The Crucial Second Album; or, Nice Legs, Shame About the Face

Last night, I bought large chips. Chips are fries. Except that they are huge and never end. All for £1.80. And while you eat them, you can think. Which is what I did. Not very hard or very deep but I, sort of, meandered. And came to the conclusion that I should finish this post. Which I have been writing in bits and pieces for some time. 

Today I intend to answer a question we all ask ourselves, but refuse to consider beyond a point, afraid of what the answer might be. This is also a question, to which my answer will make people who write balanced, informed answers toss a little in their sleep tonight. What could such a question be? For Spay, it could be – “Will I ever get to tap that a**?” For me, it would ordinarily be – “Will I ever get to tap any a**?” However, let us not be childish.

Even by the best accounts of my character, I am the perverted one. But perversion has its advantages, I think. But more about this perversion before I move on. I have always been a sucker for beautiful people. Not pretty gadgets, houses or even books or CDs that were prettily packaged. Just very beautiful men and women. Women on the telly and in magazines and in real life used to leave me anxious and in a tizzy. Not for me your noble and brave. Bring me your pretty ones. It used to happen a lot when I lived in a village and was more of a gawpy villager that I essentially am.

So. When are we clever? Millennium provides impetus to many thoughts that I have over the days and weeks, and today he has sort of stolen my stöllen if you see what I mean. He said that if you don’t ask questions, you can’t be interested in philosophy. I ask questions at an entirely different level. I ask, what have I got to do to be clever. When are you clever. Not intelligent, because that brings to mind some sort of absolute idea to mind. (I thought I’d write a semi-informed article on the nature of intelligence and in true style I downloaded plenty of books and papers to read for this post. Then I was put in place by mindmansion (<–hyuk))

Anyway, I want to know how you can be clever, or be perceived to be clever, because seriously. When do you sit down and stock of another person? You think a person is clever because of some legerdemain that has always eluded me. Is it the way we write? Stipe writes prose that is out there. Truly orginal stuff, un-afraid, and disturbingly catchy. Millennium writes slightly introspective, immaculately researched, yet warm and funny prose. Sometimes he has doubts but he has faith and he has tenacity you (I) would not give him credit for. GPJ writes to-the-point, sensationally clear paragraphs. He will not write one more word than is absolutely necessary.  Salil has written something after ages and ages. Nothing but the best for company then. I write with a touch of buffoonery, a little neurotic and a little ‘I-have-tied-myself-into-knots-please-release-me’ prose. Not clever on that count then?

I wonder why I try so hard. It is not so hard to get used to the idea. I have already gotten used to the idea that I will not be many things. A ’stud’, whatever those things might be is another. There is a Ray film (where there is smoke… a bengali cannot be far behind), called ‘Jalsaghar‘ (The Music Room). The protagonist here is a Zamindar of Roybari (Roy estate) in decline, called Biswanbhar Roy. There is another family, the Gangulis, who live across the river, who over a period of time accumulate wealth by leasing the river which belongs to the Roys and selling the sand. Anyway, after Roy has lost his wife and son (and most of his money) he closes his house for 4 years (drinking sherbet mostly).  Anyway, the denouement of the film is this. Mahim Ganguli comes to Roy’s house to invite him to his new house. He has this conversation with the Nayeb (the caretaker)

“When your old elephant came to my house to deliver the token, everyone saluted you and cheered. When I drove in my new motor car you know what they did? They threw stones and ruined the mudguard. You know why? Because I am a self made-man. No pedigree. Ha ha ha.”

Roy quietly declines, but this breaks his funk as he hears the music in the distance. He calls for the Jalsaghar to be opened again, and calls Krishnabai for another performance. Mahim Ganguli is invited. The last 300 rupees are spent. The music hall glimmers. Krishnabai dances. As she dances Ganguli notices she dances longer and harder for Roy. When the dance is over he extends his hand to reward the dancer. A cane appears and stops Ganguli’s hand. “The first right to reward the artist belongs to the owner of the house”. And Krishnabai gracefully takes the proferred purse from Roy.

Later that evening. Roy is punch drunk. IN the Music Hall. His old faithful is around. And he laughs hysterically.

“Couldn’t do it. That usurer’s son. He failed. He failed. He tries to reach the stars… In vain, in vain.”

“Do you know why he failed?”

“Blood.”

“Blood in my veins.”

“Do you know which blood flows in my veins?”

“Which one master?”

“You want to see? You really want to see? Come here, come. Look at my father. Rameswar. My grandfather Buwaneswar. My great-grandfather. Tarakesvar. My great-great-grandfather Ravanesvar. Cheers! Cheers, noble ancestors! And… to my own nobleness. To myself.”

