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1. Comfortably Numb – Pink Floyd
2. The End – The Doors
3. Arriving Somewhere but not Here – Porcupine Tree
4. Coming Back to Life – Pink Floyd
5. The Pot – Tool
6. Sultans of Swing – Dire Straits
7. Shoot to Thrill – AC/DC
8. Laid to Rest – Lamb of God
9. Trains – Porcupine Tree
10. Layla – Eric Clapton
11. Wish You Were Here – Pink Floyd
12. Alive – Pearl Jam
13. The Noose – A Perfect Circle
14. Like a Rose – Meat Loaf
15. Cowboys from Hell – Pantera
16. November Rain – Guns n’ Roses
17. Schism – Tool
18. Hey Soul Sister – Train
19. Snow(Hey Oh) – Red Hot Chili Peppers
20. Roadhouse Blues – The Doors
21. Rooster – Alice in Chains
22. Trooper – Iron Maiden
23. For the love of god – Steve Vai
24. Revelations – Audioslave
25. Jaded – Aerosmith
26. Brighter than Sunshine – Aqualung
27. With a little help from my friends – The Beatles
28. You give love a bad name – Bon Jovi
29. Broken Soul – Breaking Benjamin
30. Speak to me (Breathe) – Pink Floyd
31. Stairway to Heaven – Led Zeppelin
32. Great Gig in the Sky – Pink Floyd
33. Hotel California – Eagles
34. Dani California – Red Hot Chili Peppers
35. Jambi – Tool
36. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds – The Beatles
37. Fear of the Dark – Iron Maiden
38. Tornado of Souls – Megadeth
39. Phobia – Kreator
40. Blackest Eyes – Porcupine Tree
41. Cocaine – Eric Clapton
42. Are you Dead yet? – Children of Bodom
43. Set to Fail – Lamb of God
44. The Scientist – Coldplay
45. Time – Pink Floyd
46. Hallowed Be Thy Name – Iron Maiden
47. Hallowed Be Thy Name (Cover) – Children of Bodom
48. Smoke on the Water – Deep Purple
49. Unforgiven II – Metallica
50. Black – Pearl Jam
51. Black Dog – Led Zeppelin
52. Break on Through – The Doors
53. Sweet Child of Mine – Guns n’ Roses
54. The Reason – Hoobastank
55. Through Fire and Flames – Dragonforce
56. Lazarus – Porcupine Tree
57. Purple Haze – Jimi Hendrix
58. Big Wave – Pearl Jam
59. Imagine – John Lennon
60. Imagine (cover) – A Perfect Circle
61. Can’t Stop – Red Hot Chili Peppers
62. 10,000 Days – Tool
63. Yellow – Coldplay
64. Freak on a Leash – Korn
65. Tender Surrender – Steve Vai
66. Radio/Video – System of a Down
67. The Outsider – A Perfect Circle
68. Kashmir – Led Zeppelin
69. It’s my life – Bon Jovi
70. Firestarter – The Prodigy
71. Bring me to Life – Evanescence
72. Bittersweet Symphony – The Verve
73. My Generation – The Who
74. Redneck – Lamb of God
75. Needled 24/7 – Children of Bodom
76. Blood Brothers – Iron Maiden
77. Burning Bridges – Pink Floyd
78. Symphony of Destruction – Megadeth
79. Immigrant Song – Led Zeppelin
80. Time Flies – Porcupine Tree
81. Money for nothing – Dire Straits
82. Eulogy – Tool
83. Nothing Else Matters – Metallica
84. Wickerman – Iron Maiden
85. Breaking the Law – Judas Priest
86. By the Way – Red Hot Chili Peppers
87. Echoes – Pink Floyd
88. The Pretender – Foo Fighters
89. Walk of Life – Dire Straits
90. Home – Dream Theater
91. Dream On – Aerosmith
92. Like a Stone – Audioslave
93. Ansthetize – Porcupine Tree
94. High Hopes – Pink Floyd
95. Jumping Jack Flash – Rolling Stones
96. Turn the Page – Bob Seger
97. Astronomy – Metallica
98. Judith – A Perfect Circle
99. Here Without You – 3 Doors Down
100. Blinded in Chains – Avenged Sevenfold
101. Shesmovedon – Porcupine Tree
102. Smack my Bitch up – The Prodigy
103. Sixpounder – Children of Bodom
104. BYOB – System of a Down
105. Bleed – Meshuggah
106. But it Rained – Parikrama
107. Man Who Sold the World – Bob Dylan
108. Rockin’ in the Free World – Neil Young
109. No Excuses – Alice in Chains
110. I am mine – Pearl Jam
111. Freebird – Lynrd Skynyrd
112. Animate Inanimate – John Petrucci
113. Who Says – John Mayer
114. Bad – Micheal Jackson
115. Walk – Pantera
116. Master of Puppets – Metallica
117. Raining Blood – Slayer
118. Plush – Stone Temple Pilots
119. Jethro Tull – Aqualung
120. Like a Rolling Stone – Bob Dylan
121. Follow me – Breaking Bejamin
122. Summer of 69 – Bryan Adams
123. Hand of Blood – Bullet for my Valentine
124. Same Direction – Hoobastank
125. Living Dead Beat – Children of Bodom
126. Bullets – Creed
127. Wither – Dream Theater
128. Christmas in July – Zero
129. Mama I’m Coming Home – Ozzy Osbourne
130. Godsmack – Alice in Chains
131. Paradise City – Guns n Roses
132. The Evil that men do – Iron Maiden
133. Kickapoo – Tenacious D
134. Highway to the Danger Zone – Kenny Loggins
135. Highway to Hell – AC/DC
136. Road to Hell – Chris Rea
137. Open Car – Porcupine Tree
138. Painkiller – Judas Priest
139. Romeo and Juliet – Dire Straits
140. Rosetta Stoned – Tool
141. A Toute le Monde – Megadeth
142. Sound of Muzak – Porcupine Tree
143. Achilles Last Stand – Led Zeppelin
144. Sweet Home Alabama – Lynyrd Skynyrd
145. Omerta – Lamb of God
146. Rockstar – Nickelback
147. Brain Damage – Pink Floyd
148. We Will Rock You – Queen
149. Halo – Porcupine Tree
150. Shine on you Crazy Diamond – Pink Floyd

Go through this entire list and I promise you will see life in a new light.

And for those of you who have heard every song on this list, hats off my friend.

\m/

Anyhoo, if you want to read something funny about NYC head here. Otherwise, join me in a cocktail, it’s after noon, and enjoy my serious, frank analysis of BlogHer. Doesn’t that sounds grand? (If you’re here after the Lilly sale, you need a cocktail…or three…or twelve.)

So between being exhausted from NYC, our travel misadventures, work, school starting and heading down to Auburn to help with rush I have been crazy busy and slacking on the posting. I promise I have some VERY funny posts up my skirt but LOTS of you wanted a no holds barred report on BlogHer so voila.

I must admit, in addition to being busy, I actually wasn’t sure how to write this post. I came home from BlogHer defeated and overwhelmed-both unfamiliar emotions for me.

Before I start I should probably clarify, for those of you that don’t know, for nearly 6 years, before I quit, I was an event manager for one of the ten most recognized brands in the world. And? I was really good at it. BUT that does make me very critical of conferences because I know exactly what it takes. Did I mention I was really good at it?

So I guess, from the get go, I should state that I expected more. From all I had read and all I had seen I expected this to be the end all be all experience from which I would emerge like Venus from the sea crowned queen of the internets with all sorts of handy tips, millions of new readers and people flinging money at me, plus a book deal. Not much, right?

I honestly don’t think NYC was a good location. It’s expensive. There’s too many ways to get there, traffic stinks, hotels have super slow elevators, there’s really too much to do. If you want a city type place that’s affordable, Vegas is always a good bet. (San Diego is crazy expensive for conventions as well. The last show I did there, the “show discount rates” for hotels were around $400.)

