Right people

It doesn't matter how talented you are if you don't know the right people. There is not a soul out there that could, at any given point of time, claim that they made it on their own. It's humanly impossible. By birth, we depend on others for everything. We only manage to do one thing for ourselves: stay hungry for more. And as time passes by, we learn how to depend on the right people. If you are a brilliant writer but don't have access to an equally brilliant editor/publisher, then your work won't reach the pedestal it merited. More often than not, the greatness of an individual can be measured by what s/he managed to achieve despite the obstacles. But what's usually overlooked is the pattern that these achievements are often goaded by people we never get to see, let alone admired. These are the hawkeyes who spot things before others do. They are the stepping stones of progress. For instance, in the world of entertainment, they are the agents who help make an actor a star and a footballer an asset. These are the "right people" i'm talking about here. Their greatness lies in having the vision to see through a talent. They make you what others call promising. Without them, there'd be no Brad Pitt or Cristiano Ronaldo. Without them, you wouldn't know the difference between the right place and the right time and how to miss neither. Without them, you wouldn't even know your real worth. Without them, you wouldn't know where to expect a nod or a wink from. Without them, you'd miss out on important handshakes, air kisses, hugs, fake laughs and selfies.

The birth of homesickness

If you're asked which is the greatest revolution of all time and you don't reply "That's an easy one. Agricultural Revolution," i'll judge you. Not for your answer—whatever that is, from Industrial Revolution to French Revolution to Russian Revolution to Digital Revolution—but for the grave injustice of misinformation. It'd be like missing the field for a grain. Agricultural Revolution (that happened 12000 years ago) is the reason we are where we are today as a world. Before our ancestors found out the reason to settle down, they were hunters who constantly moved from one place to another. It was the charm of agriculture that sowed the seeds of civilization. If not, we'd still be moving around like a lot of non-agriculturist tribes still do. Although i don't see anything wrong with that, it's worth imagining how our planet would have looked like if our foremothers refused to reside by the rivers. Movement was always there but still, agriculture helped us multiply faster in one particular location bestowing on us a sense of identity and belonging. The hunters were the restless souls who discovered the dark/cold unknown (read: Americas and Australia) so everything took place for a bigger plan—well? Those who wanted to settle settled while those who desired to travel traveled. Whatever be the end result, i strongly feel that we weren't meant to have a monogamous relationship with a place. But then, Agricultural Revolution ensured that we stick to one place for the sake of food and security. Maybe that's why we find it so hard to move on.

To err is error

I get a lot of flak for not pronouncing some Hindi words properly. My h-sound sucks—literally and figuratively. I can't take a stand between khoon and koon or todha or thoda, just like a girl named Alka might get called Halka by me. It's terrible but i'm working on it. To make matters worse, this disorder has seeped into my English as well. I've noticed, on several occasions, my h-sound goes out of the whindow. These are the reasons i prefer to stay quiet when humans gather around me. It's a mental block and forces me to stick to talking to people in private. Which is strange when i openly nurse my ambition of becoming a professor someday soon!

Anyway, i went to hospital this afternoon to get my flat-mate diagnosed. He's not feeling well. I noticed three posters there and couldn't help clicking them. All three of them had copy errors. For someone who writes for a living, it's a given to point out mistakes in others' work, particularly when there's no need to say it out loud! (If that wasn't the case, i'd humbly shut up and look somewhere else.)

OK, let's start from the left. The first poster's first word itself is flawed. It should be INHEN/INHEIN instead of INHE and ZARURAT/ZAROORAT instead of JARURAT. The second poster's first word is flawed again. It should be FOREN/FAURAN instead of PHOREN. Phoren is a corrupted derivative of foreign and means the same in the Indian subcontinent. This is actually ironic when you consider the fact that the poster is inadvertently suggesting the idea of a treatment in a foreign country! The third poster is a masterpiece in bad copywriting. It should be HAIN instead of HAI and the subtext is full of syntax errors. There's an apostrophe after YES instead of a comma and the sentence ends with two full stops. 

I'll stop here at once.

Orange

I must admit (given the rising number of baby pics i've posted on Instagram recently) that i'm kind of obsessed with my niece. She is like the most adorable thing out there. I think we can say that for any lil' kid as long as they aren't yelling at you. Ahalya is a bit different in the sense that she is immensely curious and very prone to breaking into magnetic smiles. She turned 8 months last week and i can only wish health—happiness can arrive on its own terms—to this tiny bundle of joy. Lastly, doesn't she look like an orangutan in the above picture? 

