no country for stupid men

They expelled a guy a couple of days ago. The head of the committee that did the honours was good enough to mail the entire batch a narrative describing in full the cold and calculating nature of the criminal's misdeeds. With its noir undertones and the starkness of its prose, it could well have been Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon putting pen to paper. Telling us that on the night of the 21st of January, the accused did this. On the 22nd, he did that. On the 21st of February, when he realized the game was up, he confessed. But of course, the mail made clear, the confession was in "close confirmation with the conjecture on the sequence of events made by the committee from available documentary evidence even before his confession." Yeah. Great going, Sherlocks. What a complete disgrace.

The poor boy had fudged answers on to his graded answer script, and submitted it for re-evaluation. He had gotten away with it (along with an impressive 50 point increase) during the mid-terms, and was stupid enough to try it again. Got caught, and got expelled. Deserves as much for being a one trick pony.

Of course, the way I see it, a post graduate institution really has no business awarding grades in the first place. Harvard doesn't. Nor does Wharton or Kellogg. This place is already super-competitive as it is when it comes to landing those plum job offers from companies who don't even pay that much attention to your GPA. The last thing that we need is a diabolical grading system that takes the joy away from learning in this short interval between self-righteous penury and corporate harlotry. But no, the committees that matter like playing cops and robbers, you see.

Jesus etc.

We sat around the fire. Memories flickered like fireflies in the night, and then died, as is their wont on days like this. We made our confessions, with the thousand yard stares of soldiers who have seen too much, and told our Canterbury tales, full of the intrigue and deceit that so described our lives. Then, we jumped into the fire, sizzling, and then fizzling out when the little boys on the shore broke their little castles of sand all over our Walpurgisnacht-before-time.

We woke up the next morning, and we went to work and we went to college, full of ourselves and our lovers' Valentine messages. For once, we were truly happy, because in the clarity of the morning, we truly understood sunshine, and the warmth it brought with it. Lives that are long suffering in the darkness are thankful for the small mercies, and the big miracles. Here's to you, lover, for walking on water.

Conundrum

I am not sure I enjoy being spoilt for choice. I bid for exchange universities tomorrow. The GPA based bidding order has put me in a position from where I can either go to Yale, or to some random German university. The dilemma arises because Random German University will also offer me a scholarship of 3000 Euros over the exchange period of three months, which provides enough monetary fuel to finance my travels across all of Europe Yale, on the other hand, will cost me a bomb, and I will in all probability be stuck in Connecticut all winter long.

I suspect that at the heart of the matter is an altogether more philosophical issue. I think it comes down to who I really am, deep down. The academician is me is desperately yearning for Yale, with its lengthy list of Nobel Laureates and its place in the American Ivy League pantheon. On the other hand, Germany, and the money that its government will so graciously provide me, will give me the opportunity to travel across the continent in true troubadour fashion. Backpacks. Eurorail passes. The works. The guy who went to Leipzig last year on the scholarship visited 16 countries. S-i-x-t-e-e-n.

But then again, it's Yale! Yale, which has produced Murray Gell-mann, and Sinclair Lewis, and Jodie Foster, and Camille Paglia, and Tom Wolfe, and Nick Carraway in the Great Gatsby ! (Lets pretend for now that George Bush didn't go there). The sheer weight of its history bears down on my soul. I simply can't turn down an opportunity to go there, can I ?

Sigh.

Watching Juno

Much in the tradition of Lost in Translation, Sideways and Little Miss Sunshine, Juno will, in all probability, not win the Oscar for Best Picture. Strange as it is, that is perhaps the strongest vindication of its beauty.

