The Blackbeard Chronicles

Arma-goddamn-motherf*****g-geddon

2011-04-21T02:21:00.002+05:30

It's the end of days.

Okay, so it was the end of days. The end of all sorts of thingummies, really, this year and a half since I left home and hearth and moved to Stinkytown-by-the-Sea. So, yeah, it's been a while since I've banged out shit on this here page (and am pleasantly surprised that (i) this blog of mine hasn't atrophied; and (ii) people still have me on their feeds - huzzah).

Lots of muddy water has flown under the bridge these past several months, including:

(i) end of celibacy - I got married a couple of months back to Firefly (fellow blogger and havoc creator) - would love to put up pictures, but there's some truly grotesque topless ones of me (the wedding ceremony required me to be shirtless. A clothing mishap nearly ensured that I was bottomless too, but that's a story best left for a drunken night).

(ii) end of the 28 year wait - India won the Cricket World Cup - and a rocking final it was too. But had to miss out on the post game celebrations, since I had a bad case of the runs.

(iii) end of having to tell people I looked heavier 'cause I had heavy bones - I now have the flab to support the heavyweight title. Need to hit that jogging track pronto (Firefly is guffawing in the background. So is mu conscience. Shut up.)

(iv) End of using crappy phones. Now I have me a Blackberry (corporate whore) and an iPad (Mac-tard...ok, not just yet - I still love Windows, bugs n all). Though I must say, while the Pad is a brilliant device, I don't think it's ready for the heavy duty blogger just yet. Maybe for semi-blind Twits, er, Twitter users.

Anything else? Not really. Can't say much about work, because you never know when Big Momma, er, Big Brother, might be watching. Suffice it to say that it brings in lots of money, but leaves me drained and terribly unsatisfied at the end of the day. My kingdom for a life filled with stuffy courtrooms.

Time I hit the sack. Been a long day and a longer night on the job. See y'round folks.

On an aside - is 'end of days' grammatically correct?

Also- Twitterati, glitterati, chatterati, and causerati.....you're all just long ass words, wankers.

Testing

2011-04-07T15:06:00.001+05:30

1,2,3...foxtrot, uncle, charlie, kilo...

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Back in Black

2011-03-17T20:42:00.002+05:30

Hello World.
Crowley's back.
Armed with an iPad. This means I can blog on the fly. Allegedly.
Anyhow. Watch this space.
Live long and propagate.
Mr. C

Snippets from the sweatshop

2010-06-03T15:28:00.001+05:30

3AM: Dude, do we qualify as 'harried'?
Crow: Nope. We qualify as 'suicidal'.

China.

2009-10-07T20:00:00.002+05:30

"Would you like to request a song?"

"Nah. They can't sing the ones I want to hear".

In fine, and yet, ab initio.

Dixi.

24

2009-09-30T11:36:00.001+05:30

No, not the Kiefer Sutherland show. 24 is the number of text messages I’ve been getting everyday for the past 2 weeks from random lawyers, asking me to vote for them in the upcoming Bar Association elections. Said messages are irritating, to say the least, and pop up at the oddest of hours (mostly at 2 a.m.), and are corny as hell. A few choice examples:

“Each of us r angels with one wing & we can fly only by embracing each other. KINDLY SUPPORT XYZ FOR VICE PRESIDENT…” (Considering most lawyers out here are men, this little pearl of wisdom brings hideous images to mind.)

“SMILE is like a SIM CARD and Life is like a CELL PHONE. Whenever U insert the Sim Card of a Smile, a beautiful day is activated. XYZ FOR JOINT SECRETARY…” (So, will you pay my cell phone bills if I vote for you?)

“Best Friends Listen 2 each other. XYZ CONVEYS HIGH REGARDS 2 U; CONTESTING FOR MEMBER EXECUTIVE…” (U’re my best fren since wen?)

“Soul of Democracy lies in effective participation. Please Bless, Vote and Support XYZ for MEMBER EXECUTIVE” (A constitutional theorist! SO KEWL!)

“To know ones ignorance is the best part of knowledge. XYZ FOR JOINT SECRETARY…” (I know I’m ignoring this message, and am thoroughly enjoying the sudden influx of knowledge.)

“Those who joyfully leave everything in God’s hand will eventually see God’s hand in everything. XYZ FOR JOINT SECY.” (Has this guy ever heard of Sigmund Freud?)

Clearly, lawyers need to be kept far, far away from bulk messaging sevices.

Sailed the world, climbed mountains, just to find the way to my party....

2009-09-15T13:42:00.002+05:30

Axl Rose wasn’t kidding when he wailed about everybody needing ‘some time on their own’. All I seem to be hearing these days is, “Give me some time”. “Am I going to get paid this month?”, ask I. “Give me some time”, says the office accountant. “Are you going to fix my laptop?”, I ask my AMC guy. “Give me some time”. “Can you gas up my car please?”. “Give me some time”. The list is endless, keeps becoming longer each day (and sometimes late at night), and is beginning to get on my nerves.

Anyway, this is a chicken and the egg debate, so I’m only venting for the time being. Post 1^st November, the more grating of these questions will (hopefully) be answered by, “Right Away”.

In other news – my move to Bombay is now imminent, and, since life seems to be coming full circle as usual, I’m going back to my corporate whoring days. Call me a sellout, I don’t care anymore. I’ll have to justify time spent on the job (or not spent) to a higher God (boss-to-be), but at least I’m going to be paid well, and won’t have to constantly chase clients to pay up. I'll be away from the family, will have people to hang out with, won't have to worry about power cuts....and so on.

The move also means a drastic lifestyle change. No more spinning music at the local pub. No more watching movies alone (with the induction of Ms. Firefly into self’s life). No more zipping along the roads at high speeds, because, well, it’s BOMBAY. The only zipping around one can do is in the wee hours of the morning, slaloming through all the potholes.

Also, no more blogging. Yes, that’s true. I won’t get that sort of time, plus the new firm has a strict policy about free speech, and unfortunately, they already knew I had a blog (just wait till I find the snitch). So, till I figure some way around this little obstacle, this post, and the few to follow, will be the last you lot will hear from me in a while.

Since this page may have to be shut down shortly, here’s some shameless promotion for a band of lads who truly deserve it. For people who love rock n roll, the new band on the block to tune in to, is The Circus. I’ve known these kids for a while now, and have jammed with one of them. They’ve ripped across the Indian gig circuit over the past two years, have featured on Channel [V]’s LaunchPad, and will soon be releasing their first record, From Space. Do give them a listen, kind people, because their music is really a lot of fun. Oh, and also, take a gander at The Constellation Project.

Stop.

Creeping Death-no Takeover-yeah.

2009-09-01T11:43:00.002+05:30

DISNEY BUYS OUT MARVEL FOR $4 BN

DR. FINKELSTEIN TAKES OVER ACADEMY

Logan devastated – claims will shave sideburns in depression

“X????? Goddamnit!!!!”

Doctor Not-so-Feelgood

2009-08-31T17:31:00.002+05:30

I’m a fundamentally healthy person, except for my bad back, and that I sometimes wake up in the morning dearly regretting what I had for dinner the night before. And, since many members of my clan are doctors of one sort or the other, hospital visits and the like are things that happen to other people. For me, proper medical advice is but a phone call away (or has been until now at any rate – who knows what’ll happen when I move to Bombay?). My ailments are sorted out over the phone, or the kindly uncle/aunt/cousin drops by for a visit.

I’ve now done roughly ten years of unhealthy (and sometimes semi-cooked) food from roadside stalls, pizza outlets, and the pots and pans of assorted roommates and single friends, who think they can cook. I’ve done many nights of cheap and not-so-cheap alcohol, and far too many nights of secondhand smoke. I’ve done too many 5-meal-a-day days, and have gone hungry for 2, sometimes 3 days in a row. Exercise has been limited to walking from hostel to the classroom block/library, and the odd game of volleyball (in lawschool) and walking from my office to court and back (now).

Not a particularly healthy lifestyle, as you can see. But y’know what? However ill I may have been in all these years, there’s nothing that couldn’t be solved by the 3 As – analgesics, antacids, and antihistamines. Ergo, there was never any need for me to look up what problems my body may have been going through, or was at risk of going through.

But hang out with women on a regular basis, and it’s a whole new world of pharmacopeia. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been duly instructed on the following:

- Pap smears;

- Rhinitis – allergic and otherwise;

- Deep vein thrombosis;

- Cellulitis;

- Vitamin B-12 deficiency;

- Ectopic pregnancies (!!); and

- Assorted allergies and antibodies.

All of this with detailed verbal ‘memos’ on symptoms, cures, tests etc. Informative, I’m sure, but I’m still trying to figure out where a lot of the above fits into my (i.e. the male) health chart.

Oh well, information can’t really hurt, can it?

Also, I do not take kindly to people calling me up at odd hours and demanding from me names of morning-after pills. I don’t run a frikkin pharmacy, capisce!!!!?

My body lies, but still I roam.

2009-08-11T15:22:00.000+05:30

Delhi’s always been my one true home (and despite what follows in this post, that will always remain true). Not a four-walls-one-roof-we’re-all-a-happy-family-within sort of home, but someplace where I can walk blindfolded, secure in the knowledge that I’ll always get to where I want. The city of my birth, my childhood, my adolescence and my adult life (well, most of it); where I’ve seen beauty queens parade down main roads on the tops of decked-up minivans, and where I’ve seen people being burnt alive inside public transport. Where I’ve traveled in a Mercedes, a DTC bus packed with seventy human bodies, redolent of sweat, fear, happiness and sorrow, and an air-conditioned subway train, all in the space of a few hours. Where I’ve died many lives, just to be reborn the next morning with the milkman ringing my doorbell. No matter where I may live, or may have lived, my soul will always roam within the walls of Jahanpanah, Khan Market, India Gate and Connaught Circus.

On the other hand, I have my home within my home, which is not a particularly endearing place at the moment. Le Corbusier, architect and planner, once said that a house is a machine to live in. I agree with the man, at this point in time. I’ve been feeling like a worn out cog in this machine, and I need a refurbishment.

Melancholy thoughts, indeed, since I’m faced with the prospect of leaving it all behind, and not knowing when I’ll return to take my place in this city’s destiny (though I certainly hope it will be soon). On the other hand, the new city brings freedom, friends, love and certain other things sorely missing in my life, so, yeah, bully for that.

As for me, I hocked my brains, packed my bags and headed west – Dave Mustaine

Victoria watches and thoughtfully smiles. She’s taking me to my home – Mike Portnoy.

Amen

Twisted Sister

2009-07-21T13:06:00.003+05:30

"Oh, you're back in Bombay, is it?"

"Yup"

"You've decided to visit Firefly once a month till you're together, is it?"

"Well, at least once a month, yes"

"Once a month? You're like her period, man!!!"

Sigh. How do you respond to something like this? Am I a bloody, annoying monthly occurrence, or am I a bloody annoying monthly occurrence. This requires some interpretation, My Lady Leonie.

I'm a lawyer. Get me outta here!!!!

2009-07-18T22:38:00.002+05:30

That's what I say to myself pretty much every fucking Friday morning, when I'm sitting at my desk at 7:30 a.m., with yet another 300-page brief to read in under an hour, despite knowing that the judge will take all of 5 seconds to say, "Sorry. Case dismissed."

So, this Friday I said to the Bossman, "Sir, I'd like to be excused on Monday". "Of course, enjoy yourself" said the man. And, a few hours later, I found myself in the city I hate the most, Bombay (and before people start the Delhi vs. Bombay debate, I'd like to clarify that I quite like the people of Bombay. I just hate the city. It's like New York with incessant rains and more potholes than roads).

But it's good to be back with Firefly, even if it's only for the weekend before I head back to more 20-hour workdays. Rain thunders down outside Firefly's window. Firelfy, her flatmate and I are aimlessly watching Lipstick Jungle on the tube. Well, I'm aimlessly watching, the other two show rapt attention. Despite the fact that I think Candace Bushnell is an idiot, I find myself chuckling at the show.

I think it's the 2 large glasses of cheap port wine I've got inside me. Say what you want, this port crap is potent. And at Rs. 120, it's worth every pennt...epnny....PENNY. Fuck, there's a rubber duck singing on TV.

Bliog say Hello to first ever drunk blog. Have a good weekend, y'all. I certainly fucking am. Ha.

I hereby submit for My Lords' consideration...

2009-07-10T13:46:00.001+05:30

“In its simplest form, dividend stripping is a bit like bed and breakfasting a share-cum-dividend.”

“Shares in a company were sold pregnant with dividend to a share dealer, who bought them for Rs. X…”

“It was tax avoidance, naked and unshamed…”

“It can be seen that the forward strip is not very different from the backward strip except, really, for the period for which the stripper held the shares…”

“…a business activity or an investment without a profit motive is not any more than a pickle is candy.”

You’ve got to love a verbose Income Tax Assessment Officer. Ha.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.

2009-07-07T14:42:00.003+05:30

So much for Workaholics Anonymous and getting used to not being a quasi tenant at the office. Summer hols are done with, the Supreme Court has reopened, and the torture begins. I don’t hate my job, or my profession, but somehow the prospect of turning up for work at 7:30 am for days on end isn’t particularly savoury. Certainly not when you’re supposed to have read about 600-700 pages of badly drafted legalese in the dying hours of the day before. And certainly not when you’ve got to run around in three layers of clothing from 10 in the morning till 3 in the afternoon.

Plus, everyone seems to be unavailable for a drink these days. This sucks. After being a lone drinker for a couple of years, I’ve now gotten used to having some company at the pub, even the irritating sort (hey, you can tell them to STFU). So, a drink is out too. Which, I suppose, is a good thing - saving money and saving my liver.

And no Firefly around with her brilliant tea, her supercommonsensical approach to most things, and her ability to soothe the savage etc. etc. That’s the worst thing to be amiss.

(Yes, I sound pathetically besotted, because I AM pathetically besotted. It has its advantages.)

Why can’t my lord and master take up more out of town litigation, and leave us idiots in peace? Why must he insist on moving the office? It’s really quite nice in this present hole, walking distance from court, dogs in the backyard, ample parking space. Sigh. Why the fuck am I whining so much?

Shoot me again, I ain’t dead yet.

2009-06-27T18:06:00.002+05:30

This past week I tried out a small lifestyle change, which I’m sort of beginning to like. I didn’t go to office at all. Ok, maybe I stepped in once or twice to pick up my mail, bills etc., but I’m proud to say that my visits were sans laptop, files, and briefcase, and didn’t last beyond a few minutes - something I haven’t done in the five-odd years since I graduated from law school.

This isn’t exactly Workaholics Anonymous, but it was fun spending a week doing nothing except eating (lots), sleeping (very little), watching movies (including, regrettably, Bride Wars - don’t judge me on that, folks, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse), and driving around town in my jalopy. Oh, and being interviewed by BBC Radio on how to deal with the heat wave in Delhi. Stay indoors and get laid, say I.

So, except that fact that Delhi’s currently like the inside of a blast furnace, this summer vacation went off rather splendidly. My intended (but poorly planned) trip to Singapore would’ve been the strawberries in the cream, but clearly, a visa and my good looks aren’t enough to get me there, I need dough for tickets, which I seem to be a bit short of at the moment.

And since we’re on the subject of money, I hereby curse clients who volunteer to pay up long-pending legal bills, and then renege at the very last minute. You know who you are, and I hope you remember the consequences of fucking around with a lawyer’s fee.

Also, since we’re on the subject of changing lifestyles, some of you asked me (tacitly and explicitly) in my last post, whether I was getting married. Of course I am! I have no intentions of spending the rest of my life being Cranky Crowley on this blog. I need to bounce this shit off a real person at some point. To quote a close friend (upon being asked why he wasn’t on Facebook) – “Sorry, I have real friends. Don’t need Facebook”. So, yes, I am trotting down the aisle (in my case around the fire), though when that might happen is a moot point (the fact that it will happen, is not).

Canned humour

2009-06-11T20:40:00.002+05:30

So, boys and girls, if someone ever gifts you one of these:

DO remember to take off the plastic covering before trying to open the damn can; it opens a LOT easier thataway. Or else you can be total retards like Crowley (giftee) and Firefly (gifter) who tried opening the thing using a hammer and a knife, before the bottom fell out with a soft ‘plop’ and the bottle was sitting pretty in Crowley’s lap. It was all very cute and kitschy, sitting on Firefly’s bedroom floor and laughing over it, but you don’t want this sort of thing popping up on YouTube. Beware.

I was away to Mumbai, but now I’m back. For how long though, I’m not too sure, given recent turns of circumstances and destiny. But fret not I won’t be away again for much longer. Just keep in mind that the secret to a fun time can well lie in little things like Cuba Libres, cheese omelettes, masala chai, and watching Crank and Crank 2 back to back on a humid afternoon.

Reflections on furlough to Mumbai:

1. J. J. Abrams is a class act, Cupcake.

2. Cinema goers in Mumbai are required to stand up and sing the national anthem before the movie starts. The screen displays a large Indian flag during the recital. This is touchingly patriotic, but very, very odd.

3. I’m now able to cook and make myself useful in a domestic environment. This is good news for some, though perhaps not for the cleaning lady.

4. I want a home with thousands of neatly catalogued comic books, every gaming console known to man, and maybe a Dali print or two on the walls.

5. Tea with ginger and black pepper is a fantastic aphrodisiac. Try it sometime.

Drummer's Advice.

2009-05-02T15:38:00.001+05:30

I’ve finally realised how ridiculous I look air-drumming at the pub.

Screw you, I still love doing it.

Kick the Bucket List

2009-04-28T20:29:00.002+05:30

Although I’ve put up a few posts earlier on the stupid things people say to me when I’m dj-ing, I’ve never actually made a list. I discovered today that a bunch of bright sparks on Facebook started a whole group on the subject. It’s called ‘Things you should never say to a DJ’. If you’re on Facebook (and I know most of you are), this group’s page is worth a visit. Makes for some great laughs.

Anyhow, this is a list which these guys put up (apologies for pinching it) with some not-so-witty replies cooked up by yours truly:

1. Play something good, something we can dance to!
(How about ‘The Gravedigger’? You ignorant bastards ever heard of Franz Schubert?)

2. Would you play something with a "beat"!
(Wot, wot? Chris Adler hammering away at a gazillion BPM is not a ‘beat’?)

3. I don't know who sings it and I don't know the name of the song
(Pity. How about a kiss then, missus?)

4. Everybody wants to hear this!
(Did you see a board outside that said this was a democracy?)

5. Nobody wants to hear this!
(Well, plug yer ears. That’s what all that parsley on your salad is for)

6. Everybody will dance if you play it!
(Tell you what? If you let me give you an enema with this beer bong, I’ll play it. Deal?)

7. I can get laid if you play it!
(Can we film it? The guy who owns this place wants to branch out into the porn biz)

8. I want to hear it next!
(You’ll have to get your head out of your arse for that, midget)

9. What do you have?
(Two knuckle dusters and a short temper)

10. Hey, nobody can dance to this!
(That’s the general idea)

11. Play it soon because we're leaving!
(Oh, don’t let me detain you (said Vetinari-style))

12. Please play "**********", it’s my birthday
(SILENCE. I KILL YOU!!!!!!)

13. When will you play it?
(Read de leeps, cabrón. Feck off.)

14. My dad/roommate/ex wife/stepson owns the club, please play
(Can you get a signed affidavit on that one? Notarised, too, if you don’t mind?)

15. Can I DJ?
(Can I be the President of the United States?)

16. I’m a DJ also, you should play ***** and mix it with *****
(Damn. Hope you don’t charge for that kind of advice)

17. I'm the owner’s girlfriend and he wants you to play this song...
(HEY ALONSO. DOES YOUR WIFE KNOW YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?)

18. Can you please play it again?
(Can you please go away?)

19. Is it gonna be this music all night?
(Nope. You’re gonna be doing a pole dance after this. With a naked wire.)

20. Can you play song no "**" on the disc "*" of "Random unheard of compilation" CD
(Do I look like your personal CD rack?)

21. Hey! Where can I buy dr**s"?
(Police station. Just around the corner, mate)

22. Can I leave my coat in here?
(It might get eaten, though)

23. Where is the cloakroom/toilets/bar/exit??
(Close your eyes. Turn right. And RUN)

24. Can you make an announcement that it’s my Birthday
(What?! You again?!?! I KEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLL YEEWWW)

25. How much should I pay you to play "**********"
(How much should I pay you to shove your head down the toilet?)

(This has actually happened to me. No kidding. 100-buck note stuffed into my shirt pocket)

26. Did you see the girl/boy I came in with ??????
(Oh, so that wasn’t your schnauzer?)

27. Do you have a pen?
(is? Haha. Oh, never mind. Fuck off)

28. Are you the DJ????
(Nope. Undercover cop. Is that a baggie in your pocket?)

29. 'Can I plug my ipod in so you can play MY music'
(Try plugging it in your arse, you won’t need headphones)

30. You Should play (insert name of the current biggest track here) and see how eveybody will dance.
(No. Response. Mind has given up.)

31. Hey! This is a good track! Can I take your cd home???
(Oo. What pretty hair. Can I take your wife home?)

32. Can you play something faster?
(Depends. Can you outrun this cleaver?)

33. Do you have a microphone to shout out my birthday ?
(Right. That’s it. Where’s my chainsaw. You’re shredded wheat, birthday boy)

34. You got any R+B and Hip Hop ? (When playing house) & Vice Versa.
(No. Check the sewage pit out back, though. You might find some homies taking a dip)

35. Can I look thru your music/cds/records
(Sure. 1000 bucks please. Can’t risk the merchandise)

36. Hey, what happens if I pull out this ?
(Oh, not much. I call the bouncer and tell him you were calling his mother names)

37. Can I play with the knobs ?
(MY KNOB? You sick faggot. I KILL YOU)

“I don’t wanna rock, DJ”. Really? Well, I do, so fuck off.