From the beginning I was irked-registration hacked me off. WHY mail people badges if they still have to wait in line to get your badge holder and conference tote? (Note: there will be additional posts on swag and parties-otherwise this would be the longest post EVER.)

And then I was upset about the swag room drops. Unless you stayed at the Hilton, you couldn’t get them. Despite the Sheraton also being an event hotel-you weren’t eligible if you stayed there.

I didn’t feel as though things were well laid out, the exhibit hall was a little hidden, you couldn’t even see a map of it until you were on-site and only a few random signs announced what hours it was open. If I were an exhibitor? I’d be pissed. The exhibit hall also wasn’t really open at times when OTHER things (sessions, lunch, etc) weren’t going on. There absolutely wasn’t ample time to do everything you wanted to do/see.

The newbie breakfast and one keynote we attended were no bueno. They kept announcing things like, “wow. Sorry there weren’t enough seats. We weren’t expecting this many people.” I mean, really? REALLY? You sold tickets, right? So you knew how many people to expect. And it wasn’t just a little short. At the newbie breakfast, there were probably 100 people sitting on the floor/standing around. The keynote that morning was pretty much the same thing.

And this, while not BlogHer’s fault, about drove me insane and had me tempted to beat someone to death with a soggy croissant. People that attended these things? Were just sitting around talking. So you couldn’t even hear what was going on. When I say talking, I don’t mean occasional whispering, I mean full on not even trying to be quiet conversations. IF YOU WANT TO TALK AND NOT LISTEN, LEAVE SO THE PEOPLE THAT WANT TO CAN LISTEN. There were PLENTY of places for people to sit around and chat.

The sessions were not what I expected either. They weren’t really as good as they were described. I think I expected more of a how to. Not a wide open panel with no direction that is pretty much all audience questions. Well, not all audience questions. Some people like to raise their hand and stand up and talk aimlessly just to talk. I’m all, “SHUT UP-I don’t know who you are I want to hear what The Bloggess has to say.” (Amazing feat of self-control that this never happened.)

I went to this session. The Bloggess was one of the panelists and I expected it to be AMAZING. I really expected it to be more instructional, the topic was Poetic License: where’s the line or the lie. I was jazzed-I wanted them to say hey you shouldn’t do this or here’s how to deduce your own line, here’s some advice on how to best do this type or writing, etc. No such luck.

The next session I attended was about the evolving publishing ecosystem. Again, I expected more of a how-to. Like in light of how things are changing here’s how to contact agents, how you should do query letters, way to hone your craft and best present yourself. It was more about things to do to promote yourself once you were published and lots of whining.

I also attended the session on humor writing. Which was hilarious-seriously, I was in tears. But I didn’t learn anything. I expected more tips and examples-it was part of the writing lab. Don’t you do stuff in labs?

So for the classes I expected a more instructional atmosphere, not just random bullshitting. The classes also had space problems. Some were overflowing and some were empty-because they don’t make you register for sessions. Honestly, I see both sides of this but it’s hard to accommodate and plan when you have no idea who’s coming.

Other than that, the food was okay. There were drink tickets which drive me insane. (You can at least offer free beer and wine and have people pay for mixed drinks. We also had one guy give us shit about water from a pitcher.)

BlogHer also had people standing around, I assume their purpose was to answer questions. Trouble was they didn’t know ANYTHING. No clue on water stations, exhibit hall hours, timing, etc.

I didn’t meet nearly as many people as I thought I would. It was also harder to meet up with people than I expected. Some people, despite saying they wanted to meet up, weren’t super enthused about it once you did. Some people were assholes and acted like they had no idea who you were-despite you commenting, and them responding/commenting on your blog-pretty regularly.

I’m not shy in the least and will talk to a rock and I had a hard time so I can only imagine how people that are even slightly shy felt.

There was also no real sense of community. I expected more of a we’re all in this together attitude. But really it was a lot of one-upping. Especially in the Mom Casting waiting room. (There will be a whole other post on that also. I had fun but it was…interesting. And I can have fun in a cardboard box. While talking to a rock.)

I expected to leave with the warm, fuzzy feelings of an awesome church camp retreat (I’m Episcopalian-they ARE awesome) but without all the God stuff. Instead, I left questioning my blogging, my writing and wondering why I even bother. (This is totally not fishing for compliments, just saying how the conference made me feel. I’ve since regrouped .)

So…would I go again? Yes. I almost think you have to go more than once to get anything out of it. The first time is a wash-you’re just trying to figure it out. Do I think it could be an awesome, educational event? Yes. They just need to work on their execution.

Tomorrow I’ll post about parties…stay tuned.

(Also, please click the juggling chick and follow the link and click to vote once in awhile. And if you don’t like me on fb? You should. And suggest to your friends. When I get to 500 fans, giving away a $100 Amazon gift card. And if someone you referred wins? You get a $50 one. Thanks loves.)

© Amy Lloyd Mayfield and Amy’s Blam, 2010. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Amy Lloyd Mayfield and Amy’s Blam with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

I need a writing fix.  This will be a bit out there.

—

She had discovered that, in life, many things were never meant to make sense.  Many things were created simply so they could exist and for no other reason.  These were the things to ponder over.  Who cares about the things that matter?  They matter, they’re easy to figure out.  It’s the things that don’t matter at all that really make the difference.  It’s those small things that nobody cares about or really sees, that exist purely to exist, that should have the most attention paid to them.

Coralie figured she was one of those things.  She was like a paperclip.  But not just any paperclip.  She was that paperclip that was created, with love, to hold important documents together, but alas, she fell out of the box before she made it to the desk.  Someone would later pick her up and discard her, where she’d wind up at some disposal site and never have the privilege of being thought about.

But little did the world know, she would burrow herself beneath layers and layers of trash, and turn into harmful chemicals, chew a massive hole in the world’s ozone layer, and kill the entire human race.

That is exactly why the small things mattered.

But Coralie wasn’t really a paperclip, and she didn’t have the chemical capacity to chew a massive whole in the earth’s ozone layer.  She, rather, had the privilege of being that ignored thing, without the benefit of the destruction of the very race that ignored her in the first place.

She didn’t ponder much over her existence, whether it was pointless or not, whether she really even existed or not.  She did, however, pay very close attention to everything aside from herself.  Sometimes she counted paperclips in new boxes, just to make sure every single one was accounted for.  None would be left aside, ignored.  She wanted everything to know it existed.

She had a tally-sheet on her desk, counting how many paperclips she had used.

Many of her co-workers thought her rather insane, she was disinclined to argue.  She was rest assured she was insane.  For the first step of insanity is denial of insanity, right?

- – -

“I know who you are.  You’re my right sock.  At least I think you’re my right sock, because I really can’t tell the difference between right and left socks sometimes, you know?”

“Is she talking?”  They say from the living room, glancing suspiciously at the orange glow emanating from the laundry room.

She wonders if and when the socks will respond.  “I know who you are.  You are Not Forgotten.”

- – -

Her workplace is starting to feel more like home than home.  She has a job, a reason.  She knows that she is there, because when she is there, people look at her.  Even if it’s only because they have a question regarding something else, job related, naturally.  If it wasn’t job related they wouldn’t have asked.  They would have walked by.

She feels less like that paperclip she’s always so sad about.

- – -

“Hello, Three A.M.”  She says to the way-too-early morning stillness, her breath rising in a fog before her. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

She fights closing her eyes for the millionth time that night.

Her mind says sleep.  She ignores it.  It doesn’t exist.

- – -

Coralie wonders, does ceasing to acknowledge that one’s mind exists in consequence eliminate its existence?  That would make her mindless, brainless.  Like the undead her literature professor loves to rave about so much.

That leads her to the question, what would it be like as a soulless, undead monster?  Would she really be a monster?  If she was brainless, for she’d ceased to acknowledge the existence of her brain, that would make her the equivalent of an undead, beastly creature.  But would that make her a monster?

She really didn’t like to eat brains.  And honestly, she cared about everything (but herself).  So what, then, makes her a monster?  The fact that she doesn’t have a brain?