 

PS. I wrote the entire paragraph so that i can get away with that last sentence. Also, imagine a song called Orange by Coldplay.

Touched by shame?

We need to talk more about masturbation. It needs to be brought out of the darkness it currently resides in, all thanks to lousy jokes we crack and warm ignorance we carry. There is no denial that we need to be more open about the facts of life but one of the main reasons why dispensation of knowledge continues to hit the roadblock is we STILL aren't comfortable talking about masturbation. Even those who advocate the significance of sex education somehow cringe when it comes to this touchy topic—no fun intended. Until and unless we don't reach a consensus on the basic facts of life which dictates that you are going to feel things in the netherworld with your hands sooner or later, we are not getting anywhere close to wrapping our heads around decency. What separates us from other living beings is our garment; nothing more, nothing less. That's all. They feel hungry. We do too. They conserve fear. We do too. They are all about survival. So are we. They touch themselves (yup, there are recorded instances of several species that wank off). We do too. They fuck. We fuck around the subject. And that's the problem. But not everything is gloomy to be fair. It's 2016 and we are finally coming to terms with  loads of issues we used to sweep under the rug. Stuff like mental health, climate change, etc. Honest words can do wonder. They come out of you but make you embrace yourself. The more we push them back, the longer we bask in unnecessary guilt. The very purpose of being human is seeking the truth, isn't it? If we only choose to remain in the closet of shame, aren't we fingering evolution by hiding from ourselves? Just asking.

Why give up on love?

Dogs and humans have been together for over 15000 years now. It's been a long, heartwarming, symbiotic and enriching alliance. It's also something that will continue for aeons. If one goes through the nitpicking, there is no denying that we got a better deal out of this relationship. They teach us a lot of things about ourselves more than anything else but to me, the one aspect that stands out is their undying faith. They simply refuse to give up on you. You might be the sanest person in the world. You might be the cruelest person in the world. You might be the funniest person in the world. You might be the ugliest person in the world. You might be the nicest person in the world. You might be the most gorgeous person in the world. You might be anything anywhere anyhow. Your dog doesn't give a shit about that bit. To them, what matters is you and your presence. How or what you are with the world outside doesn't come under their purview. They love you unconditionally and thanks to which, they don't abandon you no matter what happens. However, you might do the same to them someday, like so many people continue to do by leaving their aged dogs in their street to fend for themselves. And if that doesn't shock you, you should listen to the excuses humans come up with: "Oh, he was little and cute in the beginning but then he started to grow..." Yes, as if they were supposed to stay puppies throughout their lives? Morons! There's no compulsion on adopting (yes, adopting is the word, breeding does unimaginably serious damage to their kind) a dog simply because you assume it to be a matter of status symbol. Believe it or not, it's not. If you can't raise another living being, don't get involved. Plain and simple. I sincerely wish this wretched world goes to the dogs—finally. Humans, for the most part, are painfully hopeless.

PS. Continuing with the tradition of unsolicited movie reccos, do watch The Rover (2014)—if you haven't already—to understand a bit more about selfless love.

Drivel

As the days are passing by and i’m getting older and not necessarily wiser, i’m becoming more and more convinced that i was born with a purpose to find a purpose that would make my life a bit more fruitful than originally intended because if i don’t believe in such utter nonsense, there is not much to look forward to in this embarrassingly stupid world of ours where humans assume that nothing would function without them and the planet needs to be saved by us while conveniently overlooking that we are the ones who are in danger of committing mass suicide that will set the clock back on all our collective worldly accomplishments that force us to believe in our superiority on things that don’t know how to escape us—be it the pigs or the cows or the poultry or the thousands of other beings that we’ve enslaved for our selfish sustenance—who, in all honesty, can’t wait for us to get rid of ourselves by doing something remarkably foolish like we were supposed to, in 2012, according to the Mayans.

Sad, isn't it?