Toy soldiers off to war

2009-04-27T10:46:00.005+05:30

I love an innovative product line.

Needless to say, my kids, if I ever have any, will get the full treatment. I mean, being a Metallibanger is a large part of being a Crowley.

Come, Abelard, for what hast thou to dread? Except linkspam....

2009-04-23T14:40:00.002+05:30

I have a scalpel in my desk drawer, a relic from my junior high biology class. Most people don’t know it, but it’s one of my pet possessions. Small and a wee bit rusty, it’s still razor sharp, and has a duct tape covered handle.

Three times over the past month, I’ve reverently taken it out. Put it on my bed-side table and stared at it for long stretches. Once through the entire night. Wondering what it would be like to run that shiny blade through the veins in my wrists. Or a slight nick on my carotid.

Stress does this to me sometimes. Not suicidal thoughts (this would be a first), but certainly random behavior. Including not posting regularly and putting on weight while food consumption goes down. The past month has been especially rough. The days grow hotter, the pile of pending files and memos grows higher and larger, and the bank balance shrinks in a maelstrom of overdue payments. Friends walk away pissed because I missed dinner/drink dates, missed engagements, missed weddings, missed baby-fucking-naming ceremonies. Yargh.

Love life? Oh, I used to love life. Right now, all I want to do is go at it with a riot shotgun.

Anyway, I’ve been MIA for a while, and thought I’d make up for my absence by putting up an EP (that’s Extended Play for the uninitiated) of a post, explaining my whereabouts.

I’ve been snowed under with work (as always).

I attended a couple of Upper-Class-Twit launch parties (a book launch and a theater company launch), which I thoroughly enjoyed, regardless of being a meddlesome interloper (“Oh, I thought you were in the movie biz. A lawyer? Ew!”)

Felt depressed as shit after watching what everyone thought was the movie of the year. Seriously, this movie can make anybody over the age of 26 feel like an asshole. Watch it.

Also fell in love with one of the female leads in aforementioned movie. Woof. Not that any of these starlet-types would give poor Crow the time of day, but still. WOOF!!!

Met fellow bloggers Chandu and her Boy, over drinks and hunks of delicious meat. Moonshine, can I expect another invite? Soon?

Ran to the hills over Easter weekend for a small music fest. Frigid winds, a nine-cornered lake as a backdrop for the bands, and an audience that was too stuffed with either of food, beer or hash to do little else besides sing along. Perfect little vacation, produced and directed by Happily Unmarried. OST by Parikrama, Ankur Tewari & The Ghalat Family, and Teddy Boy Kill. Go here for pictures.

Oh, and I appeared on a TV talk show too. Was ‘invited’ to allegedly talk about blogging and invasion of privacy. Ended up ranting for a couple of minutes on the need for TV channels to show good taste. Mildly entertaining.

Thanks to the very lovely Pigeon Pie, I spent a few nights trudging through Alexander Pope instead of this, this, and this, as I had originally planned to. Coo, you are an evil wench for making me read poetry. I do hope we meet in the near future so that I can spank your kundi. But only after you’ve handed over that bottle of becherovka you’ve been hiding.

In short, I’ve been a busy, stressed little pirate, and I will totally understand if this blog has been unceremoniously booted off your blogrolls. (Kidding. I won’t understand, actually. Wankers.)

But I do have a story to tell. Something from my past. Which you won’t read about it in this post, no. I still have shit to wade through before this miserable day ends.

Next post it’ll have to be. Wait for it.

Greetings....infidel.

2009-02-28T21:17:00.002+05:30

Achmed, the Dead Terrorist, has been sitting pretty in my head for close to a week now. So, basically, I’ve been going around yelping, “SILENCE…I kill you” at random people. Almost said it to the Bossman, caught myself in time, yeah. But, hey, after a week spent mostly in bed, thanks to food-poisoning and 2 near-fatal car accidents, I’ve got a right to tell people I might decapitate them if they don’t shut their pie holes.

I shouldn’t be feeling too happy and, frankly, I think I need more sleep and get rid of this rope burn around my neck.

But you know what? This feels great.

I should be (a) getting my bank statements together for my tax returns; (b) trying not to move around too much lest my stomach and my head decide to disintegrate yet again; (c) getting my dinosaur Thinkpad back from the bodyshop; and (d) taking my jalopy to the bodyshop to hammer out all the dents those scumbag bikers put in a couple of night ago.

And yet, all I really want to do is go break my neck in a mosh-pit at a Lamb of God concert. Convulse like an epileptic marionette and scream “GUARAN-FUCKING-TEED…..SOMEONE WILL BLEED”!

Well, I certainly want SOMEONE to bleed, and I don’t care who. Let’s see you take this under advisement, jerkweed.

Cold Pine Box

2009-02-07T18:32:00.002+05:30

Dying in Delhi ain't cheap.

My maid's suicidal husband finally passed away last night, succumbing to his hideous burns. His family, for some reason, put in an appearance only once they got the news of his passing. Since the body was badly mutilated, we suggested that the boy be buried in Delhi (his family's based in a remote village in Punjab, on the Indo-Pak border), and tried to arrange for a decent coffin.

It's shocking to find out that a coffin costs around Rs. 8000, even for a below-poverty line denizen like the dead man. To think that I can get a large-sized shelf made from teak wood for that sort of money. A shelf definitely takes up a lot more wood than a coffin.

And, yes, Dear Mr./Ms./Mrs. Anonymous from 2 posts back, I am callous and cold, just in case you have any doubts. But that doesn't mean i don't give it a thought.

Fading sunspots and F.O.B.D.

2009-02-06T15:33:00.002+05:30

Some berk's gone and pinched my Faber-Castel highlighter-cum-pencil-cum flag holder. As if my week wasn't going bad enough.

Give it back, asshole. Or else.

Thought for the day: If your company's called 'Mankind', is it appropriate that you manufacture contraceptive pills labelled 'Unwanted 72'?

Suicidal doomsday machine

2009-02-02T15:51:00.002+05:30

My maid servant’s slightly deranged husband decided to spark up an unusually dull Sunday for all of us.

He tried to kill himself last night.

Nobody quite knows why the crazy bastard walked out of our garage (where he and his wife shack up), poured a bottle of kerosene over his head, and went whump like an oversize magnesium flare. It was all rather melodramatic (or so I’m told), and the hottest conspiracy theory, at the moment, seems to be that the lad was dying for a drop of cheap whiskey, but was broke. So he just decided to go down in a blaze of glory instead (pun certainly intended).

After a night spent driving between home and several hospitals, and a few hours with the local cops (not a pleasant prospect, I can tell you that) gathering ‘evidence’, it turns out that the boy won’t make it through tonight. Not surprising – not with 80% of his body burnt to a crisp.

What’s even scarier is that I feel no fear, revulsion, pity, sorrow or agony when I see this fellow snuff his life out, only a sense of immense exhaustion. Perhaps I need a vacation. Or perhaps I’m not working hard enough.

Superterrorizer Sunday, yeah.

As an unrelated tit-bit, a couple of hours before the aforementioned inferno happened, I was happily moseying in and out of second-hand furniture stores at Amar Colony market (yes Penfold, thanks for the directions, I owe you one). Bookshelves were the order of the day (see previous post), and Crowley’s happy to report that some winners were shortlisted and duly ordered.

There was, however, this rather interesting bookshelf that I came across, and which I would’ve bought on the spot had it not cost Rs. 10,000!!!!! Each shelf of this rack was labeled “HOLOCAUST / ANTI-SEMITISM”. Interesting, yes? It turns out that the furniture store bought this one second hand from the Israeli Embassy.

I mean, is that neat or what? Owning a shelf that was probably used by some Mossad station chief. I think I need to take some womenfolk along…to bargain with the store-owner (since I’m entirely incapable of bargaining).

Any volunteers? Rossie? Nimps? Penfold? Syrup? (Free beer and cigarettes for volunteers. And cream pie. Pie fights, too.)

Half a page of scribbled lines…

2009-01-30T20:49:00.001+05:30

I like you, I really do. Honest.

But I sit back and think – do I need you next to me on my bed? Can I actually share that space with you? Do I need you staring at me from the passenger seat of my car – staring at me each time I stare out the left window?

Do I need you looking down at me from my desk, as I slouch in my executive chair, trying to read boring legal briefs and trying to avoid your inviting looks? Do I need to know that you’re prancing in the background (all over it, actually) when I’m bent over my food?

Do I need to run back home in a frenzy each night to make sure you’re safe – to make sure you’re still all there – to make sure nobody’s taken you away from me?

Do I need to pledge to you, for better or for worse, in sickness and health, the remaining years of my life?

More importantly, do I want to do all of the above?

I don’t need to, but I guess I certainly want to. I mean, they’re my books, my precioussess. I couldn’t leave them to rot. No fucking way.

I need new bookshelves, yes.

‘Just a little patience’ just don’t cut it…

2008-12-13T14:20:00.002+05:30

when you’ve gotta deal with Chinese Torture......

Death and All His Grannies.

2008-12-06T21:04:00.001+05:30

It makes my heart bleed.

Why in the whole wide world would you nominate Metallica (hoo yeah), Kings of Leon, Kid Rock, The Raconteurs and fucking Coldplay for the same Grammy category?!

I mean. COLDPLAY. Jesus on a crutch. Yeah, I’m sure they’ve got fans (but then, so do MIDI ringtones), but, what the hell, they need a bunch of categories for themselves. Like, Best Lullaby Performance (Clocks), or, Song Most Likely to Kill Your CD Lens (Jello. Er. Yellow).

But Best Rock Album? Are you shittin’ me? But then, these are the same wallies who gave Jethro Tull the first ever Grammy for a Hard Rock/Metal Performance, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.

It gladdens me to no end that Satch’s suing these bastards for ripping off stuff from Is There Love in Space. Go Satch! Need a lawyer? I’m all yours.

Coming soon to a screen near you.

2008-11-09T17:11:00.001+05:30

The latest Crowley blockbuster.

Ah, hell. Who am I trying to hoodwink? Yes, well, I’ve been away for a while, and at one point was considering shutting down Blackbeard’s saga once and for all. But I’ve reconsidered (temporarily anyway).

Don’t have anything interesting to say, except, perhaps, rant a wee bit about two things that have been bugging me a lot over the past week.

First, my congratulations to Barack Hussein Obama, Esq., for being voted President of the United States.

I’m sure he loves the fact that most of America voted for him. I’m sure he’d also love (nay, amused with) the fact that thousands of people sitting in India are celebrating his win, though (a) none of these people actually voted for him (they’re not Americans or American citizens, so it figures…though they did follow all his speeches, yes); (b) they’re cheering him on despite the fact that, well, they’re not really his people, and in the larger scheme of things they don’t mean a monkey’s arse to him; (c) only a miniscule fraction of these people showed an equal interest in their own national General Elections; (d) an even smaller fraction of these people know their own President’s name; (e) most of these chaps will not bother going in to cast their vote at the next Indian general election; and (f) if Obama actually goes through with his pro-American internal policy (and why shouldn’t he…it’s his country and his people) then the same folks who’re cheering his victory here will lose jobs, foreign funding and easy visas. Let’s see if you’re still cheering for him then.

Learn to love your own fucking country, you cunts, before you learn to love someone else’s.

Secondly, where Martin Campbell got a royal flush with Casino Royale, Mark Foster’s Quantum of Solace is a perfect fucking ZERO. I’m a huge Bond fan, so I bunked Court to catch the 2nd show of QoS on the release day. I honestly believe, now, that I could’ve better spent those 230 rupees on two rum and cokes, and waited for the movie to release on DVD. QoS I supposed to carry on with the storyline at the end of Casino Royale, which is, in short, Bond trying to get answers to Vesper Lynd’s death, blah. This is where the plot begins and ends. The remaining 2 hours of the flick are full of plot holes, crap editing, painful underutilization of all characters (except Bond, but then we can’t have that sort of balderdash now, can we?) and insipid action. A scene where Bond outguns a fighter aircraft whilst piloting an unarmed WW2-vintage DC-3, is a little too unbelievable for my liking. Even if it IS in a Bond movie.

Gah. Have a good weekend, y’all.

In which we are patted on the head, and then kicked in the nuts.

2008-10-17T18:58:00.003+05:30

A couple of months back, Crowley decided to commit seppuku, and submitted this here little scribble-pad of his to these folks for a review.

Crowley Asked.

And, yesterday, Received.

Whew.

Needless to say, the Pirate's anal-virginity remains intact. Hallelujah.

Jingle balls…

2008-10-14T19:40:00.007+05:30

December’s still a ways off, but hey, it’s good to have your Christmas list ready early. Considering stock market crashes and global recession, Santa might just decide to cut his world tour short this year.

I don’t (usually) celebrate Christmas. Matter of fact, I don’t celebrate anything. Except, perhaps, not getting mown down by a drunk truck driver every night.

But still. The things I’d like for Christmas (I’m quite sure I’m not getting squat, but one lives in hope):

1. This little monster. The kit in the picture, I mean, not Neil Peart. (Mommy, can I be like Chris Adler when I grow up?)

2. This über sleek writing instrument. It looks like it can break Mach 2 on a lazy Sunday.

3. This swank replacement for my existing faux Blackberry. I used to own a for-real B’berry at one point during my corporate whore-killer years. And then my present boss pinched it. Or borrowed it, as he likes to say.

4. This tome of progressive enlightenment.

5. And more than anything else, I want bushel-loads of these. And I shall use a chainsaw on anyone who dares to pinch even one fucking crumb. I mean it.

Petulant Petals

2008-10-01T19:39:00.003+05:30

Dickhead: Hey, duuuuuuuuude, how’s it going man?

Crowley: Hello, Dickhead. Nothing much. The usual.

Dickhead: So, who’re you doing these days, man?

Crowley: Nobody at the moment. Why do bother asking?

Dickhead: You’re such a loser, yaar. How come you don’t ever get laid?

Crowley: Look, Dickhead, if I wanted to plumb the insides of every manhole, like you do, I’d call on the public works department, not on my dick.

Dickhead: You need finesse, buddy. Think flowers.

Crowley: Flowers? What’s that got to do with anything?

Dickhead: You give a woman flowers, you get laid. Simple.

Obviously some people, like my friend Dickhead, haven’t experienced the modalities, and tribulations arising thereof, of attracting women with flowers. Or maybe these people are just plain lucky when it comes to pistillaceous offerings.

Despite the fact that Crowley likes giving out flowers on certain days to certain persons, Crowley + flowers + women can be a recipe for disaster. I’ve only given women flowers thrice (women I was trying to date i.e.). Well, ok, twice. The third and most recent attempt didn’t quite fructify.

The first attempt bombed, because the lady in question smelt the bunch of white and yellow lilies I got her, and promptly went and threw up. Yes, she did stuff the flowers in a vase on the way to the bog, so I suppose that counts in my favour.

The second attempt ended up in being odd and uncomfortable-like. I ordered for 10 yellow roses to be sent to mon objet du desir on Valentine’s Day (yes, alright, it was also my birthday and was in a celebratory mood for once). The flower company fucked up and delivered 12 red roses. Naturally, the red-rose intent was always there, but to throw it in somebody’s face on Valentines Day was, perhaps, a little premature. My petition, subsequently, was summarily dismissed, with costs to the counsel for defense.

Today was my third attempt. Flowers for the girlfriend, who sits pretty in rather a far off city. Three hours after placing the order, the swank overseas flower vendor emails me and states that their server is experiencing technical problems, and that they can’t process my credit card payment. Clearly, American online entrepreneurship is no better than the Indian sort.

And, er, yes. I’m not single any longer. So, all stalker-type women please take note. Don’t leave suggestive comments on this blog, and refrain from sending me emails of a similar nature. Said girlfriend is an ace hacker. She sometimes forgoes her double-edged battle axe for avant garde Trojan Horses.

And every now and then....

2008-09-25T18:35:00.003+05:30

I love metal and 'noisy music'...

But sometimes....

The Joy of being a killer of breathalyzers.

2008-09-23T20:05:00.003+05:30

So, I get pulled over on Saturday night by a bunch of smiling, super-polite traffic cops. Do remember that it was past midnight, and anyone who looks that happy at that time of night, without the aid of alcohol, should be dealt with extreme caution.

Anyway, the cops have set up this virtual campsite (and not just a simple barricade), complete with a large bus/camper-type vehicle, with floodlights on its roof. One smiling peeler taps my window and asks me where I’m coming from. “Dinner”, say I, matching his silly grin. “Really? Then you must have had a drink, sir.” “Um, yes”, I reply, “but that was a couple of hours ago, and it was only one drink!”

“But sir, you’ve had alcohol, no? Don’t deny it, that’s a nice man. It's quite alright, a drink or two. After all, if you stop drinking, our wine stores will have to shut down. All that lost license fees to the government. Tsk Tsk."

So I sighed, parked my car on the shoulder and stood in line for the breathalyzer test. I had to wait a bit, because there were at least 10 chaps before me, and only 3 machines. Finally, I see a free machine and jump the queue. “Now, sir. Blow hard into this pipe here”. So I blow, and hope nobody’s taking pictures, because it looks kinda obscene.

And wait.

The machine readout states, “Processing – Please Wait”. Ok, so I’m waiting already, get on with it. The readout stays stuck for another 5 minutes, and the cop’s scratching his head. “It’s probably not working properly”, says he, and resets the machine. I do the blow thing again, with the same result. Now the cop’s really flummoxed. So, he calls for a second machine. Same result.

Same problem with the THIRD machine! I now have seven coppers in a circle around me, chuckling and scratching their heads at the same time. The machines were working fine till now. What the fuck went wrong?

I do the test once more. “Just once more, Sir. For our peace of mind”. No prizes for guessing what the readout said. The cops gave up and asked me to leave, and thankyouverymuch for ruining their precious machines, hmph.

This proves that Crowley is a certified alien, or maybe a vampire or something. He can kill high-precision circuitry with a single breath.

Or maybe he needs industrial strength mouthwash. Hmm.

And I am you and what I see is me.

2008-09-16T21:01:00.004+05:30

Richard William Wright

28.07.1943 - 15.09.2008

In Memorium

"And with these words I can see,

Clear through the clouds that covered me.

Just give it time, then speak my name.

Now we can hear ourselves again"

So we cross that line into the crypt....

2008-09-16T18:33:00.002+05:30

Listening to Metallica’s tenth studio album, Death Magnetic, is a bit like going into the crypt (or ‘The Vault’, as Lars Ulrich likes to call his collection of Metallica memorabilia). Unlike its much ridiculed predecessor, St. Anger, Death Magnetic promised to make good on a decade-long promise (Re-load released in 1997-98), and after having heard it several times over the past few days, I’d say it delivers.

Besides the fact that DM is much better produced than St. Anger, the album is a great listen because it’s almost like a trip down memory re-lanes, which is why I mentioned that thing about stumbling into a crypt. Almost each one of the ten songs on the record draws, in one way or the other (and in some instances shamelessly lifting off) from older Metallica material. The purists and naysayers will wrinkle their noses, naturally, but, come on, they’re only lifting stuff from their own songs. And it sounds pretty damn good to boot, so why complain?

So, what does Death Magnetic have in store?

1. Hetfield still has it in him to carry the band along. Not to take anything away from Lars, Hammett, and Trujillo, of course, but Hetfield’s vocals and riffs still march over everyone else (except in certain places, as I’ll discuss later).

2. Rick Rubin’s production team seems to have burnt the midnight oil on DM, and that’s evident in the final mix. Everything sounds crisp and clear, but still retains that meaty, Metallica feel, as opposed to the mish-mash of St. Anger. The sad part is, that even though Bob Rock made a mess of St. Anger, Rubin’s still not able to match up to Rock’s production of the Black Album and Load.

3. DM features some interesting (and sometimes puzzling) time changes in riffs. The idea, apparently, was to revisit the And Justice For All-era sound. This doesn’t really happen, but it does sound like the old, complex Metallica (before they went, um, ‘alternative’ with Load) that we know and love.

4. The band’s songwriting skills are as good as ever. Forget the changes their sound may or may not have undergone over the years. These guys still write some excellent lyrics.

5. Lars has FINALLY ditched the tin-drum snare. However, the snare sound on DM is only a slight improvement. Come to think of it, Lars’s drumming on DM is not particularly impressive. It’s fast, yes, has a lot of double kicks in, and he keeps up with the odd time changes. But nothing earth-shattering, indeed, nothing comparable to what can be heard on Justice.

6. Extremely catchy songs.

And what of individual tracks?

- That Was Just Your Life – The opening track to DM rolls in with a heartbeat, and a single guitar intro, much like Enter Sandman, and then suddenly jumps into a rather grandiose riff, which reminds one of the riff to Jump in the Fire. Since we are talking about going down memory lane, this track is a tip of the hat to Kill ‘Em All, no doubt about it.

- The End of the Line – Anyone who’s been lucky enough to see Metallica live over the last few years will be familiar with the intro to this track, which was played live as ‘The New Song’ (later to be dubbed ‘Death is not the End’ by fans). However, nothing survives of the live version, save the intro, which is a nifty little bass + guitar twin solo. If the opening track to DM was Kill ‘Em All-influenced, then this one’s very definitely one from the Load/Re-load era, with Hammett pushing the envelope with the wah pedal. Listeners with a keen ear will also notice that some of the opening riffs (about a minute into the track) sound suspiciously like the opening bars to Pearl Jam’s Even Flow and Rammstein’s Der Meister. Also, one of the bridge sections takes a leaf from Blue Oyster Cult’s Astronomy.

- Broken, Beat and Scarred – Easily one of my favourite tracks on DM, this one has a nice oriental/middle-eastern feel to it, much like Wherever I May Roam, backed by a fat and muddy riff. This is one of those crowd-sing-along songs, though I really don’t understand why Hetfield wants someone to ‘please rape him’.

