Rants Of A Nostalgic Fool

I remember sitting in the verandah, staring at space, sipping coffee and wondering whether I will ever make any friends. This was the day before I joined university. For once those to whom I would normally run with the simplest of problems were not available. I was lonely, I was miserable. It was a time when I was afraid. In fact, I wanted to wish these thoughts away so badly that I watched "Tarzan the Wonder Car". Yes. That was how desperate I was.

I have grown up in a multi-storied building with about six or seven people of roughly the same age as mine. I don't remember how or when we became friends, but I know without them woudn't be the person I am today. These were the people whom I could depend on. I had boundless faith in them, and knew that they would never let me down.

It was a building filled with laughter and energy. We would have some game or the other every day. When it was raining, we would just sit in the shade and talk. We would talk for hours about this, that and everything. Durga Puja would hold a special attraction for us. It was a time when we did not have any studies. It was a time we were free. It was a time to get together and while the day and the night away. What we did during those five days I have very little recollection of but I know that those were the days I would give anything to get back. The building was the centre of our world. It was the place where our friendship grew. It was a place which insulated us from the rest of the big bad world.

Today the building is dead. There are no sounds of laughter. Where's the kid with the football? Where are those that were sitting against the pillars and laughing about some joke which not even remotely funny? Where are those who felt lucky because they belonged? Some of them have gone away to study in other cities or other countries. Some have grown tired waiting for a reply. Some, like me, have tried to break these bonds and move on but failed miserably. These are bonds that we forged and ones that would remain. No. "Tarzan - The Wonder Car" would not help me now.

I am a fool.

This and That

Hmm...I'm in an exceptionally good mood right now. I have just taught myself to play SRV's "Pride and Joy", a song I thought was impossible to pick up. Though I am hitting hundreds of incidentals before playing any note, I am getting there :) Maybe adidas should take me as their new brand ambassador: 'Impossible Is Nothing'. Anyway, going was not always smooth, especially in the earlier part of the day. I have arrived at the conclusion that a mixed-chat and an egg-chicken roll eaten in the space of about 20 minutes, when you got serious calls from nature is a bad idea. Well, that's one mistake I won't ever make. If it's the roadside "sulabh complex" then, well, so be it. JR makes a good case of that in his blog here. Of course my problem was slightly on a slightly "larger" scale than his, but well, I fully sympathise with him and his urinary bladder. I also missed out on kicking butt in the afternoon even though I had the opportunity...that was kind of depressing (especially when I think of the person in concern who BTW is spamming my blog and making it into a personal chit-chat column...)

I have also been selected (what's in a little change in perspective) as one of the chief volunteers to help out in some obscure ritualistic celebration in my university. We will also have a "colourful procession" from the O.A.T to the K.M.R which, for the less informed, is almost a 15 minutes walk!!!!! What it is exactly for is something I am not quite certain. Must be for world peace. For being such a willing volunteer I have been promised untold riches. I think I will go tomorrow and choose the colour of my first limo. Maybe black. Yes. Black sounds good. Maybe Black with green zebra stripes. Hmm...yes...that sounds good. Maybe powerpuff girls too...err...maybe not the powerpuff girls.

Anyway, I think nature calls again. So until next time, hold your breath for another episode in the Fantastic Life of Filthy B. Liar.



Umm....okies...you can stop holding your breaths now, that was just a figure of speech.



Dolts.

40 Minutes of Studying.

Yes. You heard it right. I am studying. I am not studying for 15 minutes or 20 minutes. Not even 30 minutes (which would reduce the ordinary man to a lifeless zombie.). I am studying 40 minutes a day. Yes, 40 minutes. Shocked and awed? Don't be. Pushing limits of endurance and concentration is my middle name. And I am pushing the limits of endurance and concentration by studying 40 minutes a day. 40 mintues everyday. It is a long time. Yes. 40 minutes of studying is an impossible feat. I am performing that feat everyday. I am performing that feat by studying 40 minutes a day. I study 40 minutes everyday. 40 minutes is the amount of time I spend studying. That is, studying 40 minutes a day. Whew! I surprise myself. I guess even I don't know my own abilities. 40 minutes. Long time. Very long time. Very very long time. . it's a feat unimaginable. 40 mintues. Whew! 40 minutes...even thinking about it is probably giving you goosebumps. Well, 40 minutes...unbelievable!

