Agnus Dei

Another gem for metal geeks from the stable of the +91 Renegades. Yes, we are THAT jobless.

Blacken the Cursed Sun,
Walk with Me in Hell,
Bastard Son,
To Bid You Farewell.

The Four Horsemen,
For The Revolution,
Meadows of Heaven,
Ready for Salvation.

Here Is Pure Hatred,
Triple Corpse Hammerblow,
Better Off Dead,
Guerilla Radio.

Lovesick for Mina,
The One Brooding Warning,
Wings of the Hydra,
Thank God for the Suffering.

Banned From Heaven
Luciferi
At sixes and sevens
Through Infectious Waters (A Sickness Elegy)

Deathbringer from the Sky
Ride the Lightning
Every Time I Die
A Rude Awakening

Hallowed Be Thy Name
Valier – Queen of the Valar
Reroute to Remain
The Everlasting Scar.

*

Lousy

A friend will have her very first wedding ceremony in September and asked me for my opinion on certain lou-related poems by Tagore and Tolkein. Surprised at the latter? He did write the Lord of the Rings after all. I took it as a challenge to pen one of my own and this what I ended up with after passing my brain through the wringer:

Does a soul have a mate?
Or is that a fireside tale?
A lifetime do we wait,
The heart, a barren jail?
Or attain that blessed state,
A love that’s never frail?

Love…
Which springs from within,
A fount crystalline and pure,
Stripped of worldly sin,
Yet dripping with allure,
Its flow drowns out the din,
Tinkles, sparkles in azure.

To channel this stream,
Of action and thought,
Through times that gleam,
And each rough spot,
Remains the marital dream,
That millions have sought.

Fortunate are we to witness,
A pair destined to unite,
Through joy and distress,
The murky and the bright,
In health and in sickness,
This soul and mate in flight.

*

Composing a poem is rather like giving birth. You strain for hours and the final product is something that you’re proud of…well, almost always in the analogy. I just didn’t feel it with this piece of trashy verse. Oh well, if a female ever is capable of extracting a genuinely amorous poem from me, she’s probably worth investigating…assuming that the other conditions are fulfilled, of course.

Fool on the Hill

I would modestly refer to myself as an idiot savant in certain areas of human thought and endeavour. Immerse me in a sea of Fortran and C code and I’d be as happy as a then ensconced in an if-else conditional. Drag me through MATLAB and I’d as efficient as a vectorised arithmetic procedure. Wrap me up in shell scripts and I’d be pounding away at the keys before you could exclaim, “bash\bin\!” Drop me in a concert and I’d wax eloquently on the pros of Scandinavian pagan metal versus the cons of American grindcore (ed: someone please tell me…and him…what the hell all this tripe means!). I could harp on this point until infinity but such loops are not my style. Anyway, certain real-world occasions yank me off my high-horse straight into an effervescent pile of dung.

As a card-carrying employee (ed: emphasis for the benefit of one person) of the university, I have to choose my own customised brand of health insurance. Having been mollycoddled over the last 5 years as a student, I am not qualified to make such a momentous decision especially when the nation is in the grips of a socialist demon. It is during crises like these that The Dunce emerges from his cocoon. His modus operandi was to call the university’s insurance authority and plow them with a bunch of asinine questions. The strategy was rather elegant: as long as the conversation is conducted in a sterile medium – phone or email – it doesn’t matter how stupid you seem to the person at the other end. Remember, he or she can only find fault with your written text or voice, not with your angelic face. The benefit of such a poltroonish “act” is that concepts get explained to you with an enhanced degree of enunciation. I am perfectly willing to sacrifice my hard-earned dignity and formidable social standing for a measure of quality health care.

Disclaimer: The loss of bragging rights due to the landmark ruling of Self vs. Actuality has forced me to retract the entire first paragraph. Kindly assume that the words have been redacted while you absorb their profundity.

Brou No Ha Ha

I’ve become something of a movie buff over the last year. Quite a few weekends have been spent in some theatre or the other, digesting fare that has been recommended as “Fresh” by Rotten Tomatoes. The latest flick, Bruno, had somewhat of a bitter aftertaste. I’m not certain of its rank on the gay-emancipation index but I don’t think it transcends barriers. Yeah yeah, it’s been said to reveal the homophobia in the southern part of the States and has even been lauded for its satire. Excuse me for begging to differ but I don’t consider scenes that hinge on rotating private parts all that cerebral. Sure, I laughed in a couple of spots but cringed in many others.

There has to be a smarter way of exposing hatred towards gays in certain sections of society. You analyse the arguments of the opposing side for traces of hypocrisy or blatant stupidity. The holes in their theses can definitely be presented with an elegantly humorous twist. The movie does have a couple of serious segments to this end but you just don’t do it in ways that are guaranteed to raise passions simply because of the level of public indecency involved: a) trying to get laid with Ron Paul (yes, Ron Paul); b) performing an extremely graphic representation of a BJ in front of a psychic; c) full-blown sex on a wrestling stage in front of a patently violent audience. The most obvious fact is that homosexuals do not live their lives in the manner depicted. I’m probably going out on a limb here but not all of them are as licentious and flamboyant as Bruno makes himself out to be. If I’m walking on the road and see excessive public displays of affection, I will be disgusted without regard to the proclivities of the parties involved in the act.