He dies trying to ride his horse when drunk.

I ate a contemplative chip. I watched another film. Isabelle Huppert and Gerard Depardieu. Isabelle is in Paris and she needs to be satisfied. Many times a day and completely. She keeps Gerard. Just two things here (phew).

“Better a poor guy who fucks me well than a rich loser.”

“What do you talk about? Not about books. ” “I read, but I don’t need to talk about it.”

Not going to get by asking then, are you? I need to go get some more chips.

Half A Thought.

(An apology: This isn’t very well thought out. I’ve made a lot of seemingly random leaps and bounds in every direction, without explaining too well how I reached there. But this is supposed to be The *Rant* Reader, so here you are.)

(This post has also got no mention of any Brit comedy shows from my youth. So, if you’re here to read about that, let me make you not feel you’ve wasted your time completely: Black Adder. Fawlty Towers. Jeeves & Wooster.) (You’re welcome.)

(@A.S.H(ole): If you choose to comment, please – try and restrict yourself to comments that are ten lines or less.)

I’ve never had a problem dealing with rejection.
This worries me a little.
Especially since it seems to be just me – or so I’ve been told, at least.
I’m not really sure why. Even at a very young age, I’ve always been pretty okay with not being selected for a team, or not being given some fantastic opportunity or the other, for whatever reason. For some reason, rejection has never really bothered me.

The other day, I was having a discussion with a friend about relationships. She didn’t like the idea of meeting random guys with the intention of finding a potential partner; she was equally daunted, if not more so, by the idea that she might find someone who would be “Mr. Right”, and who’d give her the cold shoulder and walk on. She didn’t want to put herself on the line to be judged like a poodle in a dog show, and be assessed on size, colour, breeding, and whatever else the heart might fancy.

Is this common? Does everyone feel like this?

This need for acceptance strikes as being a rather one-sided concept. Most people seem to want the opportunity to accept or reject someone (or something) as they see fit, whatever the situation – relationships, jobs, friends, stores you shop at, you get the idea. But they feel that the reverse is wrong. You don’t like it if someone tells you they don’t want to hang out with you, they don’t like you, or the ever-popular “Get the f*ck away from me, @$$hole!” You don’t like being rejected because you’re over-weight, because you aren’t good-looking, because you aren’t the “jock”, the list is endless. Everybody likes to give, but no one likes to receive. Come on. Shouldn’t we *all* be given the freedom to decide who or what appeals to us, regardless of what the result? Would you rather be in a situation where you *had* to say yes – just because? In the end, everything is subjective (Can anyone *truly* have an “objective opinion”?) and we are all victims of what we are perceived to be (which is probably why so many places train you for interviews). It just seems more logical to accept *that*, and move on, doesn’t it?

Now, assuming that the above is a rational (albeit unstructured, and really, quite messy), and, for want of a better word, *fair* argument, how do we explain racism? And it’s unusual consequence – affirmative action? By rejecting someone for being a particular race, aren’t we merely exercising our right to reject someone we don’t feel comfortable with, for whatever reason? And by insisting that somebody has to be accepted because of what they are, aren’t we taking away the freedom to choose from another?

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not for racism. I never have been, and (probably) never will be. But I’m not for affirmative action either. And that’s my confusion. I find myself riding the fence, in an extremely uncomfortable position. I find myself having greater difficulty justifying that racism is evil and just plain wrong to myself, considering that, in the end, I’ve always believed that everybody ought to have the freedom to choose what they want and who they want. So which way is right, in today’s world? Can we bring ourselves to deny anyone anything on any criteria, without oppressing them in some way? Must we all bend over backward to accept others, despite their shortcomings, in whatever form they may be manifested?

And what does this imply for popularity contests, like American Idol? Do they fall under the freedom to choose who we like, or is that us restricting the chances of someone who may be a far better performer, simply because they don’t appeal to us?

Perhaps I’m extrapolating relationships too far here. Maybe we can’t generalize criteria the way I have in my head. Maybe race doesn’t apply to any kind of relationship as easily as, say, personality, or IQ, or how big your boobs are. But I’d like to, some day, have an answer that wouldn’t make me feel like a hypocrite when I condemn racism, or when I ridicule affirmative action, or when I tell somebody that “This isn’t working out”. I’m sure a qualified sociologist could probably explain to me where my logic is wrong and how stupid I am, without batting an eye. I guess I’m hoping that some of you might be able to do the same, even if it might take you a little longer.