Me for President?



A tiffin, a lunch and 2 bathroom breaks included in the 40 minutes. Who wants to suffer from prostrate problems???

A Story...

Was in doubt about what to put up. In the end, decided to post this story I had written a few weeks back. The purpose for which it was written is served, thus I am free to put it up on blogworld and hope for some random publishing house to offer me zillions (is that enough to buy off the whole world? If not, more would be necessary) for it....I know you sceptics, that's why I said hope.

The Descent of Mr.Gupta

Relics

Some twenty kilometers from Dhanaulti lies the village of Bataghat. Travelling down the spectacular road from Dhanaulti to Mussorie, it is unlikely that you would ever notice such a shabby and insignificant little village, and even more so the little dirt road that breaks off to the left and disappears into the woods. This trail moves through thick pines for some two kilometers before rising steeply to a hill-top. This place is locally referred to as "Didina" or the "flower of the hills". Not many people know of this place, and very few actually come here.

Didina is a place haunted by memories. Before Independence, it used to be the place where the cream of the British ‘high society’ would spend their lazy summer afternoons. It was a place where only the distinguished could afford a cottage. Yet today, it is only a shadow of its former glorious self. As one by one the British left, Didina became a memory in the minds of those few that cared to remember the past. There are some old men in the village who could tell you tell you a story or two. The tales that they have to tell, no doubt fascinating, are caught somewhere between their imagination and the fragments of some old memories. Yet, all these have little to do with us.

Didina has some old cottages. They are built in the old colonial style and bear the mark of a refined arrogance. Most of these are in ruins; only three are maintained and occupied. They belong to three old ladies.

The dirt road follows a twisting path through a mountain meadow till you can see the tiled roof-tops of the first few houses. The last cottage down the dirt road belongs to a Mrs. D’Souza. It bears a small sign which reads, "D’Souza’s Cottage: Room For Rent". Mrs. D’Souza is a thin, pale woman who suffers from chronic bouts of rheumatism. During these painful hours she often goes to her neighbour, Ms. Sherbetwallah, for her home-made remedies which though grossly unscientific, provide miraculous cures. Ever since her husband, the Judge, passed away some twenty years ago, she has had to rent out her cottage to earn her livelihood. Bad investments have left her with little money, and the cottage is her only source of income. Her neighbours, Ms. Sherbetwallah and Mrs. Chadwick, have always been so kind. Though money might be difficult at times, Mrs. D’Souza could never ask for financial assistance from her neighbours. She could never do it. It would be against her principles. After all, Mrs. D’Souza was a proud woman.

But today, something is wrong with Mrs. D’Souza. Her wrinkled forehead seems to have acquired at least a hundred new wrinkles, and her walk seems to be slower than usual. She is a woman faced with many problems, but today she is worried about something specific. Mr. Gupta, to whom she had rented out her cottage back in January has refused to vacate and leave. Summer was here. Mr. Verma would be here in only a couple of days. She had so much to do. The pies would be difficult to make this year. But she had to make them; she would manage…somehow. She had promised him the pies. She couldn’t bear to disappoint Mr. Verma; he really loved those pies.

Mr. Verma was Mrs. D’Souza’s favourite lodger. He had come every summer, for the past sixteen years. He would stay with her for about fifteen days and then drive back to Delhi where he worked for some newspaper. Mrs. D’Souza knew that. Mr. Verma had written those sweet things about her pies in his paper. She had it framed on the wall of the living-room. He also brought with himself really nice presents for the three old ladies every year. Mrs. D’Souza treated him like her own son. They would talk for hours about different things. She really enjoyed his company. It was one time in the year when Mrs. D’Souza was truly very happy.