Impossible is nothing

Somebody asked me recently what’s the toughest thing to do. I said discipline can be tough at times. I based that reply on my personal experiences of late. For instance, i bought a new pair (of course, they’ll be new; why would anyone buy second-hand (wait, second-foot?) shoes unless they are Nike sneakers) of running shoes two weeks ago. I’m yet to run though. They lie under my table, gathering dust and wondering when the fuck am i going to take them for a run. So much so they might be silently begging me to at least take them for a walk. Well, look at me. I consue a lot of information throughout the day in the form of words, long articles none of my friends bother to read, book, movies/tv shows/documentaries. It’s exhausting—mentally. I sleep by 11 and wake up by 7 but i don’t have the discipline to implement the most basic of exercises to ensure i don’t suffer from the health issues i’m suffering at the age of 30. Backache. Neck sprain. Acidity. Fatigue. Migraine. Younameitandiwillnodmyheadalong. From being one of the most agile persons around, i’ve cocooned myself as someone who thinks a lot but does very little physically. Small wonder somebody called me chubby recently for the first time in my life. So, yes, to me, the toughest thing to do is instill discipline by carrying out a U-turn on daily sedentary regime.

However, the toughest thing to do is and shall always be nothing.

Why meditate?

When is the right time to think?
Now?
Nope?
Tomorrow?
Nope?
Day after perhaps?
Nope?
Giving up now?
Cool.
When is it then?
Thinking is something that’s happening irrespective of whether we want it done or not. That’s the cruel beauty of thinking. The problem is, we tend to confuse worrying with thinking. They aren’t the same. Something critical happens and the crisis mode makes you come up with solutions. And more often than not, you solve the problem at hand but were you really thinking or worrying when such an incident took place? Worrying only makes you feel like you are in control when you really aren’t. Thinking, when allowed to take the whole playground of mind, delivers amazing results whereas worrying tends to harm us in the long run. The brightest of minds and the greatest of ideas mate in the depths of a calm sea, not stormy weather. So, the right question isn’t when. It’s how.

Oxygen hit mein jaari

As far as creatives are concerned, a copywriter is nothing without his designer. And vice versa. This is something i realized first during my stint at mid-day but only grasped fully later at Zomato. Here, i bounce a lot of ideas with the graphic designers in place and the process itself is very nourishing. You come up with ABC idea and you discuss with the designer and by the end of the conversation, the idea has faithfully converted to MNO. The flow of conversation plays a key role in execution. If something isn't conveyed properly, then XYZ is going to happen, which you may or may not like. However, there are instances when an idea germinates so randomly that its execution is weirdly in sync with the original thought. For instance, the creative attached (above) was something i conveyed to Vivek in less than two minutes and he made it in the next 10. 

Sometimes, the simplicity of an idea takes your breath away, doesn't it? Maybe it's the oxygen. Or maybe i'm getting carried away by immodesty!

For what it's (not) worth

Either everybody's a victim or nobody is. 

As of now, victimhood is in the air. To make things worse, there's no cure for it either. Chances are we might get rid of cancer before we even get to diagnosing victimhood. It's a special disorder and will take its own sweet time to make us acknowledge its gentle web. Like an embrace that you can't have enough of. Once you carry the esteemed victim card, then you are safe from the burden of taking life-changing decisions. You don't even have to think; the easiest as well as the toughest task under the grey sky. That's the beauty of victimhood. Yes, there are wrongs done on a daily basis to people (we like to believe) didn't deserve it. But then, who does? It's a circle without corners. It's an argumentative trap, this victimhood. It makes you feel part of something stronger than you in weakness. It's not. Merely a reflection of your inertia, that's all. A perfect blame game where you let the situation overcome you and pin you down to the cold floor of submission. And what do you do? Embrace it like a fool who can't use the nature-given intellect to question what went where or how happened when? Nope. Too much to ask for. We'll blame others and marinate our existence absorbing the self-pity that we might get from those who'd bother to pay attention. This is precisely how everybody is becoming a victim of something or the other nowadays. We don't even have to look at the foam of the society anymore. Jews will always cry foul for what happened during the Holocaust. Hindus will always feel they were wronged by history for being too soft. Middle-easterners can always look at Syria/Yemen/Palestine for their share of maudlin. The list goes on... on the geopolitical scale. But this high-level victimhood has trickled down to middle class as well. And that's where this trend gets worrying. The most privileged group of people finding an excuse or two to feel bad about themselves. Which makes you wonder whether the have-nots are better off as they aren't aware of the benefits of victimhood in today's world main because they haven't found a voice—yet.

More dominant than mother tongue

Some weeks ago, during a weekend conversation with friends who came over (mainly to enjoy my wife's cooking) to visit, we ended up talking about the significance of language. We were discussing how one's mother tongue plays a key role in helping shape the person's outlook. I pointed out that there is an underlying ridicule associated with the so-called vernacular languages. For some reason, we haven't been able to give our colonial baggage a rest. This is best exemplified by parents who insist on conversing with their kids in English. And you can also notice how they'll talk louder than usual with their wards in English when they are in public. As if they are asserting their superiority complex. 