(That’s also because I’m guessing I’ll know most of you, and hell, I can be quite a stubborn ass, if I want to.)

(And, um, happy Valentine’s day… if that’s your thing.)

Navin, look what you’ve done

Comment by ahashakeheartbreak  

George, I don’t completely agree. You really need to subscribe to an ideology whenever uncertainty is involved. The only ideology free people are absract mathematicians (meta-mathematicians – what a concept, category theorists, people whose job it is to categorise abstract mathematics – does it get more Laputa than that?). Even then not entirely. Everyone wants to see things go a certain way if there are different paths to choose from. A perspective they feel comfortable with, a formulation that they ‘like’. And if this ideology is to spurn mathematics in favour of discursive analysis, then I am not so sure. Godel showed that when it comes to consistent formulations of the world, intuition and clarity are weak reeds to lean on.

The kind of Economics I do (if it is Economics at all) cannot answer why the Kyoto protocol never got signed (for its 50 years and space-age mathematics game theory is hopeless at questions which involve more than the thinnest heuristic constructions). And given this, the best way is to take questions like this into the realm of common sense and some canny verbal reasoning. This comes with its baggage of rhetoric and confusion. The Sophists have had 3000 years to make matters clear. Hilbert has had 150. Do the people who attack the so-called orthodox mathematical economics actually believe that at every university in every university ‘orthodox’ econometricians are going at each problem without imagination, creativity or differentiation mathematising economics automata-like? They try very hard to draw conclusions that are relevant and usable. But why are we in such a tearing hurry to get there?

But more importantly than any of this, you cannot make money off descriptive finance.

I am not really sure what I am trying to convey except that you realise what your ideology/allegiance is so that you know what pitfalls to avoid. For me I have to avoid poorly designed Monte Carlo experiments. What is your dysfunction?

Also, in my very feeble opinion, I think that Krugman should stop writing his blog. It gives people a chance to attack his economics (which is really *very* duifferent from what he writes on his blog; not that I agree with everything he says) without understanding any of the caveats or uncertainty even the simplest prescriptions have or the frameworks they are nested in. I believe that if you are really interested then learn to read the Latin, than wait for someone to translate it into the simplespeak that everyone thinks it is their right to expect. These are not the dark ages, Latin has never been this simple to learn.

Although I think that Krugman writes his blog for a reason which is called Type III error in statistics (sic), viz. rejecting the wrong conclusions for the wrong reasons. Sometime the wrong objections is quite useful really.

Comment by The Millennium Hand on February 10, 2008 10:30 pmLongest comment I’ve ever seen.As far a ideology goes, Slavoj Zizek says that the absence of a conscious ideology is the surest sign of the existence of one. And I tend to agree. You guys should see Adam Curtis’s documentaries on Google Video: especially “The Century of the Self” and “The Trap.” Even the notion that a person’s clothing reflects his or her personality is an artifact of advertising and marketing strategies, which were informed by a quasi-Freudian understanding of human motives.

Thundering typhoons and Billions of billious barbecued blue blistering barnacles!

 People are getting serious here.

I’m feeling BLUE

I have no particular reason for it. The word-of-the-day in my (otherwise empty) inbox is ennui..it’s a sign…. why oh why oh why?

My head hurts when I try to think and I take refuge in stale thoughts. I have this dreadful habit of regurgitating certain senarios and ruminating on them for hours at a stretch, like a playlist on repeat, giving my normally stuttered gait a lazy bovine quality. This habit is not new. It’s something I picked up right in school. I’d just pace up and down, my mind on repeat. It never really bothered me before and it had a very relaxing effect. But this is getting out of hand now. I try to distract myself by seeing what other people are upto in the blogosphere and that only enhances the resltessness (I’ll come back to this in another post). I’m a lurker on blogs. I read and re-read and read the comments, never really posting one myself. All the while judging, criticizing, analyzing, giggling and revelling in the feeling that nobody even knows I’m there. It’s almost like being God, what with all the judging and giggling. (I imagine heaven to be a jolly place)

I notice how a lot of people revisit their childhood in their minds to liven things up a bit. Maybe that’ll work. It’s not like I didn’t have fun as a child, but I was very easily entertained (much like you’d imagine a dog is entertained when you’re playing ‘fetch’ with it). Once I left the confines of the Gulf, (Persian Gulf for you non-mallus) childhood really took on a different meaning. It was all about the birds and the trees and the rains and the games and the piano classes: these things really did make me happy. Curiosity was abundant and the search for answers were easily de-railed. It was so easy to come up with explainations for things, to be satisfied, to know right from wrong.

