Skid Row America (or The Immigrant Dream Not)

The last year has shown me an America that I never wanted to believe existed.

A cheaper version of its former Baywatch self with much lower standards.

The challenge facing my immediate future is a truly existential one.

I am thirty-five, over-married and unemployed.

My experience of a decade is worth nothing in this market, as is apparent from the feedback I get regarding potential concerns on cultural incompatibility from prospective employers.

The worst part is that the minimum wage, too, is below subsistence level in America.

Put simply, I spend a large part of my waking life feeling fucked.

It’s not that I’m getting fucked, and the feeling is not post-orgasmic.

The actual experience is more like walking around with a phallic object shoved up my anus.

When it gets too uncomfortable, I go drinking. Which gives me a hangover.

And then I wake up with a headache, still feeling fucked.

The only thing to look forward to is releasing the butt plug on the throne.

My current level of experience with toilet paper allows me to get by leaving no paper trails.

Cannot say the same about the skid marks, though.

On a summer evening downtown

On a summer evening the best place to be is outdoors. This leads to multiple options when you live downtown. The easiest would be to sit on your own terrace if you had one, but the trends of modern apartment design don't lend easily to this. The builders want you to get out, have a beer or a coffee at the sidewalk cafes. Feed the economy. So this is what I do - go out and have a few drinks at the bars with outdoor seating. I take my economic duties as a citizen seriously. In order to prevent myself from turning alcoholic I follow a simple rule and only go drinking on alternate days. Much like the parking system on the streets. One day off and the next on. Simple and effective.

These interludes are essential to prevent my mind from descending into total decay. It's not that I vegetate all the time, just that I vegetate less with alcohol. It's like holding the keys to the kingdom of the mind in one's hand. People and situations become instantly more interesting as perceptions get enhanced and inhibitions are lowered. It's a two way street, a symbiotic process. Dynamism in its most stripped down and natural sense. Brownian motion, electron flow, energy equivalence - all leading seamlessly to that same universal entropy. Beautiful if you can see it that way. Or if not, there's always room for diversity of opinion. Diversity is the life force of ideation.

Cut to the present. The lesbian just left the table of the Apple trio, which leaves only the gay intellectual and the waitress with the man issues. The connection seems good between these two as they discuss how life and relationships need to be managed better. The plump girl, or woman, at the table beside me seems intent on closing the loop with the Berkeley alumnus that she's overtly trying to seduce, as he denounces the covert misogyny in current television. No way would he fit in the next dive bar I will visit as the night grows longer. He seems to have a theory against masculinity in all forms, yet one senses that he is a player in his own estimation. Joe the bartender really doesn't care as long as his target numbers are on track. We share a quiet smile.

Some hours have passed. And many drinks. One true fact about alcohol is the clear distinction it creates between the thinkers and the doers. Neither of which comes out on top at the end of a contest. Does the simplicity rule of the tech geek who professes the truth of the first error message surpass the fastest chugger of the slamming contest? Is all this going to make a difference in a world still dominated by the military -industrial complex and self-affirming civilization-driven globalisers? Probably not. The end result is excretion - from whatever end it exits. The all-holy purge that renews the purity of self.

It was a good morning. Thank God I didn't mix my drinks or my principles.
Bring it on, life! Here I am and here I will always stand. Purity at its absolute best. Judge my ass if you want to, I like it fine the way it is.

Recessionary Rant

At the end of the day you end up with yourself. Nothing seems to last the onslaught of you. Another solitary night with only Jack and Coke for company. You just don’t seem to get the point. If all dogs go to heaven then why are you still stuck in the doghouse? 

It’s not funny trying to be a success in the midst of a model that doesn’t account for honest attempts. Ends justify the means every time. The last time you felt socially respectable you were doing all the same things for recreation that you do now. You still pay your own bills. Only difference was that you made the monthly pay check back then. 

Prostituting yourself to the system before the forced vacation hit.

When you were young you were creative and lovable. Showing off the nice models you made with your Lego. You were a fucking prodigy in your family. Then you grow up and all of a sudden it’s your bank balance that speaks more than your play dough. 

