staying.cool

against popular recommendations, i’ve watched both tashan and the indy movie. the urge is deep to make possible ‘the tashan of indy jones’, but i think i will limit myself to simple lessons from these movies.

1. it is possible to survive a nuclear bomb by simply sitting in a lead-lined refrigerator, even if (a) said fridge is in the heart of the nuclear explosion, (b) you walk out of the explosion moments after it happens, just in time for the mushroom cloud and the actual nuclear fallout.
2. cars, boats and other sundry vehicles can easily survive falls from cliffs and waterfalls. more interestingly, all passengers have nary a scratch.
3. guns being fired by the enemy at heroes have no effect. even if it is at point blank range. the same gun, when fired by the ‘heroes’ will decimate enemies that are not even in range.
4. in general, guns lie around wasted, and only visible to heroes. enemies are constantly broad-sided by this tactic.
5. swinging on jungle vines, driving half-broken jeeps in the middle of the jungle is simple. in fact, most of the time there is no need to look where you’re going - you’re not going to crash/fall/die.
6. jumping in any direction is usually in the range well beyond normal olympic athletes.
7. its possible to use a waterski in 2 feet of water, jump it out of the water within 5 feet, do a double flip over a bridge 10 feet high within said jump, and land safely on the other side. similar things can be done with jeeps and trucks.
8. women, in general, have beatific smiles on their faces, and/or perfectly fitting clothes at all times. no matter whether you’re in a wedding, in the middle of a gunfight, or going over a waterfall.
9. in any sudden unexpected destruction ensuing, no matter what the cause, the heroes never even get touched. all villains in the area, however, come running to their doom.
10. supposed revelations about characters are usually made obvious in scene 2 of the movie. however, characters need everything spelled out for them, which usually takes up most of the inane movie. similarly songs are inserted, and irrelevant logic ensues as it is explained.

i must stop. i must write ‘the tashan of indy jones’. you’ve been warned.

i must also admit that indiana jones is something that you love, even when you hate it. and there, somehow, deep deep inside there’s still a little bit of magic. tun-ta-tuntun-tun-ta-tunnnnnn…

the kid lolled in front of the entrance to the store. he looked up at the ceiling, and then down at the floor, and then up again. partial reflections were fascinating to him. the light caught his eye, he saw all at once, multiple lights were visible due to just one. now he starting scraping his foot, angled away from the floor, on the floor in front of him. following the lines between the tiles, reaching the intersection with another tile, and scraping back. it was a game. how long could it be done? far longer that you’d think possible. a call came. he turned.

“come here and help me.” mothers. always wanting help. especially when they came to the store. so boring to get him all the way out here, and break him away when he’d discovered the quickest way between stones, without moving the foot.
“come her now!” this was the command. oh well.

the kid went over, the mom unloaded the two bags onto his reluctantly waiting hands, and walked on. he had had to enter the store, as they exited, he tugged at the saree. “amma.”

“come, come fast, we have other places to go.”
“amma, that.” indicating the machine, and the man standing in front of it. he smiles at seeing a regular customer. a stick is produced, the humming machine examined momentarily. then in an expert flourish, the stick dipped into the vessel and twirled, even while it is swept along the inner rim of the bowl. strands magically form on the stick.
“no, no, you had it yesterday.” she keeps moving. “now come fast, appa will be home.”

and brown. and bursting with ideas. and buried in work.

bummer. for you guys anyway

..i last posted. i shall not apologize, i shall not rant about my lack of posting, those things are passe around here.

i should be forgiven, dear reader, i wait on my parents as they trip around north america just for my sake. i do love being coddled at 25

i shall heretofore proceed to california, and not post for another week. there is a single fly in that soup though, but i cannot remove it

meanwhile, tashan and bhoothnath, starring the so called glitterati of the bollywood industry, do far far worse than jimmy, a film heralding the entry of mimoh.

i have to see jimmy. even before i see tashan. now.

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