- The Day That Never Comes – The first track off the studio recording to be publicly made available by the band, this one’s a ballad in the Sanitarium/One mould, starting off slow and melodic and ending in a lot of crashing, bashing riff-age. It’s also become a ‘war’ song, largely thanks to the music video, which accompanied the release of the song. This song definitely grows on you. Please note the last few minutes of the song, which are very reminiscent of the ending to One.

- All Nightmare Long – This Damage, Inc. inspired track seems to have become a favourite with metalheads. Personally, this is the one song on DM that I don’t like. It has a fantastic riff; something like Damage Inc. meets System of a Down, but there’s something about the vocals and the lyrics which make this one fall flat (for me at least).

- Cyanide – The first track from DM to be played live (Ozzfest ’08), this is the sort of track which can make people dance, even though it is a heavy metal track. No kidding! As a moonlighting DJ, I’ve seen this with my own eyes. Long, rollercoaster solos, excellent drumming, it’s got it all. An interesting piece of trivia about this track – The intro is the Morse code for S.O.S, played a la Metallica.

- Unforgiven III – The most awaited track on the album, and I was curious to see what the band would churn out to follow-up on parts I & II. Installment No. 3 is, well, an odd song. Not a bad one, no, but where Unforgiven II drew a bit (lyrically) from the original masterpiece, Part 3 is musically and lyrically completely different from Parts 1 & 2. The intro is surprising; a piano and horn arrangement, that sounds a bit like Ennio Moricone’s Ecstasy of Gold. The oddest bit about the song, something which I didn’t like, is Hetfield’s vocals. For some inexplicable reason, the man ends up sounding like Billy Joe Armstrong. To tell the truth, though I like this song, it doesn’t sound like a Metallica song. It sounds halfway between Megadeth and a Green Day ballad.

- Judas Kiss – Here’s where DM becomes really interesting. This song is guaranteed to blow you away, especially with the chorus. It’s fast, furious and fucking angry. All I’m going to say about this one is that it’s a shoo-in for a Grammy, this song.

- Suicide and Redemption – Metallica’s first instrumental since To Live is to Die is a 10-minute long opera, wavering between the turbulent and the serene.

- My Apocalypse – DM wraps up with this absolute truck-collision of a song. This song, which draws from the galloping riff of Battery is a pure and simple headbanger’s paradise.

One could say, I suppose, that the band was taking a big risk with this album, considering the teasers, the Fly-on-the-Wall video clips and free downloads on the Mission: Metallica website, and the accompanying publicity campaign (free ticket contests, a special edition which comes in its own little coffin-shaped box with other Metallica merch). After having lost a sizeable part of their fan-base after the poorly produced St. Anger and the Napster controversy, Death Magnetic was being looked on as a make-or-break record for Hetfield & Co.

Rest assured, they’ve done a kick-ass job of bouncing back.

The love song of J. Alfred Rottie

2008-09-11T20:47:00.004+05:30

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.

That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

Would it? Will it?

Before we get too old for anything more than cups of tea and marmlade-soaked toast, pension payouts, and a fading glint in our rheumy eyes?

Say hello to my little friend ;)

(Due apologies to T. S. Eliot)

(And apologies for the crap formatting. Blogger's acting up again)

Death Magnetic...pulling closer still

2008-09-11T10:28:00.001+05:30

Just one more day, bitches

Hair blown in an open car…

2008-09-09T21:40:00.001+05:30

Driving through a particularly nasty traffic jam this morning, I got stuck behind a beat up old Maruti-800. Nothing earth shattering about a Maruti-800, or a traffic-jam, or getting stuck behind a Maruti-800 in a traffic jam.

But no. This particular car was special. On either side of the car were blood-red, 10-inch high capital letters proclaiming that the owner/driver was ‘BORN TO BE WILD’.

Wow! Really? You don’t say? And you own a car that goes faster than 60 kmph only if it’s running downhill. You aim for great things, my man. Crowley bows before Your Eminence.

But that’s not what made this car special.

The rear windshield had ‘Advocate MAD’ emblazoned across it, in glittery letters.

Clearly, Crowley’s not the only warped lawyer in Delhi.

(Yes, I have been ignoring BBC for a while. Writer’s block persists; hurried negotiations on the foreign relations front have been going on; and a general re-visitation of my Porcupine Tree discography was badly required, so kindly pardon the slacking off. Crowley shall return, soon with lots more spite)

Fabricati diem, pvnc!

2008-08-14T18:43:00.003+05:30

Over drinks and pizza the other night, the lovely and lissom Ms A. B. Dearheart and I had an interesting conversation, which is the reason for this post. Dirty Harry and Discworld. Allegedly, Commander Sam Vimes’ character is loosely modeled on Clint Eastwood’s Harry Callahan (or at least, that’s what Pratchett commented when he saw Paul Kidby’s drawings of Sam Vimes in The Art of Discworld). This apart, there’s some very direct references to the Dirty Harry movies in the Discworld novels.

1. The motto of the Discworld City Watch (commanded by Vimes) is ‘Fabricati diem, pvnc!’, dog Latin for ‘Make my day, punk’; and

2. In the novel Guards! Guards! Vimes holds back a mob at dragon-point (he’s holding a small, but excessively explosive dragon in his hands), while growling "This is Lord Mountjoy Quickfang Winterforth IV, the hottest dragon in the city. It could burn your head clean off." A liftoff from Dirty Harry’s famous “But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya punk?”

Dearheart and I thought up a possible third reference (those who’ve seen the movie and/or read Pratchett’s Feet of Clay may or may not agree, but still). In the movie, in the scene which immediately precedes the “Do I feel lucky?” dialogue, Dirty Harry is eating lunch at a diner, and he has this conversation with the waiter:

Harry: Say Jaffe, is that Tan Ford still parked in front of the bank?
Jaffe: Tan ford...Yep. Tan Ford
Harry: Engine running?
Jaffe: I don't know. How can I tell?
Harry: Exhaust fumes coming from the tailpipe.
Jaffe: Oh, my God. That is awful. Look at all that pollution.
Harry: Yeah. Do me a favor. Call this number.
Jaffe: Police department?
Harry: Yeah. Tell them Inspector Callahan thinks there's a 211 in progress at the bank. Be sure and tell them that's IN progress.
Jaffe: In progress. Yes sir.
Harry: Now, if they'll just wait for the cavalry to arrive.

In Feet of Clay, Captain Carrot is eating breakfast in a dwarf bakery (and feeding his werewolf girlfriend tit-bits under the table), when he has this conversation:

“The waiter bustled up. 'Another helping, Mr Carrot? On the house.' Every restaurant and eatery in Ankh-Morpork offered free food to Carrot, in the certain and happy knowledge that he would always insist on paying. 'No, indeed, that was very good. Here we are . . . twenty pence and keep the change,' said Carrot. 'How's your young lady? Haven't seen her today.' 'Angua? Oh, she's . . . around and about, you know. I shall definitely tell her you asked after her, though.'

The dwarf nodded happily, and bustled off. Carrot wrote another few dutiful lines and then said, very softly, 'Is that horse and cart still outside Ironcrust's bakery?' There was a whine from under the table. 'Really? That's odd. All the deliveries were over hours ago and the flour and grit doesn't usually arrive until the afternoon. Driver still sitting there?' Something barked, quietly. 'And that looks quite a good horse for a delivery cart. And, you know, normally you'd expect the driver to put a nosebag on. And it's the last Thursday in the month. Which is payday at Ironcrust's.' Carrot laid down his pencil and waved a hand politely to catch the waiter's eye. 'Cup of acorn coffee, Mr Gimlet? To take away?'”

‘Course, in Dirty Harry, ol’ Clint shoots the baddies down, and in Feet of Clay Carrot uses loaves of dwarf bread and the werewolf girlfriend (in her, er, natural form, of course) to dissuade the robbers, but still. Similarities? Yes? No?

I ain’t your puppet, no, and I ain’t your steppin’ stone (or what I like and don’t like about the Great Indian Wedding)

2008-08-09T21:04:00.002+05:30

Yes, I know, I’ve been doing the quiet boy routine for the last few weeks, but I’ve been busy. I don’t know why I’ve titled the post so. It’s what I’m listening to right now (Black Label Society’s Steppin’ Stone, if you’d like to know). Goes with the weather, I suppose, damp, rainy, slow and grinding.

I’ve just gotten back from a short trip to Calcutta, where my dear friend and Mother’s Day Gift Advisor, Short Sanguine, finally threw in her towel and got hitched. I’m not a very wedding person, and usually try and avoid as many as possible (except when really close friends are getting married. And those are usually the ones I end up missing).

“Why you no likey wedding-dongs?” the provincials ask. Well, let’s see now…

I abhor dancing. No Indian wedding is complete without the invited multitudes shaking a leg (whether or not of their own volition) to whatever Bollywood number’s ruling the charts. Ergo, I find myself squeezing into the closest available corner, lest I be dragged into the hip-shaking melee.

I could go down kicking and screaming, but it’s not worth the candle, not at some poor schmuck’s wedding anyway. Does this make me anti-social? Possibly, yes. Not that I’m particularly bothered. You feel like dancing, go right ahead. Just don’t drag me into it, please. You’re just ruining the occasion for me. I feel no joy in killing my already screwed-up spinal column, or making myself look like a complete idiot in the process.

And don’t let people fool you into thinking nobody cares, because “it’s all in the spirit of things, blah blah”. There’s always a wanker or two in the crowd watching out for those silly dance steps (or the lack of any dance steps) and who will, naturally, take photographs and videos. These will be later viewed at not-so-private gatherings for the explicit purpose of making people laugh their silly heads off. At you. So, beware.

Then we have the RELATIVES. Yes, I know, it’s a little hard to avoid getting married In the Presence of Enemies, er, relatives (unless you’re the progeny of a Telugu movie star, who elopes to Delhi with her largely illiterate beau). They jump in with unsolicited advice, which is, more often than not, pointless. But Chopra Aunty (nosey neighbour sort) and Kamini Mami (another type of ‘Aunty’, but related to you by blood, and hence a more potent irritant) have to put in their two bits at every wedding, otherwise it’s an evening wasted bitching about the bride’s mother’s awful taste in clothes. And since I’ve recently been accused of being a closet misogynist, in my defence I’d like to say that male relatives aren’t any better. They just get drunk faster and therefore shut up faster. At the end of the day it’s just easier to get hammered than tut-tutting at hapless lambs to the slaughter.

(And just to clarify. I’m not a closet misogynist. I’m more of a closet misanthropist. )

And then we have the relatives who deem it their solemn duty to fix up every single person in sight. Look, I’m here in East Bumfuck or wherever to celebrate the ‘joining of two souls in holy matrimony’. It doesn’t mean I’m equally eager to jump on the wagon myself. I, as a single person, am here for a reason, and it’s mostly symbiotic in nature. People getting married need single people around them, to keep in touch with reality. It’s a sine qua non of dealing with wedding stress. I’m here (a) to get hammered, meet up with old friends, possibly make some new ones, and generally have fun; and (b) hunting for a prospective better half (according to the relatives, at least); (a) and (b) are mutually exclusive, and I’m not that good at multi-tasking, so all you biddies can just fuck off. It’s a wedding, not a used-car lot. You get what I’m saying, yes?

In any case, if you’re really that interested in getting me married to your sister-in-law’s brother’s niece, who is single at age 30 because she thinks sex is something dogs do, then it’s no use talking to me. Here, take my mother’s phone number - 1800-303-73-BACK-OFF-BITCH. You can try convincing her to take said 30 year-old as her daughter-in-law. I’m sure she’ll have something to say on the topic.

But, there’s some stuff about weddings I do enjoy.

The food, for starters. Weddings are mostly about who hires the best caterer. On my part, I’ve never been let down by a wedding caterer (or maybe I’m just lucky). If someone calls up to say, “Yeah, so, I’m finally doing it. Getting hitched and all”, I reply “Good for you, mate. WHAT’S ON THE MENU?” When it comes down to the nosh at weddings, I don’t discriminate between who’s getting married, and to whom. As long as the grub’s above par, you’ll always have my best wishes. Well, you will always have my best wishes, metaphorically speaking, but I have a few gradations on the ‘Here’s to A Rummy Old Married Life’ scale. Weddings are probably the only places where I’ll put aside my culinary dislikes (most things vegetarian) and allergies (seafood and watermelon) and hit the buffet table as soon as is politely convenient.

Paatra ni macchi (fish steamed in banana leaf), Hyderabadi biryaani, Amritsari chana kulcha, beef curry from Kerala, or Kashmiri roganjosh (spicy mutton curry)…if you can cook it (well) I’ll eat it. In large quantities.

The wedding sangeet. This is a spectacle involving large gangs of middle-aged women gathering to sing the wedding songs of their forefathers (foremothers, actually). It’s supposed to be a ‘happy-happy-joy-joy’ sort of event. Personally, I think it works better as a ‘keep-evil-spirits-away’ charm. As is the norm, only 5% of the women remember the words to the songs (the actual number who can sing them IN TUNE, however, is a closely guarded secret). The rest of the bunch hums, mumbles or mimes along (just as well, since a lot of these songs sound truly hideous in a hallelujah chorus), while wondering whether their saris are getting crushed, or whether or not the washing at home is dry.

Traditionally, the sangeet is a women-only thing. But, since we now live in an era of sexual equality, the men get roped in too. Against their better judgment, of course. They staidly stand on the fringes, with a hunted look in their eyes, thinking to themselves “Can’t I have a few more drinks? Y’know, just to become comatose, like”

If it’s SO scary, you might wonder why the sangeet figures in the list of things I like about weddings. Well, isn’t it obvious? It’s fucking howlarious! Monty Python could take ideas from this!

The other thing about a wedding that I’ve come to love (after Sanguine’s wedding, i.e.) is monkeying around with the couple’s bedroom (you know, the one at the hotel they’re supposed to spend the wedding night in). This, again, is an activity delegated to the groom’s or the bride’s female friends/relatives (thanks to a sadly incorrect portrayal by the Indian film industry). It supposedly entails blanketing the marital bed with rose petals. There’s a glass of warm milk involved too, though the practicality of a glass of warm milk escapes me. Isn’t it supposed to put you to sleep or something? Anyway, I’ve discovered (much to my joy) that what you need for a truly stellar wedding night bedroom setup, is not a bunch of giggly women, but rather a handful of psychotic, sexually frustrated lads and wenches. You cannot possibly fathom the amount of damage such persons can do to a bedroom. I have photographic evidence.

A word of advice (thanks to Mr. G. Shore-boy). Don’t leave rose petals (or any petals) on the couple’s bed. Spending your wedding night “pulling rose petals out the crack of your ass” is apparently not a lot of fun, and is certainly not a prescribed method for coitus interruptus.

To conclude, I think I’ll go for a few more weddings this year.

Won’t be fooled again.

2008-07-24T17:31:00.001+05:30

Yes, folks. Mr. Cleverdix here’s been taken for a ride, in the most textbook of ways.

So, a few days back I chanced upon a download link for Metallica’s new album, Death Magnetic, and, against my better judgment, came down on it like a wolf on the fold. Download completed, tracks sampled, and the verdict was promising. Production seemed a little scratchy, but these were bootlegs, so that was to be expected.

Metallica’s Fan Club released the official track listing last night:

That Was Just Your Life
The End of the Line
Broken, Beat & Scarred
The Day That Never Comes
All Nightmare Long
Cyanide
The Unforgiven III
The Judas Kiss
Suicide & Redemption
My Apocalypse

And guess what? None of my surreptitiously downloaded tracks figure in this list. Bah. If Lars and the gang ever read this, they’d probably laugh their way from here to fucking Mars.

Diddled by my own heroes (and apologies to all the people I forwarded the downloaded tracks to).

When Crowley runs to catch up with the sun…

2008-07-17T19:44:00.002+05:30

Shalom.

I know, I’ve been unusually silent here for a bit, as well as on the fiction blog (which will be updated very soon, I promise), but I’ve been down with an eye infection and then with a week-long dose of viral fever, and have spent these past 5/6 days catching up with pending work.

Since I have a slight case of antibiotic-induced writer’s block, I’m just going to write about some random stuff I’ve run into over the past few weeks.

Weird cops: Whiskey Bar’s apartment in Lajpat Nagar is a great place for a quiet drink, for her excellent veggie pasta and pesto sauce, and for chats about life, the universe and everything. I usually end up leaving around midnight, and am usually stopped by cops while leaving the locality. The U.P. plates on my car make me a prime suspect (for what exactly, I’ve yet to find out), and I’ve got the whole license- registration papers-pollution certificate routine down to a science. Most of the times my lawyer parking-sticker gets me off the hook. The night I came down with viral, however, I wasn’t so lucky. Pollution certificate couldn’t be found, and the duty cop pounced on a good op to make a quick buck. Normally, I would’ve told him to cut me a ticket, and I’d pay it in court, but I was dying to crawl into bed that night, so I asked him how much he wanted. “Sir, jo aapko uchit lage, dedijiye” (Whatever you feel is adequate). Such was my delirium that I told him I had 350 bucks, and he could have 300 of those, because I needed money to pay the DND toll-booth. He pulled a face and took the 300, but came running back a minute later, held out a 100 note and said “Sir, agar paise kam pad rahein hain to yeh bhi rakh lo” (If you’re running short, keep this 100 bucks).

It’s been a long fucking time since someone left me speechless (after my boss announced he was buying 9 dogs).

Weird movies: Actually, one movie, and not so much weird as entertaining. If you like the Tarantino brand of mayhem, then Shoot ‘Em Up is a good buy. The story and script aren’t a match for Tarantino’s twisted genius, and although it is, in effect, a B-movie, I’d be hard-pressed to rate it so. Clive Owen (protagonist; cynical, SAS-type killing machine), Monica Belucci (Owen’s sidekick, love-interest and a lactating hooker) and Paul Giamatti (Bad Guy; psychotic, hen-pecked hired gun for an arms manufacturer) make up the meat of the cast, and do a neat job of it, considering the storyline has the punch of a geriatric turtle. I’m not into putting up spoiler warnings like Wikipedia, so I won’t give out the plot details, but I will say this – Owen kills people with fresh carrots (while spouting lines like, “What’s up, doc?” and “Carrots are good for your eyes”), and does stuff which makes Rajinikanth saar look like a kid in dirty diapers. The action is brilliant, Belucci is drool-maal, as always (and has finally discovered the secret of effective dialogue delivery – screw English, do it in Italian), and Giamatti does a kick-ass job as the resident psycho-killer. Buy it, steal it, whatever. It’s worth it.

Weird news: Did you know that a prohibition on wearing underwear is a violation of your human rights? The Kerala Human Rights Commission feels so. Apparently, the famous Sabrimala shrine in Kerala doesn’t allow temple staff to wear the bare necessities allegedly for fear that they’d try and sneak out cash and jewelry offered by devotees. This brings disgusting images to mind. And speaking of Sabrimala, for those who’re not aware of this little factoid, if you’re a devotee, then you’re required to not bathe/shave for weeks/months before visiting the temple. You’re also required to wear only black, and supposedly abstain from sex, meat and alcohol. Of course, after weeks of no bathing, I’d be surprised if you’d want to wank yourself off in the first place, much rather someone else.

Three cheers for atheism, I say!

Weird animals: I have 10 dogs in my office. That’s right, ten. Nimpipi has seen and photographed them (and blogged about them), so there’s proof that I’m not bluffing. They’re of various breeds, shapes and sizes…and sexual preferences. The eldest of the lot, a dachshund, is gay. He keeps trying to, er, force himself on the smaller dogs, and would be a perfect candidate for offences under Section 377 of the IPC, were it not for Honey the Rottweiler playing bouncer and peacekeeper.

That’s all for now, folks. I need to get back into the groove and do my wascally wabbit thingie.

And I Wanna Beeeeeeeeee

2008-07-05T18:20:00.002+05:30

Anarchyyyyyyyyyy......

Are you being served?

2008-07-03T17:38:00.001+05:30

“Hi, Sir. Can I take your order?”

“Hi. Yeah. Make that one chicken ham mini-sub to take away, please.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll have some extra bacon on that.”

“Extra egg, sir?”

“No, no. Extra bacon.”

“Extra egg, sir??”

“NO! Extra B-A-C-O-N!!”

“Yes Sir.”

“And don’t put any capsicum in it.”

“Yes, Sir. No capsicum”

No prizes for guessing what was the first thing this jerk dumped into my sub after the meat. Four extra-large slices of capsicum. Not that I hate capsicum. I just hate it raw. I prefer it in bakes and fries and aloo ki sabzi, when it’s all squishy and spiced up.

Does Subway hire doofuses on purpose?

Crowley's all Vimes-y today.

2008-06-30T20:57:00.003+05:30

Since I have nothing better to write for my 100th post here, why not a small dedication to the man who never fails to crack me up? Here's to you, Mr. Pratchett.

Itchy and Scratchy Shoooooowwww!

2008-06-30T16:24:00.002+05:30

‘Twas the night before today, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring…except a Crowley. You know it’s going to be a not-so-nice day, when, at 4:30 a.m., you realize that your left eye is too swollen to open (and this is after watching that shite Torres ruin everything for good old Deutschland).

So, it’s like this. I was bitten by some sort of insect a couple of days ago, and apparently scratched the bite, and now it’s swollen, purple and hideously itchy. It’s also right next to my left eye, so it looks like I’ve gotten a nice, BIG, shiner.

Mater expectantly looked at it and murmured, “Love bite?”

Anyhow, I’m on a diet of multi-coloured, multi-sized pills for now (which cost an arm and a leg; I hope I never get infected love-bites, that would bankrupt me fer sure), and I can’t see very well out of my left eye, ergo the short post.