It is possible that I’m too dense to grasp the subtle points of the film; that I was so shocked by the arse-in-your-face stunts that the fine print simply whizzed by unnoticed. Is that what one would like while trying to tackle important social issues? Blind the lay audience with gross absurdities designed to elicit extreme reactions? This is one brand of humour that I just don’t support.

Face/On

A partial reconciliation with the remainder of humanity was made a couple of weeks ago when I joined Facebook. Advice was sought, existential battles were fought, tossings and turnings were made before the foundations of this decision were laid. The memories of two doomed Orkut outings were still fresh but FB was given a green lantern nevertheless, since all the cool kids were doing it. It is common knowledge that my ultimate goal in life is to be “hip”, “in” with “it” and to have millions of friends. As Dr. Ross Geller so eloquently put it, “You complete me…kitchen…matey!”

Coming to the sensitive topic of adding friends, the usual suspects from the Orkut and BITS days were included in my circle of trust. But lo! I got a bunch of completely unsolicited (ed: his solicitor has recommended the use of “completely”) friend-ing invitations from females. Gee I wonder why. It’s a shame that they missed out on this 5-year interregnum when I completely (ed: note the persistent usage) set a niche area of a subset of the academic world on fire (ed: arson, to be searingly honest).

Speaking of academic pursuits, I was perusing through The Indian Express yesterday when I came across this snap.

Indian Express

Apparently, Mr. Shahrukh Khan has won an honorary doctorate from “a leading British university” for “his outstanding contribution to the arts, media…” Dr. SRK? Dr.? SRK? I mean c-c-c-c-come o-o-o-o-on! We sit in the lab or do field work for this thing when having Kajol run to your open arms in a field was quite sufficient?  Granted, it takes a lot of trials just like any sordid experimental task. And then, the result of your hard work and spartan lifestyle is splashed on papers in high-impact journals such as The Times of India. You have to attend press conferences in order to publicise your findings in front of a jury of peers. Powerful, poignant presentations are given to an adoring fanbase. Well, in the end, I suppose the award of the degree is justified. Did you see what I just did? I rationalised. That’s what we excel at.

I, Hypocrite

Yesterday I was reading this bit about how the Sri Lankan army mercilessly ploughed through civilians to get the LTTE. And how the Chinese government tacitly supported them in exchange for letting them build a port in Sri Lanka. I complained to a friend on how the Chinese seem willing to deal with tyrants and despotic governments when it suits their needs. The hypocrisy of that statement was apparent to me as soon as I uttered it. Whereas I like this country I live in and all the freedoms it affords me, I realize these don’t come cheap. They come through equally nefarious deals with doubly despotic regimes around the world. At the cost of freedoms of many others. The Chinese are no different.

I then shifted my anger to the Sri Lankans and wondered how they could kill so many of their own, Tamil and Sinhala, to weed out the vermin that were the LTTE. But then I have never been as vocal about my government blatantly killing off my own countrymen, Sikh and Hindu and Muslim, in the 80’s to end the insurgency in Punjab. Why is my government now lecturing the Sri Lankans about human rights? Why am I lecturing them?

Analysts have given the SL government credit for introducing a savage and effective brand of counterinsurgency. Maybe they need a lesson in Indian history. Been there, killed many.

A lot of uncomfortable thoughts are floating in my head. We seem to espouse the virtues of democracy and free speech at every given opportunity. Yet we are more than willing to compromise with our values when we see the slightest threat to our interests. Maybe that is the trick to being a democracy or “free society”.

Hypocrisy. By the people, for the people …

At least the Chinese aren’t pretending.

I’m here…

I’m steer, get used to it. This might need a bit of explanation. “Here” denotes Boulder, while “steer” represents the mascot of the University of Colorado. The last couple of days were mostly spent at Target to liberally furnish my luxurious bachelor pad. So luxurious in fact that the frontal view encompasses the swimming pool and everything that goes along with the presence of such an august body. Once the studio was in a fairly liiveable condition, I could theoretically have hit the various nightclubs in this fair city just to warp space-time with my gravitas field. Like many hypotheses of yore, this one too fell flat after I was supinified by a gargantuan cold. It’s been hanging around stoically for a couple of days and has reached the (hopefully) terminal phase when the afflicted individual feels like a ragged, phlegmy hot spring (ed: a geezer, perhaps?) erupting at the most inopportune of moments (ed: a regular Old Fitful indeed).

