Great Balls of Fire!

I am busy now. Semi-intelligible post with clever insight into my complicated creative processes to follow. soon. Meanwhile, this news story precipitated a mad rush to my workstation, so I could post a link to my blog, and illuminate you. Seriously. This could be the next big breakthrough for global warming. And to think the answer to global warming was literally right there in front of us. Truly, this is joyous news for most women (and some unfortunate men) everywhere. OMFGLOLCATS!!~

In the future, there wil be robots.

So I'm surfing the net the other day, and I'm reading up on Ray Kurzweil and transhumanism and Kevin Warwick and awesome cool rad stuff like that right, and I'm thinking how cool it's gonna be in the future. The coming singularity and how its going to transform the very definition of what it means to be human. Powerful supercomputing devices seamlessly integrating with your mind, forming a separate 'intelligent' neural network that can interface with the myriad digital devices planted across the environment, exchanging information at hyper-real speeds, and putting us more in touch with our surroundings then we ever thought possible. Awesome. I could go on and on about it until I eventually hyperventilate and choke myself to death so instead i thought I'd blog about it, and get all the hoo ha out of my system. So I'm typing and googling away to glory, when I notice this article about something called a 'Grim Meathook Future'. Now the grim meathook future is a pretty scary concept. But what's really quite ironic, to me, as an Indian, is the fact that the global community is only now waking up to this very real state of affairs. Grim meathook future? How's about the very real, very scary, grim meathook PRESENT being inflicted upon more than half the world's population? Forget about the idiots in Israel and Palestine and the fucking morons in Afghanistan and Iraq, fighting over land and oil, what about the millions fighting for a share of food and basic human amenities in places like Somalia, Sudan, Uganda, Kashmir, Bihar, Assam, Tibet, Myanmar, North Korea, East Timor, Kosovo, fuck it, just hit google earth and pick a random spot on the globe. Its the way we are now. We're living your "future" dammit! And I'm reading all these righteous, 'aware', worried essays about the impending 'grim meathook future' and I have the irresistible urge to point and go 'ha ha' like Nelson on the Simpsons.

Soul-consumingly supermassive amounts of FAIL

In the field of human relationships, I have the maturity, patience and know-how of a 2 year old autoerotic chimp. I am a fucking moron. And an idiot. After the latest fiasco, my ego is the equivalent of a priceless ninth century Ming vase in a three stooges movie. For those of you who havent been lucky enough to ever see a three stooges movie, a) go watch one now, they're totally worth it and b) ess ess I mean its fragile. Delusions of happiness, anyone? Igor! Fetch me my time machine! No such thing you say? Oh well, bring me a quart of tequila, a pound of turkish hashish, and a welding torch. Im going to MAKE one.

Look on my sweaty bread, ye mighty, and despair.

No matter where you live or what you do, eventually, the dust gets in. The dust is everywhere, always trying to reclaim it all. It’s a constant reminder of mortality, of the fact that no matter how advanced the human race thinks it is, we're all still bound to the dust of this planet, the stuff of our origin. The gnostics knew this, they called it the qellipot, meaning the inherent impurity of all that is. The great tragedy of mass and solidity. Pure energy, the breath of the unbeheld, tainted by the filth of matter, the common dross of the world. The authors of the bible, quick to appropriate this fundamental of esoteric philosophy, reshaped it as "In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.".

Indeed, from dust we came, and to dust shall we all return. But in the meantime, is it too much to ask for some respite from all this goddamned dust in my room!? I sweep, and I clean, and I wipe and still the damn stuff gets in! Some days I feel like Howard Hughes must have felt, shutting himself off from the outside world, hiding from his life, obsessively and compulsively sanitizing his room, peeing into empty milk bottles… Okay, scratch that last bit..but you get the gist of it. This morning, I could barely see the keys on the laptop for all the dust coating it!..and now I've lost my train of thought..

Oh fuck it all, I'm locked up in here writing a fucking ode to dust, and there's a ton of stuff I should be doing instead. What a waste of a perfectly good life. And then it hits me, why I started writing this piece of crap in the first place.. I saw my brand new laptop all covered up with dust, and I realized what a perfect fucking metaphor it was for my life. Like I have all these awesome tools, and skills, and instead of using them and pushing them to their limits, I'm just sitting around, wasting time, wasting breath, allowing the dust to lay claim to it all.

And when its all finally gone, I can sit on my throne of dust, and say, "Call me Ozymandias; king of kings".

