Gasoline blues

Lord, I am down, I am down as a soul can be
I’m stuck in a limbo, and stewing in misery
I could be out there riding, riding to infinity
But got no fuel to feed my ride, lord have mercy

Well the station got hold of some last week
Like bloodhounds we all rushed to the scene
Waited my turn until the sun went down on me
Got a pitiful handful, it was all for nothing

The next day with an offer the devil came to me
For twice the dough and my soul, sweet gasoline
I offered up all that I had along with my dignity
Got what I needed then, said hello to ecstasy

With the next sunrise, some crook stole it off of me
With no remorse, the urchin siphoned it out of me
And I am back in my hellhole, not riding to infinity
Well, still got no fuel to feed my ride, lord have mercy

Stargazer

Inspired in part by the 1976 Rainbow song, “Stargazer”.

It is a sad, sad little story of mankind
Masses driven by a single twisted mind
Peasants we become to the will of madmen
Drowning our lives for their demented gain

Is it power, is it charm, is it the bloodline
That overrides our divine text and makes us blind?
We flock like sheep to the sound of insanity
The voice of reason confined and subject to pity

And victory is elusive in the absolute end
The messiah’s soul tainted and heart blackened
In a chaotic frenzy, millions perish to darkness
All are gone, nobody wins in the mouth of madness

And here it is, the lyrics for Rainbow’s “Stargazer” –

High noon, oh I’d sell my soul for water
Nine years worth of breaking my back
There’s no sun in the shadow of the wizard
See how he glides, why he’s lighter than air
Oh I see his face!

Where is your star? Is it far, is it far, is it far?
When do we leave? I believe, yes, I believe!

In the heat and the rain, with the whips and chains
To see him fly, so many die
We built a tower of stone, with our flesh and bone
Just to see him fly, but we don’t know why
Now where do we go?

Hot wind, moving fast across the desert
We feel that our time has arrived
The world spins, while we put his dream together
A tower of stone to take him straight to the sky
Oh I see his face!

Where is your star? Is it far, is it far, is it far?
When do we leave? I believe, yes, I believe!

In the heat and the rain, with the whips and chains
To see him fly, so many die
We built a tower of stone, with our flesh and bone
Just to see him fly, but we don’t know why
Now where do we go?

All eyes see the figure of the wizard
As he climbs to the top of the world
No sound, as he falls instead of rising
Time standing still, then there’s blood on the sand
Oh I see his face!

Where was your star? Was it far, was it far, was it far?
When did we leave? We believed, we believed, we believed!

In the heat and the rain, with the whips and chains
To see him fly, so many died
We built a tower of stone, with our flesh and bone
To see him fly, but why…
In all the rain with all the chains did so many die?
Just to see him fly!

Look at my flesh and bone
Now, look, look, look, look, look at the tower of stone!
I see your rainbow rising
Look there, on the horizon oh no, who’s rising
And I’m coming home, I’m coming home, I’m coming home
Time is standing still, you, give back my will
Going home, I’m going home
My eyes are bleeding, and my heart is lead ahead
But it’s not home, but it’s not home
Take me back, you, give me back my will
Take me back, take me back, back to my home

An ode to the White Russian

The White Russian is my favorite cocktail. To me, it represents grace and simplicity. It seems like an extremely easy cocktail to make, but making a perfect White Russian takes skill — a fact I have been testament to from trying really, really badly made White Russians all over Kathmandu. Some simply don’t have the right coffee liqueur, some have stuff that only has the label “kahlua” but does not resemble anything like it. Most of the time, however, they just don’t get the proportions right. Sometimes there’s too much vodka, and sometimes there’s not enough. I once even had a White Russian that was shaken so vigorously that the cream and the kahlua mixed completely with one another to make what ended up looking like your plain milk-tea. As far as Kathmandu is concerned, I guess the best White Russian I have had has been in Maya Cocktails (Thamel) and 1905 (Jamal). Those and a few other places are where I have had the chance to have White Russians that actually looked, tasted and felt like what a White Russian is supposed to look, taste and feel like.

