Evil Odd

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Saturday, March 26, 2011

Freedom

I now know what it means.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Odd Sledging

I pick up the phone to call a colleague about booking a squash court for our weekly match.

Me: "Hey Ox, how does 11:00am on Saturday sound?"
Ox: "Sounds good. I look forward to it."
Me: "You're sounding very professional. Are you at the client's?"
Ox: "Yes."
Me: "Oh, so you can't talk shit and have to behave all proper?"
Ox: "Yes."
Me: "That's good. BECAUSE I'M GOING TO KICK THE SHIT OUT OF YOU WHEN WE PLAY."

Silence

Me: "I'LL BEAT YOU LIKE A RED-HEADED STEP-CHILD."

Silence

Me: "I'LL WHIP YOU LIKE A RENTED MULE."

Silence

Me: "I'LL SLAP YOU LIKE A ONE-LEGGED PROSTITUTE."

Silence

Me: "I'VE BOUGHT FLOOR CLEANING DETERGENT. I'M GONNA NEED IT WHEN I WIPE THE FLOOR WITH YOU."

Silence

Me: "Okay. I'm done. See you when you get back."
Ox: "Thanks for that. I'll see you later."

Bwahaha.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Odd City People

I spent most of last year in hotel rooms and airports. The year before, I thought that the measure of success in my profession is to wear expensive shirts, shoes and watches. So I spent most of my time lobbying the boss to get me on a big job so that I could wear exactly what I thought fancy people wore. A big job meant a lot of things at the time. Among other things, it meant an all-expenses paid trip and accommodation in five-star apartments smack bang in the middle all major cities. To think that my entire decision was based on such superficial observations disappoints me. More than that, it tears me from the inside every time I think about what I had to go through while wearing expensive shirts, shoes and watches.

What I didn't care to think about at the time was how this trip would change something in me that will take a long time to restore. Cliches like selling my soul to the devil or losing faith in humanity might hit the nail on the head here. But to leave it at that is to leave untouched something that I have been bottling up for the past seven or eight months. While I saw how people in these cities lived, what they did and how they went about their day, I couldn't imagine being one of them. Not only that, I just couldn't bring myself to know anyone beyond small-talk. By the forth month of living out of a suitcase, it became clear to me that no one knew anyone beyond small-talk. In fact, some of them considered others who they small-talked with as best of friends. Right now, I can't remember a single person who I made small-talk with, and it wouldn't bother me much if I never saw them again. To me, it appeared that everyone I came across shared this thought. The fact that I found others who were far more advanced in their carelessness towards others was a scary experience. It was even more disturbing that everyone seemed to be on a default asshole mode. The decision to treat anyone else with respect was a calculated one. What am I going to get out of it if I treat this stranger nicely? If there are no reprecussions of my treatment of this stranger, then I'm going to be an asshole. I'm going to be an asshole to this person unless someone proves to me that he is important and has important connections. These were the kinds of decisions that did more harm than good to me throughout most of last year.

What bothers me the most is that I sold out. I became one of them. I too started measuring people based on their worth. In most cases this worth was calculated based on a person's wealth and connection to big wigs in big companies. It eventually dawned upon me that in the eyes of others, and based on the factors I judged people by, I was worthless. For one, I was one of the few non-Caucasians who worked in the firm. So a judging person would surely come to the conclusion that I was rich, but had no connections to big wigs in big companies. That person would quickly revisit their initial conclusion by asking the question, 'If he's so rich, then why on earth is he here?' Then they would conclude with certainty that I was worthless.

Having black hair, dark brown eyes, and olive skin is not something that wins you points in this game. If you're female, everyone wants to score you so that they could tell their friends that they penetrated what is considered unpenetratable. If you're male, well, you're a target for racists and violent low-lives.

How do you win people over when everyone who looks like you in this country is either a gangster, a religious fundementalist, a rich Saudi brat, or a low-life crook? How do you win over people when the bad people in the news look like you? How do you win over people when the guy screaming 'Allah Akbar' threatening to bring hell to the West shares your language and heritage? The answer after a year of painful social observations on my behalf, is that you can't. It took ages for the Greeks, Italians, and Asians to be accepted here, so I don't expect Middle Easterners or Africans to be welcome with open arms anywhere here anytime soon. This lack of acceptance will remain in place as long as Murdoch and Packer own 90% of Australian media.

Come to think of it. My Australian-cities tour coincided with the spike in racial attacks on Indians in Melbourne. You would think that by being in a fancy schmancy firm that one would be surrounded by smart people who could see the bias in the media and reject it. This unfortunately wasn't the case. The racial slurs against Indians in the workplace seemed to get more frequent. On another note, having dealt with over a few hundred people over the course of my trip, how was I to differentiate the rude people from the racist ones? Surely it's possible that a racist prick who is aware of the taboo associated with racism would treat poorly people from different backgrounds and use another excuse to cover the real racist inside. I have no doubt in my mind that I came across a few of these people.

Sunday, March 07, 2010

What is love?

"Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more" - Haddaway

Love is an excuse used to make Bollywood movies. Love is what teenage boys say they feel about a girl when they want to get their dicks wet. Love is for the insecure. Love is what Middle Easten girls tell themselves they're in to escape their oppressive parents. Love is for those who can't live by themselves. Love is for those who have a superiority complex. Love is for those who have an inferiority complex. Love is for parents who have given up on themselves. Love is for those who can't rely on themselves. Love is for those who want more money than they make. Love is for the vain. Love is inconvenience. Love is a joke. Love is what the faithful claim God is, to keep their faith. Love is what abused women tell themselves to stay with their brutal husbands. Love is what men tell themselves to stay with their fat wives. Love is the wrong word to use when you only like. Love is not a heart, nor a heart-shaped picture. Love is not an arrow. Love is not found by cupid. Love is for the obsessive compulsive. Love is for stalkers. Love is for those who don't have claustrophobia.

Tuesday, March 02, 2010

Collided

The way you move ain't fair you know. Why do you fluctuate so much when nothing has changed? You give me message but these lines don't follow. When I decide to dip in, you dip further. Please spare me the moodiness, and the public humility. Stop digging in my pocket. I have given most of my life for you, and I'm not seeing returns to justify what I have given. You care too much about what other people think. Why can't you do what you tell me you're going to do? Why do I have to guess so often?
Try for once, for me, for everyone, to stop pretending to know where you're going. Other lines. They lay infront of me, yet all I can see is red. You throw numbers at me, giving me deadlines and triggers, but I can't communicate to you. My numbers, my triggers, my deadlines. They never match yours. When I make a right move, you complain to the rest that I'm not doing enough. What is it that I have to do to make you make me happy?
Consequently, subsequently, however, therefore, furthermore, in additon, also, and they all count. Ensure, try, could, likely don't. Should you decide, I will. Should you not decide, I won't. Options. There are always options without any definitive answer. Option 1, I'll find someone. Option 2, it may be you. Option 3, stick your bum up a tree. It appears that that doesn't work. Communicate, tell me what you're doing. If you don't, I'll assume you've done it right. If it's not right, then you're in trouble. Talk to me. Take me to coffee. I should stop drinking coffee. Long blacks are just too harsh on me. In the event of, it may be that, it appears to be, in the case of emergency, make sure you flee. To the amount of, approximately, circa 1966. Manage, lead, be proactive, take control, show mature behaviour. Not robust. What's the opposite of robust? Loose? Let loose then. Drink tea. Brahmi tea, white tea, green tea, tension tamer. Chamomile. Lactose. Milk. Strategy. The four pillars. What a policy! Dissolve me to anonymity. On Identity. Does that even rhyme? Mime. The Life of Pi. Cherry pie. Honey Pie. Wild Honey Pie. Solitude, gratitude, attitude, multitude, substitute me for you. One Hundred Years of Solitude. Conduct a valuation of this situation, and tell me where's the appropriation? Is that appropriate? Sound, good, fair. Share. What are you doing if you're not sharing? Caring, staring, mailing, tailing. Stalker. Talker. Tripper. Day Tripper. Stripper.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

The Gaddafi Interview

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

This Finger

Can you take me back to where I belong? Can you take me back?
Can you take me back to where I came from? Brother, can you take me back?
Can you take me back?


I turned on my computer, waited for the exhilarating Windows welcome sound clip to ring in my ears, and clicked on Internet Explorer. As I clicked the left-mouse button, I felt like my index finger had turned into a slimey, slithering, gooey mini-gremlin. It snatched itself out of my hand and right before my eyes, while the stump on my hand started bleeding profusely and spraying the red gunk on the monitor, it started moving. The gremlin crawled on the wonderfully varnished cedar desk until it reached what must’ve felt like a cliff. Without respite, the hairy worm popped off like a cork from a champagne bottle. So mighty was the jump, that if I had told an Olympic diver about it, they would have gaped their eyes at me.

I don’t know any Olympic divers, and I always thought that winning gold for jumping off a bouncy platform was just a bit too much. If I were to be a diver, I would have preferred to be one of them who jump off real cliffs. I would float in fresh air having leaped from a real rock and wondered if this jump would be my last. But I could never be a diver. I am afraid of heights.

The little hairy mongrel landed on the floor on its head (formerly known as its nail) and toppled over to its hairy side, before rotating itself to the meaty side. Where was it going? I did not have a clue. My apartment is so small that even the little hairy bugger, now feeling what it’s like to be free for the first time, would feel claustrophobic. Then without a moment of hesitation, it proceeded to crawl. I watched what used to be my right hand’s phalanges bop up and down as it manoeuvred across the carpet. For a moment, mid-way through a complete step, it made a triangular shape not dissimilar to a pyramid, before pushing away with the severed fleshy part and moving forward. What a sight.

The trail of blood extended from the mouse pad, to the edge of the desk, to a splatter on the carpet as it culminated in a thicker consistency closer to where my severed finger slowly crawled. The little bugger kept crawling. I lost sight of it as it moved out of my room into the lounge room.