Notes From the Lunatic Fringe

I predict that in the near future, perhaps as soon as 2012, there will be an established human presence on the moon. And I predict that it will be the result of a joint indo-chinese lunar mission. Given the core importance of the moon in chinese mythology, as in Indian occultism, it wont be any surprise if the first people to actually try and establish a base on the moon are the Chinks and the Brownies. Yup. That's right, there's gonna be paan stains on the Mare Tranquillitatis, and chinese lanterns strung along the Montes Taurus. And there aint nothing you can do about it.

Being an unemployed bigot, I tend to have a lot of free time, and I use this time to surf the internet for news, comics, porn, dvd rips of movies, porn, porn, and err.. more porn.

Ahem. Yes. Well. To change the topic, here are some interesting news items from way back when (yes, 2004 is now officially "way back when". Face it buddy, you're just NOT getting younger.)

Back in 2004, the ironically named Sun Laiyan, head of the chinese space program talked about their plans for a moon mission and then just a few months ago, shazam!

Meanwhile, the Indians, still wrapped up in the whole colonial-era "truly, us brown folks are white man's burdens yes yes i am apu god save the queen hrundi v bakshi pleased to meet you thank you come again" fugue, are busy kissing american arse. But at least we're getting there.

Not to be left behind, the japs are already up there, sending back breathtaking high def images and videos such as this one.

A view of the earth from lunar orbit. Mag-fucking-nificent. Of course, it goes without saying that while we watch these videos, those sneaky buggers are planting mutant shinobi dragon ninjas all OVER the dark side of the moon.. Feh.

The message is clear, however. Those crazy Americans can stay earthbound and fight all the wars they want. We've got tickets to ride, and baby we dont care. Bring on the Rutles!!! :D


So what does all this boil down to? How is a human presence on the moon going to benefit ME, you ask. Well, to be perfectly honest with you, i could care less about sending men to the moon. Or anywhere else. I just wanted to share this hilarious little image with everyone.

Harold and Kumar go to . . . the moon.

Tales from the Dreamlands. Part One. ....Maybe.

The other night, I fall asleep, and when i wake up, Im back in the dream city of Carathis. Fuckbunnies. I have no happy memories of this place. I suppose trade was improving, and the city seemed to have prospered from it since the last time I was here. Certainly, the streets looked cleaner, though they were still lined with merchants selling their wares on either side, said wares copious in their variety and quantity, and said streets being thronged by an equally dizzying multitude of people. Note that i use the term 'people' in a very loose manner, blanketing sentient and uh, not-so-sentient organisms of every conceivable and inconceivable size, shape and form. But no matter what form life may take, some things are common to us all. As i was soon to find.

I must have found my way into a local dive, because the next thing i know, im sitting at this dingy bar, with a draught of Grok in my hand. Grok is kind of like beer. If your idea of beer is boiled and tri-filtered Yak urine. So Im sitting at the bar, minding my own business, wondering how on Earth to get back to..err..Earth, when there's a loud "slam!" and something heavy hits the floor. Obviously, I assume its the end of the world, and tipping my stool backward, fall to the floor, and cower under the bar, gripping my mug of Grok like a weapon (from which I didnt spill a drop, im proud to say). But instead of Yahweh's vengeance, what i find on the floor is a Lemurian policeman. Now Lemurians are legendary when it comes to drinking, and its something of a Lemurian tradition to be a cop. Kind of like the Irish, actually. Hmm..i wonder if there's something there..but I digress. Back to the bar. So im under the bar, and this Lemurian is under the bar, and it seems like he was the chap responsible for the "slam" i heard, having had one too many draughts of Grok, which is quite unusual, for a Lemurian. (Not the drinking, the falling after the drinking bit. There's no such phrase as "..too much to drink.." in any self respecting Lemurian's phrasebook) And he's wearing a policeman's uniform. So i do what any sane, honourable man would do in my place. I rifle the bastard's pockets for money. I find a dead fish, a rubber band, and some loose change. No money. Fuckin' coppers, cheap son of a bitch must be running a tab, i think. Then i see this piece of paper he's clutching in his hand, and i proceed to pry it from his cold, sozzled fingers. Nobody's stopping me from doing all of this, by the way, and this is quite common in any city of the dreamlands. They'd be doing the same to me, if I were to pass out from too much Grok. But i dont want to push my luck, and having recovered the scrap, i drop a coin onto the counter, and stumble on out of the joint.