Here's the thing: that mindset and the resulting lingual exercise reek of inferiority complex. 

It's only in a country like ours you'll get to experience such extremes. Yes, the Europeans are fascinated by English but they don't subvert their native tongues. They somehow strike a lovely balance. In India, it's becoming an us-versus-them contest. My query is, how exactly are the parents helping their child nurture better by insulating him/her to only one lingual exposure, especially when it's a proven fact that being multilingual helps us think better. It's not like the child is NOT going to learn English in school. On the contrary, that's going to be his/her primal language. What s/he is going to miss on is the mother tongue his/her mother is unwilling to speak in. After all, the child picks up languages during the initial 3-4 years. Once you fill that space up with a language that is certainly going to get more than its lion's share, then you're basically doing your ward a grave injustice, aren't you? Or maybe i'm overthinking as usual. Who gives a fuck about languages anyway? Well, i do. Languages didn't happen overnight and without them, we are as good as Harambe's side of untold story. 

Nowadays, you keep saying XYZ is the language you think in. English is the language i think in. To me, it's the most beautiful language out there, mainly because i'm soaked in it. I can't say the same for Tamil or Urdu (where my knowledge is basic) or Tulu or Hindi (where my knowledge is more than basic) mainly for intellectual reasons. I can't efficiently propose an argument in Tulu/Hindi. My vocabulary—or rather the lack of it—doesn't allow me. That said, i genuinely believe that English shouldn't be perceived as a dominant element in our societal spheres. It's winning anyway; it doesn't need that extra push.

Help

Our maid is one of the most inspirational figures i'm aware of. Not only is she really hardworking but also someone who personifies integrity. The best part being she doesn't pretend. She just is what she is. She doesn't talk much, not because she is a snob but because she is low on vocabulary. Once she found a ₹500 rupee note in the pocket of my jeans while washing them but she wasn't remotely tempted to keep it to herself. What's more endearing is the fact she didn't even try to showcase her honesty by handing the money back. She simply left the note to dry on the commode lid. There are several such incidents that makes me want to hug her. I call her didi but she could very well be my mother in an alternate universe. Her frail outlook belies the dedication she shows towards her domestic responsibilities. If i had even half of her focus, i'd have written several books (instead of wasting my thoughts on Twitter) by now. Anyway, the point of this blog post was to highlight a recent incident. She had taken a leave and then returned the next day with a bruise on her face. To be honest, i didn't notice it at first. Her tanned complexion did a pretty good job of hiding the sign of violence. It was pretty obvious somebody has punched her. She even required a stitch on left eyebrow and there was no way in hell that she "stumbled in my kitchen while cooking"—something she wanted me to believe. She said she went to doctor for suture and was taking medicines too. But here's the thing: the voice of a dignified person changes when they lie. From the way she informed us (my wife was present too) about what happened, we figured out that her husband was abusive. I applied this oil my amma had given me on her affected face and poured some into a container for her to apply later. After she left, my wife and i were contemplating all the things we can do to assuage her situation. Most of our words were based on assumptions. We don't know whether she genuinely slipped in her kitchen. We don't know for sure that her husband had struck her. What we know is that our society and the system in place doesn't favour her. If we go ahead and placed a complaint on her behalf, the police won't support us. They'd want the victim to make a statement; we are sure didi won't do that. Her background doesn't allow her to stand up against her husband. After all, she can't jeopardize her kids by trying to be the hero here. It's very easy for us—the privileged lot—to see things in black and white. Why can't she just leave her husband and live independently? Well, she can't. What will happen next? The burden of past is too much on the present to trust the future. She is caught in a mesh that hinges on hope more than anything else. A hope that better results might come out of tomorrow if she works harder today. As for me and my wife, we are in a position to extend empathy and monetary support but at the end of the day, we can't let her bear the brunt of societal norms for the sake of feeling better about ourselves.

Yup

Go home.



















You are drunk on the idea of success. 