A Most Peculiar Man

Mr. Gupta was a strange man. In appearance, he was most insignificant. He was short, with a wheatish complexion. He was one of those men you may see any day and everyday on the road, or on the bus or at the local tea-shop. He had arrived in Didina some five months back. He had promised Mrs. D’Souza that he would leave in a month or so. He had gone back on his word. He had refused to leave. Mr. Gupta led a strange life. He rarely went down to the village, and had never shown interest in social interaction. In fact, he rarely came out of his room. Though he looked an average man, he had an extraordinary temper. Mrs. D’Souza had seen flashes of it, mostly when he conversed over the telephone. In the beginning it had scared her. But now, she no longer felt scared of him. Mr. Gupta had arrived in Didina with two suitcases. The first contained his clothes. He never opened the second. However, Mrs. D’Souza was not a stupid woman. She knew what the second suitcase contained. It contained money; it contained a lot of money.

At first, Mrs. D’Souza had thought that Mr. Gupta was one of those men who really enjoyed their privacy. There were always some like him who would come for a couple of days, to get away from the rush of daily life. All of them had enjoyed their stay at her place. It seemed to give them the break that was necessary to face the trials of everyday life once again. However, in course of time she understood that though Mr. Gupta refused to leave this place, he was not exactly fond of this place. In fact at times Mrs. D’Souza would think that he hated it with vengeance. Yet, he refused to leave. It was as if Mr. Gupta had exiled himself from the rest of the world, by some compulsory choice.

Mrs. D’Souza was a soft-spoken woman. She had tried to explain her problems to Mr. Gupta at various instances but he had shown little interest. It was not in her nature to scream or shout and make a public demonstration of her problems. That was just not her. She could never dream of involving either of her neighbours in this messy business; it was against her principles. Her pride would never have allowed that. However, this was not what Mrs. D’Souza was actually worried about.

The Well-Wishers

Mrs. Chadwick knelt down to attend to her rose bushes. No matter how much she had tried, her own rose bushes could never stand up to Mrs. D’Souza’s rose bed. Mrs. D’Souza took great pride in it. Mrs. Chadwick wondered how a woman, as old as Mrs. D’Souza managed to keep such a beautiful garden all by herself. Each time a group of visitors left the cottage, they would invariably leave behind a trail of wreckage. Mrs. D'Souza never complained. She would go about cleaning and organising the house in her own unhurried way. But the garden was different. It was the neatest, tidiest and the prettiest garden Mrs. Chadwick had ever seen. Mrs. D'Souza resented what she considered as an encroachment on her garden. She would get very upset even if a leaf from the neighbouring tree would fall on her rose-bed. But her anger never found outward expression. In all the years that Mrs. Chadwick had lived next door's to Mrs. D'Souza, she had never seen her get angry. No, Mrs. D'Souza had her own way of expressing her resentment. Her thoughts drifted towards Mrs. D’Souza’s lodger. Over the years there had been several lodgers. Some had returned over the years, some had simply vanished out of memory. Mr. Verma was one of those who couldn’t resist the enchanted beauty of Didina. With him of course, it was different. They all adored Mr. Verma. He was such a sweet man. It was only last year that he brought her all those lovely boxes of chocolates. But how was Mrs. D’Souza going to accommodate him? The Gupta chap had made it very clear that he was in no mood to leave this place. He was a thoroughly unpleasant man; Mrs. Chadwick knew that for certain. She even remembered seeing a picture of him in the newspaper. He seemed to be a man wanted by the police for some fraud or scam that he was involved in. His real name wasn’t even Gupta; what was it? Mrs. Chadwick tried to recollect, but failed. Old age seemed to have caught up with her. In this age she certainly didn’t want to tackle criminals, she was too old for this. The physical as well as mental exhaustion would be too great for her at this age. She had talked about this to Mrs. D’Souza. She already seemed to be aware of he fact. What surprised her even further was Mrs. D’Souza seemed vaguely unworried about the fact that Mr. Gupta refused to vacate his room. No, it was not this that worried her. Her thoughts seemed to lie somewhere else.

