glass of watermelon juice. ‘~~ My favourite commandment from the Reader’s Digest goes: If you don’t like what you do for a living, quit. If you can’t quit, shut up.’

Suroor, after a long drag on the joint: ‘For you, Daya, everything’s always been either black or white. In my world, the pros outweigh the cons, but that doesn’t mean that the cons don’t exist.’ He beamed avuncularly at Agastya. “Does this not-so-young man have any opinions on the service of the Welfare State?’
‘Yes. I feel weird. I ask myself all the time: How do you survive on your ridiculous salary? And why do you survive on your ridiculous salary? At the same time, I feel grossly overpaid for the work that I do. Not the quantity, which on certain days can be alarming, but the quality. In my eight years of service, I haven’t come across a single case in which everybody concerned didn’t try to milk dry the boobs of the Welfare State.’ The dope was first-rate. ‘But I suppose that’s what the boobs are there for.

‘In my earlier office, on the ground floor of the Commissionerate, alongside the stairs, stood a kiosk that we’d leased out about a decade ago, for a rupee a month, to a privileged underprivileged. He was Backward Caste, Depressed Class, Physically Handicapped – his right leg petered out at the knee- Mentally Zonked – his file had a photocopy of an illegible four-line note from some Assistant to the Head of the Department of Psychiatry of the Welfare State Hospital

OST

What is your favourite OST of the year? Yes yes, I know Dev D. What beyond that?

There ain’t no fucking Matrix here, or MI1 or 2. Or Swordfish. But hell we’re talking 2009 here, ain’t we? That miserable piss of a year.

One of the smartest ideas someone had this year was to set dialogues like “Eaaaaaat my dosaaaaa or dieeeee” to music. Without doubt, the dialogue mix of Quick Gun Murugan is 2009’s gift to tracklists. As is The Crystal Method’s Name of the Game – set to the dialogues of Tropic Thunder. Thunder is so damn addictive, I want to carry it with me in the pocket. To be able to refer to it like I have seen Pulp Fiction. And Swordfish. Hundreds of little times. To seek out little scenes and watch it over and over and over again. Haven’t done that with Tropic Thunder coz I keep feeling it will lose it’s magic. Also my ipod doesn’t take video. And my laptop is a fucking heap of shit.

But to be able to hear “You must put those boys into SHITTT””Let’s make the greatest war movie EVERRRR” ” I’m a lead farmer, motherfucker”
“Mother Nature just pisssed her pantsuits” and “I know who I am. I’m a dude playing this other dude disguised as another dude.” right on the way to office early morning shapes my life. Yes it does.

As does Arambh Hai Prachand. It has provided meaning to many red eyed mornings to office when the requisite veer ras was injected in the air and ear through the hunkaars. And of course, Sheher from Gulaal has taken care of the many red nights.

“Raat badi toofani kati kay?”

“Welcome hai ji, apna hi garage hai” Oye lucky Lucky Oye released in Dec last year the day the terrorists hit Bombay. It’s cheerfulness at the utter mess is so 2009 however.

And of Dev D, there is of course Pardesi, Duniya, and Saali Khushi. But everything is fucking beaten by that cracker of a track in Emotional Atyachaar.

If only because the scream that permeates through the song is Anurag Kashyap’s.

Fuckin 2009

जिस कवि ki कल्पना में ज़िन्दगी हो प्रेम गीत, उस कवि को तुम आज नकार दो
– From Aarambh hai Prachand, Gulaal

Tweets you missed on Sunday Night

The Yatra ad has a subliminal message in it. This is what is called adding subliminal messages to your brain through advertising. That hand swish motion that Boman Irani makes is what is ingrained over a generation of older indians as airtravel. And the ad has attached that to Yatra. Brilliant.

Watching the Spice Girls thing they have stitched up on Discovery Travel & Living. It is brilliant! 70 flights a year.

Just asked the girlfriend on the phone if we’ll have beer in the fridge after we get married.  She says, “beer in  the fridge and grass in the cupboard”. Ah. We are redefining the genre, I say.