The night air is refreshing, and I can feel my head clear up. So i fumble in my jacket for a cancer stick, light it up, and inhale, till i can feel my head getting fuzzy again. Better. I move towards the mouth of the alley, and just there is a broken streetlight, that i hope will cast enough of a glow to make out what's written on the scrap of paper. The paper is carefully folded, three times, and written on it, in an even, steady hand, is a letter...

Ennui and Mild Aversion in Mumbai - Uno

It was a dark and stormy night. It was 11 in the morning. It was 20 years into the future. It was the LOST island. I cant remember now. Right, lets take it from the top.

It was 7 in the morning when my carcass was thrown out of the bus. I dusted m'self off, and squinted against the sun. I was under a great big flyover. A hulking, unbelievable thing, looming over the landscape like some ominous leviathan, antediluvian and dangerous. Hackles were duly raised. The place was deserted. Fucking empty. A signboard stood on the shoulder of the road, pristine, white. An obscenity against nature. "Welcome to Vashi" it proclaimed. I bared my teeth at it. This was no time for inanities. I felt like a cat had shat on my brain, and then wiped its arse on my tongue. I crawled into a ditch, tugging at my knapsack, and curled up, foetal. I was never a morning person.

Flash cut to a seedy hotel somewhere in Bombay. Its 11 am. The autowallah i've hired has brought me to the "Hotel Krishna : Working toilets, comfortable beds, TV service". That's the name of the place. The whole chimichanga. I stagger into the reception area, consisting of a large desk crammed into the corridor of the third floor. The first and second floors of the building house offices, a dentist, and a veterinarian, in that order. Im still wondering whether "TV" service is short for television or transvestite, (knowing Bombay, its probably both) when I notice the cabron at the desk. Short, greasy, Gujarati gentleman. (In India, where you come from is always an adjective, simultaneously insulting and descriptive, in equal measure) He pushes the register towards me, and I sign the first name that comes to mind. Spartacus Kousis. Yes, that's right. I'm Spartacus! He yawns, hands me a key, room number 11, and slumps back in his chair.

The room is relatively clean, the rats seem amicable enough, and the cockroaches have their turf safely in one corner, under the air conditioner. Which doesnt work. I dont need it anyway, Bombay is humid, and the ceiling fan works just fine. There are no trannies in evidence, but I check the attached loo, just in case. You can never be too sure about these things. I hang up my jacket on the lone chair, which looks like it will collapse under the weight of the leather, and switch on the television. Its "Fear and Loathing.." on some local tv station. Its a fine movie so I lie down on the bed. I get up off the bed. My back feels like its being needled. Repeatedly. I look at the bed, and i can see a fresh bloodstain. This is not good. Had I been stabbed sometime in the night? Was it even my blood? I put a hand to my back, where it hurts, and yes, it's my blood all right. But very little. On screen, Johnny Depp has just consumed some adrenochrome, and he says the weasels are closing in. He's looking right at me when he says this. I lock the door. This is scary shit. I dont want any weasels in my room. Reptiles arent welcome either.

I get to the loo, and take my shirt off. I twist my head around to look at my back in the mirror. There's a patch of dark blood on my back. Down from the middle of my back to my waist. I feel like the ferrets are closing in on the weasels. And I can feel their beady eyes. Fuckers. Damn those ferrets. I grab a towel, wet it, and wipe at my back. The blood comes off, but the dark patch stays. Those bastard ferrets are getting closer. It feels like they're clawing at my throat, which has gone dry. What the fuck IS this on my back? I take another towel from the rack near the washbasin, this is the small towel you're supposed to wipe your hands with. I wet this one too, and swipe it over the stain. All the blood is gone now. Some of the black 'stain' wipes off with it. The ferrets are fornicating with the weasels now. They're screeching and clawing and there's the smell of blood in the air. I can taste iron, and bile, at the back of my throat. I literally rub my eyes and stare at the mirror for some time. Then I wash my face, wipe my back down with some toilet paper (both towels are bloody and useless at this point) and head back into the room. I rummage in my bag for my pipe, fill the bowl with the last of my stash, and light up. Its time to reflect.

Meanwhile, Raoul Duke and Dr. Gonzo are racing down a runway, chasing a plane. The weasels must be after them, hell for leather. I cant follow whats happening on screen. I cant remember what happened last night, before I boarded that bus. The ferrets must have caught up with me after all, i guess, 'cos apparently i have a great big conchetumare of a tattoo on my back. And it wasnt there yesterday. And the fucker is still bleeding.

I hate Bombay already.