Also, Hallelujah for the snooze button on my alarm clock.

Gah.

Lush

2008-06-24T16:13:00.001+05:30

I watched you last night, as you sat in your car, your head in your hands, your long, black tresses spilling out over the steering column. I watched you muttering under your breath in time with some indecipherable song playing on your expensive car-deck. I watched you as you finally staggered out, and looked around; looking for something that was never going to be there.

I watched you as you stared at me for a long ten minutes, asking myself what it was about me that made you stare so. Was it my face? The large drink in my hand? Or that I was keeping a beady eye on you, a perfect stranger, at 2 a.m. on a muggy night?

I watched you throw a derisive snort my way; that careless, drunken toss of your hair. I watched you as you walked around your car a dozen times, maybe more, looking for something (your bearings, perhaps?). I watched you open the boot and drag a leather tote bag from it, and a crumpled brown-paper bag.

I watched you, watching me watch you, take several shaky steps towards my staircase, and hoped that you wouldn’t climb up and knock on my door. I watched you change your mind and stumble to the staircase across the street, clutching the bottle of cheap whiskey in the paper bag, loudly cursing life’s vicissitudes, and how things were never where you wanted them to be.

I watched you stop at a neighbour’s parked car. Watched you crane your head up to my balcony and yell “HAH”. Watched your piss-drunk fingers pull out your piss-drunk wiener, and let rip against the neighbour’s car, a long stream of your evening’s takings.

And said to myself, “go home you drunk bastard”.

Tripping the ‘light’ fantastix

2008-06-16T13:30:00.002+05:30

It was an unusual evening at Blues, last Thursday. Rockers up the yingyang, and by that I mean people who actually listen to rock, as opposed to the usual Summer of ’69 poseurs. Someone even requested for Liquid Tension Experiment (which, unfortunately, I didn’t have on me at the time). Towards the end of the evening, with most of the crowd having left, I switched over to slightly mellow music; something along these lines:

- Pink Floyd;
- BB King;
- Neil Young;
- Acoustic Megadeth (yes, they have one live record, which is entirely acoustic);
- Acoustic Korn (ditto – MTV Unplugged); and
- Dylan

Carried on playing this stuff for a half-hour when one gent teetered up to the console and loudly admonished me for not playing ‘light music’.

“And what sort of ‘light music’ would you prefer?” I asked politely.

Spewing cheap whiskey fumes, he snorted out:
…
…
… *wait for it*
“Summer of ‘69”

“Is there a doctor in the house? This guy’s got a broken nose.”

Hey, cabbie, gimme a push!

2008-06-09T13:13:00.004+05:30

Wouldn't you know it? Driving down the India Gate circle, wind in my hair and (ironically) howling along to Adam Sandler's 'Ode to my Car', when suddenly my little jalopy gives three loud coughs and one long wheeze and dies. I make two important discoveries at this point (past midnight on an empty road), namely, (i) my car's fuel indicator is on the blink after 9-odd years of yeoman service; and (ii) whoever labelled a Zen a 'small car' ought to have their head examined. Try pushing one, all by yourself, a mile or so to the nearest petrol pump. Ain't all that small a car, I can tell you that. Anyhow, l'auto is now properly fuelled (even gave a happy little burp, post hydrocarbon feed) and we're back in business.

I’ve been sort of working on a book manuscript for a while (actually, nearly two years), but never quite seem to finish it. It’s mostly comédie noire, partially based on stuff which has happened to me, and the rest of it being nonsense that I’ve cooked up sitting at my desk. Whether I finish it or not (and whether it ever sees the light of a publisher’s desk lamp) is moot at this point, but I was tooling around with the idea of putting it up in bits and pieces on a new blog.

So, will you lot let me know if you’d be interested in reading it? It’ll be restricted access to begin with, so queue up for the gold key to the crapper, yeah? ;)

(Since a certain someone has taken to calling me 'Crow')

Der blaue Engel

2008-06-03T17:58:00.002+05:30

Thanks to Miss P and Fan, Crowley’s rediscovered the joys of Marlene Dietrich’s songs.

There’s something fundamentally sensual about jungfraus singing in English.

Sigh.

The Working Man

2008-06-02T16:09:00.003+05:30

I get up at seven, yeah
And I go to work at nine
I got no time for livin’
Yes, I’m workin’ all the time

It seems to me
I could live my life
A lot better than I think I am
I guess that’s why they call me
The workin’ man….

Rush, Working Man

I should either stop listening to this song (but can’t, because I love Rush), or I ought to un-cancel my vacation plans and stop working during my summer hols.

One of the perks of being in my line of work is that courts in Delhi close for about two months every summer. Most of us lawyer boys (the ones who go to court i.e., not the corporate whores), therefore, have the luxury of planning long vacations.

I, on the other hand, truly believe that there’s an imp hidden inside me somewhere, in his SS-jailer uniform, screaming “Arbeit macht frei, mein herr. SCHNELL, SCHNELL”. And so, having cancelled my vacation plans, here I am, in an empty office, working away on:

- A private equity transaction that refuses to close;
- Helping a friend set up a trust fund for aspiring rockers (with a fund corpus of Rs. 100);
- Helping a widow get her dead hubby’s will probated; and
- Sending out bills for my fees, most of which will be paid only a year from now (and I’m being hopeful here).

This would be the primary reason why I’m not posting very regularly, yes.

Also a bit let down because the Delhi Daredevils crashed out of the IPL in such, er, high fashion. And if the big flameout wasn’t bad enough, it was accompanied by a live band (at Blues, where I was watching the match with Whiskey Bar and some other friends) which insisted on belting out songs that I hate, and some cows in short skirts handing out free chocolate, which tasted like Styrofoam.

On the other hand, I’ve managed to get my hands on several episodes of Byomkesh Bakshi, India’s answer to Sherlock Holmes, so I’ll be a happy camper for a couple of days. For the benefit of BBC’s readers, some of whom were in diapers when Byomkesh Bakshi first hit the tube, Byomkesh (played by Rajit Kapur) is a chain-smoking Bengali detective (or satyanveshi, as he prefers to call himself), complete with a side-kick, Ajit Bannerjee, who solves a series of whodunits over a span of about 30 years (1940s-1970s). Although the series suffers from crappy production and several instances of ham-acting, the script, overall, is leagues ahead of the Balaji Telefilms’ nonsense we get to see these days (which, largely, involves mothers-in-law, daughters-in-law, and other animals of large business families, plotting against each other, and defying all laws of ageing in the process).

There are days I wish that we could have a Guild of Assassins. This is one of those days.

Granny, get your gun...

2008-05-28T13:36:00.002+05:30

(Apologies to Anna and Sepia Mutiny for ripping off the title, but it was hard to resist the temptation)

J&K political poster-boy, Omar Abdullah, has a problem with our grandmotherly President brandishing an AK47 assault rifle and looking rather chuffed about it. Or so the press seems to be ranting, though I quite fail to see the brouhaha over it.

Look at it this way:

1. The President is the Commander-in-Chief of the Indian armed forces (it says so, right there in our Constitution). When was the last time someone pulled up their C-in-C for posing with a gun? I mean, it’s not like she’s mowing down people with it.

2. Our last Prez was a rocket scientist (pun not intended). There’s good reason why he was called the ‘Missile Man of India’, and it sure as hell wasn’t being nice to homeless kids (though he did more than his share in that department). Don’t recall anyone being particularly unhappy that he was as interested in weapons development as he was in socio-economic development.

3. The Prez has a big grin on her face in the gun photo. So? Wouldn’t you be too, if you got to pose with a for-real assault rifle in your hands? It’s a generally geeky moment, for which most normal people would pose and grin like idiots. She may be President, but she’s only human, so stop honking.

4. There might be a hidden message in the pic – “I can bake pies, but I can shoot your nuts off too, so don’t fuck with us”. And, yes, it does bring to mind scenes from ‘Stop or my Mom will Shoot’.

In Mr. Abdullah’s defence – I read the blog entry, and it’s more of an aside, a random thought if you will. It’s a personal blog, and therefore a personal observation, so will the media kindly stop making it sound like a grand statement made in a political rally?

Shade to black?

2008-05-27T18:25:00.004+05:30

(It's the Invisible Man....I'm tellin' ya)

On through the dead of night, with the Four Horsemen ride…

2008-05-26T14:46:00.002+05:30

“Enough fucking around, let’s get on with it”, James Hetfield seems to be growling in this picture.

He’s got good reason to, as do I. It’s been ages since I heard some fresh ‘Tallica material, which is a bit dangerous. I tend to stop listening to bands which don’t churn out new material on a regular basis (that is to say, bands which are still in the business, and haven’t split up or retired or whatever).

Metallica haven’t released a new record in close to 5 years now, and there was a time (about a year or so ago) when I sort of stopped listening to their songs. Not like I started to hate them / got bored of them (don’t see that happening, not as far as this band is concerned). It was more like, “I know all their songs by heart; I can tap out any of Lars’s drum tracks in my sleep; I can whistle the longest and most complex of Hammett’s solos…but now what?”.

I was beginning to lose faith in these boys. Not in their musical abilities, no, but more in their commitment to keep the crowd jumping with new songs. Metallica has a history of spending an unusually long time in the studio, but 5 years is crazy (but not unheard of; they spent close to that much time cutting ‘Load’). They’ve played some new material on-stage over the last couple of years, but most of it sounded pretty half-baked. There was, of course, this one un-named track I pinched off a DJ friend, which was allegedly a new Metallica track. To my friend’s credit, I couldn’t find a live version of this un-named track, and the vocals and the riffing sounded very James Hetfield.

Anyhow, Crowley’s faith is restored as the Four Horsemen ride once again…officially, i.e. The new record is rumored to be out in September (and for once, I’ll wait patiently in queue to buy it, as opposed to taking it off ISOHunt), and Metallica fans can get sneak previews on the Mission Metallica website. Do check it out, it’s worth it (minus Lars’s usual BS). The bits and pieces of riffs in the previews sound good; a lot like the Lightning/Puppets era; vocals sound excellent; drums…hmm…so-so (Lars should really get rid of that snare. It still sounds like a tin drum).

But, all in all, worth waiting for.

Raining down on your fashion parade.

2008-05-23T16:26:00.003+05:30

I was trolling around Khan Market yesterday evening, munching on a kebab roll, and flipping through The Name is Rajinikanth, when yet another downpour hit. Normally, I would’ve walked in the rain and enjoyed the drenching thoroughly, but when your paycheck’s in your pocket, you want to be a wee bit careful, yes?

So, here I am, many little shopping bags in hand, trying to squeeze under a convenient store awning, when this girl next to me pipes up, “Uncle, you can share our umbrella if you like.” (ella-ella-ay-ay-ay…ARGH….I can’t even look at a brolly now without thinking of friggin’ Rihanna).

‘Our umbrella’ turned out to be a large, red one, with a Vodafone logo on the side, currently being shared by seemingly polite girl and this pimply, scarecrow-type person, who I took to be her beau. I was just about to thank these kids for their offer, them being nice enough to help a senior citizen like me (bleargh), when I noticed that the girl was wearing a skimpy black sundress…with day-glo orange Crocs.

I very politely say, “It’s ok, beta, I’ll manage”, and walk off. Orange Crocs.

Is this supposed to be some sort of new fashion statement? Wearing large, hideously coloured, lumps of cheap rubber. I’m getting too old for this shit.

About a Crowley

2008-05-18T15:51:00.003+05:30

For those of you who’ve been reading BBC (Blackbeard Chronicles, i.e., not the British Broadcasting Charity, if you were wondering), and for newer inmates, there’s an “About Me” section on the right, which tells you a little bit, well, about me. I’ve been tinkering with the idea of making a few template changes and adding an About Me tab. But, since I’m illiterate in CSS/Java scripting and the like, that’ll have to wait for a bit.

So, folks who read this blog know that, among other things, I’m a grouchy lawyer; that I moonlight as a DJ; that hip-hop artists ought to be crucified (my loathing for the genre increases exponentially by the day); that I believe there’s a lot to be learnt from ex-girlfriends; and that Ozzy Osbourne is a worthy role model (for heaven’s sake, look at my NAME).

Here’s some other stuff you ought to know about me.

I’m terrible at remembering names, birthdays, and phone numbers. I’d forget my own birthday if it wasn’t on such a miserable day. On the other hand, I never forget a face or a voice, or where and when I met a certain person, or silly details like what clothes they were wearing when I met them.

I remember conversations I had with people, oh, ten, even fifteen years ago. Down to the last word. But, for some reason, these are conversations of no significance whatsoever.

I’m also a walking-talking four-leaf clover…for every one except my own self. I have an eerily high propensity of getting into what ViralFish once pithily described as “the most hilarious accident/violence scenarios” of his life (with friends like these, who the hell needs performance appraisals?).

Walking through a construction site with about twenty other people, I’m the only guy who’ll get clobbered with large chunks of waste concrete. I regularly fall into puddles that other people easily managed to jump across. People keep data backups, so that they have somewhere to go when their hard-drives go blotto. I’m the jackass who managed to get his backup music folder wiped out (52 GB. I’m still trying hard not to cry).

And to add to my list of misfortunes, I’m probably the only one in Delhi who (regularly) gets run-over by newspaper boys on their bicycles (while jogging on foggy winter mornings) and postmen on their bicycles (on shimmering, hot summer afternoons). I’ve had a mail van and a truck carrying eggs ram into my much dented hatchback on at least three separate occasions. Two nights ago I collided with a milk truck on the way back home.

I don’t get it. Why me? People get run over by cool stuff like trains, trucks carrying liquid nitrogen, sulfuric acid and highly inflammable petrochemicals. I get whacked by a hundred gallons of toned milk!

I think I ought to change my name to Wile. E. Coyote.

Phuggeee. Meep, meep!!!!! (Where’s that damn aspirin box?)

Also, I've discovered that Vanilla Syrup makes brilliant caprioska.

Spin the black circle

2008-05-05T19:49:00.003+05:30

Let’s say you suffer from this obscure malady, where you can’t survive on anything except, oh, mineral water. Let’s also say that there’s only one place, close to where you live, were you can get your hands on mineral water. So, you visit this place pretty regularly, yes? I mean, you would, wouldn’t you, Elixir of Life and all that?

Let’s say, every now and then, along come some twits, who whine, stamp their feet, and generally create a scene, because they don’t want mineral water to be served AT ALL. They’d rather have, say, Moët & Chandon, Grand Vintage.

Why? It’s not because they appreciate good champagne. In fact, I bet every hair on my beard, that, if you served these nincompoops a glass of horse-piss with soda bubbles in, they’d be convinced it was avant garde bubbly.

No. They want champagne because it’s “kewl”. It’s the “in thing”. It’s what you should be drinking when you’re out on a Friday night, with a fat wad of cash or plastic in your hip pocket. It’s what you should ask for when your over-dressed, room temperature IQ, girlfriend slobbers in your ear, “Bayyybeee. I wanna pah-ty, baybeee”. It’s what you order for when you don’t give a fuck that a bunch of people around you are dying because YOU are depriving them of their life-giving l’eau minérale.

Now, picture this little tableau in terms of music. You land up at one of 3 establishments in this fair city of ours, that plays good rock on a daily basis. You see hordes of people hoisting their beer mugs and singing along to AC/DC and Steppenwolf. Your babe doesn’t like this. She wants Akon. What do you do? You walk up to the DJ and demand that the music be changed. The DJ tells you to take a hike. You cook up excuses like, “It’s my girlfriend’s birthday”, “We’ve waited so long. Now that we’re going, the least you can do is…”, and “It’s my friend’s birthday. He’s asking for it…”

Doesn’t work? You go complain to the club manager, who tells you to fuck off. You pull out your shoe phone and start dropping names. Manager gives in and tells the DJ to switch to hip hop. 70 other rock lovers in the club curse the DJ for the rest of his life.

Net result: You’ve just proved that it takes one solitary arsehole to kill a great evening.

Watch out, my lovelies. One of these days Crowley’s going to blow the dust off his chainsaw.

Bear(d) with me.

2008-05-05T17:38:00.004+05:30

Crowley’s been badly swamped with work these past couple of weeks, not to mention rapidly deteriorating weather, a nasty head cold, and mild financial distress. So. He’s not been particularly inclined to post.

Anyhow, since leaving Blackbeard Chronicles to its own devices for more than a week is dangerous (and distressful), Crowley’s back. For a bit.

Crowley doesn't have a lot to say today, except that the fat air-hostesses are back with a, er, bang, and a new appeal, and have killed Crowley’s *special* Tuesday lunch plans. Gah.

Also, top German Social Democrat, Kurt Beck, offers to auction his beard for charity (he hopes to raise USD 1.5 million). Crowley wonders if he should do the same. His bank account could use a shot in the arm. And, anyway, it’s only his beard. A new one will grow back.

Whaddya think folks? Do I hear 2 million for this fine specimen of facial follicular growth? 3 million?

“Use your fist and not your mouth”

2008-04-25T18:17:00.002+05:30

Is not just something you’d tell a hooker, but the thought has been cavorting in my head for the last few days (in its literal sense, not the hooker sense, you filthy bastards).

I suddenly seem to be surrounded by people who warrant a fist in their respective mouths.

There’s the female co-worker who starts screaming when the pest-control folks land up in office, and who leaves a large, half-eaten bowl of curd to rot on her desk every fucking morning.

There’s the techie client and his little Hobbits, who’ve been chewing my brains for 6 hours a day for the past 10, about due-diligence documents and tinkering with the ROFR clause in some financing agreement (you’ve got it coming, bitches. I’m billing you for each miserable minute I’ve had to spend with you!)

There’s that misbegotten BRT Corridor to pass through to get to abovementioned Client’s office. That’s 2 hours of shifting from 1st gear to 2nd and back to 1st in my clunker, which, by the way, is starting to sound like a cow in labour.

There’s my pesky younger sibling, Archie, who was busy measuring the WC in my loo at 6:30 a.m. This, by itself, is not so odd, considering her future profession. But I’d had a large dinner the night before, and the urge to, er, download, was unbearable. So consider yourself lucky, sis. You almost got a sock in the jaw back there.

There’s also the usual choir of bill-collectors, assorted canines and felines and bovines, mosquitoes, door-to-door salespersons, traffic policemen and my boss, who ensure that I do not have a single misery-free moment.

Where’s my 12-gague?

Also, isn’t this song perfect for an Obama campaign tune? (i.e., of course, if Obama was the violent, bitchy sorta fella)

The Woodchuck bites, er, tags.

2008-04-22T21:02:00.002+05:30

Last movie seen in a theatre?
Guru / Pursuit of Happyness. Can’t remember which one, but it was one of those.

What book are you reading?
3, actually. The Men Who Killed Gandhi – Manohar Malgonkar; 20th Century Ghosts – Joe Hill; and Mayne’s Hindu Law (too many people are calling me up for free advice on divorces).

Favourite board game?
Scrabble, monopoly, checkers.

Favorite Magazine:
Rolling Stone, Rave, National Geographic.

Favorite Smells:
Petrol (and, no, I do not sniff it on a regular basis), new-car upholstery, and, mooching off Nimpipi, rain on mitti.

Favorite Sound:
Guitar – heavy – distorted – with overdrive – during soundcheck.

Worst Feeling In The World:
Feeling lonely at 4 a.m., while stuck in office.

What Is The First Thing You Think Of When You Wake?
Tea, e-mail, bog….all together.

Favorite Fast Food Place:
Can you serve me in under 7 minutes? If yes, then you’re my best buddy.

Future Child’s Name:
Anoushka / Aarakshan (oops) Akshay (all subject to reconsideration, of course).

Finish This Statement. “If I Had A Lot Of Money I’d…”
Put up a lost-and-found notice. I can't handle that sort of money. You've got to be in the Guild of Lawyers or something to steal that much.

Do You Drive Fast?
Yes. But not rashly.

Do You Sleep With A Stuffed Animal?
When and where would you like your bullet, comrade?

Storms-Cool Or Scary?
Bring out the good booze, I say.

Do You Eat The Stems On Broccoli?
You forgot to ask whether I eat broccoli at all.

If You Could Dye Your Hair Any Color, What Would Be Your Choice?
Black (considering what’s there on my head is very salt-n-pepper).

Name All The Different Cities/Towns You Have Lived In.
Delhi, Port Blair, Delhi, Hyderabad, Delhi.

Favorite Sports To Watch:
Shuffleboard. No, seriously.

One Nice Thing About The Person Who Sent This To You:
Well, she reads XKCD regularly. Oh yeah…she seems to have a nice nose.

What’s Under Your Bed?
Zaphod Beeblebrox and I signed a non-disclose agreement on that one.

Would You Like To Be Born As Yourself Again?
Like I have a choice. Also, would YOU want to be born as me?

Morning Person Or Night Owl?
Night Owl.

Over Easy Or Sunny Side Up?
Sunny side up.

Favorite Place To Relax:
Office loo.

Favorite Pie:
Apple.

Favorite Ice Cream Flavor:
Oddly enough, Sitaphal ice-cream at Naturals in Bandra.

You pass this tag to –
Vanilla Syrup, Bhenchod, eM and Viral Fish.

Of All The People You Tagged This To, Who’s Most Likely To Respond First?
Whoever’s feeling as jobless as I am right now.

We’re all on the road to Hell and that’s Route 666

2008-04-21T21:30:00.003+05:30

“Many phenomena - wars, plagues, sudden audits - have been advanced as evidence for the hidden hand of Satan in the affairs of Man, but whenever students of demonology get together, the M25 London orbital motorway is generally agreed to be among the top contenders for exhibit A”

Good Omens – Terry Pratchett/Neil Gaiman

Rob Halford and Bon Scott and the boys (and other persons of similar ilk) have sung much about it. Messrs. Pratchett and Gaiman credited its creation to my namesake (Anthony Crowley). And today I saw it with my own eyes.