And then you met someone. Or a few. 

And from that point on the equation went into multiple variables with no unique solutions. 

Ever.

Like some anonymous bastard said quite well – life’s a bitch and then you die. So better screw the ones you can while you have the chance. If you get to sell a bestseller about it maybe you can die a rich bitch yourself. 

So fucking what, you ask at this point. And thankfully the 30 seconds for SEO driven attention spans just expired so you can fuck off and ‘like’ some other pile of fresh dung on the social network that is your life now.

Couch Potato Bollywood Flashback

Fat Southie actress in dubbed item song - looks like a golden caterpillar. 

Too much shiny gold stuff on her ball gown, separated only by fat folds revealed in between with cutaways; skin always works for Bollywood.  

It seems impossible to demarcate the line of actual separation between breasts and stomach.

Everything's big, even the hair- 80s perm – the colour combinations reek of that lost decade.

Writhing moves on maroon carpet enchant the watching man as he sips Vat 69.

This quasi-villain with mandatory moustache tries to seduce Ms Caterpillar with Rajnikant-style dance moves.

In fact he seems to be an all-out Rajnikant imitator – no wait, he is the Hero.

Thoda aur intezar kijiye, she croons between bum and boob shakes.

Song ends and he proposes to her, she seems troubled by the thought.

Lightning interrupts the scene and a new villain in the form of Om Shivpuri enters the scene.  

Suddenly many men are beating each other up while Ms Caterpillar acts cool and sits reading a film magazine on the sofa nonchalantly.  

Jackie Shroff appears in a totally unconnected flashback somewhere in between the whole fracas.

Villain tries to strangle her and hero shoots him. No one asks why the gun wasn't used before.

Jackie appears again - suddenly the fat caterpillar is driving a car and meets him on road.

Yeh pyaar ka mausam hai, tujhe kitna pyar kare?

Song bursts out new flashbacks once more.

She drives away abruptly – and is next seen praying to the Mother Goddess at a temple.

Meaningless monologues about her troubled and meaningless life ensue.

A villainous looking Police inspector watches her from outside the temple, unbeknownst to the Golden Caterpillar who has not changed her ballroom gown from the original song as yet.

Suddenly, even Hema Malini has arrived and speaks her Southie accented Hindi, apparently advising Ms Caterpillar on life matters. 

The Bad Inspector suddenly appears once more and begins to blackmail the girl- her origins are revealed – are they to be believed?

Thankfully a commercial break arrives to save the audience from mental breakdown.

Jaani Dushman suddenly seems like a really great movie!

The Tavern

The night grew on at the tavern. Yet, not weary as it might have seemed given the laggard week that it was to end, or begin whichever way you looked at it. The regulars always came in with no clock to predict their movements. A pattern formed of habit. Habit formed of years and possibly evolutionary in it's own form.

The deejay interrupts my musings with a call to share a smoke break. The evening is easy on him, in a way not unlike my own situation. The pressures of life are eased down. A deejay can walk away from his console on a night like this. We are brothers on autopilot tonight.

The kids speak loudly of being gay and what it means to look gay. I wonder what truly makes them gay in a happy way. Like what life was before popular convention prescribed urban lifestyles. Oh, to be under the stars with the float feeling.

A nudge at my elbow wakes me once again from my reverie. As always. One of the many loudspeakers asks me, albeit respectfully, if I might share a light with him. He is respectful in a way that his generation has not taught him to be.

This is the respect of men and between men. Borne through the times in the way of the animal instinct, more so in men. Men not clouded in judgment by the frivolity that often overtakes women on such nights. He sees the old school in me through my youthful persona.

I laugh and offer him match. When you grow up, we might share a whisky, Son. 
For now just smoke your cigarette.

So what are you doing after this? Sharing a match lights up a new avenue of friendship. I look at the eyes of youth, lit with the gaze and haze of the night. Her image shines through it all into the night of my reckoning. I smile quietly to myself.

Life is here to be enjoyed. And I will do just that.