--x--

She felt desperate. She knew she had little time. Something had to be done. She turned the old silver hammer in her hand. The silver surface had lost its shine. It required polishing. It was all that her late husband had left her. She wondered how long it would take her to make the pies. Mr. Verma would be arriving soon.

--x--

Ms. Sherbetwallah was preparing her latest self-invented remedy against the common cold. It was a concoction made of several herbs which she had gathered from the forest. Though she weakly admitted that it had a rather foul smell, she had no doubt whatsoever that it was the ultimate cure against the common cold. However, fortunately or unfortunately, Ms. Sherbetwallah had an incredible resistance against practically every ailment or disease: thus self-treatment was quite out of the question. Perhaps Mr. Verma would be kind enough to try out this remedy she had prepared. He seemed to be suffering from one ailment or the other every time he came. Mr. Verma had, in the past, tried her remedies and enjoyed its miraculous effects. He would never object against trying out this concoction; he was such a sweet man. He brought her that wonderful book on mountain herbs the year before last. She could not but wonder what Mr. Verma would bring this time around. He always brought such beautiful gifts. Mrs. D’Souza had assured her that Mr. Verma would stay with her. How it was possible with Mr. Gupta leeching on to the room seemed to puzzle her. Mrs. D’Souza had seemed really unconcerned about this situation. But she was worried. It was just not this.

--x--

She looked at the hammer again. It seriously needed cleaning. She could always go to the police. She was sure, that if Mr. Gupta ever came to know of such a visit, he would be gone that very moment. But that would not solve her problems. No, that would not solve her problems.

A Proud Woman

Mr. Verma uncrossed his legs. This was like his second home, and he enjoyed the company and attention of the three old ladies. All the three old ladies were there. They seemed ecstatic at Mr. Verma’s arrival. "So you finally polished the hammer? Finally! ". Mrs. D’Souza replied in the affirmative. "Yes. I cleaned it. I needed to.", said Mrs. D’Souza as she thought about the pies. She hadn’t let him down. She felt satisfied. Conversation drifted from the kinds of visitors Mrs. D’Souza had had, to the work that Mr. Verma was engaged in now. Finally, the moment which they had all been waiting for arrived. The mince pie was served. It smelled delicious. "What’s different this time? It tastes better than ever!", said Mr. Verma as he shoveled large portions of the mince pie into his mouth. Mrs. D’Souza was beaming. She had worked really hard for the mince pies this time. A feeling of warm contentment seemed to pass through her. She was no longer worried. She pottered about, mainly fussing over Mr. Verma, encouraging him to have more of the mince pie. After all, all the trouble she had gone through was to savour this moment, and she enjoyed it to the full extent. As Mr. Verma retired to his room to get the gifts he had brought for the old ladies, Mrs. D’Souza took the moment to remind her neighbours of that little trivial fact that she thought would be better left unsaid to Mr. Verma. "I’m sure the poor dear really needn’t know that there has been no meat in the market for the past two months." The two other ladies nodded their heads in the most understanding manner.

--x--

Mrs. D’Souza no longer has a rose bush. Instead she is now growing peas. They are the apple of her eye at the moment. Under the peas lie the remains of Mr. Gupta. He was a rather unpleasant man. With him lies his ill-gotten wealth. After all, Mrs. D’Souza was a proud woman.

--x--

And the lighter side...

I was thinking about putting up a sequel to my previous post. While that (though to a very limited extent) covers the technical and serious aspects of the guitar and the guitarist, I thought it would be rather nice to put up something with the lighter side in mind. Luckily, I found this while pottering around on the net. It's a wonder what little gems one stumbles across everyday. Found it quite amusing so posted it.

Posted on Sun, Oct. 09, 2005

Guys and electric guitars go together

BY DAVE BARRY

(This classic Dave Barry column was originally published on July 26, 1998.)

I got a call from a guy I know named Carl. It was a cry for help. Carl is a successful man in his 40s, but sometimes even successful people, when they are in need, have to reach out to their friends, and I am proud to consider Carl a friend, even though for my 50th birthday he gave me some kind of reptile egg, which thank God never hatched.