The Highway to Hell.

Ok, so it’s not really a highway in the literal sense. But it does pass through some of the more happening places in town, and is, therefore, a bit arterial in significance. This road used to be one of Delhi’s most choked roads till about a decade back. Then the Supreme Court stepped in with CNG fueled public transportation and stricter road-safety norms and whatnot, and this road, with a lot of other roads in Delhi, unclogged itself (though it staunchly refused to part with its potholes. After all bhai, reputation naam ki cheez hoti hai ki nahin?)

And so the general populace suffered this wide-open road till, a few months back, an angel in the Delhi Government (I shall refrain from giving out his/her name, primarily because I don’t have it) decided that our buses needed their own little road to tool around on. And so was born the abortion, which we have all come to know as the BRT (Bus Rapid Transit) Corridor.

This ingenious concept involves splitting up an already narrow road into 3 lanes divided by 8-inch high concrete barriers. One of these lanes is meant only for buses, one only for cars, and the third one for cyclists, scooterists and other lesser mortals. This translates into a road network so diabolically chaotic, that even the most evil and wily Al-Qaeda mastermind couldn’t have thunk up anything close to it in a million years.

We now have bus-stops in the middle of the road, as opposed to on the side, so that the average pedestrian is 10 times more prone to getting mown down by traffic than he already was. A single broken-down car or bus or auto-rickshaw can and will (and FUCKING DID TODAY) cause a 2 mile-long traffic snarl. Delhi motorists, being Delhi motorists, cannot comprehend or appreciate the niceties of sticking to a particular lane, and very naturally must try and drive their cars over the lane separators. Unfortunately for them, they forget that this isn’t a grassy verge they’re trying to surmount. It’s a barricade. It’s higher than the length of the average male organ. It’s also made of concrete. It damages suspensions and undercarriages of most cars.

So, there’s even more broken down cars. Which leads to what? Hehehehehehe.

Satan couldn’t have done a better job of fucking things up if you shoved a large icicle up his arse.

Who has sqvashed mein Gestapo staff car?

2008-04-19T21:07:00.002+05:30

I tink ve shall do something fun, ja? Ve shall talk like dis fur the next few dayz, ja?

Also. Vat is vid all this talk about der foot massages und Singapur? Mein freund in Singa, Fraulein Rounder, talks about vun foot reflexology place in Singapur....und vun blogger tells another blogger to get foot massage in zat place....

Lieber Gott.

Just tryin’ to keep the customer satisfied.

2008-04-19T15:56:00.002+05:30

Crowley revels in the fact that he’s a nasty, opinionated, toad. Other people don’t find this to be particularly savory. Other people don’t know what they’re missing out on. Anyway, since the last few posts have been largely about Crowley, he feels it’s time to introduce a new character onto The Blackbeard Chronicles.

Blogosphere, please welcome my dear friend, Ms. Whiskey Bar. (*Drum-roll and fanfare* - Whiskey Bar yells, “AAY, KAANDRAVI” - That’s Tamil for “Oi. You useless fuck”)

Now, Whiskey Bar is a genial, boisterous sort of gal; a single malt connoisseur, who can put away copious amounts of alcohol with few visible side effects, especially if there’s Ozzy, Iron Maiden or Metallica blasting away in the background; and who puts up extremely well with stupid people. I mean it. She makes me look like the world’s most impatient git.

A few days back, however, a shaken Whiskey calls me up and wails, “Crowley, I never thought people could get THIS stupid. I’m stumped – I truly am. I have no fucking clue what to do with these cunts.”

I, being in an unusually consolatory mood, say, “Ah, come on Whiskey. I know you work with a bunch of idiotic grande dames, but it can’t be that bad.”

As it turned out, it wasn't the women in Whiskey’s office who were getting her goat. It was a woman (or possibly several of them) (or, actually, could be men too – age and gender are unknown at the moment) sitting half a globe away, dressed in Armani, sighing at her newest pair of Jimmy Choos. While poor old Whiskey sits in a stuffy cubicle in overheated Delhi, snarling at her laptop screen in abject rage and frustration at having her evening torn to shreds.

Whiskey works for an organisation that specializes in economic research. She was tasked with drafting a report for an overseas client, on the education sector in India. Whiskey assiduously got down to the task, collected data, interviewed some of the bigwigs in the field, and prepared a comprehensive and well-drafted report.

The client sends the report back with some truly mind-boggling comments, such as (for ease of reference, I’ve put this down as the relevant portion of the report, followed by the comment):

1. Report: “75% of all Class 3 students in India are boys.”

Comment: “What are the other 25%? Please specify with sources” (I love this one, I really do.)

2. Report: “The XYZ Foundation, with its philanthropic gestures, has been at the forefront of the privately funded initiative in the primary education sector. This Foundation has……This Foundation has also been involved in….” (This is all part of the same paragraph, which, interestingly is titled “XYZ Foundation’s Initiatives”)

Comment: “Please explain the meaning of ‘philanthropic gestures’. Please also specify which Foundation is being referred to here.”

3. Report: “There has been a steady growth in the demand for higher education in the following States for the period…..”

Comment: “Does this mean there has been a growth in terms of numbers?”

Incredible, isn’t it? And these comments are from an internationally recognized aid and funding agency. Look, if you ask for a report from an English-speaking organisation, based in an English-speaking (well, largely) country, we really can’t help it if you can’t understand the damn thing because your addled brain can’t comprehend anything other than Japanese or Mandarin or Turkish.

Hire a translator; God knows you can afford an army of them. Or buy a dictionary. Or go to friggin’ dictionary.com, if you’re feeling cheap. Get a fucking BRAIN.

Whiskey snarled something about writing them a nasty email, with a small picture of 2 middle fingers, and an offer to courier to them a large dictionary, if that would help things along.

I told her to ask them what it was they were snorting, ‘cause, hell, I want some of that shit too!

Tongue-tied and twisted, just an earth-bound misfit, I

2008-04-14T20:01:00.002+05:30

"Hi, I didn’t get your name back then. Music was a bit too loud to hear properly."

"Crowley. And yours is?"

"Melissa. Pleased to, er, formally meet you. Heh. Sooo, what d’you do for a living again?"

"I sue people. And wear a black cape while I’m at it. You?"

"Um…graphic designer."

"Ah, nice. With someone?"

"Nope. Freelancing at the moment."

"Hmm."

Twenty minutes pass after this most entertaining and enlightening of conversations.

Crowley and Melissa are still sitting next to each other, but are they chatting happily ever after?

Of course not! Ever heard of a talkative lawyer? Why in the world you want to spend an evening chatting up an attractive (and hopefully unattached) young lady? What a pathetic waste of time, “socializing”! What in the holy FUCK are you doing taking it easy on a Sunday evening, Crowley, m’lad? There’re so many people to sue out there. So many hours to be billed.

Or how about this?

"Heh heh. So, those guys are your clients, eh? Fuck, they’ve yet to pay me, I ought to sue them. Heh. And I’m giving YOU notice. Like, right now, buddy."

"Yeah right. We’ll see you in court, lady."

"Heh. Nah, ‘tis ok. I think I can wait. So, you wanna grab something to eat? This hummus shit kicks ass!"

"Hmm. Nah. Not particularly hungry."

And, yes, that conversation went down like a lead balloon too.

It’s worrying, this trend. I’m unable to make conversation any more. Especially with pretty, intelligent women (not that I attempt to communicate with the dumb ones).

Oh, for a few more years of 20-hour workdays, and then to die in my sleep.

Get (it) fresh?

2008-04-10T20:42:00.002+05:30

(Warning: This vewy long post. Crowley bored, edgy, overworked, overheated, needs to be letting off steam. You finding reading boring? You go tie lead weights around ankles and jumping off cliff. Be a man. Do the right thing.)

There are certain aspects of my profession that I don’t particularly enjoy.

One of them is waiting in court, hour after hour, in the vain hope that your case will be called out for hearing. This, of course, is on a regular hearing day (Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday), as opposed to an admission/miscellaneous matter day (Monday or Friday, which American attorneys would call ‘Motion Days’), where a matter listed for hearing will most certainly be called out.

But this isn’t the only kind of waiting involved. Another abhorrent aspect of being a litigation practitioner (well, semi-litigation practitioner in my case) is that once the hearing in your matter starts, it could well drag on for days, even weeks, depending on the issue at hand and how quickly the Bench grasps counsels’ submissions.

This translates into the possibility of being stuck in a crowded courtroom for many, MANY hours over a period of several summer days (and do remember, I’m in India), fighting off drowsiness while at the same time ensuring that your eyelids don’t appear to be making a conscious effort to fight gravity. Oh, and also making sure that you (as junior counsel) are diligently taking notes (largely inconsequential) and passing along all the correct documents to the lead counsel.

Small wonder that so many Indian litigators are opting for BlackBerry ™ handsets (despite the fact that most of them don’t use email, or even know how to). The BrickBreaker ™ application serves as a worthy pastime, many will agree.

Anyhow, I digress.

So, Crowley has just concluded with in one such miserable out-take of what ought to have been a 2-3 day long hearing, but which ended up chugging along for 2 weeks. Since judgment is still pending in the matter, Crowley will be über professional and shall refrain from discussing the nuts and bolts of the dispute. However, it will suffice for Crowley to state that he shall break out into a cold sweat each time he chances upon a cell-phone tower (for the next few weeks, at any rate). Crowley shall also heap curses upon a certain phone company for misplacing his bill payment; for assuming that Crowley doesn’t want to pay his cell-phone bills; and, therefore, barring all outgoing calls and text messages from his poor phone. Nevertheless, Crowley is enjoying being incommunicado for a bit.

Crowley spent a large part of this extended hearing sitting next to a female junior counsel (who was assisting one of the other lawyers in the matter). Pleasant sort of gal, reasonably pretty too, and plucky enough to try and make polite conversation with Crowley. Unfortunately, Crowley had other pressing issues to take care of, such as thick briefs being thrown at him by the lead counsel, and so he largely ignored said female counsel’s polite attempts at communicating. Till, of course, the penultimate day of the hearing, when this conversation took place:

Female counsel (in loud-ish whisper): Umm. Hey. Psst…HEY!!!
Crowley: Eh? Yes?
FC: Are you interested?
C (!!!): Er. In what?
FC: Are you interested in all of this?
(Crowley thinks this is a sarcastic question directed towards the dispute in general)
C: Sigh. No, not anymore.
FC: Oh goody.
(Pulls out a sheet of paper and draws an all too familiar grid on it)
FC: Then let’s play tic-tac-toe!
C: Um. Maybe not. Oh look, the Judge’s going to launch into a speech!

Was FC trying to flirt with Crowley? If yes, then YIKES. You need to change your strategy, Miss. There’s a hearing going on, and boring as it may seem, there’s a reason why you’re sitting in it.

If FC was NOT trying to flirt with Crowley, then there is definitely something very wrong here, because I can’t remember anyone asking me out to a game of tic-tac-toe since, oh, 8th grade.

Of course, Crowley should not be drawing unnecessary conclusions, especially not re: flirting, since he’s blissfully inept at the art of flirting, and can’t for the life of him figure out why any woman in her right mind would want to flirt with him. I mean, have you ever tried flirting with a Rottweiler? Have you?

Speaking of being inept, Crowley spent the large part of 2 weeks sitting 2 inches away from FC, and he still doesn’t know her name. Nor has he bothered asking for it.

And then the lad wonders why he’s still single.

Moving on to other things. The other reason why this post is titled so.

I spent close to 3 hours last night at my favourite watering hole, in what was formerly my favourite position – on a barstool, drink in hand, watching CNN-IBN, and humming to myself. CNN-IBN was on the blink last night, so I spent 3 hours watching another news channel (which I shall not name here, not that it makes a difference…they’re all equally good or bad), and I notice that this particular channel spent 3 hours discussing the following ‘hot’ news items:

1. A 24 year-old girl named Sheeba Thomas was shot dead a short distance from my home on Tuesday night, when she allegedly hit out at some armed bikers, who were trying to pull her out of the car. She didn’t make it. Sad, because she was kind of pretty and successful (or so the media made her out to be).

2. A retired army General was also shot on the same night, by allegedly the same bikers who shot aforementioned girl. He made it. Good for the old bugger.

3. The Government of India is allegedly buying new artillery on the sly. “Will it be another Bofors?” scream the headlines. I don’t get it. Since when did governments start publicizing defence deals?

How jobless are TV channels today?

Obscured by clouds

2008-04-05T21:50:00.002+05:30

“The Assessee is guilty of a device, and he has undertaken certain steps to cover up that device…”

Can people be guilty of devices? This is getting a little out of hand, this reading and re-reading of reams upon reams of unadulterated crap. Typo-ridden crap at that. The sort that requires a day and a night, and an arm and a leg (and an un-atrophied brain) to wade through. Which time, I certainly do not have at my disposal. Nor the un-atrophied gray matter.

On top of everything, I’m horribly nostalgic today. It’s this weather, methinks – slightly moist, 20 knot breeze; overcast, but not enough to hide the setting sun. Takes me back to law school campus days, taking in the rain at Shanks’ tea shack, with every soul on the premises ditching whatever it was they were knee-deep in, to get soaked.

Oh, and the puddles.

Have I ever mentioned that puddles and I have a bit of a history? Always made it a point to splash through a bunch of them on the way back from school, just for the sordid pleasure of hearing a string of loud curses from my mother (or the laundry lady, as the case may be). Charmed my (err..oh hell, which one was it?) second (still not sure) girlfriend by helping her over one (Sir Walter Crowley, that’s me). Also proved to be a consistent source of entertainment every time I’d try and jump across one. Gravity’s a bitch, ergo I pretty much always landed up in the drink. And wouldn’t you know it, there were always witnesses.

Anyhow, nothing more to write at the moment. Must finish this tax crap and get me a drink.

Goodbye, cruel world. For now, i.e.

Out in the streets, the fighting has begun.

2008-03-30T17:38:00.002+05:30

“Aay, Rosita, come queek, down at the cantina they’re beating up alla these emo pendejos.”

Last night, over a pitcher of sangria, my good friend, Hairy Ahmed, told me that hordes of Mexican hard-rock lovers were out in the streets, looking for “emo kids” to beat up. Considering the unhealthy number of emo rockers crawling out of every fucking woodpile, it’s not surprising that quite a few of their fans got a whuppin’ down at the cantina.

In another life, I would’ve probably joined this bunch of marauders. But we’re nearing middle age now. We aren’t up for gang-bangs any longer (though I’d love it if one of these shits came in front of my car. Carmageddon anyone?). Let these kids be. After all, bad taste isn’t exactly a felony.

I wonder if Speedy Gonzales would’ve considered this a fun weekend outing?

On second thoughts, would someone be interested in ganging up with me and beating up Yanni lovers?

(For more dirt on the Mexican wave, proceed here and then here.)

On an unrelated note, old war movies have some truly catchy dialogues. A Bridge Too Far, for example:

“Hancock. I've got lunatics laughing at me from the woods. My original plan has been scuppered now that the jeeps haven't arrived. My communications are completely broken down. Do you really believe any of that can be helped by a cup of tea?”

“Couldn't hurt, sir.”

And:

“You know, Harry; I always wanted to ask you but didn't because I knew you so very much wanted me to; but why do you always carry that umbrella?”

“Bad memory. Never could remember the password. Knew no Jerry would carry one. Had to prove I was an Englishman, you see.”

And, of course:

“How the hell do they expect us to keep schedule on a road like this?”

“You don't know the worst. This bit we're on now?”

“Yes?”

“It's the wide part.”

Ah, crap. Back to people fighting over unpaid severance benefits.

Har de har.

2008-03-29T18:44:00.002+05:30

Someone here needs an education.

2008-03-28T14:33:00.002+05:30

“Can yew pliz play Annodder Brick in da Wall Part Five?”

“Whaa? Part FIVE? There’s only three parts to that song!”

“Hat, bhaanchod. You don’ts knows what Punk Floyd iz all about. That song has FIVE parts! You pliz play parts number…five!”

Can somebody help me out here? I didn’t realize Another Brick in the Wall had spare parts?

Crowley has the creeps.

2008-03-24T21:40:00.005+05:30

Not the zombie-under-his-bed kind of creeps. More like, where-the-fuck-is-he-going kind of creeps.

I think spending my Holi weekend watching Into the Wild (twice) was a bad idea. Why in the world does Sean Penn make simple plots so decadently depressing? And why does he always pick Eddie Vedder to do the soundtrack?

Hard Sun
When I walk beside her
I am the better man
when I look to leave her
I always stagger back again

Once I built an ivory tower
so I could worship from above
when I climb down to be set free
she took me in again

There’s a big
a big hard sun
beating on the big people
in the big hard world

When she comes to greet me
she is mercy at my feet
I see her inner charm
she just throws it back at me

Once I dug an early grave
to find a better land
she just smiled and laughed at me
and took her rules back again

Once I stood to lose her
and I saw what I had done
bowed down and threw away the hours
of her garden and her sun

So I tried to want her
I turned to see her weep
40 days and 40 nights
and its still coming down on me.

This is one of the Vedder tracks from the movie. Download it. Or email me, and I’ll send it across. If this doesn’t raise those goose-pimples, nothing will.

In which Crowley catches a few at the dream theater.

2008-03-24T19:16:00.003+05:30

Crowley has been dreaming of strange things lately. Some of these ‘things’ would constitute nightmares till a few years ago, but for some odd reason, Crowley had stopped dreaming in his sleep over the past few years (well, till a week ago, at least).

Most of these dreams feature stuff I used to do as a kid. Spending hours over jigsaw puzzles; climbing trees; nibbling on bits of chalk (the sort with which you write on blackboards); burrowing into the neighbouring hedgerows, covering myself in a thick blanket and play-acting as Rob-the-Sniper, taking imaginary potshots at passing cows, dogs and fat civil servants in their drab safari suits.

(‘Course, I still indulge in the make-believe sniper act, now and then, a consequence of playing Half-Life and Counterstrike late into the night for pretty much the whole of my last semester at law school. It’s a lot of fun, sitting at some rooftop restaurant and wondering if you can take out the snotty girl in pigtails arguing with a stall-owner at the other end of the marketplace.)

The dream (or nightmare, as it used to be when I was small) which really bothers me is this one where I’m drowning in some sort of pool. I’m not struggling to get out, though I want to, quite badly too. There’s only one person standing by the edge of this pool. A girl wearing a bluish smock and a black, hooded mackintosh (yep, I have Technicolor Dreams). She has her hand extended, though it’s hard to make out whether she’s offering a helping hand or simply waggling her fingers to say “See ya, mate”.

Oh, yes. It’s also raining in the dream. And I usually wake up just before the water closes in over my head.

I’ve been having this dream pretty regularly for the last 14 years (though the regularity with which it screens varies). What’s really worrying about this dream (besides the obvious fact that I am drowning) is that I know the girl who’s standing there. She and I have been classmates throughout middle and high school, and were reasonably good friends till we graduated and lost touch (I also had a brief crush on her at some point…nothing whatsoever to do with the dream). This same girlie’s been featuring in the dream for 14 years! The dream itself doesn’t freak me out. What does is this woman’s appearance. She wasn’t a particularly close friend, not someone I hung out with, nor someone I was hopelessly in love with (I don’t recall being hopelessly in love with anything during my school years, except my tape machine).

I discussed this dream with KittyLitter, which elicited no response, save “Where’s the glycerin? Where’s the fucking GLYCERIN?”

KittyLitter’s dear friend, DaddyLongLegs, vociferously advocated a past life regression session. Wow! I go under hypnosis to find out I spent my last life as a pair of wellingtons who got tossed into the nearest fishpond because my owner couldn’t take the toe-jam. Oh Joy!

I spoke to a shrink about this a couple of years ago. He put it down to stress, and he was partially right, because this dream recurs more often during stressful periods. But the fuckup is…it never actually goes away. I see it at least once every 2 months!

Freud. Whither thou?

The roof of all evil.

2008-03-23T17:12:00.003+05:30

Can someone explain to me why rock video directors are so unimaginative (at times)?

I did a YouTube search the other day, and it boggles the mind to see SO many videos shot on roofs!

I mean, if you are running out of ideas for a video shoot, at least pick a different roof!

Some civil servants are just like my loved ones…

2008-03-20T17:33:00.002+05:30

They work so hard and they try to be strong.

Certainly they do. Where would we be without our friendly neighbourhood babus, the pillars of a democratic government? Our paper industry would die out, for starters, if we didn’t have civil servants. Same goes for chai and samosa vendors, and the manufacturers of knitting needles.

Anyhow, hard-working and strong they may be, but someone really ought to remind them that we’re in the year 2008, and NOT 1988, and if they must insist on using 3.5” floppy disks, the least they can do is ensure that the damn things work!

Exhibit-A

Yes, that’s right. It’s your basic Sony 3.5-incher, sitting rather innocently on my desk. Look closely now. Yes, that’s it, come closer….Uncle Crowley won’t bite.

Do you, perhaps, see a small shard of metal running across the disk’s corner? Know what that is?

It’s the metal end of a string tag; the sort we run through punched documents to keep them together. I’m not kidding here folks. This is a for-real file, with a for-real floppy disk attached to it. Skewered would be a better word, I reckon.

The Government, obviously, doesn’t believe in floppy cases.

Or thumb drives. Or writeable CDs. Or Email.

And, yes, the disk didn’t run either, which meant that I had to re-type the 8 page document that was on it. This sort of incompetence (nay, stupidity) pisses me off, especially since I ought to be running around and getting my stuff together for my road trip (which is already plagued with enough tension and uncertainty to make me feel that I should’ve put my money where my mouth is, and spent the weekend at home eating microwave takeout, watching 'The Stand' and reading 'Maus').

C’est la vie. Merde.