I really can't say much more now. I'm quite speechless. Nothing like a comedy that brings you to tears.

what i feel like, these days

to convey one's mood
in seventeen syllables
is very diffic-

-- John Cooper Clark,

who is the second greatest man I know from Salford, after one Mr. Scholes. And no, that's not Myron. Though he's a bit special too.

clueless

Something's not right with this year. There is a sneaky feeling that Something Bad is just waiting to happen. A feeling that I'm unable to banish by watching movies that cover the entire spectrum of Hollywood's high school film offerings from the thoughtful, and sometimes even profound Rushmore(1994) to the inane yet strangely enjoyable Superbad(2007). Perking up, in true Phobe Cates fashion, next in this particular line is the Big Daddy of the genre, Fast Times at Ridgemont High(1982), which I will proceed to watch sometime today.

I have something of a penchant for digression. I can't really focus on anything, without letting my mind wander. Perhaps that explains why I cannot drive very well. The instructor tore his hair out trying to get me keep the damn thing going straight on an empty highway. Evidently, watching me 'play around' (and I mean this quite literally) with the steering wheel is not his idea of a good instructional session.

Anyway, I was trying to tell you about That Sinking Feeling that has accompanied the advent of the year. It's a bit like a dirty spot on your clothes that refuses to go away. No one else can see it, but it drives you nuts. And there's nothing you can do about it, except wait for it to go away, the way it came. Perhaps this feeling is borne from the fact that I spent New Year's day throwing up. Don't they say you spend the entire year doing what you were on New Year's? Ouch.

And by the way, apart from a glass of wine on Christmas Day and New Year's eve, I've kept to my word. I don't particularly feel de-toxed, or anything, though. In truth, my hitherto well-functioning digestive system, which has been entirely free of Intoxicant Substances for a month, has been killing me the last few days. I suppose this is what irony feels like, when it kicks you in the guts.

Someone write me a cheque already

If I were to ever get down to actually writing a book, I suspect that it will turn out a little like Marisha Pessl's Special Topics in Calamity Physics. Nice cherry flavoured gum that you really dig into, until all that remains is the tasteless cud that you feel obliged to chew till the twisted end. But that's what I've always been - heavy on the style, and weak on the substance. Some nights, I like to think of myself as the David Lynch of the blogging world (okay, so I flatter myself occasionally), with works that are aesthetic masterpieces (see Mulholland Drive, 2001)but really don't mean anything. Unless you want to talk of psychogenic fugues or something (see The City of Absurdity: David Lynch).

Also, I've been wondering. How does one land a book contract with a six figure advance anyway?(see Viswanathan, Kaavya) I don't have an agent, or any connections in the right places. I haven't studied English Literature in a fancy Ivy League school. I have an undergraduate degree in Engineering Physics, for God's sake. I console myself saying that there has been a Great Writer who also had the same major (see Pynchon, Thomas. Though, admittedly, he dropped out of Cornell before he could graduate). It is also fair to say that I don't have a pretty face that can adorn the back flap (see Lahiri, Jhumpa) or a literary mother who can tell me what not to do so I can win the Booker prize that she couldn't (see Desai, Kiran). Perhaps I also have a serious shortage of Exotic and Adventurous Life Events (see Pierre, DBC or Roberts, Gregory David).

All I have is this blog. Now what do i do? And no, I will not convert this into a sex blog. Though that appears to be the quickest way to get noticed by some publisher type (see Belle de Jour). What's the male equivalent to chick-lit anyway? Metro-lit? Or do I have to invent a whole new genre now?

Oh, man ( As opposed to oh, boy)

I just realized today that I am in the midst of my first serious real-life (read non-online) platonic relationship.

I think I can safely say I've grown up now.

high fidelity

The other day, She asked me why my walls were bare. I'm afraid I didn't know. Every room I've ever inhabited has been distinguished by its distinct lack of personality, and its whole-hearted embrace of the anonymity that I have so craved over the years. The present one is no different. Which makes it quite ideal, in all its unabashed nakedness, for my first megalomaniac pursuit in years.

This hostel room will have a poster. Or a collage of pictures, if you would prefer to call it that. Someone once took the trouble to make me (why me, God only knows) an electronic birthday card which was a montage of all the images that person believed represented my life, and this poster of mine will be similiar in concept, but vastly grander in execution. With pictures of everyone, and everything, that has ever had an infuence on me.