It took some effort for Carl to overcome his masculine pride and tell me what was on his mind. It was something that I believe is on the mind of a lot of guys, although they cannot always admit it.

''I think I want to buy an electric guitar,'' he said.
At some point or another, almost every guy wants an electric guitar. It would not surprise me to learn that, late at night, in the Vatican, the pope picks one up and plays ''Hang On, Sloopy.'' Electric guitars exert a strong appeal for guys, because they combine two critical elements:

1. A guitar.

2. Electricity.

Taken separately, these elements have little intrinsic value. But combined, they have an almost magical effect: They enable a mediocre guitar player, or even a bad guitar player, to play WAY louder.

I got seriously into electric guitars in the '60s when, as a college student, I helped start a band called ''The Guides,'' which later became ''The Federal Duck,'' which later became ''A Bunch of Guys Who Got Older and Developed Prostate Concerns.'' We were a ''psychedelic'' band, which means that we sounded a lot better if you were on drugs, not that I am for one second suggesting that anybody was.

As a member of that band, my artistic dream was essentially the same dream that inspired legendary musicians such as Bach, Beethoven, Mozart and The Dave Clark Five: The dream of getting a bigger amplifier. This was important because of the musical dynamics of a rock band, which are very similar to the political dynamics of the Asian subcontinent. Let's say that India is the drummer, and Pakistan is the lead guitar player. There is always tension between these two instruments, because they both want to be the loudest.

Let's say that, in this band, they start out roughly equal, but then, one day, India goes out and gets larger drumsticks. Pakistan is naturally threatened and responds by buying a more-powerful amplifier. Then India, seeking to regain superiority, buys even LARGER drumsticks, and maybe a cowbell. At this point, the bass player (China) feels it has no choice but to escalate, and pretty soon the band is so loud that merely by tuning up it can kill whales swimming thousands of miles away. (In a selfless effort to avoid this kind of tragedy, the Federal Duck almost never tuned up.)

My point is that I have a strong musical background, which is why Carl called on me in his hour of need. We met at a warehouse-sized musical superstore containing hundreds of electric guitars, not to mention amplifiers the size of public housing. If you live near one of these stores, you'd better hope there never comes a time when all the amplifiers get cranked up simultaneously, because the resulting crater would measure several miles across.

Carl and I spent a while looking at guitars, with me offering knowledgeable insights such as, ''Here's a guitar,'' and ''Here's another guitar over here.''

Then a salesman helped us out, explaining various technical aspects of guitars such as wood type, body style, pickups, tuning pegs, necks, frets, etc. Carl listened carefully, then, after considering all the factors, made his decision.

''I want a red one,'' he said.

So he got a guitar. It came as part of a complete rock-star set in a cardboard box, which also included a strap, picks and an amplifier. I was concerned about the amplifier, because it was small and probably not powerful enough to cause permanent ear damage. But we agreed that Carl could get a bigger one if he ever learns how to actually play.

I called Carl a week later to see how he was doing. He told me he'd run into a problem.
''I opened the box,'' he said, ''and the guitar was BLUE.''

Despite this setback, he was plugging away. He's learning how to play chords from a videotape instructor. (''He's about 18 years old,'' says Carl. ''He has acne.'' ) Once he's done with the tape, he'll be able to play ''House of the Rising Sun.'' Then he can start a band and play at weddings (''As the bride and groom cut the cake, we'd like to play ''House of the Rising Sun''') as well as bar mitzvahs (''As you all dance the hora, we'd like to play 'House of the Rising Sun''').

I think there are a lot of older guys like Carl and me and the pope, older guys still fantasizing that we're Jimi Hendrix (who had the good sense to die before he was 30). As we get even older, we're going to need specialized equipment; somebody's going to make a killing selling amplifiers that have large, easy-to-read numbers on the knobs, so we can make sure they're turned all the way up. Also, somebody's going to get REALLY rich selling earplugs to nursing homes.