She begged to differ.  A monster is someone, or something, that does horrible things.  Such as eat brains.  She considered a brain eating something a monster.  Or something that ignored, something that made others feel insignificant.  That’s a monster.  It ate existence.

- – -

“Hello, Four A.M.”  She yawned.  “I wonder if you’re ever lonely.  And if you’re not lonely, I bet you keep poor company.  Only crazy people that despise sleep are awake at this hour.  And you’d think that people who despise sleep don’t have the brain function of someone who doesn’t.  I bet that is very debilitating to the sleep haters.  I bet they are horrible company…”

A pause.  A cricket.

“I’m horrible company, aren’t I?”  Except there is no question.

- – -

I wish I were a paperclip.  I wish I were a paperclip.  I wish I were a paperclip.  I wish I were a paperclip.  I wish I were a paperclip.  I wish I were a paperclip.  I wish I were a paperclip.  I wish I were a paperclip.  I wish I were a paperclip.  I wish I were a paperclip.  I wish I were a paperclip.

- – -

The accident really wasn’t much of an accident, but everyone said it was.  Who cared, honestly?  But somehow everyone cared.  Everyone cared that she walked this route on this day at this time.  Everyone cared that her socks were always on the wrong feet.  But no one knew her socks were on the wrong feet.  It must have been an accident.

Some swear it was step one in a plot to destroy mankind.  She would be disinclined to argue.  That tree needed to die.  She had some secret knowledge, its roots held the world together.  Her car was the best possible weapon.

Funny part was, there were papers tacked to the trunk.  A little note with nothing but tally marks.  At the bottom, “100 out of 100.”

No one knows.  But everyone cares.

The word posthumous comes to mind.  But was there a mind?  Did it even exist?  Did she even exist?

Her workplace fell apart.  The company crashed six months later, filed bankruptcy.  The socks sat in the washer for three months.  They sat in the living room, talking.

“I know who you are.”

Soft words fell on a stone with nothing on it.

“You mattered, you know?  I could put you on my left foot, or my right foot.  You were really versatile.  I’m sure you’ll some day smite this earth.  I’m sure you meant something.  You were small.  You were unnoticed.  You were nothing.  But you were everything.  You meant everything.  Nothing is right without you, nothing, nothing, nothing…”

It’s the little things that mattered.

“I know who you are.  You are Not Forgotten.”

There have been movies made on it, books written on it and every now and then a kid writes about his or her own experience.

Some days ago, I got up from my seat, handed in my final paper and walked out of the room. Before doing so, I glanced up at my classmates most of whom were furiously scribbling away into their papers. A few glanced around, whispered among themselves and a few could only stare at their papers with glassy eyes.

I took it all in and realized that eventhough I may see this scene over and over again in my life no matter how many times I sit for an exam, this would be the last time I would see it played out by these characters.

The characters who made four years in a no-idea-how-I-landed-up-here college worth it.

I did not see many of them again.

Sometimes, it’s better that way.

Back at my apartment, the atmosphere was celebratory but something was amiss. Between throngs of baked laughter and mindless smiling, someone or the other would say it.

This is the last time.

It wasn’t. But nonetheless, emotions flow a lot easier when 12 stories high.

And the decleration would stop the coversation as everyone would descend into a well of their own thoughts. Reliving memories, recalling laughter and feeling the tears flow again.

And it hasn’t changed. Close to a month later, when I hear a song that I like and I can imagine the ‘others’ will like too, I automatically make a mental note to play it in our next…sitting. I feel automatically the familiar tinge of expectation of that…sitting. Then I remember…like the icy cold water of reality dousing the flame of  expectation….no more.

No more shall we laugh together everyday. No more will feats of madness be attempted everyday. No more will I wake up in the morning to find someone who doesn’t live with me, crashed on my sofa. No more will I try desperately to wake up, only to find everyone else asleep and give in to my pillow’s seduction. No more will the perfect circle form everyday.

No more. Not everyday.

Later that night, everyone headed over to a friends place to party. To celebrate. Before heading out, I made a customary stop at another friends place. Us and an orange pillar of immortality. Porcupine Tree’s ‘Trains’ washed over me, sinking into the deepest recesses of my flying mind and the happy notes filling me with some kind of hope. Hope that each of these moments could be relived. Every year, every month, everyday.

But reality is a bitch. She will claw at your balloons of happiness with her talons of truth until all you’re left with is a tattered memory which is cast aside.

I got up, my mind still whirling as we decided to leave. The rickshaw ride from there to the party cooled me down a bit. At the end of the day, maybe its all like this rickshaw. You just have to get from one place to another, you’re controlled by people you hardly know and no matter how bumpy  the ride, you end up paying him for it.

We reached the party and a wave of noise hit me as I entered.

Asmita.

The Drunk Haven.

I smiled. Like I did evertytime I entered this holy house during a party. Here, in this large group of people were all my dearest friends. You could find scientists, musicians, managers, engineers, designers, environmentalists, philosophers, gamblers, teachers, psychiatrists, madmen, sleepers, insomniacs, giants and midgets.

A world within a world.

Each one of these many people had influenced me these past few years. In a big way or small, it didn’t matter. If at anytime, this era is ever scriptured, my chapter will have a line from each of them.

A drink was thrust into my hands and whether I liked it or not, this was done again and again and sometimes not totally as a friendly gesture.

But the mood was different today. It had not been called the Asmita Breakdown for no reason. By this time, at the very least, a piece of furniture, a glass and maybe a nose lay broken. And if some people had their way, maybe a shirt lay torn too.

But today, it was less…violent. Something was amiss, people stood in corners in small groups talking about things they had experienced in these few years.

They seemed to have flown by. We spoke about professors, friends, enemies, partys, fights, exams, love, life, songs, movies, habits, the future and more.

In a span of a few hours, we relived 4 years. I remembered so many things that had been lost in the recesses of my mind. And no denying, the copious amounts of alcohol was helping.

But all this recollectin was having a visible effect on us because as we ran through each memory the mood became more and more somber as the reality hit us all.

No more.

I looked around me. Is this what we will be reduced to? Silent, sober beings with only thoughts and memories to desperately clutch at while we would walk through a mundane existence? Will the last look I will see in my friends eyes be one of sadness?

And then the music started. The kind of Punjabi music that you only heard here. At Asmita. And as one my dearest friends, a fat egg of a guy, stumbled into the room balancing a glass on his head and singing “My english very risky, I love scotch whiskey, but I get only desi tharra !”, the somber mood of the occupants of the room evaporated in an instant as people began to dance wild drunk dances and sing in their slurred, unnaturally loud voices.

I was quickly engulfed with the brightness of it all and as I looked around, I realized this cheer would not die. No amount of distance, changed lifestyle or excuses would kill this spirit of the people in this room and the bond they shared.

The last thing I remember before blacking out was the 3 of my friends laughing and dancing together.

And as my eyes finally closed on the last day, I realized that graduation was many things, a time of happiness AND a kick in the nuts. But more than anything else, it marked then end of one era and the beginning of another.

Cheers to both.

* The name of this article is inspired by an Ausioslave song which happened to be playing while I typed.

The rain splattered down on the lush green forest. He crouched under a tree,  his massive, dark body somehow camouflaged.

At over seven feet tall he could still move as silently as a cat and as gracefully as a lion. From his extremely broad back, hung an axe. An axe large enough to suit a man of his size.

He peered past the cover of the leaves and bushes looking for his prey.

The rain had washed away most of the tracks. But this was no ordinary tracker. He knew things no other hunter could know. His father, the leader of the tribe, had started teaching him to hunt when he was only 6. He loved the forest. Almost more than he loved Kaila.

Kaila.

He smiled to himself when he thought about her. Her large, beautiful eyes. Her lovely smile. The passion in that petite body was unbelievable as well. He smiled again in anticipation of what awaited him in the village.

Laurels at killing the monster which had been terrorizing the village for many months now and a night with Kaila.