Verfluchen Sie die geschwärzte Sonne.

2008-03-16T17:24:00.002+05:30

And so, summer arrives. Not the best of times to be an inhabitant of this city. It (the City) carries on with its noisy existence. I see traffic buzzing up and down the road; pneumatic jackhammers chewing up the macadam; the ice-cream vendor half-heartedly pushing his cart down the lane; the snot-nosed rugrats in the servants’ quarter behind my office, crying out for their mother, or just crying out in sheer frustration at the inferno building up beneath their chubby toes.

But I hear none of this. Not a whimper or squeak. The sun and the heat kill all sound, turning the outside world into a shimmery, gooey, Dali-esque vista.

And here we are, sitting in the air-conditioned comfort of our office (yes, I know it’s Sunday. I’m a workaholic. I break out into hives if I don’t get to sit at my office desk for at least 4 hours a day), trying to ignore the little furry army of dogs that we have scurrying about here.

I didn’t really want to be here today (for a change). Was thinking penne with bacon at The Big Chill, and a banana daiquiri or two at a friend’s place. Now thinking, “Emerging Trends in Indian Law”. Bah.

But since we’re not particularly interested in emerging trends et al, primarily because it’s too damn hot to work properly, we’re sitting pretty in an empty office and reading a most interesting graphic novel series.

It’s called ‘Y-The Last Man’, and I agree with a blurb on one of the cover pages – this one’s a movie just waiting to be made. In short, it’s about a plague which wipes out all creatures with the Y-chromosome. Well, not all. The main protagonist, a Houdini-wannabe named Yorick, and his monkey, Ampersand, survive the slaughter. The story begins immediately post the plague, and runs for 60 issues, during which Yorick (who wants to scoot to Oz to find his girlfriend) and Ampersand (generally horny chimp), hide and escape from many estrogen fueled, chainsaw/assault rifle-wielding, er, women, half of whom want to do him, while the other half want to do him in.

Your basic, cheesy, post-Apocalyptic storyline. But executed and drawn extremely tastefully, so run out and grab your copy NOW, before it goes out of print. Or download it, like I have.

(Thanks a ton to Joe Hill for pointing the way to this one. Oh, and while we’re on the topic of graphic novels, try out Joe’s ‘Locke & Key’. This one’s pretty neat too.)

The lunatics are in my hall…

2008-03-13T20:17:00.002+05:30

(Terry Pratchett meets the obstinate lawyer – Courtesy XKCD.com)

Sometimes my life feels a lot like the comic strip above. An unending, seemingly pointless game that I play with life itself, even though I know that, at the end of the road, Death is going to come along and say something silly like, “YOU HAVE PERHAPS HEARD THE PHRASE THAT HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE? IN TIME YOU WILL LEARN THAT IT IS WRONG”, and off I’ll go on my merry fucking way.

Like all the times today I’ve reached down beside my chair for a file or a book, and grabbed a ball of fur instead – one of seven dogs populating my office space. I love dogs; would love to own one (or maybe more) at some point in life. But, like everything else in life, there’s a time and a place for things canine, and the workplace sure isn’t it. Unless of course, I worked in a dog pound or a vet’s office, which I don’t. One dog, as an office mascot, is understandable (eccentric, but we can appreciate that; we’re lawyers, right?). Seven mutts is a tough bone to chew on.

Like all the times I’ve had to have this conversation:

Bonny Lass: “Sooo. I’m sorry about this…..please don’t hate me”
Crowley: “Huh?! Er, why should I hate you for this? It’s ok, man. You know, just one of those things.”
BL: “Um. Will it become awkward?”
C: “No reason why it should. We’ll just carry on. I mean, come on, you know me well enough by now, heh, it won’t get awkward…relax”

Like all the times after such conversation (that’s to say, a few weeks after), I’m still waiting to hear from concerned Bonny Lass. Nothing much is expected. A small conversation, every now and then, suffices. Just a small chinwag between ‘friends’. After all, we did put some effort into building a ‘friendship’, did we not? Does that effort and camaraderie count for nothing? Or are we always to be ships in the night; nothing more than passing souls? Do you not trust your instincts or my best intentions?

Like all the times I’ve written shit like this to console myself of the fact that, yes, there is a possibility of a happier, if not better, tomorrow. And all the times afterwards when life’s come back to bite me in the arse.

Like all the times I’ve forced myself to bite back screams of rage, and looked (rather longingly sometimes) towards the screen in front of me (laptop/cell phone) for some signs of life.

Like the many years I’ve spent trying to wash away the rage and sorrow and solitude with music, alcohol, work and books.

Fuck it.

Hair today, gone tomorrow?

2008-03-10T16:32:00.007+05:30

Yes, I know it’s a terrible pun. It’s ragged with overuse. Still. I’m going to use it one more time, so fuck off!

With each successive haircut I’ve had over the last couple of years, I’ve noticed a steady decline in the use of scissors. When I started visiting the barber-shop at the Intercontinental in the CP-Barakhamba Road area, the barber-man would use one of those hand-held trimming machines to trim the hair over the ears, and would resume with the traditional snippety-snip of the shears.

My latest haircut, yesterday, involved no scissors. Yeah, so the barber-man used those funny, toothy scissors* to thin my hair. But that apart, the entire exercise of cutting and trimming my unruly shock of follicular growth lasted under 10 minutes, thanks to the trimming machine (it usually takes 20 via the traditional snip-route).

Alright, so the mechanical method saves time, and gives a (supposedly) cleaner and more even cut. But still, I kinda miss the charm of sitting in that chair for a peaceful half-hour with my eyes closed, semi-hypnotised by the snip-snipping of the scissor blades, listening to barber-man softly whistling to himself, rather than to a constant drone, not unlike that of a drill.

Sometimes, technology ruins the little joys of life.

* The ones which look like a cross between a pair of scissors and a comb. Can someone please tell me what they’re called?

Picture credits: CollegeHumour.com

“What are the last words Mustaine will ever speak?”

2008-03-10T12:59:00.004+05:30

Drummer Singh had this mirth-inducing quote as his G-talk caption for a while last week. Dave Mustaine’s last words are obviously not going to be “A tout le monde, a tout mes amis”. They’ll most probably be, “Urk…Lars, you asshole.”

Drummer Singh doesn’t like Megadeth a lot, evidently.

Crowley, on the other hand, loves Megadeth. Regardless of the fact that, with 3 new members in a 4-member lineup, Vic’s boys aren’t what they used to be during their Rust in Peace days, Megadeth can still kill the floor on the worst of days.

Crowley is cursing his luck to no end that he’s stony broke around the time Megadeth hits Bangalore. Dear Mr. Banker Sir, is it too much for me to want to catch more than ONE international metal gig a year? Grrrrr!!!!

Oh well, it looks like Mustaine’s last words in India are going to be “Goodbye Bangalore”. Meh.

Moving on, since everyone these days seems to be making lists of one sort or the other (on and off the blogosphere), here’s one of my own (keeping in line with the general tenor of this post) –

15 Songs I’d Love to Play Live (up on stage, like)

1. Big Bad Moon – Joe Satriani: Have you heard the first solo on this one? Have you? No? Twats, the lot of you!

2. The Four Horsemen – Metallica: I dove headfirst into the murky pool of metal (back when I was but a wee lad of 13) with this song. I’ll pick Pestilence, thank you.

3. Comfortably Numb – Pink Floyd: Yeah, yeah. Half the known world wants to be out there in the spotlight doing this one (no, they don’t look right to me; get ‘em up against the Wall).

4. Erotomania – Dream Theater: Musical masturbation is what I call this instrumental. Go Portnoy!

5. Hangar 18 – Megadeth: I mean, c’mon. This post is about them (sort of).

6. Out on the Tiles – Led Zeppelin: This isn’t one of my favourite Led Zep songs, but it’s definitely one of my favourite Led Zep riffs. Plus, it has immense crowd-chant potential.

7. Kickapoo – Tenacious D: Not much of an anthem. But this song is waaay too hilarious NOT to have on this list.

8. Tears of the Wizard – Parikrama: My current Indian rock fav.

9. Pride and Joy - Stevie Ray Vaughan: Try and listen to a live version of this one. Any version will do. SRV does this song differently in every gig. If I could play like that, I’d quit law, I’d quit this blog, I’d quit women, I’d…er. Ok, that’s enough for now.

10. Low Down – Black Label Society: Hell, I’d play anything by Zakk Wylde. Lots of sizzling riff-value; LOTS of redneck scream value (“Make some noise, motherfuckers”).

11. Black Sabbath – Black Sabbath: Eeriest song of all time. Welcome the Dark Lords, ye wankers.

12. Mmm Mmm Mmm – Crash Test Dummies: Don’t ask me why this one’s on this list. It’s here. That’s all you need to know.

13. Ball Peen Hammer – Joe Bonamassa: My new blues hero.

14. God of Wine – Third Eye Blind: The odd man on this list. But this one has tremendous potential for (a) an emo-rock song; and (b) a Third Eye Blind song – Stephan Jenkins actually manages to hold a note (well, almost).

15. Mr. Crowley – Ozzy Osbourne: But of course :-D

While you were hanging yourself on someone else’s words…this is what Crowley’s been up to!

2008-03-04T15:51:00.003+05:30

A minor apology - I’ve been told that this blog is a pain in the ass to read because the posts are a tad long. Going through the archive, I do somewhat agree with that. I’m not known to be verbose or a chatterbox, but longwindeddrafting* is something that’s second nature to a lawyer, as are disclaimers.

*Dear Ms. Firstname Lastname, are you still stalking this blog? Please tell me you are. It makes me feel loved and wanted and warm.

So, I will make an effort to keep stuff short and simple from now on, but no promises, yeah? Sometimes the need to blurt out inordinate amounts of venom exceeds the need to be loyal to the Plain English Movement.

Having said that, this post will be one of those longish ones, though only because I’ve had a rough week at work, and haven’t gotten around to posting on a daily basis. But I have, diligently, been taking notes…at home, in court, in conferences and out in the streets. I read Neil Gaiman’s Smoke and Mirrors several months ago, and this quote from the book keeps egging me on to scribble, doodle and blog when I should be wheedling before judges, marking-up agreements, and indulging myself in other lawyer crap*:

“Writing is flying in dreams.
When you remember. When you can. When it works.
It’s that easy.”

*And yet, I still love my job.

(Yeah, yeah. I know you’re probably muttering “Get on with it, fuckface”)

Le tatouage – The past week’s been largely trouble free as far as my new tattoo goes. I was warned by other tattoo-toting humanoids that the artwork will sit quietly for the first couple of days, and will then mount a sneak attack, of gargantuan proportions, on my nerve-endings. I was advised to keep the tattoo dry, not to scratch the scabs, and stay away from sunlight. I armed myself with pain-killers, antibiotic cream and Vaseline, and grit my teeth against the pain and irritation to come…..which never really turned up. The scabs formed by the middle of D-Day+1, and have mostly come off now (on D-Day+7). There was some burning, and a bit of itching, but all-in-all, I’ve dealt with shaving cuts that hurt more. If any of you lot reading this want to get inked, but are afraid of the pain, then you have nothing to fear but fear itself. Take my word for it, it doesn’t hurt all that much.

If you’ve gotten the tattoo guy to bandage the tattoo, then rid yourself of the bandage within a couple of (or, at the most, a few) hours. I kept the bandage on overnight. BIG MISTAKE! When I took it off the next morning, a bit of the ink came off with the damn thing, leaving me with a not-as-black-as-I-expected tattoo. But it’s not too much of a headache, really. I can always go back later for a retouching. Also, avoid getting tattooed in sensitive areas like the inner arms and inner thighs, especially if you’re of a healthy build, and have a fair bit of flesh hanging off your arms and legs. Do NOT scratch the scabs when they start to itch. If the itch becomes unbearable, just pat the tattoo a few times.

Getting tattooed is fun (though it can become addictive; I’m already planning my next one). It’s not particularly painful, and you needn’t imbibe large amounts of alcohol to ease the pain. In fact, you should avoid hitting the bottle before and after getting inked. I had a minor scare when the customer before me started spouting blood like a reject from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre casting couch (did I say that? I must be drunk). Turns out that he’d had a few shots before coming in for the tattoo session. It appears that alcohol expands your capillaries, thins your skin AND your blood, which may lead to excessive bleeding during the tattoo session, which is, well, counterproductive. Professional tattoo artists recommend staying away from alcohol for 2-3 days before getting inked, which sounds a bit extreme to me. I’m no expert at this form of art, but I’d say it’s probably safe to avoid alcohol for 6-7 hours before the inking session and for a similar stretch thereafter. Anyhow, that’s enough on tattoos for now. Go figure it out for yourself. For more dos and don’ts on tattoo care, see here.

Le musique nouvelle - Just when I thought the Eastwind Festival was the last word on great new musical talent, I caught up with Swarathma from Bangalore. Was introduced to them just after they’d wrapped up a small photo-shoot with a local newspaper, and my first impression of this bunch was, “Oh no. Not another kurta-band”. However, their kurtas were of an interesting design and their hairdos even more so. The real fun started when they began their set. I’ve seen my share of bands who dabble with the genre ‘Hind-Rock’ but this one was something different. Swarathma’s songs were an odd mix of Indian folk, Dave Mathews’ jive/funk, and shades of blues rock and Carnatic classical (complete with a violinist). Add to that a volatile drummer-percussionist pair, and a lively, witty, stage-act, and you have a band that made a large bunch of ‘metalheads’ (y’know the type – Iron Maiden tshirts, multiple piercings, black nail varnish) dance. Yes, the crowd danced, and clapped, and sang along…even when the songs drifted from Hindi to Kannada.

So, if anyone’s interested in giving Swarathma’s stuff a listen, take a peek at their website. As of now, you can listen to some of their songs through the site (only streams, no downloads), but I’ll surely post a download link for these guys, if I ever come across one.

Les petites vacances – I’m notorious as a lone-wolf traveler, and usually traipse around the countryside on my own, or at the most with one or two close friends. I haven’t taken a vacation with a large group of people since the spring of 2000 (and I didn’t have much of a choice then; it was a college field trip-cum-weekend break. It was fun, nonetheless). It’s not that I hate crowds or am anti-social. I just have a habit of meandering away from the gang, and can spend hours sitting on a rock, staring into space, or taking photographs of curio stores and suchlike. So, when LizardQueen asked me last week if I wanted to join her and some pals on a 3-day road trip, my natural response was, “Nah. I think I’ll just stay put here in Delhi.”

But LizardQueen is an, um, imposing sort of person, and can be most persuasive, as can her pals, MollFlanders, WrittenDown, HighNote, and MissVesta. And so Crowley has been badgered into scuttling away to this hamlet called Ramganga, so that he can be spared the misery of being holed up in his room on Holi. The trip promises swimming (avoidable), fishing (if enough pink nail varnish is available), rock-climbing and trekking (yeah, baby. They don’t call me mountain goat for nothin’), and lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Of course, the indulgence in aforementioned activities by aforementioned persons will be possible only if such persons choose to remain sober and keep their hormones in check, but we shall see.

And just when you though you were done with reading mommy-blogs, we have this. I wonder what led her to this. Can’t be the kids, can it?

Could you do the egg bacon spam and sausage without the spam then?

2008-03-02T19:11:00.001+05:30

Virginia SC says anti-spamming laws aren't a free-speech violation!!!!
Oh fucking cheers.
Where's the judgment? I wannttssss......

"You can touch my girl, but not my guitar..."

2008-02-25T11:05:00.003+05:30

…crooned Dhaval Mudgal, vocalist for Half Step Down, thus officially kickstarting the Eastwind Festival for me. Fortunately, the crowd preferred not to prescribe to the “girl, not guitar” philosophy, and there were no ugly (or otherwise) incidents involving women (for which the organizers heaved no small sighs of relief), something which Delhi crowds are usually (and incorrectly) associated with.

But there was a lot of “guitar touching”, so to speak, as musicians from across the country (and from parts beyond) swapped gear talk, tips and tricks, musical tastes and influences, and generally shot the breeze and had a great time, without the usual back-biting and inter-band rivalry. I guess it helped that the fest was organized by people who’re known to be polite, well-mannered, and thoroughbred professionals. It also helped that there were 250-odd musicians at the venue, with 3 bands playing at any given point of time, so the crowd was mostly kept busy scampering between the stage tents to catch as many performances as possible (which was a source of complaint, but perhaps the only one).

Before I go on to the performances, a word of congratulations to the organizers for pulling off a well-coordinated and largely hassle free festival. From what I could make out, everyone had a great time roaming around the large venue, drinking beer (surprise, surprise, alcohol on the venue. A possible first for an Indian festival – great crowd puller, this one), basking in the warm spring sunshine, and, yes, catching some of the best bands India has to offer.

As for the performances, I can very honestly say that this was the first time I’ve not found one reason to bitch about any of the bands. I couldn’t catch all of them (missed all of Day 1, and the first few bands on Day 2), but the ones that I saw, rocked! Every single one of them hit a 110% without a hitch, and I enjoyed every minute of it, regardless of the genre of music being played.
I won’t talk about every performance here (you could say I’m suffering from musical overload at the moment, and it’s Monday morning, so I got other work to do), but I will mention the ones that blew me off my feet.

- Myndsnare: The metal band from Bangalore that floored me back in ’04, when I caught them for the first time in Bangalore. More notably known for their drummer, Yasmin Kazi (Crowley’s Secret Musician Crush # 1, who is sometimes mistaken for a human tornado). This lady can make any drum kit (or drummer, for that matter) cry Uncle. She did not disappoint this time either. Nope. Excuse me a minute while I stop slobbering;

- Jalebee Cartel: Crowley sitting through an electronica set is highly unlikely, no? Well, I did sit through JC’s set, which, in my own admission, was excellent. A far cry from the confused mish-mash of sampler loops, which usually earmarks electronic in this part of the world, JC’s music had excellent movements, and a tight ensemble of musicians with a good stage act. Because, after all, it really doesn’t make a difference what sort of music you play. If you pull off a live set without any mistakes, you’re the hero of the day (Oooh! I’m a poet, and I didn’t even know it..heh heh).

- Soulmate: At some point of time during Day 2, Crowley hopped out of metal mode and temporarily slipped into the soothing world of De Blues. And who better to play the Blues than Soulmate, with Rudy Wallang’s searing hooks and ‘Tips’ Kharbangar’s (Secret Musician Crush # 2) husky vocals. These guys proved (and they always do, somehow) that a great blues gig pulls a bigger crowd than any heavy act. Also, a woman slinging a Telecaster like the way Tips does, has a certain, um, appeal to it ;-) ;

- Pentagram: Vishal Dadlani may resemble a grocery store owner these days, what with that potbelly of his, and yes, he may have gained notoriety as an emigrant to the Bollywood gang, but the man can still get the crowd jumping, no doubt about it. Pentagram truly lived up to their position as one of the elder statesmen of Indian rock;

- Thermal And A Quarter: No angst here. No heavy riffing. Just 4 happy guys playing good ol’ rock n roll (with some additives, yes). The evergreen kings of the southern band circuit rocked the joint as always with catchy lyrics (“He’s the ticket collector on the bullet train to heaven”) and song structures, hilarious on-stage banter, and a bassist dressed in his trademark mundu;

- Avial: Yes, my dear Kuttichaathan. Theez iz rok. Mellu rok. There’s angst here, and there’s heavy riffs here, and there’s screaming solos here. In a language most people in Delhi don’t know exists. Malayalam. Despite all this, the turnout to watch these guys was unbelievable. And why not? If you can get a goodly-sized mosh pit going when you’re singing stuff most people present don’t understand, then you rock. Zimbly just;

- Anterior: One of the three overseas acts on the bill at Eastwind, these British black-metallers were the talk of the town on Day 3, with headbanger upon headbanger, and a profane stage act, much in the style of John Osbourne, Esq., who’s an authority on profanities, most people will admit. Shock value in spades, yes, but what a performance!!!;

- Little Babooshka’s Grind: I caught these guys on the small open-air jamming stage that had been set up on one side of the venue. Within 5 minutes of tuning up for an impromptu jam, this bunch of howlers from Namma Chennai pulled a crowd easily matching that inside any of the main stage areas. It’s sad that this band, which made everyone present (mostly wandering passers-by) sing along and tap their feet for close to an hour, remains virtually unknown in Delhi. I hope some half-sensible event manager / record label exec saw them play. If there was one Indian act on Day 3 that deserved the spotlight, it was these guys;

- Motherjane: The big ‘uns from God’s Own Country, they’ve rocked Crowley from the minute he got his hands on ‘Insane Biography’, 4 years or so ago. They do it again, and again, and again;

- Shaa’ir + Func: A recent entrant in the national music scene, this quartet from Bombay plays an eclectic mix of mainstream rock, alternative, funk and electronica. It also features Shaa’ir (Secret Musician Crush # 3), who has a brilliant voice, but is also a stunner, in the dark-eyed, Kashmiri beauty way. Of course, the sight was a bit marred by the red leotards she was sporting, but well, she is from Noo Yark (via Bombay) – some things cannot be helped *sigh*;

- Them Clones: A rocking night of music is always expected from this lot of Saddi Dilli de Munde, and is always delivered by them, right on the button. Day 3 was no exception, but hark! What’s this? Line-up change?! Nikhil Rufus?!?! Where’s pudgy Romit on bass? Huh? Oh well, they hammered out Sindrome and The Bomb Song. Crowley’s happy;

- Parikrama: I shall rest here. Nothing more needs to be said. Except yes, the cops came to shut down the gig at 10 sharp, which meant that Parikrama’s set was cut short WITHOUT Rhythm & Blues. Argh!!! Not a good way to end Eastwind.