Guitars - Coiled and Re-Coiled

"As a matter of fact, I think Jimi Hendrix caused more Stratocasters to be sold than all the Fender salesmen put together." - Dale Hyatt, a Fender employee.

So what is it that makes a guitarist choose a certain guitar over another? To get to the bottom of this question, one needs to look closely into what makes one guitar, say a Fender, different from, say a Gibson. For the sake of this discussion I will limit myself to only electric guitars. Also, in this post, I'll be primarily looking at Fenders and Gibsons with maybe passing references to other guitars. So what exactly is an electric guitar? An electric guitar is a guitar which features electromagnets to pick up the string vibrations. These are sent to the amplifier to produce sound.

In 1936, Gibson introduced their first "electric Spanish" model, the ES-150. This model is generally recognised as the first succesful electric guitar. In 1952, Gibson launched a solid-bodied guitar designed in collaboration with the popular guiarist Les Paul. By the late 1950s, a series of innovatively designed guitars were available in the market. These guitars, like the Gibson Explorer and the Flying V featured the "humbucker" pick-ups. The "humbucker" pick-ups, to put it simply, feature, instead of a single electromagnet, two electromagnets with opposite coil-winding to eliminate the hum produced by the single-coil pickup. This gave the guitar a richer and smoother sound, instead of the metallic, "twangy" sound produced by the single-coil pick-up. The Les Paul (though originally with two single-coil pick-ups) guitars were at first offered in a variety of models such as the Standard, the Special, the Custom and the Junior. However, by 1961, the body design of the Les Paul had to be changed due to the high cost incurred in making the elaborate maple/mahogony body. The new body design came to be known as the Gibson SG. Both the Les Paul and the SG later became very popular with hard rock and heavy metal guitarists. Jimmy Page of Led Zeppelin and Slash of Guns 'n' Roses are known for their preference for a Les Paul Standard while Angus Young of AC/DC and Tony Iommi of Black Sabbath are some of the better known SG players.

In the late 1930s, in California, a radio-repair shop owner, a certain Leo Fender, was gaining recognition as not only an expert radio and phonograph repairer but also as a maker of musical instrument amplifiers. In the early 1940s he formed a company named "K & F Manufacturing Corp." alongwith another local electronics enthusiast named Clayton Orr Kauffman to design, manufacture and sell electric instruments and amplifiers. By 1946, Kauffman and Fender had parted ways amicably, as Fender believed that manufacturing was was more profitable than repair. Kauffman was unconvinced. With the exit of Kauffman, Leo Fender renamed his company "Fender Electric Instrument Company". In 1947, Fender introduced the Broadcaster which would later evolve into the legendary Telecaster. Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones is one of the many guitarists who have remained faithful to the Telecaster over other years. In 1954, the Stratocaster was introduced. Instead of the two single-coil pickups featured in the Telecaster, the Stratocaster featured three single-coil pick-ups. It gave a better range of tones available, and became a favourite of all blues players.


The popularity of the Stratocaster can be attributed to its versatility. The original Stratocaster came with a three-way pickup selector which was labelled "rhythm", "normal", and "lead" (for the neck, middle and bridge pick-ups respectively) in the original manual. From the ingenuine, bluesy solos of Jimi Hendrix to the melodious licks of Mark Knopfler, it was all possible on the Fender Stratocaster. Today it has become the most copied style of electric guitars. The bone-simple Telecaster also remained in production, and both the Stratocaster and the Telecaster flourished into diverse families of guitars, with many variants. Each continues to enjoy its own following among guitarists.