The monster in question was a lion. But like this man, this was no ordinary lion. At twelve feet tall and as many across, this was a giant among lions. And a vicious one at that. Over the past few months, it had slain several villagers and injured many as well.

Then one day, the tribe leader, his father had called him into the chief’s tent.

“Do you think you are ready?” Asked the Chief.

“I am” His voice was deep. Like it came from the mountains itself.

“Find it then. Kill it. Let the mountains be safe again. May Kardha bless you.”

And he had set out. Alone. To find the beast. And kill it.

——-

“Where are you?” He murmured to himself.

He bent and touched the earth before him, then smelt his fingers.

He listened to what the birds sang.

And then…

“I’ve found you.”

He started running. The speed was unbelievable. His wet muscles glistened under the light of the torch he was carrying and his legs were a blur. With his other hand, he reached for and pulled the axe from his back. A task which would have required most men two hands and maybe another man.

He didn’t slow down. He ran faster and faster and finally skid to a hault at the mouth of a cave.

“Come out beast !” He shouted, his booming voice echoing over the forest.

“Come out and pay for all those you have slain ! I swear by Kardha, I will use your skin as my cloak or die trying !  Come ! Come and face me !”

He waited. And not long because a low growl rumbled from the cave.

——-

A great roar ripped the silence of the night.

It came from the mountains.

“It has begun” Said the Chief of the Ndoto tribe as he gazed up at the mountains where he knew his brave son was battling the monster.

A petite, pretty young woman came up behind him and hugged him.

“Will he return?”

“No. He will die. The beast is too strong.”

“Then…?”

The Chief looked down at the woman and kissed her on the lips.

“Then there will be nothing more to worry about Kaila”.

They retreated into the darkness of the tent.

——–

He leaned against a tree. Or what was left of it.

He was breathing heavily clutching a deep wound on his broad chest. Blood flowed freely from several other parts of his body. Another man would have long fallen. But this man was standing. Injured, bleeding, broken. But still standing.

The battle had been fierce. The lion had the strength of many elephants and was consumed in white hot rage.

But he knew this. He had anticipated this. His father had too. And he had sent him. His son.

His bleeding chest swelled with pride at what his father would say.

But first, he had to get home.

——-

The roars had stopped. The mountains were quiet.

“It is over”.

The Chief and all the tribe stood around a great fire. They were all looking sorrowfully at the Mountains.

They all knew he was dead. The greatest warrior of the tribe.

Then the Chief spoke.

“He was great man. And a proud man! He was my son and he has died an honourable death at the hands of a fearsome foe ! Let his sacrifice not go forgotten!”

The villagers cheered and clapped until the Chief silenced them with a gesture.

“He said to me before he left…’Father…if I do not return, take care of Kaila.’ And I shall honour this wish! I shall do what he wanted! I shall love Kaila like my own! I will marry her! Tonight!”

The villagers were silent.

They all knew how much he had loved Kaila. And of course he asked the Chief to look after her. But is this what he had meant?

Kaila looked nervously at the silent villagers and then at the Chief. If the old fool’s plan didn’t work, she would never get to be the Queen of the tribe.  She would never have enough power.

The Chief’s son was just a vessel to reach the Chief himself. And seducing the old man had been easy. He was so in love with her that he was willing to sacrifice his own son.

But the son had to be dead. Or he would tear them both apart. His anger was legendary. As a boy of only twelve, he had killed a full size elephant with nothing but a small spear and broken the tusk with his bear hands.

She shivered at what his anger would be. Thank god he was dead.

The Chief spoke again.

“Will you not speak my people ! Are you not going to aid me in fulfilling my son’s dying wish?”

That did the trick. One by one, the villagers snapped out of their thoughts and doubts and started to clap and cheer.

“The wedding shall be tonight! Make the preparations !”

He smiled lustily at Kaila.

And she smiled back.

———

He was almost back to the village. He couldn’t move very fast because his left knee was shattered. He also had trouble getting the axe out of the creatures mouth. He had buried it in there with all his strength and speed. The killing blow.

He could see the light from the village fire’s now. And he could hear drums. Music.

He smiled to himself. They were celebrating his return. He knew it. They had never doubted that he would return. As he limped closer he could hear the Chiefs voice.  He couldn’t make out what he was saying yet.

He limped closer….and he heard the words.

And froze in his tracks.

He could now see his father and hear his words clearly. And they chilled him to the bone.

The Chief held Kaila close to him and Kaila was smiling clinging to the Chief like a lover would.

“And to honour my sons dying wish, I hereby proclaim Kaila my wife and the queen of the tribe!”

The world seemed to slow down. He felt like a million arrows were tearing him apart. And then…he felt the anger. The anger he had taught himself to repress. The anger that he knew would take over him and blind him. The anger that he knew would wreak destruction.

He fought it.

“This is a dream….a nightmare.” He frantically thought with closed eyes.

Then through the cheering of the villagers rose the Chief’s voice.

“You are mine ! My own ! My Queen !”

He opened his eyes and saw Kaila and The Chief kiss. A deep passionate kiss.

And a black curtain fell over his eyes.

——–

The Chief enjoyed the taste of the woman. He was successful. He had her.

He broke away from the kiss and raised his goblet of wine.

“And thus lies fulfilled my son’s dying wish !”

The crowd raised its hand to clap and opened there mouths to cheer when a voice as deep as the growl of a faraway avalanche carried over their heads.

“I made no such wish father.”

They all turned and saw him.

The warrior. His body covered in blood, slick with sweat and dirt. His massive fists were clenched into hammers. But the scariest were the eyes. And they looked straight at the Chief.

He saw the man. The man who had trained him, raised him….betrayed him.

And he saw the woman. She had loved him, cared for him….lied to him.

He saw the fear in their eyes as they looked at him and it pleased him.

He felt no love. Only hatred. And only one burning desire fuelled by the hatred.

Vengeance.

Something strange was happening to him. He could feel the earth under his feet. He could feel it move and somehow, he knew he could move it too. He felt one with it.

His only friend in this world of betrayers.

His arms moved of their own accord

The veins on his neck stood out at his large mouth opened in a roar. A roar that even the monster he had killed would have whimpered on hearing.

He reached into the earth. He could feel its heart.

He would consume them. He would bury them all !

His entire body shone like a star and the earth started to rumble beneath him. He could not stop screaming.

Then there was pain. Pain unlike anything he had ever felt before which rose as the earth beneath his feet began to quake.

Then it happened.

The ground in front of him cracked. The crack grew larger and larger  going across the whole village in seconds. The villagers screamed trying not to fall into the endless abyss. The crack expanded even more, consuming the village as trees, huts and people fell into it falling into the never ending darkness below.

Kaila ran trying desperately to avoid the abyss but the earth beneath her feet shook too much and she could not run. She slipped and fell scrambling to get up but the ground fell away at her feet as the crack grew wider and wider and scrambling for life, she fell in, never to walk the earth again.

Women fell. Children fell. Elders and cattle screamed as they scrambled at the shaking ground. And they too fell.

Screams, wails and smoke filled the air.

And then it stopped.

He fell to the ground.

——-

He didn’t know how many hours later he woke but when he did, all he saw before him was a veritable wasteland.

He could smell the death in the air. He saw the vultures circling the sky.

A single tear rolled down his face.

“What have I done?” He whispered. “Are they all dead? Father? FATHER? KAILA ?”

And then he heard a groan. From under a large rock near the edge of the abyss.

He was on his feet in a second and sprinting towards the rock.

He reached it and lifted it like a child lifting a kitten.

The man underneath was on the brink of death and half of his body had been completely crushed.

Blood ran from his mouth. He was barely alive. Barely.

He looked at his fathers face. And at that instant, he remembered what had happened.

The betrayal.

“Is… that you..my son?” spluttered the chief through a mouthful of blood.

“I am no son of yours. And you are no father. For no father would send his son to his death.”

“Save me….”