Watching Green Street Hooligans, suggested by the better half, and am totally freaked by this fight sequence. Geek that I am, it has immediately made a Top 5 Movie continuous fight sequences and this one has got right into it. The camera keeps shaking all over the scene, and the end result is something that leaves you just breathless. Yes, the 300 fight sequence- the first push, the Old boy fight sequence – in the corridor, the Fight Club sequence in the basement.

Monday seems far far away.

Sunday, 22:36 pm

23:44 pm Still watching Green Street Hooligans. It is brilliant. Have never seen anything like it. British as british can be. Wasn’t I talking about Guy Ritchie all day earlier today? That’s fuckin weird.

Loaded up on a lot of vodka today. In the kitchen that is. Not in me, it ain’t in yet.

Anjeer ice cream and chips. I am really letting myself go here now, ain’t I?

Sunday Cricket

Sunday. 10 am. Pigeons outside my window. Friday ODI’s highlights just started on tv. Hadn’t seen a minute of this during the day, the 10 am to 8 pm monthly review meeting day.

It’s a treat to listen to Gavaskar’s commentary during an India match.

Sehwag’s first four to a ball he just touched, the first 4 he faced was just unreal. Sunny says, “That’s a magic bat. No that’s magic placement. Look at him. He just touched the ball, not hit it at all. Just opened the face of the bat, and the ball was out of here. The baller, Welegedera gives an unbelieving wry smile maybe thinking, “Here we go again”.  Sehwag made 146 in the previous match.

I didn’t watch that match either.

Gambhir is my favourite character in the current Indian team. He is so real, and doing so well, it is heartening. Cricket, the way I follow it, the way millions of seemingly intellectual indians follow, is that it is the most fucking addictive soap opera we follow.  It affects us, even when we are NOT watching it. Even the missing of an episode causes anger and life loathing, and yet everyone dutifully follows what happened in the missed episodes, either through people or through reading.

It’s one giant never ending season of a soap with addictive characters.

Mahendra Singh Dhoni has never been able to decide whether he wants to keep a moustache or not.

Lakmal, oh poor Lakmal. No redemption for the debutant.

Sharma said yesterday of his growing respect and fascination for Sangakkara. It is brilliant how Sanga and Dhoni compete on the field. In every discipline of studness on the cricket field. Captain. Athletic wicketkeeper. Both have hit men on their sides, Sehwag. Dilshan. And those fucking big swats out of the stadium. An absolute brawl. Almost feels like a Guy Ritchie film. This India- Sri Lanka film.

Chaos everywhere. Some batsman comes in, murders a bowler and then suddenly action shifts to the other end where someone has been murdering bowlers throught the day.

Who are you gonna choose as your wicketkeeper in the next cricket game you play?

Bugger. A Guy Ritchie film, I’m telling ya. Yes, I include Trainspotting and Kaminey in the same genre, though not as perfect as Snatch of course. Or even Rock n Rolla. No film maker worth his salt cannot not want to make a Guy Ritchie film.

It would actually make sense, eh? An indian don to have a jatt hitman. No, that would be a jatt bodyguard. As they did in Sankat City.

As an indian cricket fan, how can you not want to tie up Nehra on a chair and attach electric wires to his genitals. By god, he just took  a wicket. Dilshan. Yorked.

Every single wicket in this match by the indians has elicited “Maadarchod” from the bowler. Except to Jayawardene. Who walked. He realized a while into walking that the umpire might not have given that out. By that time however, he was too far into it that he couldn’t turn back. Madarchod.

Who would I play in a Guy Ritchie film?

The Russian, I guess. He just wouldn’t die. That bashtard.

The problem is no one can beat up Zaheer for a misfield. Or even two. He’s bowled so well to bring india back in the game. Gavaskar speaks what the cricket addas are thinking about.

The Beetle Ad could have been better executed. Really could have been. In it’s current state, it leaves the viewer with nothing but a quip in the head.

I mean, it is THE BEETLE. It’s FIRST INDIA ad.

Geez.
11:52 am. Green Street Hooligans. Planned.

But first. Shower. Order food. Make joint. Go downstairs. Have chai. Get pencil batteries. For the clock and the tv remote. And we’ll see on the way. Go!