Of course, before I get down to making the poster, I have to, in true Nick Hornby tradition, make a List. Now that I think of it, I really have missed making long meandering Lists, and responding to long inane Tags. Honestly.

Anyway, this is it. I'll append it perpetually, of course.

List of Top Twenty Five Influences on MC's life
(in no particular order)

1. Mom. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I'm momma's boy, and proud it.
2. James Dean. Rebel without a Cause. Plus, he's my lucky wallpaper.
3. Midori. My favourite mistake. And my most well-intentioned apologies, as always.
4. Stone Cold Steve Austin. Don't laugh.
5. Almost Famous. If only for Penny Lane wearing a fur coat and that dazzling smile.
6. Nick Drake. Has there ever been a better to ode to sadness than Pink Moon?
7. The Fountainhead. I was young, and very impressionable.
8. The Lorentz Attractor. Where science meets art. My favourite juxtaposition.
9. The Catcher in the Rye. Just made me so sad.
10. Franny & Zooey. Just made me so happy.
11. Lost in Translation. Could yet turn out to be the story of my life.
12. Nevermind. Soundtrack of my teenage years.
13. Blow-up. Michelangelo Antonioni at his greatest. And the last scene. Oh man.
14. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. More than the film, the concept.
15. The Laughing Buddha. For being a source of solace.
16. Roy Keane. Only one Keano.
17. Piggy. Could have made this list for me. And got most of it right.
18. Speech Processing. Undergraduate thesis. Work of art, if I may say so myself.
19. R.E.M. I would play Automatic for the People as I killed myself too.
20. Snay. Kindness, personified. Never was 'nice' more appropriate. Or 'adorable'.
21. Economics. My biggest eye-opener in a decade.
22. The Shins. What they said in Garden State about New Slang was bang on.
23. Gregory House. I'd give anything for a little of the genius and the acerbic wit
24. Good Will Hunting. Or Elephant. You'd never have thought the same man could make both.
25. The Stone Roses. Enough said.

What remains now is finding the pictures. And putting them together. This is going to be so much fun.

I am the resurrection

I miss watching myself waste away here. I had quite forgotten that there's nothing quite like an occasional out-of-body experience. Raises vicarious existence to a whole new level, besides other things.

Epiphany

That was worth waiting 22 years for.
Thanks, everyone.

Wish, as ever, again.

I just wish tomorrow goes by as quickly , and as painlessly, as possible .

The sun is the same
in a relative way,
But you're older.
Shorter of breath, and
One year closer to death.

beam me up, scottie

i wouldn't have had it any other way. and perhaps, you wouldn't, too. therein lies our salvation, our cumulative ashes shooting up into the stars in a Gene Roddenberry moment of inspiration, going where no one had gone before, if only in a cliched lame punchline sort of way that really does neither of us any good. but then again, in my defence, what does? we rejoiced in our collective misery, and celebrated our affinity towards the wretchedness we made our live-in home. a wretchedness borne not out of despair, but of the impending doom that became the child of the inevitability of our divergent futures.

a perfect day for bananafish

Everyday, I get just that little bit closer to finding the perfect excuse for killing myself.

twenty one

Go on.
Blow the candles out, and make your wish.

death in the afternoon

Today, I imagined myself telling the drama teacher that I had just attempted to kill myself. And pulled out at the last second because the sweetness of the poison interfered with my metaphysical notion of death.

As mood elevators go, it wasn't bad.

question

did i ruin your life too? And yours, and yours?

Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

- William Carlos Williams

The 'Literature and Life' teacher looks like Anne Bancroft, pronunces romance 'ro-maaaan-ce', and spouts Zen poetry. I am suitably impressed.

What's more, I feel like writing again.

Thank you

Elvis has left the building.

Wish, as ever.

I just wish tomorrow goes by as quickly , and as painlessly, as possible .

The sun is the same
in a relative way,
But you're older.
Shorter of breath, and
One year closer to death.