“Save you!” He threw back his head and laughed. “I feel sadness for what I have done here. I feel sadness for all the dead people. I shed tears for the all but you. You and Kaila.”

His eyes softened for a moment as he spoke her name.

The Chief smiled tauntingly.”She did not love you. She used you. She just wanted to be queen.”

He looked down at the dying old man.

“Then she got what she deserved. And so have you. May Kardha show you mercy in the next realm old man. Good bye.”

“No !” The Chief yelled aware suddenly that this man was his last hope. “Don’t leave an old man behind. Please ! Please ! PLEASE!”

He spoke without turning around.“Old man? Thanks to you I have no love left inside me. Only hatred and distrust. Thanks to you, I have the blood of hundreds of innocents on my hands. You are no man. You are the Devil. ”

As he walked away, he heard his father scream his last plea for help.

“No! Don’t leave me…”

And then, the old Chief whispered his last word. His sons name.

“Kor…”

Rain splattered down on the massive multicoloured tent.

The large wrought iron gate about 50 metres from the tent had twisted words worked into the metal.

‘Circus Maximus’ it read.

Most people recognized the name as that of the great Roman stadium where chariots raced, gladiators fought and the audience had their breath taken away from them.

But no one who had seen this Circus’ final act could deny that it had earned the right to name itself after the legendry roman Circus Maximus.

Because the final act not only left you breathless, it burned itself into your mind.

That was why, even on a rainy and depressing day such as this, the Circus Maximus was filled to bursting.

On the ground, right in front of the audience, clowns made faces, pulled things out of each other’s noses and behinds and had the people in splits.

Far above, trapeze artists and acrobats performed impossible feats of flexibility and agility and the people gasped, ooh’ed and aah’ed.

Blindfolded men flicked knives at each other and caught them just as deftly. A small asian twisted his body into grotesque shapes and a magician pulled himself out of his hat.

Fierce jungle cats twice as big as the biggest man in the tent, giant gorillas, trumpeting elephants and roiling snakes all controlled by a single man as the people could only watch in macabre fascination half hoping the animals attack.

This was the Circus Maximus.

But this was nothing. Not yet. The final act. It was almost time.

As the performers bowed their way out of the tent to tumultuous applause, a portly man in a velvet top hat walked onto the massive stage in the middle of the tent.

“And now ladies and gentlemen ! For the final act ! I give you…”

———-

She waited under the stage with her head in her hands.

The pain was almost unbearable.

The cheers from the people above were only making it worse.

She rubbed her head again.

“It will be over soon. I can do this.” She thought.

“Ten minutes. I can control it I have done it for so many years I can do it again.”

But she knew something was wrong. Something had been wrong for the past few weeks. The headaches, the pain and the never-ending feeling that something was closing in.

She had talked to Carlos the ring master and head of the circus. Explained to him that she had almost lost control during the last act.

“Nonsense! You are just getting nervous that’s all ! You’ll do fine !” He said, twirling his enormous moustache.

“I’ve been doing this act for eight years Carlos. Do you think I will be nervous?” She asked testily.

Carlos backed away. There was something about her eyes which burnt into you.

“I..I only meant….Look. There are important people coming tonight. Some politicians I hear. Do they come for me? Or the silly acrobats? No ! They come for you! For your act ! The great final act of Circus Maximus! Do it tonight I beg you. Then take a week off.”

She sighed his drawl only worsening headache.

“Fine. But this is my last act for a week.”

No more. For a week. She had thought about this whenever the pain got too harsh. But now, just before the act, it was beyond anything she could imagine. It was all she could do to not fall. She would have to finish this quickly.

Then, from above her she heard Carlos’ voice.

“And now ladies and gentlemen ! For the final act ! I give you… La Reina del Fuego ! The Queen of Fire !”

————-

The crowd screamed with delight.

This was what they had come here to see. Not the clowns, animals, performers or magicians. But this. The final act of Circus Maximus. The Queen of Fire.

————-

The podium beneath her feet rose slowly as a rectangular portion of the performers arena  slid apart.

“Now !” She thought and raised her hands above her head.

She felt the heat rush up her arms and erupt from her fingers in massive roiling waves shooting right out of the empty portion of the arena.

————

The audience gasped as an enormous pillar of fire erupted from the centre of the arena and rose high above stopping just short of the roof of the tent.

Several children screamed and covered their eyes. So did several adults.

The flames were still far enough to avoid burning the tents roof.

The audience gazed at the pillar of flames feeling the heat scorching the air. But the most amazing thing was, the pillar of fire was rectangular. Exactly the shape of the panel of floor that had slid away.

And then, it disappeared.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then somewhere in the audience a child yelled.

“Look mommy !”

And mommy looked. And so did everyone else. For now, where the massive pillar of fire had stood, stood a beautiful woman with her arms raised.

The Queen of Fire.

———-

Her head was spinning as she tried to stand still. The pain in her skull was killing her. It had taken a lot of effort to maintain the shape of the fire. And that was nothing compared to the act. The final act.

She was weak and wanted to collapse.

But she would not. She would do the act.

She would stand tall and beautiful for these people.

She would show them The Queen of Fire.

———–

The crowd cheered madly. Most of the men were speechless. The woman was beautiful beyond anything they had seen.  Her long burgundy hair shone in the light of the flames and her body was sculpted to such perfection that she could have been a goddess.

But there was something about her. Her eyes.

Even at this distance, every member of the audience could see the wild flames in them. Beautiful and dangerous.This was not a woman you wanted to get angry.

She raised her head and looked at the people.

There was instant silence.

And then she spoke. The words were not screamed. Just spoken. Yet they could be heard by each and every person in the tent.

“I am the Queen of Fire ! Fear me! Revere me ! For even the guardian of the gates of hell is but my pet ! Behold ! Cerberus ! The three headed dog of hell !”

———-

The speech was useless. And she knew it.

But the people ate it up.

But that didn’t concern her at the moment. What did concern her was the blinding pain in her head which like the audience cheers had risen to a deafening crescendo in her head.

She held on.

“Have to… finish…”

Even as all this crossed her mind, she finished her declaration and held up her arms again feeling the heat rise up her arms.

———–

The Queen raised her arms to the heavens and closed her eyes.

The audience waited with bated breath.

Then suddenly, thick ribbons of flame burst out of each hand.

————

She was sweating now.

“I won’t be able to control this…have to….stop..” She thought desperately as the pain consumed her.

But she knew it was too late.

She was too far gone.

———–

The snake like flames twisted and twirled over the audiences head forming a massive ball which hung above the Queens head like the sun.

The audience stared at the ball. Mesmerised.

———-

“Have to….stop….”

But her arms worked on their own. Manipulating the fire.

———-

The   ball suddenly twisted and bloated forming a shape. Then a nose. No. A snout.

Teeth, paws and then…eyes. Red eyes.

Three pairs of them.

———-

Her eyes rolled into her head. She had lost all control now. Her muscles were tense against her sweat drenched clothes.

But she had to stop. Or else…

———–

The ball had transformed. Into a three headed dog.

Cerberus. The watchdog of hell.

The audience gasped trying to move further behind in their seats as the massive hound roared at them.

It was easily as big as 10 elephants.

It roared and howled and the flames that were its body blazed hot enough to scorch the hair off some eyebrows.

Most of the children were crying. Some men and women were so terrified; they couldn’t even look at the flaming beast. But many could only stare in what could only be called a combination of horror and reverence at the gigantic beast of hell.

———-

She lost control.

Her mind went blank and her fingers went limp.

And the fire went unchecked still rushing through her veins and out of her fingers.

———-

Suddenly, the dog’s body was twisting and contorting. Flames shot out in every direction. The massive shape was disappearing as flames shot everywhere.

Some of the smarter people rushed towards the exit. But most of the audience sat entranced still thinking it was a part of the show.

Until one of the snakelike ribbons of fire flew straight into a woman in the third row.

Then the screaming began.

———–

She heard the screams. Heard it as if in a dream. The pain was not there anymore.  But something was wrong.