I am feeling more and more guilty of not writing about Ichi the killer.

Not writing more about Kakihara that is.

All cancerians should write. Hell of a lot. Before you shoot yourself in the head, that is. I think it is a strategy.

Don’t get a gun. That would be good advice too, I guess.

The “Looking for Charlie” sequence and the Big Papa of cinema

One of the reasons I am so fucked up in real life, particularly in the absolute pain in the heart during office hours, of absolute abhorance of no purpose in life because of office is reflected in my absolute fascination of the vietnam war movie genre. More than the entire genre, the specific “in the Vietnam jungles looking for Charlie” sequence.  There is Platoon. There is Saving Private Ryan. There’s Rambo 2. There is the deep mythical and stoned Apocalypse Now. And there is the absolute no holds barred Tropic Thunder. Hell, there’s even a portion in Forrest Gump.  That sequence is always there. A number of soldiers, absolutely alert, are walking through a jungle, preferably at night, through mine laden country, without any understanding of what they are doing and why. And yet, there is danger everywhere. So they have to be alert moving through Vietnam country all the time. And yet, they do not know why.”

I am an indian! How the fuck do I identify with the absolute purposelessness of it all with this in Viet fucking Nam? I don’t even know anything more about the war than the movies. Except for an article here and there.

And yet, that sequence entrances me. Everytime. I get lost.

What is it about the “moving in the befuddling dark wilderness fraught with danger both landmines and crocodiles without knowing the purpose of it at all” appeal to me in a very close real sense?

But if anyone asks you ever, who is the big papa of them all?

Bade Papa Brando

Always tell them. Marlon Brando.

Colonel Kurtz.

The Horror, The Horror!

Through the entire movie, entire of Apocalypse Now, I was as scared of Kurtz as every single moment of the film was. And then Brando shows up like he does at the end of the fucking high.

Every single little celluloid moment of him in the half darkness mouthing absolute crap craziness (he was all making it up, he never had memorized the dialogues). (And he was in the half darkness, coz he had shown up to the costliest movie shoot of his life overly fat). Yes, here, the director looks like this, for a reason.

Francis Ford Coppola during the shooting of Apocalypse Now. From original footage taken for the “Making of” Documentary “Hearts of Darkness – A Film maker’s Apocalypse”

And out of that, came out Apocalypse Now. If there is ever a film with a myth, Apocalypse is it.

From the wiki page,

Apocalypse Now is a 1979 epic war film set during the Vietnam War. It tells the tale of Army Captain Benjamin L. Willard (Martin Sheen) who is sent into the jungle to assassinate United States Army Special Forces Colonel Walter E. Kurtz (Marlon Brando), who has gone AWOL and is believed to be insane. The film was produced and directed by Francis Ford Coppola from a script by Coppola, John Milius and Michael Herr, based on Joseph Conrad’s novella Heart of Darkness, as well as drawing elements from Herr’s Dispatches, the film version of Conrad’s Lord Jim (which shares the same character of Marlow with Heart of Darkness), and from Werner Herzog’s Aguirre, the Wrath of God (1972).

The film became notorious in the entertainment press due to its lengthy and troubled production as documented in Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker’s Apocalypse. Marlon Brando showed up to the set overweight and Martin Sheen suffered a heart attack. The production was also beset by extreme weather that destroyed several expensive sets. In addition, the release date of the film was delayed several times as Coppola struggled to come up with an ending and edit the millions of feet of footage that he had shot.

The character of Colonel Kurtz is widely believed to be modeled after a famous CIA Paramilitary Officer named Tony Poe from their famed Special Activities Division. Poe was known to use human ears to record the number of enemy killed. He sent these ears back to the CIA station as proof of his efforts deep into enemy territory in Laos. Poe was one of the very few that received two Intelligence Stars for his actions in combat. These are the second highest award for valor in the CIA and analogous to the U.S. Military’s Silver Star.

The film won the Cannes Palme d’Or and was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Picture and the Golden Globe Award for Best Motion Picture — Drama.

Scene Stunning
Youtube link