The price of a bullet

What happens when you shoot someone? This might be a rhetorical question given how the majority of us haven’t had the curse of holding a gun, let alone, shoot someone. That isn’t the case in a country like the USA where owning weapons is facilitated by the Constitution itself. So much so, every year, domestic gun violence kills more Americans than terrorism or even the ongoing proxy wars (Afghanistan, Iraq, younameit) combined. That’s the downside of having a society where guns are common. India, for all its shortcomings, should be proud—at least for now—of its dissociation with guns in the civic sense. We leave the weapons to the experts (read: police force and the army). However, there is no guarantee that we might eventually culminate into a society that would fall madly in love with triggers. After all, don’t we follow Umreeka, albeit 25-30 years late, without fail? In my opinion, we should follow South Korea as far as gun control is concerned. There’s a reason why Korean movies, no matter how violent, seldom feature guns. Which is why you’ll see characters fighting it out raw with sickle, hammer, knife, etc. At the end of the day, nothing good ever came out of weapons, especially when they fell into the hands of civilians. The stone-pelters in Kashmir might be demanding Shariah but the reason they stick to stones is their lack of access to guns. Not that stones and pellets will solve anything (as if anybody’s interested in a solution up there) imagine the kind of trouble up north if kids who should be studying are pulling triggers instead. Once you pull it, there’s no going back. Once the bullet passes through a human body, you are tainted for life. It doesn’t matter whether you killed a terrorist or an ‘innocent’ on the street. You’ll never recover from it. And this is something i’m not imagining. It’s proven track record for all the so-called macho men who love wearing a holster. They shoot to kill for a living but when the time comes to sleep, they find it very difficult to close their eyes. The ones they killed don’t let them rest in peace. The conscience they abandoned during combat begins to nibble on their mind. It must be a terrible place. No wonder they cry inconsolably when they finally talk about their experiences with violence. Of course, psychiatrists would neither tell you this nor drop names the way their clients dropped humans.

Really? Wow!

Me: "Why are you not having samosa?"
Colleague: "I'm on this 100-day diet plan so I'll have to pass."
Me: "Really?"
Colleague: "Yup. I can't touch fatty food, alcohol or sugary stuff. Junk food is a straight no."
Me: "Wow!"
Colleague: "Yea, it's something I'm keen on. I'm already feeling so much better because of this diet."
Me: "Nice. How many days have you completed so far?"
Colleague: "Oh, today is my first day."

Spotted!

Imagine being a dachshund. Yes, you read that right. Now imagine an elephant standing right in front of you. You've never seen it before. It's nothing less than a dream come true come false. Or something like that.

Take a moment to think what your reaction would be like. 

Will you be scared? Will you turn around and run with your tail between the legs? Will you faint right where you are? Will you piss?

Hold your thought there.

I think you'll take the last option. You'll most probably sniff all the four pillar-like legs of the glorious pachyderm before lifting one of yours to shower the chosen one! 

Wondering why you'd do that?

Well, being a dog, you don't jump to conclusions. You aren't programmed that way. You depend heavily on your senses, especially your nose. Which makes you follow your nose—quite literally. And in this case, you'd be least bothered about getting crushed under those giant legs because you don't know what they are capable of in the first place. To you, one of them is just another spot to leave behind a mark of permanence.

Keeping it real with fakeness

If you’d ask me whether any actress managed to replace Madhuri Dixit in Bollywood, i’d say no. She left a huge void. Her versatility, range of choice and years in the industry ensured so. That said, the contenders for the crown narrows down to very few actresses (purely on their craft, not merely looks) who somehow lacked consistency. And still do. There’s no Hindi film actress around who can do justice to the C-word. Nope, not even Kajol or Vidya Balan. The former had a phase and so does the latter. Let’s not even talk about Deepika Padukone or Katrina Kaif. Yes, both have Smita Patil Memorial Award in their kitty but that doesn’t alter the fact that acting remains alien to them. Which is why it’s a good enough time to go back to Aishwarya Rai. She has had her share of rubbish movies but there are some gems she should be proud of. Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam (1999) takes the cake for me—Raincoat (2004) comes close second, interestingly co-starring Ajay Devgan again—for the sheer contrast between her character in the first half and the second half; the bubbly spirit giving way to a subdued married naari. And that particular scene where she is asked to smile for a picture remains epic. Holding back one’s sorrow with a pseudo-smile can’t get any better than this.

Unsolved

There had been a robbery. Nobody was home and when the family members returned, they were greeted by a guardless gate followed by chaotic rooms. It was as if the culprits had set a timer, giving themselves few minutes for each room. Leave no valuables behind must have been the mantra. More than 10 kg of gold was missing along with some super-expensive gadgets. Oh yes, the security guard too. Obviously, the sword of doubt fell squarely on the poor fellow. A manhunt was announced as the family wouldn’t let someone betray their trust and get away with it easily. An example had to be set. Little did any of them know his body was slowly rotting in the backyard away from everything and yet so close.