Ahhh.

Sigh.

So I guess that didn’t really work.

 Onto happier things. With such a lovely post below this I can’t feel this way. I liked the randomness that college offered. There was always something random happening. It helped knowing udayan and salil and spay. Those conversations were a lot of fun. Oh and an add-on to Thankar’s list of comic heroes: Ronnie Corbett and his sit-com Sorry! I remember watching one particular episode again and again (we must’ve had a tape or something) For love or mummy – bloody hilarious. Did any one you guys ever watch that? (Since I don’t have you tube, Thankar can you add a link if you find one?)

Aut tace, aut meliora loquere silentio

“Men do not sin, Bhikku. Society makes them sin. If you teach a North Indian some English, he will of course want to write poetry. “

I was a morose baby. Dreadfully so. I refused to laugh at almost everything other people thought was funny.

Mostly, I found things unfunny because they went against my system of beliefs. I do have a system of belief. I also think it is the most useless part of my anatomy. There is strict competition for this post and I think my beliefs have won a hard fought battle.

I was brought up in a house with very very few parental controls, and instituted some of my own. My father used to laugh raucously when someone said they were going to go and pray. It was a very jarring laugh (I was a very sensitive baby; also, since we are doing this I also think I was a very cute child. Mostly because I had forlorn look in my eyes which anticipated things to come.) Chalk one up for believing in Gods. Proper idol-worship. My desktop image is a large image of Hanuman. I am listening to a bhajan by Anup Jalota as we speak. Whom I have seen live, with a beard and inexplicably some school children dancing to a bhajan. I adore Anup Jalota. He used to beat his wife apparently.

Now, now, this is not a post about my formative years. You will have to wait for the book on that one. Anyway, the-most-useless-part-of-my-anatomy which was a culmination of things I thought were the right things told me that the strangely punctuated F.R.I.E.N.D.S. was immoral. It refused to say anything about the ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’ that I stole from my mother’s cupboard to read or the bit that I read in ‘Sands of Time’ about Maria (I think) ‘putting Paolo’s ( I am certain) male hardness in her mouth and watching it grow’. I thought this referred to male lips which were especially manly and rough. I told my father it was my favourite book ever. He laughed. Raucously.

So anyway, I eschewed everything that was easy (except women; women have never been easy for me; never) and abhorred F.R.I.E.N.D.S. (this punctuation is becoming tiresome) and thought Rachel was a (I am so sorry) a slut.

So I chugged along on a steady supply of some of the things that I know George is going to complain about if I enumerate.

So here it is. And this list is inspired in part by Yohan’s similar post a few days ago.

(As I am writing on this post, I am increasingly getting distracted by web-searches to find that elusive first book, or author or that dimly remembered wordplay. I chuckled for about 10 seconds at a chap who calls himself Vito Prosciutto and thinks ‘Diary of a Nobody’ is a funny book (this might or might not be a figment of my imagination). It is of course, as Kingers would have us know, the single longest expanse of humour-free dullness that ever was wrote. God grant me strength.)

Bernard Manning, Greater Manchester, funny as fook. Biggest racist there ever was but funny as fook.
Irish fellow walks into the office and asks, “Can I use your dictaphone?”. “No, use your finger like everybody else.”
To Indian fellow in audience, “Where are you from, son?” “Bedford.” “Which side of fucking Delhi is that one?”

Les Dawson, funnier, more intelligent. Another Mancunian. Blankety-Blank.

Some Geordies and a toff.

Scousers. Think Barbara Windsor from the Carry On Films. Calm down, Calm down. Cilla Black.

A little mention of Udayan and Salil. Reminded because of this fellow. My first and last comedy hero. Disdainful and masterly, Peter Cook.

A little Cambridge humour. Story of my life really: Really intelligent women repulse and frighten me. I shall withdraw my offer of sex and scuttle away in horror.

Of course, Bill Hicks, who I think is right. Important difference you see.

And Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home.

I love acid give and takes, timing (quick quick and faster – Paul Merton has possibly the sharpest comedy brain in the business) and absolute utter nonsense. Which is why I love Mitch Hedberg so much.

We all have our favourites from that set of Britcoms DD showed when we were young – Mind Your Language, Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em, ‘Allo ‘Allo and my personal favourite Are You Being Served. I thought Wendy Richard was well fit. John Inman died last year. Shame. Coolest opening sequence on the telly.

Hmm. This is getting a little out of hand really. Plus I know that George is going to curse because he does not have youtube. Plus I should really learn to string some sentences together.

None of this explains ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’ though. Nobody. Absolutely nobody loves Raymond.