Losing a hundred pounds - Thoughts and Transgressions.

It's a funny thing, they think living is a progression of fixing life's problems. Alas it's the other way around, living is about life's problems fixing you one at a time.

There's a mountain located at the southern end of the great dividing range, about 60 km North of Melbourne in Australia; This is also in close proximity to Port Phillip, a sequestered bay with a 264 km shoreline harboring some of the clearest, richest and bluest waters a man's eye can ever be blessed to glance upon.

This peak is an arduous climb of 2400 feet, T'was an inspiring and challenging trek for two gentlemen in 1824 namely Hume and Hovell. They climbed and climbed and reached the summit, hoping to glance upon the bluest of the blue waters of Port Phillip, the mountain, home to overshadowing pine trees however, left them at the summit with a rather insipid and lackluster view of a couple of leaves. There were no Azure waters and no awe inspiring vantage for Hume and Hovell.

They named this mountain, Mount Disappointment. 

The christening proposition of being morbidly obese is it's ability to define you, for better or for worse. You're the big guy, Fat Frank. When people are being cute, you're a gentle giant or Yogi Bear and when it's a Monday your sobriquets tend to hover around Chewbacca and Fat Fuck.

But when you think about it, it's still pretty special.

Sure you don't have to buy clothes at the plus size store anymore, sure your chances of dying from a cardiac arrest and other obesity related co-morbidities reduce drastically.

But being big is like having faith, you have a fall back plan. You have something to pin all your problems to. Skinny people have to wait for a bus too, Skinny people have relationship trouble too. Skinny people cry themselves to sleep too.

So if you're trying to lose weight because you think it's going to solve all your problems... Don't.

Because fuck Port Phillip, that's why.

The Champion of the Bourgeois.

Ahh Salman Khan, the Hero of Dongri, Mumbra and Bandra East. Attending a Salman Khan Movie post 2009 usually means sitting through a three hour long brutal violation of the laws of physics. I had promised myself I would never watch another Hindi movie after Kambakht Ishq, but since my better half wanted to watch the movie so dearly, I gave in.

I like to consider myself an intellectual, and my movie fare revolves around the same belief, I truly desire something that stimulates my neurons and gets me thinking, this evidently removes the entire strata of Bollywood out of my liking.

And as I watched bodyguard today that paradigm was reinforced even more, incredulous action sequences coupled with grizzly jokes targeted at obese and short people, the asinine and half-baked humor made me want to hurl, I sat there begrudgingly with an air of importance about myself, judging the people that howled and whistled at every punch, every dance, every pectoral flex that Salman had to offer.

I was urged before I entered to switch off all rational thinking and just let the movie win me over, but alas, a hyper intellectual like myself can do no such thing, smirking derisively and maliciously at the over the top judgmental humor that the movie amounted to.

At the end of it all I was beside myself with rage, why do Americans make such good movies? Why can’t we even simply copy their ideas and at least use Cinema as a medium of communication and not tomfoolery.

I got mad at her for suggesting this redundant mundane waste of money as entertainment, and sulked the whole hour of the drive back home.

My homes security guard overheard the word bodyguard while I ranted to a neighbor about the horrendous film, and asked me, Sirji, Bodyguard Dekhne Gaye Aap???! Sirji kya picture hai, Salman bhai kya dikhte hai, abhi bhi body jordaar, kya naachte hai kya fight karte hai, he said throwing his fists up in the air, a twinkle in his eye, trying his best to emulate Salman Khan, as much as his 60 year old frame would permit.

Why do his movies work? Why do people enjoy this utter horseshit? Why doesn’t a sensible movie like A beautiful mind or the Shawshank Redemption or even Black for that matter create magic at the box office?

Because it’s not about thought, it’s about love. Salman Khan is the champion of the bourgeois. You can see it, with all the children and their turquoise bracelets, all the college going kids with their fake Being Human T-Shirts, it’s not about thinking, it’s about love.

India’s values haven’t changed, the concept of a hero has always been and probably will always be the effervescent good man, the simplicity of Ram, the Strength of Bheem and the alluring pectoral flexes of Lovely Singh.

You can’t possibly hate this movie being an Indian, what you can do is put up a posse of dignified indifference towards crass rudimentary humor and show socially acceptable exasperation towards the unreal fights, but deep down all of us want to be Salman Khan, Deep down Salman Khan knows that, and that my friends makes him a genius.

Thank you for making me watch that film honey, I’m sorry for being a Jackass.

Someone needs to kill Tim Burton

When I was a kid, like most other children, I was intrigued and spellbound by Batman and Superman.
So when I finally did watch Tim Burton's Batman I was ecstatic, it was a no contest Smackdown for the Lousy Adam West show. I was so in awe of Tim Burton that I went on to watch many of his shitty movies, Like Edward Scissorhands… Which I know multitudes of people would swear by. But seriously think of how sick Burton is… How does the guy wipe his ass? He could have just as well given the guy one decent arm for humanitarian reasons, but no!! Every time good old Ed visits the crapper he slices himself a new anus.

That being said, Yesterday I thought I’d give my old Idol a chance, and since my father enjoyed putting me to sleep with gay fairy tales… I thought it’d remind of the good old days by watching Alice in Wonderland.

I usually aim to start with a positive critique of a film. But this time I have to change my modus operandi.

The shitty thing was, all four of us woke up at the interval.

Now none of us had been hung-over, none of us had been smoking grass or anything of that nature… So I deduced the movie was so crappy that all of us fell asleep within five minutes of its commencement.

Now we were wide awake post interval, not because it miraculously became interesting, But because all of us realized that Alice was one of the biggest retards in the universe… More so than the guy from Rain Man.

Why the hell would you run after a suited bunny? And even if you did feel compelled to ask where it got it’s three piece from… Why would you waste two hours fucking around with the Mad Hatter and the Lesbian White Queen trying to procure a gay pearl sword.

Alice could have just gone back and pocketed the damn grow it all cake. And when it was time to face the Jabberwocky… Eaten that shit like there was no fucking tomorrow.

I’d like to see a fag Jabberwocky take on a 600 foot prepubescent Alice…

But that would make too much sense.

Fuck Tim Burton.

And his fucking Hairdo.