Why was everyone screaming?

Was everything ok?

She opened her eyes.

And saw hell.

———-

The fiery arrows shot everywhere. And burning bodies surrounded the arena. A child wailed alone in a corner, a burning pillar falling dangerously close. A woman ran past her thrashing her arms and covered in flames screeching so hard her throat might tear.

Old men fell to their knees praying for forgiveness and a man ran around screaming his lovers name.

The tent  was aflame. And everyone inside it was trapped like a rat. A rat in a volcano.

The heat was unbearable.

They were all going to die.

And it was all her fault.

She stood there, mortified at the scene in front of her eyes.

“What have I done?”

But then, instinct took over.

“I have to stop this. Pain or no pain.”

She closed her eyes and raised her palms and breathed the smoke filled air deeply. In her mind, she sang to the flames like she would, a lover and slowly, the roiling coils of fire moved together forming the same ball.

In a moment, she stood again with the massive ball of light above her. And then, it all seeped into her fingers in one furious second.

She looked around her. The crying child was safe. Alone, but safe. Someone would find him. The old man was crying out prayers of thanks at surviving and the man and his woman embraced each ther with tear stained faces.

But the burning woman lay dead. Charred beyond recognition not more than a few feet away.

“Dead.” She thought.

“And so many more…..I am a murderer.”

——–

The blaring sirens of police vans and fire engines ripped the night air.

The officer in charge surveyed the burning bodies as his partner threw up on the ground.

He looked around and noticed a man sitting in a corner. His clothes, or what was left of them, suggested he was the ring master of the circus. His enormous moustache hung limp and he looked into nothingness.

The officer walked up to him.

“Are you Mr.Carlos?”

“Yes.”

“Sir, I am very sorry for your loss. But could you tell me how this happened? And how such a huge fire suddenly went out?”

The man was silent.

“Sir. I asked…”

“She did it.” He said abruptly.

“She?” Asked the officer interestedly.

“Yes. She did it. She burned my circus.”

“Who? Who is ‘She’ ?” The officer was getting impatient.

“The witch. The fire witch.”

The officer lost his patience. He took Carlos by the shoulders and shook him.

“Who? Who is she? Give me a name man !”

And Carlos looked at him with eyes filled with darkness as black as the smoke in the air.

“Fier.”

The thick black smoke swirled in the air.

———-

The rain still splattered down.

The dirty little girl peeked around the edge of the grimy wall behind which she was hiding.

She could still hear the men yelling for her. She could hear the anger in their voices.

She clutched the loaf of bread closer.

She peeked again and there was no one.

“Now.” She thought and made a dash.

She was wrong. One of the men heard the girl splash through a puddle and yelled for the others.

She heard him coming and panicked. She ran faster.

The dirty lanes seemed to be closing in on her as she darted left and right but found no place to hide.

“I’ll get away.” She thought desperately.

“Stop you darned thief ! Stop !” She heard him yell.

“He’s alone. I can outrun him.”

But she knew this to be a lie. He was closing in fast, his big feet thumping and splashing on the muddy ground.

“Stop you little runt!”

She ran faster.

“Stop thief! I’m going to kill you !”

She heard the words. And stopped.

She slowly turned around.

The man skidded to a halt in front of her splashing mud on her already grimy face. He was a big man. A dark, dirty oaf of a man out of breath with all the running.

He looked at the petite girl in front of him and saw that beneath all the dirt and mud, there was a beautiful young woman.

His face cracked into an evil smile.

“I’m going to have fun with you.” He said grinning through dirty yellow teeth.

“I’m going to punish you for stealing my bread. And then…”

“Then what?”  Said the girl suddenly. Her voice was calm. Not breathless like the man in front of her. It showed no fear. It was…cold.

“Then what?” She asked again.

The man was taken aback by the sudden boldness of the girl. But he quickly recovered.

He leaned towards her, his breath fouling the air in front of her face.

“Then I’m going to kill you.”

He didn’t notice the girl’s eyes go dark. He didn’t notice the wind rising around him. He just threw back his head and laughed like a fool.

He didn’t understand.

His voice seemed to echo in the girls head. Reminding her of another man. As big and as dirty. He used to come home and beat her Ma. He used to beat Ma and then beat her. And he used to say the same thing.

“I’m going to kill you.”

And one day. He did. Her Ma lay still and did not hug her like she did when the beating was over. She hated that man who left her to rot on the streets. She hated him so much.

Now she was older. And this man in front of her transformed before her eyes into the monster who killed her Ma.

And she was angry.

The wind grew faster and heavier.

She was so angry.

The wind started lifting the litter off the dirty ground.

He wanted to kill her? No. This time, she would kill him.

The wind grew sharper and stronger.

The man stumbled.

“What the…” It was all he could get out before the gusts of wind seemed to wrap him. Tight and sharp. The wind was like blades tearing at him. At his flesh.

He looked down in horror at the skin on his hands watching it tear before his eyes. He tried to scream but could not. The moment he opened his mouth, the razor sharp gusts around him cut his tongue. Again and again. His stomach was slashed open and bits of his innards fell out.

His skin was being slashed at from every corner. He was dying. A horrible and merciless death.

Then it stopped.

He fell to the ground. Or what was left of him did.

Miraculously, he was still alive. With a great effort he looked at the girl who had calmly watched the whole spectacle.

“Who…?” Was all he managed to get out.

The girl looked down at the torn, dying body.

“Vane.”

And she walked away into the rain, still clutching the bread.

The rain splattered down seeping through the soles of his shoes.

But he did not walk faster.

His pace wasn’t slow but it wasn’t quick either. It was…steady. The firm stride of a man who knew what he was doing and where he was going.

With just one difference.

He wasn’t a man. He wasn’t even human.

—————

He reached the house and looked up. His nose crinkled in disgust. The putrid stench of rotting garbage was in the air.

The house was a ruin. A shabby, broken down, depressing dump.

“I wonder why he chose this hell-hole.” He wondered.

Then, he shook his head like it didn’t matter and climbed the wooden steps to the door. He winced as one of the steps creaked.

He stood before the door and stared at it as if sizing it up.

Then, he shook back the sleeve of his right hand.

He fanned out his fingers and aimed his palm at the door.

He closed his eyes and concentrated.

And felt the lightning rush up from inside him.

—————

The old man coughed. He looked blearily out of the window. It was raining.

“That’s just great. The garbage will rot even faster now ! ” He thought.

He lit a new cigarette. People had told him since he was fifteen that he should quit. They shut up when he started killing them.

He smiled grimly.

“I’m not a bad man. I do the work of the rightful. And people who defy me deserve to die.I have gods powers. I AM GOD ! ”

He shouted the last words out loud and stood up. For a moment it looked like his rickety legs would support him. Then he slumped back on the couch.

He lit another cigarette. He had dropped the first one in his moment of excitement.

The minutes ticked by as he slowly smoked. The silence was complete.

He was almost dozing off when he heard the steps. The steady treading of someone slowly climbing the stairs. He still wasn’t sure though. His old ears could be playing tricks on him.

Then he heard one of the stairs creak. There was definitely someone there.

He panicked.

“They’ve come!”  He thought. “They’ve come to kill me! But I won’t let them do it. I’ll run !”

He tried to get up but his old legs were frozen with fear.

Then he heard it. The all so familiar crackling.

Slowly, he turned his head towards the door. It glowed with a brilliant blue light and he listened as the crackling turned to a roar.

Moments later, the door was blown clean off its hinges, flying across the room barely missing the old man who fell to the floor in horror.

He stared at the silhouette framing the doorway.

He saw a tall man. Not broad, but well built. His long dark cloak flapped above his ankles and he stared directly at the pathetic old man on the ground.

But what was most captivating was the man’s right hand. Blue electricity still crackled around it like moths around a lamp.

Then the old man was calm.

He knew what this man had come to do. And he knew he did not have a choice in the matter. So he looked. Merely looked.

The man walked straight up to the old man still on the ground sitting with his back to the wall.