Besides these, there were several other bands which I managed to absent myself from (not voluntarily) – Cassini’s Division, Level 9, Junkyard Groove, several that I heard, but couldn’t watch – Demonic Resurrection, Artists Unlimited, Medusa, Leni Stern and Something Relevant. Some band was playing ‘Sanskrit Rock’. I couldn’t get the name of the band, but whatever they were playing was fun. There was also this bunch of 5 nutjobs (allegedly from ISKON) who hoarded the jam stage for close to an hour, chanting “Hare Rama, Hare Krishna"). Another band which was sorely missed by Crowley was Chennai’s No Idea, fronted by the delectable Ms. N. Sasidharan (Secret Musician Crush # 4).

Thus ended Eastwind, a brilliant way to spend a spring weekend, and I’m honoured and proud to have contributed to it. Eastwind contributed to my life as well. It got me (partially) out of the blue funk that I’ve been in over the past week…and it got me over my fear of needles…so much so that Crowley is now officially inked.

Living my life too much in in the sun...Only until your will is done...

2008-02-22T20:20:00.002+05:30

It appears to me that weather gods do indeed exist, and that they all (or some of them, at least) read blogs. One of them must’ve read my rant on confused weather, because come 10 a.m., and the weather suddenly rocketed from pleasantly cool to not-unlike-an-oven.

Bastards! The filthy, heartless bastards!

I’ve also missed Day 1 of the Eastwind Festival, and missed it in high-fashion. To cut a long story short, kiddies, if your parents are in the habit of sniffing for bargains in every market and every fucking corner store, then it’s prudent to be AWOL when they go shopping for stuff like laptops and printers and hard-drives and the like. Especially if they pick the most inefficient, overcrowded and geographically disseminated computer stores to go to. Like the one I got dragged into a little while ago. It had to be one of the craziest stores I’ve ever been to.

3 objects needed buying - A new laptop (for Daddy Crowley), a replacement DVD burner (for Crowley’s ancient ThinkPad), and a cheap optical mouse. Simple enough shopping list, I suppose, yes?

It took us an hour and 15 minutes to buy all of this. Yes, fellow Romulans, one whole HOUR and fifteen frigging minutes to rub it in!!!!

Am I kidding? No. To buy a laptop, for example, the following procedure is to be mandatorily followed at a dive ostensibly named “Computer Empire” (where’s your crown, King Nothing?):

1. Queue up for a printed slip of paper, which specifies that you want to buy a laptop;

2. Proceed to a little hole in the wall a few shops down the corridor, where sit two 20-something lads who animatedly point to a blurry, Xeroxed list of available models (none are on display, by the way. A little display board in the corner reads “ONLY SEEE, NO TUCH”), and try to point out the pros and cons of different models in broken English, naturally making sure that the higher-end models are definitely better. Daddy Crowley (for reasons unknown to me) reposes immense faith in these greasy charlatans, and my patient pleas of “Dad, 160 GB of disk space doesn’t mean 160 GB of system memory” rebound off the gray-haired skull like a lot of Flubber;

3. Once a suitable laptop is chosen for the slaughter (A sleek, shimmery Vaio in our case – Papa’s Got A Brand New Pig Bag…and isn’t he kicked with it), one of the greasy kids scribbles out a sales receipt on a grubby scrap of paper, and sends you back to the guy in Step 1 (see above);

4. The fellow in Step 1 apparently doubles up as the cashier, who takes a wad of 1000 rupee notes from Daddy Crowley, and flips through them faster than most counting machines (did I mention that there was a queue for this thing as well? And a separate queue if you’re paying by credit card?);

5. Once said Cashier boy is satisfied that you’re not stiffing him, he prints out a formal looking Sales Invoice and a Tax Invoice…all very professional…and then points to a guy sitting about 10 inches down the counter, and says “Delivery wahaan milegi” (“Ee’s the check-out guy, talk to ‘im”);

6. You shuffle back at the end of ANOTHER queue to take delivery;

7. When your turn comes, and you expectantly hand over your invoice for delivery, the fat man at the ‘Delivery Counter’ gives it a once-over, grunts (the 2 pimply kids in line before us got farts…just sayin’, y’know), picks up the intercom and mumbles into it. He then looks at you and tells you to step to a side;

8. 10-15 minutes later, Daddy’s new toy turns up, resplendent in shrink-wrap. The invoices are stamped and handed back.

Buying the replacement DVD burner involved one additional step…precariously making your way up a dimly-lit and cracked concrete staircase to the 4th floor, where Computer Empire has its parts store.

And this little circus is 50 yards in line of sight with the Microsoft corporate office in Delhi. Will wonders never cease?

And to add to the evening entertainment, I walked back into office to find out that it’s Bleeding-Hearts Friday today. My boss has called an all-hands meeting to discuss some AIDS-related public interest litigation that our office has been handling.

Though I’m not actively involved in this matter, there was this suitably cute NGO-type chick present for the conference, and since Crowley works in an office which suffers from a constant drought of the female of the species, Crowley was most interested in making the acquaintance of this wonderful creature.

Said wonderful creature, while waiting for the conference to begin, raved and ranted to nobody in particular about HIV, acute retroviral syndrome, care centers and agammaglobulinemiawhatsit (blub, blub). Crowley caught himself dozing.

Crowley has to go watch some paint dry. He will return soon with stories from the Eastwind battlefield.

The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind....

2008-02-21T13:02:00.002+05:30

I’m most probably going to be offline over the weekend, and will be busy taking notes, listening to some truly great music, and (hopefully) indulge in photography at the Eastwind Festival that’s happening in Delhi from Feb 22 – 24 (I’m also going to try and rustle up some clients. Concerts and festivals are brilliant places to pick up a client or two, as I’ve discovered over the last year. Crowley also needs the moolah).

Since Crowley has been, in his own small, professional way, associated with Eastwind, a little something about the guys who thought it up –

Eastwind is the brainchild of the folks at Prospect Advisory & Management, a small company with some great ideas. A motley bunch of musicians and music lovers who, though mostly missing a few screws in the attic, are a very dedicated lot, and great people to have as friends. They’ve been pulling a lot of night-outs for Eastwind over the last year, and a lot of blood, sweat and tears has gone into ensuring that it happened (got postponed twice).

Without any further ado, here are the bare details for the fest:

Dates: 22nd, 23rd and 24th February, 2008

Venue: NSIC Grounds, Okhla Industrial Area, Phase III, New Delhi (next to the Kalkaji Flyover).

Timings: Gates open at: 12:00 noon
Performances: 1:00 pm – 10:00 p.m.

Performing acts: There’s 60-odd bands from across the country, but since Blogger is a pain when it comes to tables, I’ll just mention the more notable ones here:

Day 1 – Bandish, Dhruv Ghanekar and the Ranjit Barot Project, III Sovereign, Indian Ocean, Junkyard Groove, Mrigya, Pink Noise.

Day 2 - Cassini’s Division, Galeej Gurus, Half Step Down, HFT, Jalebee Cartel, Kryptos, Menwhopause, Myndsnare, Pentagram, Skinny Alley, Soulmate, Thermal And A Quarter.

Day 3 – Advaita, Artistes Unlimited, Demonic Resurrection, Helga’s Fun Castle, Karsh Kale, Level 9, Medusa, Motherjane, Parikrama, Shaa’ir + Func, Something Relevant, Them Clones.

The event also features a jamming stage (which I hope to hit at some point), a food court (moshing requires nutrition), tattoo artists (more possibilities) and other ‘recreational’ avenues.

So, see you there. Oh, and DO spread the word about this. :-)

Slow degrees on the dark horizon; full moon rising, lays silver at your feet

2008-02-21T11:56:00.003+05:30

".....Purnmaashi hai", I heard my granny say through sleep-induced haze at 7 a.m. So, tonight is full-moon night (or tomorrow, possibly), which means that it's time for Crowley to don his best bib and tucker, crouch atop the nearest rooftop, and howl. Crowley's been practicing his bestest Ozzy-style howl (if any of you've heard Bark At The Moon....there's this rather tasteful howl at the end of the song), and is eager to try it out. In other news, I hate weather that can't make up its mind. Net result - (i) body aches; (ii) constant sneezing; (iii) love-life in the bog; (iv) Crowley in the bog (food poisoning), yep, life's all peachy.

DJing (at) Blues..... (and other reflections)

2008-02-20T11:05:00.005+05:30

Over the last 6/7 months that I’ve been moonlighting as a DJ, I’ve noticed this horrible tendency of Delhiites (and outsiders…those whiny ones who keep bitching about Delhi) to equate ‘rock music’ with the following songs (Readers, I may have missed out a few here. Feel free to add to the list):

- Summer of ‘69 – You got your first real 6-string at a five-n-dime? Kitni achhi baat hai. Did you also, perchance, learn to play guitar at one? Do tell. Because, fuck me, mate, you haven’t progressed beyond a D-A-D-A progression since! (Oh, oh, oh….there’s a B-minor in the chorus!!! Happy, happy, joy, joy!!!! *@#$%#)

- Sweet Child O’ Mine – Every kid’s foray into the world of the heavier forms of rock almost always begins with this one. On the odd day, it’s a nice enough song. But PLEASE, G ‘n R recorded 5 albums before Axl took his sabbatical to study Asian political theory. These albums have many other brilliant songs. So if I play, say, Mr. Brownstone or Get in the Ring or Ain’t It Fun, please do NOT come whining for S.C.O.M. because you want to “headbang to G ‘n R”. You might end up missing some body parts. I mean it.

- It’s My Life – And then we have the gang, which ‘discovered’ Bon Jovi after this miserable single was released, and thinks this is the best thing to hit rock n roll after Elvis and crotch-hugging pants. I’ve always felt this band was a lot of wasted talent (listen to Richie Sambora’s solo work and you’ll know why).

- Roadhouse Blues – Yes, I KNOW it’s The DOORS. I KNOW that I’m stepping on too many toes here. But, in my defence, I reiterate what I wrote for S.C.O.M.

- Du Hast – Avant garde headbanger, this one. But please, it died out around the same time Matrix Reloaded hit the screens. Even Rammstein stopped playing it at their live gigs. Let it go.

- In the End (and songs by bands who think deliberately misspelling their names equals creativity).

- “We Don’t Need No/Any/An/The Education” – Step 1 – Get the name right; Step 2 – Ask politely, and thou shall receive; Step 3 – If thou cannot ask politely, thou shall not ask. Thou shall wait, patiently. This one shall always be played.

- Dancing Queen – Since when did ABBA become a part of the rock brigade?

*Update: Vanilla Syrup was kind enough to add to this list. And I'd forgotten one plum pick.

- Smells Like Teen Spirit - Ok. I guess this is one over-played song that still warrants being played. But don't come begging for it. I will play it. When I feel the time is ripe. I mean, it's kind of silly to be playing 'Wish You Were Here', and then suddenly jumping into Nirvana!!!!

- Hotel California – How could I have EVER forgotten this one?!!

(I also realise the formatting for this post has gone for a toss.)

There is a reason why I will absolutely NOT play these songs. It’s called terminal boredom. Stagnation. The fact that if pubs / bars / clubs (and the regular patrons) wanted the same 10 songs to last the entire evening, then there’d be no need to have a DJ, right (Er. That’s 3 reasons). It’s not that I hate these songs (ok, I hate It’s My Life)…I’m just plain fed up with them being recycled everywhere I go.

‘Rock’, ‘rock n roll’, ‘metal’, ‘alternative’….these terms can barely define the bottomless pit the genre’s become. I don’t expect people to be well-acquainted with all of it (Hell, I’m definitely not). But please do me a favour!? Be honest and don’t call yourself a ‘rock fan’ if these songs are the only ones you’ve ever heard, or ever want to hear.

*I obviously sound pissed off and angsty here. I am, to a certain extent. I opened my Inbox this morning to find a forwarded speech…one of those feelgood ones, you know the type. Normally, I delete this stuff. Today, I was livid when I first read it. Livid, not with any particular person, but livid with myself. A small extract from this speech (which, upon further reflection, made a fair bit of sense):

“There will be hundreds of people out there with your same degree: there will be thousands of people doing what you want to do for a living. But you will be the only person alive who has sole custody of your life. Your particular life. Your entire life. Not just your life at a desk, or your life on a bus, or in a car, or at the computer. Not just the life of your mind, but the life of your heart. Not just your bank accounts but also your soul….People don't talk about the soul very much anymore. It's so much easier to write a resume than to craft a spirit. But a resume is cold comfort on a winter's night, or when you're sad, or broke, or lonely, or when you've received your test results and they're not so good… ... …think of life as a terminal illness, because if you do, you will live it with joy and passion as it ought to be lived” - Anna Quindlen

Should I treat my life as a terminal illness? I’ve treated it like an annoying head cold so far. So maybe I need an upgrade, ja?

Last night was one of the worst ones I’ve had in a long, long time. Partly thanks to certain unforeseeable (or maybe not) circumstances, and partly because of a realisation of what I’ve become; or what I’ve been (unsuccessfully) trying to become – a 'Happy Person'. I’m a champ at making the people around me smile and feel good about themselves. Are you ill? Depressed? Feelin’ them bluueeess? Come sit next to Unca Crowley. He’ll have you in splits in a jiffy, sure as yer squattin’ there.

But I suck at doing the same for myself. So, why bother? I was born a grouch. I’ve been labeled a grouch throughout school and law school and at work. It’s the way I express myself best. So, onward Christian soldier.

To quote Alice Cooper, “No more Mr. Nice Guy”.

Mr. Crowley’s back. All aboard the Crazy Train…hehehehehe.

AAARRRGHGGHGHGGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2008-02-19T19:42:00.002+05:30

This is not happening....this is NOT HAPPENING..........why ME?! Why can't I say what I have to when I have to!!!!!!!!!!!

I won't lie no more you can bet. I don't want to learn what I'll need to forget.

2008-02-19T12:28:00.003+05:30

“I was walking along a path with two friends—the sun was setting—suddenly the sky turned blood red—I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence—there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city—my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety—and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.” – Edvard Munch

So, at some point during the medium-long ‘commitment’ conversation (see post below) with my friend, the old bean started to woolgather. Since I wasn’t getting a word in edgewise, and since the weather was lovely and breezy, with a killer view of a blood-red sunset from the terrace at Café Turtle in Khan Mkt. (hence the reference to Der Schrei der Natur above), slight pangs of existential angst began to hit and the mind tuned out from Radio Louwe to other things.

Usually, when I tune out in the middle of a diatribe, I try to focus on something that’s connected (vaguely or otherwise) to whatever the rant is about. This serves as a good face-saver and conversation topic shifter, when the other person realizes that you checked out of Hotel California a while ago (but since you’re still sitting there, you obviously haven’t left, ha ha).

What I was thinking about was this – What have I learnt from the women I’ve dated or tried to date?

I often notice (on other blogs and in random conversation) that people either say nasty things about their former better halves, or pine about them. Very few of us will publicly admit that the men / women we were in flings / relationships with actually contributed to our lives. More power to those of you who’ve been with the same person for, like, ever. But since all of us aren’t that lucky (which, I suppose, is good…stagnation isn’t a good place to be stuck in…or Stag-nation, for that matter), the least we can do is be honest to ourselves and say, “Yeah. So it ended. Too bad about that. But at least I walked away from it a little bit more sensible / educated / informed / experienced”.

And what has this once polite-yet-ignorant north-Indian boy learnt from the tails he’s chased (a few successfully; mostly, not)? Not quantum physics, no, but:

- LuciferSam taught me to like the Velvet Underground, Michael Moorcock and home-made, rum-laced wine; the art of cracking bad jokes; and that short women are possibly more passionate than tall ones;

- Florence Nightingale got me hooked onto doodling, Bertrand Russell, Jerome K. Jerome and Michel Foucault and taught me more about being ‘responsible’ for someone else….more than anyone else ever has;

- Bottled Genie taught me, well, that there’s always time for one more beer…the nuances of Mumbai tapori slang, and, of course, the fine art of choosing baby names (!!)

And then, of course, there was Red-Herring Lamb, who I never quite got around to ‘dating’, but who did successfully remind me that a wholly vegetarian meal (broccoli included) was not such a bad thing after all….and who can forget Ka-Bar, who introduced me to quality alternative rock and Charles Bukowski…

All in all, I may not have been romantically successful with any of these women (and chances of me getting back/getting together with them are highly unlikely…non-existent even), but all of them, in their own small ways, have made me a better person….and I’ll always be grateful to them for that.

Ladies, live long and prosper wherever you may roam. Amen to that!

You want commitment? Put on your best suit....get your arms around me, now we're goin' down, down, down....

2008-02-18T19:35:00.003+05:30

I’ve just wrapped up a 40-minute conversation (monologue – I was allowed to contribute precious little) with a friend who’s going through commitment woes. In his case, of course, his lady friend is refusing to ‘commit’ (I’ve noticed that it’s invariably the lads who get tagged as being ‘commitment phobic’, which, I suppose, is true to a point, but not a generality. It’s not that we’re all wham-bam-thank you ma’am…there are some snap decisions which our brains take a while to fathom, so, solpa adjust madi, as Bubbles would say).

I don’t know what the lad was complaining about, though. When you’re 6 months short of 21, you’re pushing your luck a wee bit (and I speak from painful experience) if you’re thinking about ‘commitment’ in terms of marriage, kids, mortgages, tea-in-bed, buttered scones and pancakes on Sunday, and the rest of the whole 9 yards. If, at 21, you’re getting laid regularly (with the same person, I may hasten to add) and have a steady date for weekend movies or pub crawls or gigs, who’s seeing you and only you, then you ought to be breaking out extra grog rations. You can’t possibly ask for more.

You think of that sort of stuff when you’re closing in on 30, with (at least) 3-4 years of 20-hour work days and 20-hour drunken weekends under your belt; when you badly feel the need to find someone equally screwed up as you to wake up next to every morning (well, most mornings). I say ‘equally screwed up’ for good reason here, damen und herren. Any more screwed up, and you become Daddy Day-Care for a manically depressed, whiny, and incontinent partner. Any less screwed up, and you end up with Granny Weatherwax (or the male equivalent thereof).

And you really ought to know better than to look to me for advice / as a role model. I’ve spent the last eight years looking out for someone who’d be more than just a weekend date or an ONS. The fact that I’ve been single for 1643 days (as of today) should indicate that either my approach is flawed, or I am. But then, I’ve been generally satisfied with my approach (or lack thereof, actually) to these things. Just don’t follow my lead, eh?

Sheep go to heaven...goats go to hell...

2008-02-17T16:09:00.005+05:30

And donkeys? Where do donkeys go when they, um, kick the bucket? Has anyone ever given this existential question a smidgen of thought? (McCrea…DiFiore…any ideas, boys?)

I mean, they’re very obviously committing suicide in Sudan by jumping into the Nile! Sudan is a predominantly Islamic country; and since Islam forbids suicide, slitting your wrists is a sure-fire way of ensuring a one-way ticket to Hell. So, Sudanese donkeys that kill themselves go for a dinner date with Satan. Q.E.D. [and for that certain fellow blogger, TotallyVampire, who seems to be unsure of this – it’s Quod ERAT Demonstrandum :-)].

Do Sudanese donkeys, therefore, need psychotherapy? Or will they continue to make, well, asses of themselves by aimlessly jumping into the nearest fishpond? And will the Indian Army be able to help them get over their woes? Tune in next week for the next episode of "Bray’s’ Anatomy"!!!

Braying…er...Straying (*@#! donkey puns) away from the psychological maladies of Equus Asinus, Crowley turned 26 on Valentine’s Day. Crowley knows little of the day he was born on (and remembers not a bit of it. But then, that’s expected); but what he does know is that February 14, 1982, was:
(i) overcast;
(ii) windy; and
(iii) extremely chilly (perfect Omen-type setting, eh?).

Crowley rolled out on or around 2030 hours and (according to eyewitness accounts) opened his eyelids approximately an hour later. He would not shut them for a considerable period of time…a portent of the insomnia that continues to plague him (a fact that his family bemoaned at the time, and continues to do so vociferously).

Also, an Urdu poet of some repute, who was enjoying some R&R a few rooms down the corridor from Crowley’s first-ever bedroom (in the hospital i.e.), went all batty a few hours after Crowley was born, and proceeded to the Great Opera in the Sky a couple of days thereafter.

This is SO Damien, no?

Unfortunately, the story ends about there. Crowley, to the best of his knowledge, based on records maintained in the regular course of business, has not caused any other deaths (not of humans, at any rate). He has caused severe hair-loss due to excessive tearing-out of aforementioned hair. He keeps track of these things, yes. Makers of wigs have offered him large amounts of money for his services, yes.

Crowley’s not acquainted with a lot of people born on February 14; but we all agree that it’s a miserable day to be born on. Imagine going through life celebrating your birthday on a day when (a) you’re the only schmuck who gets birthday cards instead of Valentine’s Day cards; (b) you can’t really throw a party because everyone else has ‘plans’; (c) you’re perennially single; and (d) you’re the butt of many jokes because, well, let’s face it, it IS Valentine’s-fucking-Day.

So, Crowley didn’t have a rocking birthday this year, but he supposes it could’ve been worse. He could’ve been sitting in a loud club wearing a red shirt that goes “Prince Loves Pinky", and listening to Bryan Gay-dams croon "Everything I Do…”!!!! I mean, what’s wrong with “The Unforgiven-II”? That qualifies as a love song too!!

Oh, my kingdom for a wine-sipping, curling-up-on-a-rug-before-the-fireplace type female! (Um. Ok. So I don’t have a fireplace. I got space heaters here!) (Crosses fingers and toes).

Ask the sheep for their belief....

2008-02-15T13:38:00.002+05:30

Muchly thanks to ViralFish for this link. I'm a tolerant person when it comes to religion....but some of this stuff is ridiculous to the point of hilarity!!!
http://www.fstdt.com/fundies/top100.aspx?archive=1

That's me in the corner; that's me in the spotlight (?!)