You have a “pseudo-hobby” (a term I just coined two minutes ago) when you think that you would really like to do something, but you never seem to get the energy to get around to doing it. It is a common trait for procrastinators like me. Mixing drinks, then, is a pseudo-hobby of mine. In an attempt to turn it into a proper hobby, I have been thinking that the White Russian is the perfect place to start — since it is supposedly a relatively simple cocktail to make. I’ve actually tried it a few times but to no avail. It is only when you actually try to do something that you earn new-found respect for people who do it every single day and make it look so mundane. Respect, therefore, to all the bartenders out there.

Anyway, the White Russian has been a good friend to me. Let this text, then, serve as homage to the drink, to whoever made it for the first time, and, once again, to all the hard-working bartenders out there that make it every day of their lives.

For those of you who want to know more about the White Russian, here it is in a nutshell:

Ingredients:
5 parts Vodka (preferably Smirnoff)
2 parts Kahlua
3 parts Fresh cream (or milk)

Preparation:
Pour kahlua and vodka directly into glass filled with ice. Float cream on the top and stir in slowly.

For more details, check out White Russian @ Wikipedia.

Give neat a try

Plainly put, I love whiskey. I love the fact that it has served, along with its other alcoholic cousins, to bring me closer to the large and disorienting party that is society. Whiskey holds a special place in my heart for it represents honor to me. It takes you on up front and head on. You know where it is coming from. There is no need to look over your shoulder. You can trust it to do what it intends to do. While a good Single Malt Scotch or Bourbon is always on the top of my list, I get by with whatever I can get. More than anything else, I love the fact that I am so far from alone in loving whiskey.

This brings me to the ways in which people enjoy their whiskey, especially in Nepal. While I am not a hardcore purist, when it comes to whiskey, I stick to having it neat. To me, as soon as you add ice, water or what-have-you, it starts to take away from the whiskey. Moreover, it is my contention (and perhaps a naïve one) that the majority of people out there like it neat as well. I’ve rarely, however, seen people in Nepal like it neat. Of course, this is a place where people can’t get beer down their throats without a little barbecued chicken or what-not. But then again, if we had freshly brewed beer flowing off the taps and did not have to rely on the bottled mediocrity, that wouldn’t be necessary.

Before I digress too far, let us get back to whiskey. How you drink is your personal choice – there is nothing wrong with having it the way you like it. Free will rocks. I just thought that “having it neat” needed an advocate at this point, for there is a large majority of people out here who don’t have it neat, simply because they’ve never had it neat. To those people, I would like to propose giving neat a try – or maybe a few tries. It will grow on you. What is there to lose, really?

The ballad of Nagarjuna

Pitch black the worm above his lips
For he was born out of Satan’s hips
His horse he will tie anywhere he may
Powerless are you, is it not clear as day?

Cross his path and your life will pass sooner
And he shall not care because he’s Nagarjuna

A thousand concupines he has around all the time
They listen to his drivel to fill their empty minds
Slave to his destiny, he couldn’t be a healer
Now he runs his outfit, a claptrap dealer

Cross his path and your life will pass sooner
And he shall not care because he’s Nagarjuna

If you shall come across his godly countenance
Fall to your knees and break out the penance
He will taint your soul, he will own your breath
Or better just yet, maybe he’ll bore you to death

Cross his path and your life will pass sooner
And he shall not care because he’s Nagarjuna

The butcher’s morning glory

I should really make more of the early mornings. I am generally a late riser (and a late sleeper as well, for that matter), owing mostly to my “laid-back” nature (that is what lazy people refer to themselves as nowadays). Let us just call me an “evening person” and leave it at that. Anyway, there used to be a time when I used to run in the early morning time (I know a lot of people who know me well will have a hard time believing it) or at least go out for extended walks. The mind is much more absorbent at this time. Consequently, I used to have a lot of “juice” that would inspire me to write. This notion led me to wake up early and take one of my good old extended mornings walks a few days ago. Looking back now, it seems it would have been a better idea to get out on my motorbike as I encountered a lot of petrol pumps on the way that were open for business. I was walking; petrol was available, the queues were really short – and I did not have my motorbike with me – I felt like an idiot – but that is beside the point.