Blowing your own Trump

2016 would be remembered for a lot of things. Some highs. Too many lows. And then there would be Donald Trump; a person so remarkable that it’s becoming impossible to ignore him. A few years ago, you might have chuckled if somebody had suggested that Trump would be one step away from Presidency someday soon. Or worse, enter the White House in November of 2016. Just like you’re chuckling now at Kanye West aspiring to run for president in 2020. But this is the reality that we live in and there’s no escaping from it. A dicey billionaire with utter disregard for anything in general has managed to find a strong fanbase who assume he answers their true calling. It’s ridiculous, yes, but ever wondered why we’ve reached this point of no return? For all his apparent idiocies, you can be assured of one thing from Mr. Trump and that’s entertainment, entertainment and more entertainment. His love for television has surely come in handy. He’s like that drunk uncle in your family who says the darnedest things and you’re left with no choice but shake your head. You can’t do anything about him. You can’t change his views no matter how grossly medieval they sound. The worst part being, his words don’t matter because he is too drunk to do anything about it. That’s exactly how it is with Donald Trump. The only difference being he can do a lot of damage as he’s thirsty for power, not drunk on it. You can’t change his racial-misogynistic-deplorable opinion about things around him but at the same time, you want him to be there. Insofar, he fulfils your criteria of a monster—real or imagined—who would say anything to gain attention. However, the sickness of his vocabulary is making us miss the most important aspect of his rise: our tendency to give importance to things that make noise while ignoring the wise ones who don’t believe in screaming.

Anger (mis)management

Monty's Reflection: "Fuck me? Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it. Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back. Fuck squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a fucking job! Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores and stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. Slow the fuck down! Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35. Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English? Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from! Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds! Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gecko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for fucking life! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Imclone! Adelphia! Worldcom! Fuck the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, because they make the Puerto Ricans look good. Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, and their St. Anthony medallions. Swinging their, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos. Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermés scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart! Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take fives steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on! Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust! Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin Otisville, Jay! Fuck Osama bin Laden, al-Qaeda, and backward-ass, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fueled fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal, Irish ass! Fuck Jacob Elinski, whining malcontent. Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery, my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend's ass. Fuck Naturel Rivera. I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back. Sold me up the river. Fucking bitch. Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar. Sipping on club soda, selling whiskey to firemen and cheering the Bronx Bombers. Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue. From the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park slope to the split levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it. Let the fires rage. Let it burn to fuckin ash then let the waters rise and submerge this whole, rat-infested place." 

Monty: "No. No, fuck you, Montgomery Brogan. You had it all and then you threw it away, you dumb fuck!"

(This splendid monologue from 25th Hour (2002) tells you so much about the state we are in today. The anger that we project on others, more often than not, is a diversion. We are angry at ourselves, at our shortcomings and our helpless failures but being humans, we look for scapegoats and dump the unreasonable avalanche of emotion on them. If there was a mirror to monitor your true self, you won't even dare to utter a word. Now, would you?)

Crushed, not slipped

The world we inhabit owes a lot to the designers. Everything we see around us—from something as fancy as a car to something as mundane as a bottle—was given shape by minds that hoped to make life (more) convenient. After all, isn't convenience (for others) the core of design? If you make something for humankind, then it's a no-brainer why you'd want everyone to like it. Which is why it's intriguing to find designs that are so ignorant towards the very people they are supposed to cater. For instance, take a look at the dust bin in an ATM. It's always overflowing. Never have i seen the litter where it truly belongs: inside the bin instead of outside. The reason why this is because the designer/s forgot to take into consideration the most basic of human behaviour when it comes to ATM slips. People crush them, barely reading anything. And once they are crushed, they form lumps which obstruct the entry of this bin. Ideally, a slip is supposed to stay true to its name and slip in; which is never going to happen in this case because of certain unavoidable humane traits.

Between soil and heaven

If a leaf dries and falls
to the ground—today;
will it be called dead
even if it flies away?
Wasn't it imprisoned
tied down by the tree,
fluttering to the breeze, 
bound to awkward realities?
Now that it has freed itself
from earthly bondages
by a sheer stroke of luck,
shouldn't it reincarnate?
Or should it keep floating,
till it reaches that point
—the point of no return
and sky becomes its destiny?
Whatever happens next,
a parent won't miss its child
for the laws of nature decide
who stays, walks or runs.