Whatever glimpses that I’ve had of the town have come from walking to Target. One gets to pass by a seemingly delightful stream known as Boulder Creek, which merits further investigation. People have urged me to acquire eclectic skills such as driving, skiing, hiking etc given that the Flatirons are closeby. I had alternative plans of cooping myself up in work. As Shakespeare once said, Love of a non-work-related activity is Labour Lost. As usual, if you disagree with my – and The Bard’s – point of view, you’re welcome to kick my arse.

Damn this cold-induced lisp.

Boo-hoo-ston

Today is my last day in Cambridge. It’s been one heck of a two-year stay, and the devoted reader might just remember how mildly disgruntled I was to move to these boondocks from the urbane Midwest. Well, all I can say is that the darn place has grown on me. Oh alright! I love it…except for the dreary weather, that is. I love the quaint, cluttered, cobblestoned streets; I love the jampacked triple-deckers; I love the freedom to walk just about anywhere I feel like, be it to the movie theatre or the supermarket or the library or the laboratory; I love how every Scandinavian metal band sees it fit to visit either Boston or Worcester for a concert thus enriching my wardrobe; I love how random people on the street comment on the book that I’m reading or the t-shirt that I’m wearing. I love knowing where to stand on the subway platform so that the train’s door opens exactly in front and thereby deposits me near the exit of my choice at the destination; I love how people take care of their tiny gardens and make them blooming wonders in spring/summer; I love roaming around Harvard Square, soaking in the ambience and sheer historical weight of the place.

Now that I’ve achieved my dream of leaving the student-status behind, I hate to find myself longing for the return to innocence (ed: hat-tip Enigma).

The departure from Urbana is a wound that has healed. My recent visits back to the origin prised them open slightly but hemophilia does not run in my family. Boston/Cambridge might take longer to flush out of the system given the violent passions it aroused within me. She took me in as a kid and turned me into a man…approximately. The anathema of living in a big city has been considerably reduced although I will say that Boston is leagues ahead of NYC from the snapshots that I had of the latter to afford such a comparison. A few goodbyes have been dealt with but the toughest ones remain: saying farewell to my colleagues of 5 years, a few of whom I recently elevated to the pedestal of “friends”. In my defence, they have earned the privilege.

Yogi’s Beard

I have a problem concerning facial hair: it grows. Alright, it wasn’t much of an issue 2 years ago when I sportingly sported a dense goatee in the spirit of appearing macho during metal concerts. The ruse worked fairly well given that no mohawk-toting tattooed male (or female for that matter) considered molesting me. However, there came a time when maintaining the foliage clashed with the preeminent philosophy of my life – minimalism. A lot of care went into snipping those stray strands that refused to align with their kin. The ultra-cool look wasn’t worth the behind-the-scenes-but-in-front-of-the-mirror effort, since I could just as well have made hearts go beeeeeeep with a clean visage (ed: his mom was in concurrence with this piece of contraventional wisdom). And sober I’ve been ever since. The slightest delay in shaving the fungus leads to an itch-fest that might be mistaken for this Italian insult under hairy circumstances. The keratint piles on the years minus the gravitas. It’s a relief to watch the latent toddler emerge after a panel discussion with Gillette al. I dare not use another brand because Gillette’s “world shaving headquarters” are located in Boston (ed’s non-sequitur: why bother with women when a razor is the best a man can get?). What I need is the opposite of a hair transplant (ed: hair cis-plant?): a folly-killer that will shave my soul and render me cheekier than ever. It’s a scientific fact (proof via a GRE analogy) that smooth male skin is to female hands what flames are to moths.

Real, Slim, Shady

I’m in Chicago basking in the coolth of the summer sun (14 C in June). This is supposed to be a break of sorts, since I have a dearth of activities in my schedule. Well, that’s not true, since I could very well be reading material for my postdoc. It is also incumbent upon me to make revisions to a paper. Speaking of which, the latter was ceremoniously rejected by the Journal of Chemical Physics a couple of months ago. The editor failed to find a single reviewer who was interested in reading the damn stuff. Talk about morale blasters. So then we decided to submit it to Physical Review B (ed: I realise that these names are probably hogwash to most of you but trust me, they’re quite popular among the right sort of people – Bill Clinton, for instance). Lo and behold, one of the reviewers suggested that this paper might be suitable for a “chemical physics” audience. Hah! I’ll have you know that they thumbed their noses at me so there!

In the middle of all this, I joined my cousin sis one evening in an exercise in self-improvement – watching The Real Housewives of New Jersey. It’s a joyous revelation to witness how the proleteriat barely survive with their meagre mansions, super-facially stimulating Botox-and-wine parties and heartrendingly titillating family intrigues. It’s a poignant tribute to those women who continue in Hillary Clinton’s path by powering through 18 million cracks in the glass ceiling – all these surreal feats executed with serene glass-like dignity made possible by sealing their cracks. Who could have imagined that womens’ emancipation would have led so far into the wild…er…ness? To think that their sacrifices on behalf of a grateful population are being carried out on national television…simply breathtaking. Ladies, I thank you for the example you set…or don’t set. Common sense dictates that are lacking in formal education are painfully obvious in your selfless antics. You rock…and droll.