Vocational discontent is something all people inevitably encounter at some point (or more) in their lives. You have been working in a given field on a given career track and possibly for a given employer for a number of years – monotony is bound to set in. You can’t help but wonder if there is something better out there – or if you’re simply in the wrong line of business. To me, for example, at times, my friends in other career tracks (mostly management) seem to have a lot more fun, seem to enjoy their work much more, and seem to hang out with much hipper crowds. This is probably just a perception issue, however (or maybe not — I don’t know). Luckily for me, however, at the core of it, I really enjoy what I do – so I manage to rectify any sort of occasional vocational discontent I encounter – plus my employers have been pretty good to me so far as well.

So, this morning, I was under a slight temporary spell of such discontent. As I was looping my thoughts around, I came across a closed butcher shop. It was very early in the morning; so the butcher shop was closed. From behind the shop, however, I could hear the morbid screams of goats and chicken that were being slaughtered. As sorry as I felt for the animals, I stopped then to think about the butcher.

Some job this guy has. What’s the first thing he has to do after waking up? Go out, pick some random animals out, and lop their heads off. In all fairness, if one really enjoys that sort of thing, it’s a different issue – I guess. But, really – what the hell was I complaining about? I sit on a comfortable desk all day, do stuff I enjoy, and get paid enough to contribute to my home expenses, add to my savings and still have disposable income left at the end of the day to have fun and maintain my lifestyle. This guy needs to slaughter defenseless animals every single day to make a living!

I then tried putting myself in the butcher’s position. Could I do it? Could I last? Coincidentally, I am one of those hypocritical wimps that enjoy meat, but are against animal cruelty and can’t bear to watch the sight of animals being tortured or killed. There was no way in hell I could ever do that. I counted my blessings and walked on. Who was I kidding? I love my job!

So, the next time you’re facing thoughts of discontent on the job, the thought of the butcher may help you – or it may not, if you enjoy murdering animals, I guess.

Angels of the Kathmandu night

Let us do a “guesstimate” sort of count. Let us factor in all classes and categories – from your average, wholesome types to the more, should we say, “niche”, “Gongabu” types. Leave the country alone, how many do you think are scattered across Kathmandu? A thousand, perhaps? Take a rough average of a head count of ten per joint – that brings the approximate total to about ten thousand “angels” who sparkle in the Kathmandu night, and maybe two or three thousand of their “guardian knights”, or, as we like to call them, “khalaasis”.

The scene here is quite different from the conventional idea of what we’re talking about that exists, say, in the United States or Europe. Well, there are some things in common – extremely bad beer at extremely high prices, people trying to hustle you left and right, and the one obvious thing – the primary objective, of course. But unlike over there, we have multitudes of “degrees” out here, with some joints being equally tasteful and sleazy at the same time.

You could perhaps compare what is over there to a nice, juicy steak. It’s a no-nonsense piece of meat; you know what you’re getting into and it’s all quite predictible. What is over here is more like a platter of khichadi, with all sorts of things mixed into it. Only God knows what they will be serving you with when you step in the door. It is an “interesting” experience, nonetheless – a bit like watching a movie that is so bad that you laugh at it so hard that you end up enjoying it.

Anyway, there really is no point to these paragraphs. After all is said and done, these “angels” do work hard and earn an honest living – maybe more so than we do. I think they deserve our respect, and maybe that they needed a mention somewhere. That’s all. Hell, sometimes I wouldn’t mind being a “khalaasi” myself – if you know what I mean.

Pictures of you

Time it seemed had healed all my wounds
And the corpse that was my heart saw light again
One fateful day and a chance glimpse of you
Back was I shoved into this twister of pain

On the eve that you left I died a million times
With time however like the Phoenix I was reborn
Another shot at life foiled by a vision of you
In some abyss my fragments lie, my being is torn

As I closely inspect the scars in my spirit
They will never mend it seems no matter what I do
If you look from afar, blemishes all over me
If you take a closer look, they’re all pictures of you