2008-02-13T19:33:00.004+05:30

I like being in my corner, and preferably out of the spotlight.

I quite like my little corner in office.

It’s comfy, and relatively cozy.

I have my own little berm of files and assorted paper work, which sort of keeps the draught out.

The only problem is that the hordes of nincompoops, who come calling on my Lord and Master, invariably end up walking in through MY door (see Mapp), as opposed to the door which leads to the exit when they’re done wheedling to the Bossman.

This is MOST irritating. I’ve seen a few bad cases of short-term memory loss in my time. But this is ridiculous! How can you forget which door you came in less than 15 minutes ago??!! How?!

Good Morning, Worm, Your Honour!

2008-02-12T19:45:00.000+05:30

(Or a few things you didn't know about the legal profession)

I’ve always wondered what the little flap of cloth dangling from the back of my court gown was for. It seems that in the days of yore, this little flap was used either (a) to carry ‘breviates’ (briefs…the legal, reading sort…not Jockey Y-fronts) or (b) as a ‘wallet’, in which clients could slip in fees. Upon a quick search of the Internet, I came across this hugely interesting booklet titled “Legal Habits – A Sartorial History of Wig, Robe”. According to this little write-up:

“This fold of material at the back of the gown has also been likened to a ‘cloven tongue’ and to ‘the wattles of a cock or turkey’ (the word ‘wallet’ is said to derive from the word ‘wattle’, meaning bag). The shape, however, as Baker comments, ‘is not easy to describe in words’ nor easy to draw clearly…..Historically barristers did not technically receive explicit payment for their work. Since their fees were honoraria (so the theory goes), their clients might surreptitiously slip money into the purse carried on their gowns, literally behind their back, ‘without ruffling the susceptibilities or offending the dignity of the learned counsellor’, in the words of J. S. Udal, writing in the periodical Notes and Queries in 1887. Another version holds that, since the barrister could not see the exact amount being paid him, whether large or small, he would not allow the verve with which he pleaded his case to be influenced. A more prosaic theory holds that the barrister’s performance in court would once have relied upon a client’s constant topping-up of the wallet behind him, worn at the back so as not to disturb his rhetorical flow.”

Novel explanations for a six-inch long swatch of padded cloth, though nobody seems to be entirely sure what it was for. Nevertheless, the next time I’m up in Court, it would be nice to find some cash stuck inside that little flap. :)

Speaking of lawyers’ fees, Counsel in Bombay still bill in ‘guineas’ or gold mohurs (or Gms), at the rate of Rs. 15 per Gms. So much for fancy billing tables and time-keeping software, eh? Of course, since carrying little bits of gold on your person while waltzing down a street in Bombay (or any city, for that matter) is highly unadvisable, the Bombay lot will happily settle for hard cash.

I’m currently involved in this matter before the Supreme Court, where a bunch of lawyers has demanded that lawyers be permitted to advertise (for the non-lawyers reading this; us poor souls can’t advertise, or have our own cool-type websites like all these Magic Circle and White Shoe firms have). Researching for the damn hearing, though I didn’t come up with a lot of stuff vis-à-vis advertising and soliciting, I DID come across Rule 1.8(j) of the “Model Rules of Professional Conduct” of the American Bar Association, which states thus:

“(j) A lawyer shall not have sexual relations with a client unless a consensual sexual relationship existed between them when the client-lawyer relationship commenced.”

(Bugger! This means that if they were to implement this in India, my only chance to get laid is taken away! NOOOO!!!!!)

Of course, American attorneys need not fret…well, certainly not if they’re in a law firm. Said Rule 1.8 has an itsy-bitsy loophole….sub-rule (k):

“(k) While lawyers are associated in a firm, a prohibition in the foregoing paragraphs (a) through (i) that applies to any one of them shall apply to all of them.”

The ABA conveniently left out sub-rule (j) from this blanket clause! Soooo, this means that Partner ‘A’ or Associate ‘B’ in a firm can have a bit of a romp with Partner ‘C’ or Associate ‘D’’s clients.

Even better if there’s a Chinese Wall in the firm, no? Heh heh.

In other news – I attended the shortest (and possibly the most anti-climatic) AOR registration today. It lasted exactly 1 second. There’s nobody better than a Supreme Court judge make 45 young/middle-aged lawyers simper like sophomores, and then make them gape in utter surprise :D

Also, it’s apparently illegal in Florida to have sexual relations with a porcupine. Any comments on that one, s’il vous plait?

There's a dirty needle in your child..haha...stick me

2008-02-11T21:15:00.000+05:30

This strip has a point, I think. Chal waapas kaam par, pyaare ;)

Heavy rings hold cigarettes, up to lips that time forgets…

2008-02-04T18:26:00.000+05:30

And time (and I, for that matter) almost forgot my old blog (of the same name). But thanks to StarryEyes’ (I'd love to call her Brenda Starr, but I think she'd mind..heh) recent article on quarter-life crises and my present dark mood (no, it’s not the usual Crowley caustica; it’s full-blown dudgeon), I thought I should dredge some of the crappier poetry (and some of the non-poetic-genius-type posts) I’d written on the old blog, and put it out here…as a pick-me-up, I suppose.

Attorney General’s Warning: This is über crappy poetry, so don’t sue me for mental torment if you decide to read it. Volenti non fit injuria, my lovelies, you asked for it.

Drencherotica

Walking in the rain
Sipping coke
Five buck peanuts
Falling
One by one
Out the soggy newspaper cornet

Newspaper
Proudly proclaiming yesterday's lies
Heralding tomorrow's untruths
And other stories ("get em fresh")
7 'o clock news,

Silent night closing in

Drops of leaden moisture
Stream down my tired face
Pool between the folds of my wrinkled skin
Remind me of the tears I have shed
For the love I lost
For the lives I lived
And died

Little beggar boy
Huddles under a tattered old
Packing crate
Nowhere to hide
From the cold, falling rain
From the misery of his forsaken
Life
And yet, He smiles
Reminding me that all is not lost
And I
I fall in love with life again

No more pins in me

A Grecian Earn

'Tis late, the hour.
Somewhere in the distance, a loon chimes out
a dirge for the weary

The mists of sleep beckon softly to me
their warm fingers touching all that I see and feel

Behold Hypnos as he sits by the Lethe;
"Return to yonder bed, child", says he,
"for tomorrow brings another day of toil."
"Partake the waters of this river, and let Morpheus guide your way".
"Why care about light, which does blind you so?"
"Why care about white, which is forever stained?

"Fall in with the black, which always stains through"

I smile and say "yes",
"the dark is good as is the black"......
"But I, I have other things to do, other desires to appease,
other lives to live, and other deaths to die"

"But some day, i shall drink the waters of this river;
some day, I shall rejoice in the calm of Nyx's dark tresses;
some day, I shall enter the embrace of my surrealistic pillow,
and never let go..."

"and some day I shall take your hand, and we'll be off...
off to never never land"

What's this life for?

Lately I've been catching myself over-analyzing and reading too darn much into things I really ought not be thinking too much about!!! It's a habit that's common to lawyers, so I guess I shouldn't be too worried. But then, it's really not like me...I was always cautious, but never really worried too much about most things (except, of course, the fact that I never had enough drumsticks in working condition).

I guess this is what people would call the starting point of a mid-life crisis, which is fine and dandy...only I'm not into "mid-life" just yet....

I guess I could use time off, but I know I'll end up getting bored. Working 17-hour days leaves one with monstrous withdrawal symptoms on vacation.......even though I'm pushing myself way too hard, one thought comes to mind... "if you use a fork for eating..it'll last just about forever...use it to drive nails and dig trenches, it won't last a day"

Self pity is a terrible thing and I really should be pushing harder for a little downtime...but still, I know something's missing....something definitely more than 8 hours of sleep....If only I could figure out what!

But I'll go you one better (if you've got the nerve)…Let's race all the way to Dead Man's Curve…

2008-02-03T17:50:00.000+05:30

….and then take a “tumble at the Devil’s Bend”. Heh. Yeah, so Crowley and eM finally managed to catch Iron Maiden live, complete with Can I Play With Madness, Fear of the Dark, Heaven Can Wait, The Clairvoyant, Hallowed Be Thy Name, Powerslave, Aces High…and Moonchild. We managed to miss Parikrama’s set and the first few songs of the Maiden set (delayed flight from Delhi, combined with famous Bombay traffic, and, of course, a certain person who took her own time with her pre-gig drinks, and kept sweetly asking me “Why are you in such a hurry?”) but nonetheless, it was brilliant gig, and the company excellent, if a little, um, undereducated in the ways of metal. :-)

Oh, and eM remembered (and chanted along to) Fear of the Dark….word for word. That woman has done me proud.

And, yes, much to our disappointment, we couldn’t get to meet Maiden, after all!!! (Again, a certain person will never let me live this one down). So, all you clowns who cried out in angst at my good fortune, you can have the the last laugh. Bully for you. Another day, another band….we shall prevail.

Since the Maiden after-party didn’t happen (actually, it turns out it DID happen, after all, but was in the wee hours of the morning, and wasn’t particularly rocking, according to a few people who were there) we just made up for it with many drinks and many arguments over the check at Vertigo. Rest assured, after my Vertigo visit, I will NEVER, EVER, look at a trash dumpster in quite the same light. I will also be very wary of cheese.

We ended the evening with drunken karaoke singing (bawling) at Merlin’s with our little group hammering out “Bharat Hamko Jaan Se Pyaara Hai” and a bunch of inebriates at the other end of the bar wailing out the all-famous “Sutta Song”…all at the same time. A heady mix, if there was one.

The rest of the night was spent observing a hyperactive cat (described, rather astutely, by RickshawWrestler as a ‘gay dog stuck inside a cat’s body) chase cockroaches and mosquitoes; reading (for the umpteenth time) Stephen King’s ‘Christine’; keeping aforementioned mosquitoes from buzzing in my ear; and fending off aforementioned cat from jumping on my face and nipping at my toes as I tried to snatch a few hours of sleep.

Nevertheless, a fun trip. Would’ve been a lot more fun had Crowley not followed tradition and had actually DONE what he had set out to do (in addition to meeting Iron Maiden).

Net result? This song keeps rumbling around in my silly head.

That fateful night the car was stalled
upon the railroad track.
I pulled you out and we were safe
but you went running back.

Why does Crowley insist on running back, and not Running Free? Any explanations, por favor?

If ever words were spoken, painful and untrue (?!)

2008-01-31T13:52:00.000+05:30

Ok, maybe not painful and untrue, but certainly funny, even if it is in a taking-the-piss, high-school way....So, if you're the female of the species, and suddenly feel the urge to go up to a guy and say:

"I believe you were eyeing my rack, don't you have one of your own?" (a book rack is what's being referred to here); or

"Ooh, your thing's so small. How does it work?" (a tablet PC)

then DO NOT feel offended if 10 guys around you burst out into peals of laughter (or just plain burst out of the room....because, well, they're polite lads, and don't want to guffaw in your face).

Let's face it. Men find humour in everything (or we try our best to). Especially if you're working in a vertiable loony-bin (the sort Crowley is presently an incumbent of).

And, let's face another 'it'. You weren't exactly born in a hole in Gurgaon. You really ought to know the consequences of making profound statements like the ones above.

Cold, we're so cold....we are

2008-01-29T12:40:00.000+05:30

"We kiss the stars...We writhe...We are"

Crowley has been itching to post for the past several days, but it's been a hectic and largely joyless couple of weeks and MTNL hasn't been behaving itself (they ought to rename it 'MLTN' - My Loser Telephone Network), making access to the Internet a wee bit easier than a few rounds of strip poker with a pack of starving rottweilers.

Telecom troubles aside, Crowley is damp; Crowley is cold; Crowley is positively grouchy (more than the usual, i.e.)...Crowley loves winter, but it's colder than a witch's tit out here in the boonies (assuming, My Lords, that said witch is employed in a nitrogen bottling plant in Novya Zemlya), and, therefore, Crowley is going to spew forth herein copious amounts of venom and spite.

To begin with, an alarming tendency of male, litigating lawyers (of a certain large North-Indian state), to call other male, litigating lawyers "Dear" or "My Dear"! Listen up you cunts. This isn't Yorkshire or London or Dover or whatever. This is India. Addressing other males as "Dear" isn't on. Sure, if you could mimic a half-decent, blue-blooded, stiff-upper lip Brit accent (as opposed to sounding like rejects from the "Loins of Punjab Presents" casting couch), and called everyone "Dear boy" or "My Dear Sir", then, maybe, we could have some sort of an understanding. But the point is that when I (26 year-old heterosexual male) email a document to you (45 year-old supposedly heterosexual male), it rattles my innocent, Brahmin sensibilities when I get "Thank you dear. You are a Sweet" in reply. You want your personal bitch for those cold desert nights? Find yourself a fucking camel, yeah?

Winter Weddings, there's another one. If you ARE hell-bent on getting hitched in this biting cold, at least spare a thought for the baraatis. I mean, what's the point of dishing out all that nice food (and alcohol, in certain cases) when the guests can't really reach it.....kinda hard to eat / drink when your hands are stuck (I mean, literally) inside your pockets, and all you want to do is curl up next to a roaring fire and die....

And if I hear 'Billo Rani' at ONE more wedding, I will do someone an injury.......

Anyway, Crowley thinks that's enough gripe for one day (the deal is, this post was written over a space of 3 hours, various chores, tasks, phone calls and laundry visits interspersing the pecking away on the keyboard).

Crowley would also like to remind readers that February 1st, 2008 will be a day to remember, as some of us will be privy to an enchanting evening of music....a soul-moving performance by Iron Maiden. Crowley will be there. He will do his best to send a postcard.

("Soul-moving"? YEAH, RIGHT....Up The Irons, Lads..hee hee hee)

Hedges against the night....

2008-01-21T14:33:00.001+05:30

Happenstance that I came across this comic strip on the net in the middle of a reading of Stephen King's latest book, Duma Key (which, by the way, is an excellent read. SK has truly redeemed himself after the rather vapid Lisey's Story) (also, this goes out to the pompous cretin at the bookstore who dismissed SK as 'puerile, self-obsessed, pulp horror'...may you rot in Hell, you misguided midget, with demons dipping your cojones in hydrogen peroxide after a once-over with industrial sandpaper).

The comic and the book seem to go well together. Eerily well, I must say.

Imagine if you could paint your dreams into reality.....

Hell, I'd be Michael-fucking-angelo.

Party Clippings

2008-01-01T17:20:00.000+05:30

eM's visit a couple of weekends ago started a chain of highly enjoyable pre-New Year pissups, which have left Crowley a bit staggered. Crowley feels it will be good for his immortal soul to get down to some serious lawyering (for the next week at least) to get some of the alcohol out of his system.

All the same, some interesting snippets from some of these get-togethers:

1. SurlyGirl's latest "business venture". It apparently involves setting up a new club in Delhi, which will be called 'Boring'. Eunuchs will be employed as bar-tenders and bouncers, and will all be referred to as "Happy". So, ordering your drink would involve screaming "Oye, HAPPY. Ek Bloody Marry laana, oye". With each breakthrough in the club's popularity, the name will undergo certain (minor) changes. 'Boring' will become '"Boring"', then ' "Boring?" ' and finally, ' "Boring?!" '

At some point, a small backroom will be added where people can place bets on upcoming riots. This novel bookie centre will be run by a former student leader of dubious sexual preferences, and who will be as butch as they come (pun not intended).

'Boring' will also feature cozy and private cubicles for desperate denizens for fornicant activities of all sorts. A word of caution - the management reserves the right to release live CC TV footage from these cubicles.

2. Oh, MAN, you have GOT to try Canadian Club. It's the best whiskey around, man (And here's l'il ol' me, who drinks only rum, in true pirate tradition).

3. I only shake hands on two occasions, yaar. Either when my hands are colder than the other guy's, or when there's no water in the loo, ha ha. (Quid?!)

4. Buddyyyy...buddyyy.....BUDDYYYY...you're PUSHING me, buddy (female voice; v singsong; VERY inebriated) (long story)

5. Ek glass cock please.

I rest my case.

Don't you leave me, Father Time, take me with You...

2007-12-29T18:49:00.000+05:30

A cold end to yet another year. It's not been as bad as the last one...neither the winter, nor the year i.e.

Like many others, this has been a year of a lot of effort, but little to show for it. The only difference is that I'm not feeling cut-up about it any longer. I think old age is catching up ;-)

As a new year resolution, I hereby resolve that I shall not crib about the world at large on this blog (and like most resolutions, we all know where that's headed).

I've never been in the habit of writing posts about the high / low points of the year that went past. There is a special place for memories like those, and this blog isn't that special place. So, I guess I'll just put down the few lessons I may have learnt during the year.

1. NEVER draft stuff at 4 a.m.

2. AVOID dating (or trying to, at least) women who will bump you off with excuses like "I could never date someone I work with".

3. People start doubting your abilities as a lawyer when you're a bit lax in raising bills. Also, you never know when you might need the money.

4. Doing completely random things can sometimes pay off. Like trips for what would seem to be the silliest of reasons.

5. File your tax returns on time.

What do I see myself doing in the year to come? I don't know. I don't want to know either. The best thought-out plans rarely survive first contact with the enemy, and I'd rather be blissfully ignorant at this point, rather than think "Fuck, not again!"

All I can hope for is that 2008 is a little more heartening than 2007.

To quote B. J. Armstrong, artiste extraordinaire, "it's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right. I hope you had the time of your life"

Hell, yeah, I’m going to :)

Have a great year ahead, all.

L'chaim.

Ground Control to Major Tom; Take your protein pills and put your helmet on....

2007-12-18T16:56:00.000+05:30

".....commencing countdown; engine's on...checking ignition, and may God's love be with you" drones David Bowie in my ears, a few thousand feet above Bombay, as I recline my red and cream airline seat (20F), close my eyes, and let off a sigh of relief after 3 days of running around said city (interpolating one wacko birthday bash, one wedding reception, several trips in and around Bandra, one bone-jarring haul to Thane and back, and another equally excruciating one to Matunga to discover the 'Voice of God'), when, suddenly, I realise I can't hear Major Tom's reply to Ground Control in my left ear.

For a few hazy seconds I thought my tinnitus was back, till I noticed that my left earphone was missing. Did it fall off? I look to my left and see the fellow in 20E (I'll call him EnthuCutlet or 'EC'...never really bothered asking him his name; you'll soon see why) holding the missing earphone and shooting me the most pained rictus since, oh, Adolf Hitler, Esq., was politely told to "fark orf, wanker" ("Sniff. I might burn ein Jew or two, but I'm only human"*)**. What followed was EC Conversation # 1:

Crowley: Oh. Thanks for picking up my earphone. Did it fall off?

EC: No. Took off.

Crowley: Um. Yes. I know we've taken off. On time too, for a change.

EC: No. I took it off.

Crowley: Er, why?

EC: I did not get one. How you have one and I don't?

Crowley: Huh? Er. Well. This pair belongs to me, see? (I hold up discman to which said earphones are attached).

EC: But HE also has earset (pointing vigorously to the chap in 20D)!!!! Why I not have?

Crowley: Why you not, er, why don't you have one? I don't know man, ask the stewardess for one. I thought I saw her come around with a tray full of them (those ugly red Kingfisher ones).

EC: No no. I don't want to buy them. But how I'm supposed to only see TV without hearing anything?

Crowley: ???? (at this point the guy in 20D, who's been listening in, gives me a sympathetic look, which says "Better you than me, pal")

Crowley: Uh. Ok. See, you can take my headphones (the ugly KF ones, not my kutti Sony ones) if you like. I don't think I'll be watching the "TV" on this flight.

EC: Hmph! Thengooverymuch.

Crowley: No probs. Enjoy.

And back I went to my snooze and a critical appreciation of the wonderful words of 'Walk With Me In Hell' (Lamb of God chasing away Bowie from the murky electronic depths of my discman). But all good things are woefully short-lived. Ten minutes later, a tap on my left shoulder. EC's back!!!

EC: Don't you think?

Crowley: Wrkmf?!! ("This is a m*****f****** invitation! The only one you could ever need...")

EC: Don't you think, that in any Indian Airline, there are no comforting seats?

Crowley: Huh? This is Kingfisher. Whut? ("A blind preacher for the pin-eyed congregation. It must be easy to lose")

EC: I means. I am about 5'4" tall. Which means I am below average person below belt (I think he meant 'below average height'. I don't want to speculate on the 'below belt' bit). And if person like myself is not finding comfort in this seat, then I am wondering what big person like you are going through. I am wondering what is the future of this airlines.

Crowley: I'm quite comfortable, thank you ("So close your eyes once more, and once more believe that they all still believe in you"). BUT, maybe you could try reclining your seat. All you do is press that little silver button (points out said silver button).

EC: Oh. Acha. Yeh to maine socha hi nahin tha!

(At this point, EC rammed his finger on the seat reclining button, and also rammed his backside into the seat-back. Physics took over, I regret to say, much to the detriment of the portly gentleman in 21E who, I can safely wager, is now sporting a large bruise on his crotch. The minute I heard a loud "ARGH" from the rear, I turned up the volume, buried my head in a pillow I'd mooched off the stewardess, and wondered why I land up with these twits on flights.)

("This is a m*****f****** invitation! You try me...")

And HOW!!!!!

* This particular line is from Spike Milligan's 'Milligan's War'. I tried googling the whole sentence (a parody on Hitler) but to no avail. But I'm pretty damn sure it's from that book. Feel free to correct me.

** Before anybody starts accusing me of racism or suchlike. I DO NOT believe in the Final Solution as the answer to a racial problem (or as an answer to any problem, for that matter. Though I strongly believe there are certain air travellers who could and should be put through the ovens). This little reference to Hitler is in jest, and jest alone. No offence meant to any community(ies).