So why does David Gilmour choose a Fender over a Les Paul again? Well, the basic difference lies in the very tone that one can get out of a Fender or a Gibson. While Fender has a classic metallic sound, which is ideal for playing the blues and blues-oriented rock, Gibson has a richer and warmer tone. This is due to the "humbucker" pick-ups used and the type of wood used for the body(Gibson uses a variety of woods but essentially mahogony).
Again, some guitarists like to use a certain guitar and mould it into a part of his image. The iconic white Stratocaster (strung upside down for left-handed use) used by Jimi Hendrix in Woodstock or the Gibson ES-335 used by B.B. King (which he named Lucille) became a part of rock history as much as the player himself. Others moved from one guitar to the other, searching the for the sound they wanted. Jimmy Page in the early recordings with Led Zeppelin used a Telecaster (e.g. in Stairway to Heaven). Later, he switched to the Gibson SG doubleneck (ED1275), which he made into a trademark for his live shows. Since 1970 he has used the 1959 Les Paul which he describes as his favourite. Pete Townshend of The Who used a Rickenbacker in his early days but was always seen with Gibson SGs and Les Pauls during the 1960s and 1970s. These days he's often seen with a modified Eric Clapton Stratocaster. The Beatles for their famous pre-sixties tours used a wide variety of guitars including Gretsch, Rickenbacker, Hofner, Gibson (but most notably, excluding Fenders). After 1965, when they moved to the studios exclusively, both Harrison and Lennon picked up Fenders. They varied their choice of guitars from song to song and shuttled between Gibsons, Fenders and Epiphones(used by Lennon).

The basis of the choice therefore seems to differ from guitarist to guitarist. While some make the guitar a part of their image, others like to change their guitars with the kind of sound they expect from the song. I guess, to sum it all up, it mostly depends on the range of music that the guitarist is aiming to create. For the Beatles, their range of sounds demand a greater variety of guitars while Hendrix's classic tone becomes the very identity of the player.

Anyone for football?

Actually, you guys are bloody lucky to still find me here. Yesterday, I went to watch the semi-finals of the IFA shield between Bayern Munich reserve squad and Mohammedan Sporting. Good ol' JR, Bhoot, Wiz of Az, a friend of his and I were the few enthusiastic losers who went to watch the game. Every time Mohammedan got the ball in the Bayern half (which, thankfully, was only five or six times in the entire game) some wise guy or the other would start a bomb-bursting spree. Let me give you a piece of advice. If you ever visit the Salt Lake Stadium, keep an umbrella handy. Two of those bombs burst within feets of us and the very fact that we were able to survive the first half still amazes me to no end! Wish we had one to cover our heads! By the second half, we had put our tail between our legs and moved our butts halfway across the stadium to a relatively bomb-free area. With our faith in the Kolkata Police we voiced our Bayern chants (though there was the occassional lungie-clad individual who would come, stare at us as if to remember our faces, and then walk away quietly). The game wasn't that great. Actually, it was pretty lousy. By far the most interesting guy on the field (well what's in a couple of feet?) was the Mohameddan physio. Everytime a player got injured (or practised for the 2006 Oscars) this physio dude would run on to the field with a bottle of water and a plastic packet containing borolene. Obviously, the bottle of water never reached the injured (or faking) player, as it got nabbed by someone or the other in between. The physio dude would bend down (the stretcher was brought and placed strategically so that we couldn't see what was going on behind the screen) and then there would be some vigorous movement. The next thing you know - the player is up on his feet and flying around like superman. What went on behind the screen? Your guess is as good as mine.

*BANG* *FIREWORKS* *BOOM*

Welcome to another episode of "Am I Opinionated or Stupid?"! A detailed analysis of this programme would enlighten you with completely useless fact that you have spent the past five, ten, twenty or three million five hundred and sixty-three seconds(depending on your net speed; the last if you are unfortunate enough to have my internet connection) looking up another blog which is little more than manic rants of a semi-demented mind. Well, since you have taken the trouble of doing as much as this, I couldn't possibly let you go without a word of thanks. So here's a HUGE "T-H-A-N-K-S" to you for dropping in here(in case you decide never ever to visit this blogpage again, in fact never again visit another blog page, in fact limit yourself to checking emails and the occasional visit to des...oops...forgot it's been closed down.)
Well, in case you found this to be incomprehensible crap, then you are not far from the truth, because even I couldn't make much sense of it when i read it now. Well what could you expect today?? I had an assessment on philology today...during which i often felt an insane urge to burst out laughing. I guess I am just tired.
So until next time,
signing off,
your faithful host,
Filthy B. Liar