He lifted a finger and pointed it straight between the old man’s eyes.

The old man spoke.

“Before you do it, tell me. Is the new generation awake then?”

The man blinked before answering.

“Yes.”

“And you are one of them?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?” Although he already knew.

“Lightning.”

The old man sighed. “Yes. Then you are the strongest. I die an honourable death.”

The man nodded and pointed his finger straight at the old man’s heart. It would be painless that way.

The old man spoke again.

“One last thing. What is your name?”

There was a pause. The man seemed to be thinking about something. The pause lasted an eternity. And then he spoke.

“Raze.”

And the lightning shot out of his fingers.

21st Feb 2010.

Stupid Common Man

Respect

Ars Moriendi - The Art of Dying

This image shows someone, who wears a crown of thorns and is crucified but is obviously not the son of god. It also shows an angels wings and burning on the stake. The most gruesome and famous ways of medieval execution and the ascent to heaven.

]]> http://deviantdeliberations.wordpress.com/2010/02/21/deviant-deliberations/ Sun, 21 Feb 2010 14:55:28 +0000 aval0n25 http://deviantdeliberations.wordpress.com/2010/02/21/deviant-deliberations/ *A poem which was where I first came up with the name ‘Deviant Deliberations’. Written over 3 years ago *

Devilish haunts through a cemetary gate
A dying soldier cursing his fate
Tears splashing over her grave
the love he was unable to save.

Infinite dreams of a megalomaniac
a whore feeding on aphrodisiac
a nymph running through flowers like light
sticking a needle, now theres a sight.

A four year old asking his old man
“Father, why is the little girl limp? Is the beauty a slut and the beast her pimp?”
And as the slap tears his face
the boy can only cry.
Soon to be a soldier,
Soon to die.

The father walked down the hall
down to the whores room
He stared and smirked
wondering what to do.
But he died with the mothers bullet
in his heart through and through.

The mother racked in pain
remembering her years.
A nymph with a needle
running through flowers.

The world is a circle , the stories connected.
But put together
We are all forever
All demented.

Cheers, light applause and a hall full of people surrounded me as I got up with shaky feet.

The stage seemed a mile away as I walked towards it, the others behind me. Our usually cheery lot was unnaturally quiet, lost in their own thoughts as we headed backstage.

Our first performance. Or as it’s more commonly known – ‘gig’.

We were understandably nervous, our emotions a cocktail of anticipation, excitement and most predominantly, fear.

The band that was to play before us had started and there was no denying that they were good.
As they played, I could just sit there with my fingers clenched, flinching at every cheer from the audience.

One Night Band

Each of us was lost in our own work and our own thoughts. The guitarists tuned their guitars, the drummer tapped his drumsticks on his knees nervously and I hummed the song we were to play under my breath, afraid to sing it too loud for fear of cracking my voice or too softly for fear of singing the wrong note and not realizing it.

I looked at my friend asking him to pluck the note on his guitar string so I could sing in tune. He gave me a look that suggested I had just asked him to eat his guitar.

The drummer still hadn’t stopped tapping his sticks. The otherwise inaudible taps were now as loud as war cries.

I wiped the sweat from my brow.

“We’re up.” Someone murmured.

I looked up in panic and realized that the band on stage had finished and it was our turn. The compére walked onto stage with a stride that suggested she had been catwalking since she was eight.

“After that brilliant performance, we now have band number eight !”

Again the polite applause filled the air as the curtain dropped and we went on stage to set up our equipment. After the quiet of backstage, the stage itself seemed like a fish market. Techies running about helping us with our equipment, a man asking me if I needed a stand for my mic ,the drummer yelling that his bass drum was sliding and needed to be more steady, the organizers yelling into their walkie’s for something or the other.

It was all a blur.

It took about 3 minutes for all the equipment to be properly connected and in place.
Are you ready?” Asked a kid with a microphone dangling from his ear and looking too harrowed to be alive.

I looked at my band members and it dawned on me that it really didn’t matter. In the end, we will all go home. So lets just get it over with.

I nodded. “Yes. We’re ready”.

The compére’s voice boomed around us as the curtains rose.

” And now I give you, Band Number 8 !”

The curtains rose and I saw before me a confused spectacle of lights, smoke and upturned faces.

A sudden adrenaline rush made me yell into the mic – ” Whats’up K-scope!”

For half a second that lasted an aeon, there was silence. Then screams loud enough to shatter glass engulfed me. The lights flashed, the guitars squealed and the drums boomed.

And I smiled. I realized I had been wrong.

I had been home all along.

Respect.

This is the letter :

Dear Udhavjee,

At the very outset, my compliments for the manner in which you’ve literally ‘stolen’ the headlines from your cousin Raj in the last fortnight. After the Assembly election defeat last October, there were many who had written you off as a weak, namby-pamby politician, who would be better off doing photography. But now, it seems that the ‘fire’ which burns inside Bal Thackeray is alive in the son too. After years of struggling to establish yourself, you have finally discovered the mantra for success as a Shiv Sena leader: find an ‘enemy’, threaten and intimidate them, commit the odd violent act, and, eureka!, you are anointed the true heir to the original ‘T’ company supremo.

Your cousin has chosen to bash faceless taxi drivers and students from North India, soft targets who are totally unprotected. You’ve been much braver. You’ve actually chosen to target national icons: Sachin Tendulkar, Mukesh Ambani, Shah Rukh Khan, powerful figures who most Indians venerate. Shah Rukh is no surprise since the Sena has always been uncomfortable with the Indian Muslim identity. Forty years ago, your father had questioned Dilip Kumar’s patriotism for accepting an award from the Pakistani government. You’ve called Shah Rukh a traitor for wishing to choose Pakistani cricketers in the IPL. That your father invited Javed Miandad, the former Pakistani captain and a close relation of Dawood Ibrahim, to your house is a matter of record that we shall not go into today.

I am a little surprised that you chose to question Ambani and Tendulkar though. The Sena has always enjoyed an excellent relationship with corporate India. Why then criticise India’s biggest businessman for suggesting that Mumbai belongs to all? After all, no one can deny that Mumbai’s entrepreneurial energy has been driven by communities from across India. The diatribe against Sachin is even more strange. He is, alongwith Lata Mangeshkar, Maharashtra’s most admired and recognised face. Surely, you will agree that Sachin symbolizes Maharashtrian pride in a manner that renaming shops and streets in Marathi never can.

Of course, in-between some of your local thugs also attacked the IBN Lokmat office. I must confess that initially the attack did leave me outraged. Why would a political outfit that claims to protect Maharashtrian culture attack a leading Marathi news channel? But on reflection I realized that we hadn’t been singled out: over the last four decades, the Shiv Sena has targeted some of Maharashtra’s finest literary figures and journalistic institutions. That you continue to live in a colony of artists while attacking artistic freedom remains one of the many tragic ironies in the evolution of the Sena.

Just before the Assembly elections, you had told me in an interview that you were determined to shake off the Shiv Sena’s legacy of violence. You spoke of the need for welfarist politics, of how you were saddened that rural Maharashtra was being left behind. I was impressed by the farmer rallies you had organized, by the fact that you had documented farmer suicides in the state. I thought that Uddhav Thackeray was serious about effecting a change in Maharashtra’s political landscape.

I was obviously mistaken. Farmer suicides still continue, the after-effects of drought are still being faced in several districts, but the focus is now squarely on finding high profile hate figures. You claim to have a vision for Mumbai. Yet, on the day the Sena-controlled city’s municipal corporation’s annual budget revealed an alarming financial crisis, your party mouthpiece,Saamna, was running banner headlines seeking an apology from Shah Rukh Khan. You asked your Shiv Sainiks to agitate against Rahul Gandhi’s visit to Mumbai, but why have you not asked them to wage a war against the water cuts that have made life so difficult for millions in the city?

At one level, I can understand the reasons for your frustration. The Congress-NCP government in the state has been thoroughly incompetent: the last decade has seen Maharashtra decline on most social and economic parameters. Yet, the Shiv Sena has been unable to capture power in the state. Your war with cousin Raj has proved to be self-destructive. The Assembly election results showed that a united Sena may have offered a real challenge to the ruling alliance. In fact, the Sena and the MNS together garnered around 43 per cent of the popular vote in Mumbai-Thane, almost seven per cent more than what was obtained by the Congress-NCP combine. Yet, because your vote was split, you won just nine of the 60 seats in the region, a result which proved decisive in the overall state tally.

Your defeat seems to have convinced you that the only way forward is to outdo your cousin in parochial politics. It’s a strategy which has undoubtedly made you a headline-grabber once again. Unfortunately, television rating points don’t get you votes or goodwill. There is space in Maharashtra’s politics for a regional force, but it needs to be based on a constructive, inclusive identity.

Tragically, the Shiv Sena has never offered a serious social or economic agenda for the future. Setting up the odd wada pav stall in Mumbai is hardly a recipe for addressing the job crisis . Why hasn’t the Sena, for example, started training projects to make Maharashtrian youth face upto the challenges of a competitive job market? Why doesn’t the Sena give regional culture a boost by supporting Marathi theatre, literature or cinema? The wonderful Marathi film, “Harishchandrachee Factory”, nominated for the Oscars, has been co-produced by Ronnie Screwvala, a Parsi, who like millions of other ‘outsiders’ has made Mumbai his home. Maybe, I ask for too much. Tigers, used to bullying others for years, will never change their stripes.

Post-script: Your charming son, Aditya, who is studying English Literature in St Xaviers College, had sent me a collection of his poems. I was most impressed with his writing skills. Let’s hope the next generation of the T company will finally realize that there is more to life than rabble-rousing!

Jai Hind, Jai Maharashtra!

*Click Here to read the article on www.ibnlive.com*

Anyway, I’m going to save writing about community college for later. But for now I am out of time, because I didn’t finish writing this and it is tomorrow and I need to be in class in an hour and at the moment I am naked, so I should think about putting clothes on.

So I was watching The Watchmen, the directors cut which is slightly more than three hours and I don’t recommend because I thought the movie was way too long and unnecessarily long. The story could have been better told in probably an hour and a half. But anyway – and don’t be worried if you haven’t seen the Watchmen because I’m not going to spoil anything, well maybe – there were a couple things that I took notice of while watching the movie. First of all before seeing the movie I had heard a lot about the blue thingy in the movie’s large penis. I didn’t find it that large. I’m by no means complementing myself here. I don’t judge other penises based on my own. If that were the case every penis would be worthy of porn compared to mine. I just mean that this blue guy’s penis was so hyped that I was expecting more. Sure it was a good size – although his balls weren’t impressive – but it wasn’t black pornstar big, and I was kind of hoping it would be (hoping?) I mean expecting, not hoping, why would I hope for such a thing, I’m not gay? (What’s with the question mark?) I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anyway, spoiler alert, the blue guys penis, which you get to see a decent amount of times, is not super big, just pretty big, but you don’t get to see it at full glory, which is probably good because I would have wasted a huge amount of time getting out a ruler and measuring and then having to figure out some kind of scale of the scene so I could correctly convert the penis into the appropriate size to compare to mine.

Another thing that I realized while watching the movie was that I like watching bad movies. The Watchmen wasn’t necessarily a bad movie, and had it been shorter I might have considered it a good movie, but while watching it and wondering how it was going to end the whole time reminded me of all the times I’ve sat through really bad movies just to get to the end. Less than a week ago, or exactly just over a week ago, I watched the piece of shit movie Drive Me Crazy, starring Melissa Joan Hart. It was one of those millions of crappy teen movies made in the 90s or possibly early 00s. And even though I knew how it was going to end, and it was on one o’clock at night on TV which meant I had to sit through super crappy commercials, including many of which that were trying to entice me to call sexy local singles in my town – I won’t say whether or not those commercials worked or not, but I will say my phone bill is going to be rather expensive this month (when you say stuff like that I’m not sure people know you’re kidding) it’s funnier if they don’t know I’m kidding – I still through the whole piece of crap movie.  For some reason I can just sit through extremely bad, cheesy movies, and I enjoy doing it (It’s probably that seeing something that crappy makes you feel better). Which is why more people should read my writing; it’d make them feel wonderful about their own writing.

That graphic fairly sums up my eight-month stay with T-Wesuck. I pay them a monthly fee of $70, they collect my cash while simultaneously rolling in billions of other unearned dollars, then proudly display their middle fingers when I expect service for my payments. I purchased my phone and plan in a very large metropolitan city, then subsequently relocated to a smaller town an hour south to recommence my pursuit of higher education (ha!), when my service was all but lost. I dealt with not being able to place phone calls unless I walked outside for two months before an emergency prompted me to begin what has been a four-month battle through T-Asshat’s “tier” system. It’s so confusing that after spending upwards of fifty hours on the line with countless people, I still have no idea how it works. Here is my basic understanding of the corporate chain:

Tier One: These are your basic grunts located in impoverished districts (although in America!). They have zero power or knowledge to assist with any possible problem one might have, including such basic complaints as dropped calls, missed calls, receiving voice messages without a missed call showing up, and missed/failed texts. They are paid in food stamps and social security only, and generally T-Bitch fires them within two weeks after they wither and die during ninety-hour shifts. When managers/supervisors are requested, this consumes anywhere from five to thirty minutes, during which the same music loops and a computer chimes “We are sorry for your delay,” et cetera and so forth…every thirty-seven seconds. Tier One supervisors have no additional power or prowess; their only function is to corral the rampant group of homeless “mentally-challenged” phone operators into urinating in toilets instead of cubicle trash cans and printers.

Tier Two: This group of “technicians” is just as worthless as their forebears, except Tier One employees revere them as gods among men. It took me more than ten hours, five different Tier One operators, and three managers (more on this later*) to reach this hallowed ground. What was the conclusion of the Deity Class? Send me a new phone, as mine was clearly possessed by the “shitty construction” demons. When, obviously, that failed, I was forced to drive an hour north to replace the SIM card, which was perfectly fine, since the demons had obviously burrowed their way into this mystical part of the phone. Result? I wasted two hours of driving and another several hours of my life arguing to the Tier Two Gods that the SIM card is not the issue. Grab your Fun Hats and let’s go to Tier Three! Yay!

Tier Three: If Jesus worked at T-Awful, he would reside in Tier Three -at least, according the thirty hours spent on the line with the lesser Tiers. These are the Zeus’ and Poseidons of the cellular world: if you are blessed to be in the presence of Tier Three technicians, you are among the most elite of customers. Really? No. I filed a “trouble ticket” so a man would zoom his little van with all sorts of expensive-looking diagnostic equipment to my area and check the tower. Result? The tower was a-okay. Next on the agenda: spend two hours on the phone to detail my entire incident report (which, had the previous Tiers been doing their “job” “correctly,” this would have been recorded in explicit detail in their “magical system”) to another series of technicians. Then I hung up the phone.

And now? The charger port on my phone broke. I called. Since I hadn’t opted to insert eleven dollars a month into T-[Insert Expletive Here]‘s [insert body part here], it would be……ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS for them to replace my handset, because it was somehow my fault the phone didn’t charge any more, and not the manufacturer’s. What?!?!? So I am going on a Grand Trek (want to come along? Okay! I’ll pack the sammiches!) north this week to demand to be dropped sans the $200 early-cancellation fee or consider this my sixty-days notice.

Conclusion: -97,412 dollars that, according to my calculations, I have wasted this company (out of zero)

*: One of these managers apparently was in the midst of a foul day, and took it upon herself to verbally abuse me. Her name was Trish, and although I won’t print her EID number, was the biggest, well, cunt I have ever encountered. So if I end up suing T-Trash, I’m also filing harrassment charges. Best part? Somehow the audio recording got “lost” and no record of our conversation was noted. I can’t wait.